I am from stacks of newspaper, bags of rubber bands, black newsprint on my hand. From canvas bags that fit over your head, the paper bag holder on wheels with a round "puller" handle that Dad made for Carol, bicycles and tote gotes. From the Falgout's delivering the morning edition of the Times and the James' delivering the afternoon edition of the Standard.
I am from Mrs Biondini, where Carol had to hand deliver the newspaper to her porch because she didn't want the newspaper to make a black mark on her door., the same lady who ironed her son's blue jeans till there was a crease down the front of the leg. From Mrs. Wagner's (who lived down Franklin as far as you could go and then turned left, the road curved down and around and they were tucked in the curve) popcorns balls on Halloween "one per person please" and chocolate covered cherries at Christmas. From Mom taking over John’s route because he was sick in bed with asthma and running over Ida Martin's mailbox, and Dad going out in the rain to replace it. From Blackie and all the other dogs on the route, from those who were tethered, and from those who weren't.
I am from upper route, middle route, lower route, from a sister who couldn't ride a bicycle, from a time where only boys could have a route, from a time where it was safe to go door-to-door to make your monthly collections.