Once, I was 12 years old.

It’s 5 AM. Dad knocks on the door of my brothers’ room, then the one I share with my sister. Trying not to wake the younger one’s is a challenge, for him and us as we get up to start the day.

It’s time to dress and get the Sunday paper route done. It’s almost triple the daily route, so both of us have to hustle.

Dad drops us off at our pick up point and drives away. We gather our newsprint bundles and start the task of separating and sorting.

Brother and I spend  thirty or so minutes, rolling and sorting papers into our bags for delivery, then off we go. One of us takes the ‘even’ side of the street the other the ‘odd’. Quietly we work our way past the still sleeping homes down our three blocks and back up the other three.

Within an hour we are back in the door.

Dad has been busy, a trip to Klein’s’ bakery, boxes of fresh donuts wait in the station wagon. Mother marshalls the five of us to the waiting car.

Our destination, Pioneer Park in Lincoln Nebraska. Breakfast of doughnuts and milk, a chance to play on the playground uninterrupted or look at the buffalo and elk in large fenced fields.  wonder if they are still there, these many years later?

Home by 10 to change and prepare for church.  That is a must!