I have had this article for over 10 years and enjoyed it very much. I have been unable to find the link again, and have copied portions. I apologize for the long post, but it is worth the read.
Memories of a Poughkeepsie New Yorker paperboy from the 1950s
Written by Gary W. Clendennen
Gary Clendennen in 1952, around the time he was a paperboy.
Clendennen lives in Japan now and teaches English to businesses and universities.
Making an impression
"First and adjacent to our home was "Tony the Shoemaker," on Cottage Street near the junction with Clinton Street. Tony, whose last name I don't remember (he called himself "A-Tony da Shoe-eh Make-uh," and so he was), was at least 50, and a recent arrival from Palermo, Sicily. Not just a repairman, he was a real shoemaker. He had a long and narrow shop, which smelled wonderfully of leather and glue, with a "Cat's Paw" heels advertisement painted on one window. The inside of the shop featured two long parallel bars, each holding an amazing variety of cake-sized and shaped sanders, cutters and brushes of all textures and strengths. When he threw the switch, they would spin rapidly, and he would skillfully treat the shoe in hand to the proper abrasive with the proper technique. During the day, his shop floor was always littered with scraps of leather, rubber, cloth, errant nails, etc., which either he would sweep up "by 'm by," or he would order me to do it if I was just waiting around for him to finish a shoe for one in my family. Years later, he made the shoes that one of my two elder sisters wore to her wedding. Tony said he wanted the paper as his "English lesson," but now I wonder if he didn't subscribe just to be a good neighbor."
"In addition to being his paperboy, he had me wash his lunchtime dishes and pans every day before I went back to school. He refused to wash dishes, and he paid me with a handful of loose change, anywhere as I remember from 17 to 42 cents per time."
Stimulating the senses
"A short block east of Tony's was Park Place, which ran north and south, parallel to Clinton, and with perhaps 15 homes on each side. Toward the middle on the east side was a company: E.E. Stimpson & Sons. In their warehouse, and often out in the yard on sunny days, were an amazing array of wooden ladders of all sizes, descriptions and colors. I loved the sight and touch of those wonderful creations, often made to order for specific uses. This business had as its head Mr. Stimpson. They never missed the Wednesday night paper payment, and often had something interesting for me to see. One Saturday afternoon, when I entered the yard, Mr. Stimpson called me over and said "Hi, Gary, smell this." He handed me a small piece of freshly sawn wood, and it was wonderfully aromatic. I sniffed and said something like "Wow, that's great!" and he replied "You never knew wood could smell so good, did you?" Perhaps "No, sir, I didn't, thank you," ended that conversation, and I went on my way. I have often wondered if the metal ladder industry initiated the decline of that wonderful family business."
Composer's grandson
"Almost directly across the narrow street lived John Phillip Sousa III, heir and namesake of the great "March King." In the two grocery stores on Clinton Street (one named Cutten's, the other, next to Danny's North Side Barber Shop, perhaps Seaman's?) we could buy cards in a series of famous persons in all of history. The elder Sousa was on one of them. I was so impressed, and really felt blessed to have such a famous grandson on my little paper route. I remember him well, a slightly heavy and happy man of about 35 to 40 with two little children who often played on a yellow and blue gym set in their small yard. I had given his wife a duplicate of the Sousa card."
"One Saturday afternoon (weeknights after school found customers too busy with dinner and paperboys too eager to finish and go home for very much social exchange), Mr. Sousa called me into the yard to receive his paper personally. Just then his wife called through the screen door, telling her husband to bring me into the kitchen: Her batch of cookies were cool enough for tasting. In we went, and while I had my snack he talked about his grandfather. I don't remember anything specific that he said, except that the great musician's ancestors had come to the United States from Portugal! Unfortunately, I have no recollection of this Mr. Sousa's musical interest, nor of his occupation, but I do remember this one moment we spent together."
Red Sox pitcher
"Around the south corner of Park Place and just east of Allen Place on Mansion Street lived Mrs. McDermott and her children. She had hard work, but one of her grown boys was a pitcher for the Boston Red Sox. Mickey was much older than even my brother Bill, and he had left town some years previously. I saw him only once, when I was walking up the sidewalk to deliver the paper. He came bounding down off the porch, said something to me like "Hi, kid!" and hopped into a waiting car. He was tall, thin, and had curly reddish brown hair. I was delighted to have a customer who was the mother of a major-league ballplayer."
Lessons learned
"I was happy enough to be a paperboy, but not "Superboy," by any means. I'm sure my mother could recall that I complained about either the work, the weather or the Wednesday night collections (and Wednesday had the thickest paper of the weekdays) a lot more often than I should have. And, some of the customers would speak legitimate complaints, like the time I threw a paper up on the porch roof but didn't notice it until I absorbed a sharp complaint the next night. I was totally unaware, also, of the life lessons I was learning. But I was conscious that even in this middle- or lower-middle-class neighborhood, there were some exceptional people, even if only for one day or one moment."
"I never met another ladder maker, but in time I became a woodworker, framing pictures and refinishing furniture, and I once made two wooden ladders for myself to fit my own circumstances, perhaps a legacy of my old friends. But my most relevant memory was during a three-week visit to Lisbon when I heard a military band play old Sousa's "Stars and Stripes Forever," and I felt a thread-thin connection with history."
"For 40 years, I was a baseball or softball player, not a very good one, and only infrequently a pitcher, but in October of 1956 I was rapt facing the TV as Mickey McDermott of the New York Yankees pitched in the World Series against the Brooklyn Dodgers. He did quite well, pitching three very respectable innings in a game which his teammates had lost long before he entered. Still, his team won the World Series, and I was so happy for him, and for me! I was his family's paperboy!"
"Writing this, I realized what I never had before: although I have lived at many different addresses, in several states and several countries, those years were the only time that I lived in a real neighborhood and was part of a real community."
Gary W. Clendennen graduated from Poughkeepsie High School in 1961. He holds a doctorate in southern African history from the University of Edinburgh. He lives in Japan, teaching English and history in businesses and universities.
Memories of a Poughkeepsie New Yorker paperboy from the 1950s
Written by Gary W. Clendennen
Gary Clendennen in 1952, around the time he was a paperboy.
Clendennen lives in Japan now and teaches English to businesses and universities.
"My older brother Bill graduated from Warring Elementary School in June 1949, and went out for football in Poughkeepsie High School that fall. (True to his direction, he became a junior high school gym teacher.) Brother George had to take over his paper route, most of which was on North Clinton and Cottage streets, but about a dozen customers were scattered in odd corners of the neighborhood, especially on Park Place and Mansion Street. I don't remember exactly when I began helping George deliver Bill's papers, but if it was not just at Christmas of 1949, it was certainly sometime in 1950."Making an impression
"First and adjacent to our home was "Tony the Shoemaker," on Cottage Street near the junction with Clinton Street. Tony, whose last name I don't remember (he called himself "A-Tony da Shoe-eh Make-uh," and so he was), was at least 50, and a recent arrival from Palermo, Sicily. Not just a repairman, he was a real shoemaker. He had a long and narrow shop, which smelled wonderfully of leather and glue, with a "Cat's Paw" heels advertisement painted on one window. The inside of the shop featured two long parallel bars, each holding an amazing variety of cake-sized and shaped sanders, cutters and brushes of all textures and strengths. When he threw the switch, they would spin rapidly, and he would skillfully treat the shoe in hand to the proper abrasive with the proper technique. During the day, his shop floor was always littered with scraps of leather, rubber, cloth, errant nails, etc., which either he would sweep up "by 'm by," or he would order me to do it if I was just waiting around for him to finish a shoe for one in my family. Years later, he made the shoes that one of my two elder sisters wore to her wedding. Tony said he wanted the paper as his "English lesson," but now I wonder if he didn't subscribe just to be a good neighbor."
"In addition to being his paperboy, he had me wash his lunchtime dishes and pans every day before I went back to school. He refused to wash dishes, and he paid me with a handful of loose change, anywhere as I remember from 17 to 42 cents per time."
Stimulating the senses
"A short block east of Tony's was Park Place, which ran north and south, parallel to Clinton, and with perhaps 15 homes on each side. Toward the middle on the east side was a company: E.E. Stimpson & Sons. In their warehouse, and often out in the yard on sunny days, were an amazing array of wooden ladders of all sizes, descriptions and colors. I loved the sight and touch of those wonderful creations, often made to order for specific uses. This business had as its head Mr. Stimpson. They never missed the Wednesday night paper payment, and often had something interesting for me to see. One Saturday afternoon, when I entered the yard, Mr. Stimpson called me over and said "Hi, Gary, smell this." He handed me a small piece of freshly sawn wood, and it was wonderfully aromatic. I sniffed and said something like "Wow, that's great!" and he replied "You never knew wood could smell so good, did you?" Perhaps "No, sir, I didn't, thank you," ended that conversation, and I went on my way. I have often wondered if the metal ladder industry initiated the decline of that wonderful family business."
Composer's grandson
"Almost directly across the narrow street lived John Phillip Sousa III, heir and namesake of the great "March King." In the two grocery stores on Clinton Street (one named Cutten's, the other, next to Danny's North Side Barber Shop, perhaps Seaman's?) we could buy cards in a series of famous persons in all of history. The elder Sousa was on one of them. I was so impressed, and really felt blessed to have such a famous grandson on my little paper route. I remember him well, a slightly heavy and happy man of about 35 to 40 with two little children who often played on a yellow and blue gym set in their small yard. I had given his wife a duplicate of the Sousa card."
"One Saturday afternoon (weeknights after school found customers too busy with dinner and paperboys too eager to finish and go home for very much social exchange), Mr. Sousa called me into the yard to receive his paper personally. Just then his wife called through the screen door, telling her husband to bring me into the kitchen: Her batch of cookies were cool enough for tasting. In we went, and while I had my snack he talked about his grandfather. I don't remember anything specific that he said, except that the great musician's ancestors had come to the United States from Portugal! Unfortunately, I have no recollection of this Mr. Sousa's musical interest, nor of his occupation, but I do remember this one moment we spent together."
Red Sox pitcher
"Around the south corner of Park Place and just east of Allen Place on Mansion Street lived Mrs. McDermott and her children. She had hard work, but one of her grown boys was a pitcher for the Boston Red Sox. Mickey was much older than even my brother Bill, and he had left town some years previously. I saw him only once, when I was walking up the sidewalk to deliver the paper. He came bounding down off the porch, said something to me like "Hi, kid!" and hopped into a waiting car. He was tall, thin, and had curly reddish brown hair. I was delighted to have a customer who was the mother of a major-league ballplayer."
Lessons learned
"I was happy enough to be a paperboy, but not "Superboy," by any means. I'm sure my mother could recall that I complained about either the work, the weather or the Wednesday night collections (and Wednesday had the thickest paper of the weekdays) a lot more often than I should have. And, some of the customers would speak legitimate complaints, like the time I threw a paper up on the porch roof but didn't notice it until I absorbed a sharp complaint the next night. I was totally unaware, also, of the life lessons I was learning. But I was conscious that even in this middle- or lower-middle-class neighborhood, there were some exceptional people, even if only for one day or one moment."
"I never met another ladder maker, but in time I became a woodworker, framing pictures and refinishing furniture, and I once made two wooden ladders for myself to fit my own circumstances, perhaps a legacy of my old friends. But my most relevant memory was during a three-week visit to Lisbon when I heard a military band play old Sousa's "Stars and Stripes Forever," and I felt a thread-thin connection with history."
"For 40 years, I was a baseball or softball player, not a very good one, and only infrequently a pitcher, but in October of 1956 I was rapt facing the TV as Mickey McDermott of the New York Yankees pitched in the World Series against the Brooklyn Dodgers. He did quite well, pitching three very respectable innings in a game which his teammates had lost long before he entered. Still, his team won the World Series, and I was so happy for him, and for me! I was his family's paperboy!"
"Writing this, I realized what I never had before: although I have lived at many different addresses, in several states and several countries, those years were the only time that I lived in a real neighborhood and was part of a real community."
Gary W. Clendennen graduated from Poughkeepsie High School in 1961. He holds a doctorate in southern African history from the University of Edinburgh. He lives in Japan, teaching English and history in businesses and universities.
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