By William Malgren (special to the Herald)

I have a lot of memories from my childhood in West Seattle. Some of the fondest come from the early sixties, when as a ten year old; I delivered our community newspaper, the West Seattle Herald. That is why I am amazed when I see ads describing a newspaper route as a job. I was glad to deliver the Herald. The route was never a job, more of a social activity. Every Thursday afternoon I raced home from school or play to start delivery.

My route began a block from my home, near the corner of California and Fauntleroy. The route was not large, just a little over a quarter square mile. The hundred or so small papers were carried in a gray bag with the word Herald stenciled in red on the front. The bag hung around my neck like a giant pocket on a Kangaroo and banged against my knees as I walked. I never hurried because there was so much to see and do.

At the time, the Herald arrived, free of charge, dropped on the doorstep of every house in the community. Part of the fun was looking at the houses. A new gnome on the porch, a child’s art work hung in a window or a fresh coat of paint, all expressed the personality of the family that lived there. A rainbow collage of flowers lined walkways or gathered in bunches beneath windows like relatives at a reunion. A few had fences that were meant to keep pets in, not people out. My favorite house was a tan, Spanish style, adobe home with a cactus garden, that we called the castle.

Back then, those neighborhoods were close knit communities. The people who received the paper were my neighbors, like Jay, who wore a skull and crossbones, black leather jacket and rode a chopped hog. He owned a dog I called No Name, a large Rottweiler with a head the size of a basketball and paws the size of catcher’s mitts. Their children were my schoolmates at Gatewood Elementary and the route became an extended recess. During delivery, I often stopped to be mellow with friends or play a game of catch. A favorite activity was the ice cold pop guzzle, gulping down a bottle of Dr Pepper with the fastest drinker awarded a candy bar. Families treated me as one of their own. They asked me how I was doing, shared family news and offered tidbits of advice. On hot summer days, tangy lemonade that twisted my tongue and brought tears to my eyes was served up in a cold glass. When the winter wind blew in across the Sound, there were cups of steaming hot chocolate, laced with marshmallows that tasted like liquid smores and sent waves of warmth through my body. I carried their casseroles to ailing neighbors, returned borrowed items and passed along messages from parents. No one ever complained when the paper arrived after their dinner. My own family ate at six, but on Thursdays, my mother kept my plate warm in the oven while I dilly dallied on the route.

The Herald paid a few bucks for my efforts, enough to keep my sweet tooth happy with pop and candy bars. In reality, I owe a debt to the Herald for what I received. The accuracy developed in throwing the paper from the street to the porch proved an asset in baseball and softball. I could split two flower pots, bypass a bored teenager and cruise over a sleeping cat to land the paper parallel to the door stoop. I met my first girlfriend on the route, when she decided to tag along one afternoon. She had brown eyes, dotted with amber specks that swirled like autumn leaves in a cool breeze, a bridge of freckles that danced across her nose and an irresistible smile. I gained the skill of careful observation and examination of the world around me. More importantly, I learned about life and human relationships; friendship, compassion, generosity, neighborly assistance, the value of listening, the uniqueness of each individual and the power of forgiveness and acceptance. I had no idea I was learning those things. No one sat me down to teach me. The lessons came from the lives lived out in front of me.