My favorite “newspaper” story of the week….

Recently, a widow phoned her local newspaper and asked how much they charged for running obituaries. “A dollar and inch,” she was told.

Oh, dear,” she replied. “It will be far too expensive. My husband was six feet tall.”

—CC—

I have always loved to read…. especially newspapers. In grade school I started reading the local newspaper and GRIT. When I started to junior high, I walked each morning past the local drug store where I bought the Daily Oklahoman and the Tulsa World. By the time I was in high school I had added the Oklahoma City Times, which was published each evening.

Since my beginning in the newspaper business, I have added many other newspapers and enjoy every one of them.

However, Audrey Corn reminded me that newspapers are good for much more than just reading….

“Back in the 1940s almost everyone could enjoy the luxury of a daily newspaper. For just pennies a day, Papa bought two newspapers: the morning edition, which he read on his bus trip to work, and the later edition, which the whole family read in the parlor at night.

Papa always read the sports section first, and then turned back to the front page to read the more serious news. Papa believed in FDR, labor unions and the new Social Security system.

Mama liked the ladies’ pages and enjoyed the cooking column. Sometimes Mama even tried one of the recipes. My sister, Jennie and I preferred familiar foods. We told Mama not to cook anything new.

Jennie and I read the funnies; Blondie was my favorite. Jennie liked Little Orphan Annie.

Papa sometimes spent half the evening ready the paper. When he finished, Mama gathered it up and put it in the pantry. Nothing went to waste in the Good Old Days. Mama used old newspapers as disposable doormats. “Wipe your feet before you come into the house,” Mama would call from the kitchen. Woe unto the poor sinner who tracked mud into Mama’s clean floor.

On icy February days, Mama spread newspapers along our front walkway so we wouldn’t slip and fall. On scorching August afternoons, Mama folded a sheet of newspaper to fan herself. She rolled a second page to use as a flyswatter. Mama also rolled several pages together to swat our sit-downs when we misbehaved. Papa preferred stronger measures.

Mama placed newspapers under the table when we fingerpainted or water-painted, or created papermache from flour, water, salt, glue and newspapers.

After World War II, when the housing shortage eased, Mama wrapped her good dishes in newspaper to protect them against breakage during our move to a bigger apartment. In both the old apartment and the new apartment, Mama covered her freshly scrubbed floors with newspapers. Mama also used lint-free, streak-free newspapers to shine the windows after she washed them.

On ironing day, Mama used newspaper to remove the residue of cooked starch from the bottom of her iron. When she sewed, she pinned her dress pattern to a newspaper. Mama peeled potatoes and carrots over newspaper for quick clean-ups. She wrapped the garbage in old newspapers, and she wrapped our birthday gifts in the funnies.

When the homeless cat birthed her five kittens under our back porch, Mama lined a cardboard box with strips of newspaper. Jennie and I stood at the kitchen window and watched the lady cat pick up her kittens, one by one and place them in Mama’s box. Mama changed their newspaper every day.

Mama scraped the mud off Papa’s boots with newspaper. She stuffed our west shoes with newspaper to preserve their shape. If Papa was caught in a sudden downpour, he held his newspaper over his head like and umbrella.

Papa used newspapers to make kites for my sister and me. He spread newspapers under the car when he changed the oil. In winter, Papa stuffed newspapers into the cracks over the back door to stop the draft.

Papa also sat behind the open newspaper when he needed time to think. Jennie and I were never sure when Papa was reading and when Papa was thinking. So, we didn’t approach Papa’s easy chair until Papa lowered his newspaper and smiled at us.”

I am now convinced more than ever that there is no better bargain than a newspaper!

—CC—

My mom was involved in the newspaper business until her death. She always said what was on her mind… sometimes we wish she had been a little less blunt.

She was once asked to take a picture of a ladies group’s Christmas party. When she arrived one of the ladies said, “Gert, you had better make me look good.”

My mom replied, “Lady, if I take a picture of a head of cabbage, then I get a picture of a head of cabbage.”

The lady that my mom had said that to shared the story with me. She said, “Can you believe she said that to me?” Yes, I can.

And then there was the time I took a picture of a class reunion. One lady that I remember well said right before I took the picture, “Bill, I know that someone in every picture has to be sacrificed….but for your sake, it had better not be me.” And I made sure it wasn’t.

—CC—

I still have a rocking horse that I bought years ago for my grandkids. They have long since outgrown it but I just can’t make myself get rid of it.

J.C. Duffy remembers his rocking horse and writes . . .

“I remember it like it was yesterday. Actually, it was the day before yesterday.

I had just gotten home to get ready for school after my early morning paper route. The only thing that keeps me going

continued Page 12 on these cold winter mornings is the thought of Ma’s pancakes. It’s tough getting up before the sun to deliver papers, especially with a day of school ahead of me, but I like having spending money.

As I rode my bike down our street, something in the trash in front of our house caught my eye. Something tan and oddly familiar. As I got closer I was able to make it out. Oh, my goodness, it was Rusty, my old hobby horse! Rusty, on whom I had ridden into so many imaginary battles against the Sioux and Pawnee! Rusty, my small yet majestic palomino stallion on springs!

When I had gotten too big to ride Rusty any more, Dad had put him in the attic with the old trunks and Grandma. But what was he doing out here with the trash on the sidewalk?

I led my bicycle through the alley into the backyard and went into the house, Ma was at the stove cooking pancakes.

“Ma! What’s Rusty doing outside?” I yelled.

“Who’s Rusty?” she said, deftly flipping a pancake.

“Who’s Rusty? He’s only the best little hobby horse a guy ever had, that’s all!”

“We had to make room in the attic” she said. “Grandma kept tripping of that horse.”

If it had to be Rusty or Grandma, I thought to myself . . .

“And anyway,” she added, “aren’t you a little old for hobby horses. And why don’t you get a job!”

“I already have a job, Ma.”

“A paper route? You call that a job? You’re 32 years old, for goodness sake!”

Ah, here we go. The age thing.

“But I go to school, Ma. I can only work part time.”

“Dropping in on philosophy classes three times a week isn’t going to school,” she said. “The rest of the time you watch The Young and the Restless.”

We’d had this argument many times before, and it never got us anywhere.

“I’m late for class,” I said.

I slammed the back door and walked out through the alley. I grabbed Rusty from the sidewalk and took him back into the yard. I hopped on my bake and rode to Community College.

By the time I got back home I was starving, since I’d missed breakfast for the sake of a dramatic exit.

The trash still hadn’t been collected, so I didn’t need to carry the empty cans into the yard. It was one of my chores. I had a hard time picturing Spinoza carrying trash cans into the yard.

I took my bike through the alley and noticed that Rusty was gone! Than insensitive woman! And yet he wasn’t in the trash, so where was he?

I stormed in and confronted Ma.

“Where’s Rusty,” I demanded.

“Who’s Rusty?” she asked innocently.

“Don’t play dumb, Ma,” I said. “Rusty. My hobby horse.”

“Oh, him. I put him back out into the trash.”

“But he’s not there,” I said.

“Maybe he galloped off to rejoin the herd,” she said coldly.

continued Page 20 I went outside to investigate. I looked down the street and noticed a bunch of neighborhood boys playing. They seemed to be in a frenzy. I walked toward them and finally noticed a patch of tan among the blue jeans. It was Rusty! These young hooligans had taken him from our private, personal trash and were now gang riding him!

I felt violated. I felt nauseated.

I ran up to the melee and rescued my old equine pal, exchanging some harsh words with his kidnappers. What filthy vocabularies for 10-year-olds!

I took Rusty home and carried him up to my room. His springs were a little stretched out, but he seemed okay otherwise. If I kept him in my room, Grandma could have her precious “space,” and I could keep a link to my childhood.

I looked at my faithful steed.

“One day when I have a high paying philosopher job I’ll be able to get an apartment of my own, and we’ll look back on this and laugh, eh, Rusty?”

Some might chalk it up to stretched-out springs, but I swear he nodded.