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The magic of a newspaper route

May 3, 2001

I was a Free Press delivery boy on the west side of Detroit from 1972 through 1974. I took over half of my brother's route, around 50 customers, when I was 11 years old. That was before the papers were delivered by adults in cars, and bills were paid by mail. I was out the door by 4 a.m. I rode my bike to a bank on Joy Road and picked up my bundle of papers, shoved them in my canvas paper bag that was slung over the rear rack on the bike, and started delivering.

I could do the route in my sleep (and occasionally did). But if someone decided to leave the dog out on the porch, you could be torn out of your dream state. The dogs would wait until you were almost on top of them, then fly at you, teeth bared, barking menacingly. I used the Free Press to ward off dogs on many occasions.

Fridays were payday. I knew every customer, not only where they wanted their paper and how much they tipped, but many things about their families and aches and pains and troubles. At 12 years old, I was sometimes the only regular visitor some of the older folks would get, and they would invite me in for cookies and candy and tell me their latest news. This was a problem sometimes, because too much socializing could cut into my productivity, but I always stayed because they were nice people and seemed to look forward to my visits.

I learned a great deal as a Free Press paperboy. How to do a good job. How to be smart with money -- always saving most of it but leaving a little for fun or expenses. How to accept responsibility and act accordingly. How to deal with people across a broad range of ages, treating each person with respect. How to deal firmly with difficult customers.

I also learned what was going on in the world. When I got home, the house was still asleep. As one of seven kids, quiet time in the house was as precious as gold. I would make breakfast, then hunker down with the Free Press. This was a time of turmoil -- of Watergate in Washington, D.C., and racial tension in Detroit. The Free Press was my window into a world beyond the neighborhood.

I gave up my route when I went to high school and went to work in a "real" job. But I now know that my Free Press route was my first real job, and the things I learned on that job are still true today. I made enough as a paperboy to start paying for my own clothes and helping with my own expenses, and this independence proved valuable as I worked my way through college and out into the world.

I still get the Free Press, but I don't recall seeing a delivery person in the last 20 years. It's too bad.

Michael Wright

Because of my grandfather, Louis Hessen, generations of our family have worked for the Free Press.

Gramps lied about his age in order to gain employment at the Free Press. At age 14, he left school in order to help his family by becoming a wage earner. When he retired in the late 1970s, Gramps had worked at "his" paper for approximately 54 years. I still have copies of the retirement newspaper that was printed in his honor.

He took his job seriously. He didn't believe in sick days. He had to get the papers out on the street, and he did.

For subscribers who were lucky enough to live on the east side of Detroit and in the Grosse Pointes, they never had to worry about getting a paper on their porch. His sons had routes, and Gramps made sure the papers were delivered.

He was known around town as the Free Press Man. Many members of my family have worked in the Free Press circulation department, including my father and myself. Some families have war stories to share -- we have route and circulation stories.

I ventured out of circulation, being a writer at heart. I was lucky enough to have a guest column published in the Free Press in 2000. I know Gramps would've been ecstatic to see his granddaughter's words in his paper.

Gramps died in 1998. Even though it's been three years since his death, every time I see a Free Press, I think of him. I will always remember the pride he had in his paper, and the pride he felt as his family followed his career path. He instilled a great work ethic and a love of newspapers that has lasted through the generations. It was only fitting that as we laid him to rest, his favorite paper, the Detroit Free Press, was neatly tri-folded and tucked under his arm.

Lynne Cobb

Your invitation encouraged me to think back over my 77 years. The Free Press has been delivered to our home all my life and if I don't start each day with it I feel neglected.

One notable memory we have is that seven of our eight children -- one daughter and six sons -- each had a Free Press route when they were young. The youngest boy had an enviable route consisting entirely of customers living in the Twin Towers, the high-rise residence for seniors located across the park from our home in Inkster. He really appreciated that during the snowy winter months.

Lou Schneider

I remember way back going to the Christmas caroling down at Kennedy Square, and having my picture taken as I belted out a holiday tune, and that same picture used in an ad in the Free Press the following year. I also remember as I was growing up with my brothers, each of us rushing for the sports section to read Gil Thorpe. And last but not least, my experience as a Free Press carrier, carrying handle bags and saddle bags on my Schwinn hand-me-down bike (given to me from local sports hero Bernie Carbo), doing my route in northwest Detroit.

These memories, and many more, made and make the Free Press a strong thread in the fabric we all wear as Detroiters. That is reinforced every time I wait for my daughter to finish the sports section.

Dave Rodriguez

I don't have a single instance to speak of, but rather a collection of fond memories based on years of service as a delivery boy for the Free Press from 1972 to 1978. Being only 11 years old at the time, I stretched the truth and said I was 12 to get route 3032, Gregory Street from Fort Street to Dix in Lincoln Park.

As an adult, there are a number of triggers that still take me back 25 years to my delivery route days. Frosty sunrises on frigid January mornings almost always send my mind reeling back to the feeling of the cold wind on my face as I struggled to keep my heavy-duty Schwinn, fully loaded with papers, balanced and propelling forward through the snow. On those days where the snow was impassable, I'm reminded of how grateful I was for a dad who would patiently wait in a cold station wagon as I ran from house to house, stopping in the car to quickly warm up my stinging toes, and grab the next armful of papers.

Every visit to a doughnut shop reminds me of how delicious a cinnamon roll and a cup of hot chocolate tastes as a reward for completing your route on a cold morning. The feeling of independence and pride that sitting at the counter with adults and paying for your own breakfast with hard-earned money brings is one that I'll treasure forever.

I also remember delivering a paper with a headline describing Al Kaline finally making $100,000 a year and trying to figure out how many years of collections it would take for me to earn that amount.

Trips to Chicago invariably remind me of my first visit there as a contest winner for carriers who got new subscriptions. I remember the feeling of maturity and loneliness boarding the bus with the other winners at the Free Press building downtown. At 13, this was my first time away from home. Did I really want to go? You bet I did. To this day, every trip to Chicago still provides a compulsion to visit the John Hancock Center and relive the soaring feeling of an adolescent who earned his way to what seemed like the top of the world.

But none of these memories can compare with the pride I experienced purchasing my first home at age 23 using my paper route earnings as the down payment. Week after week of hard work finally had its payoff, and it occurred at closing on a tiny, two-bedroom house in Dearborn Heights. I'll treasure that moment, as with all of these, for years to come.

David Bonello

As a freshman at St. Rose Catholic School in 1950, my income came from the sale and delivery of the Detroit Free Press. My route on Fairview Street was cool. Yelling "Free Press papers" from Jefferson to Mack. Mack Park and Fairview Gardens were both great places to do business. Fast-pitch softball one minute, then a few yards away, watching real wrestlers break real bones was awesome. Afterwards, the guys and I would head for the nearby coney island for delicious Greek-style burgers.

Thinking back, I sure miss yelling and wolfing down two or three burgers. My belly and bladder were content for another week.

Michael Cuddihy

The Detroit Free Press has been a good friend of mine since 1933: I delivered the Press to about 150 customers on the lower east side of Detroit, from Ashland Avenue west to Chalmers, north of Jefferson Avenue. The paper sold for three cents, the carrier got a cent and a half. Collection was the big problem; those were Depression times and the carrier's was the last bill to be paid.

Later, the Freep became my daily companion as I rode the Clairmont streetcar from Jefferson and St. Jean, across town to the far west side to work. Iffy the Dopester, Judd Arnett and their ilk were like old friends.

Though I have left Detroit, the Freep is still a daily habit.

Carl Methner