“Recollections of a Pittsfield Kid” is a series of vignettes exploring the author’s youthful days in the Osceola Park neighborhood of Pittsfield, Massachusetts, during the 1950s and early 1960s. At the time of these adventures, the author was between six and 14 years old.
Both Owie Bovington and I, aged 10, had an afternoon delivery route in Pittsfield, for the Berkshire Eagle newspaper, in the late 1950s.
In the summer, we reluctantly, but dutifully, vacated the daily baseball game at Osceola Park around 3 p.m. in order to meet the the Eagle’s delivery truck on time. Our teammates weren’t thrilled with us leaving, and didn’t necessarily honor our work ethic. Our departure often broke the ballgame up.
We made our apologies and headed from Osceola Park to a delivery spot on West Housatonic Street and Foreman Lane. Since we didn’t have cell phones in those days, we actually conversed as we walked — how non-21st century was this? Just normal face to face chit chat!
We sat under a shady maple tree six days a week, regardless of rain, snow, sleet or high winds. (I remember doing the route once in a horrendous hurricane, and had visions of being swept away to Kansas like Dorothy in “The Wizard of Oz.”)
We received our bundle of newspapers and placed them in our official Eagle shoulder-carry bags. We also carried an accounts-payable notebook because we were responsible for collections. We never worried about being robbed of our cash, unlike some of today’s home-delivery carriers might be.
My route went from Oswald Avenue to West Housatonic Street, Hungerford Street, onto Caroline Street, and ended back at Oswald Avenue. It took about two hours to complete the circuit.
I managed to increase the patron count from about 25 to 35 customers by being courteous, prompt and conscientious (as did Owie.) For example, sometimes my brother Chip or my sister Tricia, helped me if I was sick, if the delivery was late, or if the weather was bad. Okay, I realize that I’m guilty of self-flattery, so I’ll dispense with such braggadocio.
I got weekly tips from many of the customers. During the holidays, I was fortunate to receive both money and goodies as a bonus. The Eagle provided us with a holiday party and gave each of us gifts; one year I won a shiny new red Schwinn bicycle in the raffle. I even began a coin collection due to often getting paid in various types of coins. I sorted out the more valuable ones, cleaned and stored them.
Well, despite what I’ve written, I did violate my biased self-appraisal in one particularly treacherous situation.
There was a certain household located about three hundred feet west of the Hungerford Street bridge. These customers were beyond lucky that I delivered the paper to them at all. I would have preferred squirming in the dentist’s chair sans novocaine to performing my duty at this heinous house.
They had an open front porch to which three large, fierce German shepherd dogs were tethered by a rope fastened around their necks. The first time I approached the porch, all three started barking loudly, showing their sharp fangs, frothing at me and pulling hard on their shackles. Those dogs could have scared the bark off a tree. They wanted my blood, I thought.
I was terrified out of my wits, dropped the newspaper on their lawn, and ran for my life. I might even have wet myself. Juggler’s attack on me at Osceola Park shaped my early fears of such a breed of dog.
Thereafter, I developed a delivery ritual: I would leave my bag of papers at the bridge, tightly roll up one newspaper, and walk quietly and slowly, if not tiptoe, towards this house. Some might say that I was “quieter than a church mouse.” The very moment one of the dogs sensed me and began snarling, I threw the newspaper as hard as I could towards the porch, then turned and ran like an Olympic champion with competitors “nipping at his heels.”
The customer did technically “receive” the newspaper, but it was most likely scattered in sections across the porch or lawn. I never met this taxing customer and, surprisingly, they always sent full payment to the Eagle.
P.S. I maintained this route for two years, then sold it to my brother. Owie sold his route to Tom Blair, who delivered the newspaper to our house on West Housatonic Street.
