A start in the job market
My earliest real job, that I can rremember, was in journalism. The bottom of the tree. I trudged (a word that described how young boys walk) from door to door, with an oversize canvas sack containing the news of the day. That was the actual name of the newspaper, “The News”.
My subscriber list was precious, because it let me know where I should stuff a paper (between the screen door and the actual door) at a given address. Woe to he who missed a delivery; the clients were merciless. Also, reluctant to hand over their fistful of silver, when I would come to “collect”. We were paid a pittance, which is the term for how much remained in your pocket, after remittance to the punlisher. Merciless. And this went on, six evenings a week, in rain or snow. I do not recall the nice weather, although there must have been some.
This was a job that required few qualifications. Could you walk? Could you talk? More than one day in a row? Could you read the address numerals on a given house? Could you lift the canvas sack? An important qualification, on the dreaded afternoons when the newspaper was supercharged with flyers.
I kept the job for the usual term. A winter, more or less. We then moved away, and some other hapless youth got the chance to earn the big buck. The idea of reading a newspaper, online, hadn’t even been mentioned in the various science fiction books I would bring back from the public library. Yes, I could also read, along with my other qualifications.
Did this job prepare me for life? Certainly. I learned that your pay envelope rarely matched your effort. Also, wet newspapers are unwelcome. Everywhere. Always. Cover your cargo with the flap. And avoid deep puddles and shortcuts through local streams. I don’t think I actually did that, but when your age is barely into double digits, all is possible.
I recently checked, and that newspaper still publishes. Digitally. And the content hasn’t changed much. Only the dates and names seem to have changed.
