I was a paper boy from the time I was 11 until the ripe old age of 15.  My route started about a mile from where we lived and given my age, I had to pedal it on my trusty Gitane 10-speed.  In the older section of my home town where all my customers lived, virtually every house had a front porch so passing papers consisted of zig-zagging across the streets tossing the paper just so.  It was a goal of mine to land each and every paper directly in front of the door, making it easy to retrieve.  I got really good at placing my shots right where I wanted…most of the time.

One evening I had finished my route after dark and had just arrived home, when my Dad delivered a bit of news.  It seems one of my customers had called and described how he was more than a little impressed with my passion for service, prompt delivery, friendly demeanor, etc.  Somewhere in there he also mentioned being a bit distressed by it too.  As he described the scene to my Dad, the poor fellow was sitting in his living room with the front door open, watching the evening news when his paper arrived…directly at his feet.

You see, I occasionally got in a bit of a hurry to finish my route.  Hard to imagine a youth of my age and maturity being in a rush, eh?  Still, there it was:  In my haste, I had whipped the paper with great precision…right through this poor fella’s screen door where there was glass in the bottom pane and a screen in the upper one.  Of course I didn’t hit the screened part.  That would have been way off the mark (remember my pride at my targeting ability?).  No, no.  Instead, I hit the lower section at an angle just right for personal delivery.  I swear that I had no idea what had happened.  Anyhow my customer, while appreciating the personal service, was a little put off by my methods. He was good-natured about it all, but nevertheless insisted I pay for the broken pane.  I suppose it was a reasonable demand, given the glass all over his living room…

There were certainly other events in my paper-boy career that counted as being related to my sometimes less-than-accurate delivery, but none quite as amusing.  I had a lot of fun times doing that route.  Sometimes I hated it too.  In the end, I managed to learn a bit about responsibility, hard work, customer relations, money management, not freezing to death, etc.  As a kid, I know that I failed in many respects doing that job, but one thing I did learn well: How to laugh at myself.

Next time I’m tempted to take myself too seriously, I need to remember that little delivery incident.

We laid my uncle to rest just about two weeks ago.  Like all of us he had his flaws,  but I can say without hesitation that his legacy is remarkable.  The sheer number of visitors and those that attended his funeral was awe-inspiring.  He was a cop, a musician, a father, a husband, a brother, a son, an uncle and a whole lot more.

To me, he was larger than life.  He had a big voice and an infectious laugh and man, could that guy sing and play guitar!  He, my dad and my other uncle would sit for hours at holidays and tell one funny story after another. They managed to keep us laughing all day.  I looked forward to those stories every time we got together.

During the funeral, his two daughters shared some memories they had of him as they were growing up.  One of those memories was of his incredible whistle.  So many recollections came flooding back.

When we were kids, I used to spend a lot of time in their neighborhood, largely because they lived just across our little town, on the same street as my Grandparents and another Aunt and Uncle.  During better weather, the neighborhood kids would often play outside for as long as we could get away with, usually well past dark.  When it was time for his girls to come in for the night, my uncle would step out the front door of their house and whistle.  Amazing.  You could hear that sound piercing the night  from any of a half-dozen streets around town.  Most of the time it had the expected effect of causing his daughters to go running home, but it had another consequence too.  It somehow managed to initiate the end of the evening’s activities for most of the other kids.  He was kind of the “last call” guy for all of us.  It’s not a huge thing, but it’s something I remember so well.

There’re so many things I can recall of him as I grew up but it’s that whistle that stands out most clearly in my memory.  I miss him, even though in later years we haven’t spent a lot of time together.

He walked in very big shoes and I’m sure I’ll never know the extent of the legacy he leaves.  Still for me, that whistle will always remind me that you don’t have to be  super-human to leave a lasting impression.