Words Have No Meaning

Language changes. I know it's hard to believe. It's pointless to use old dictionaries to try to pin down the meaning of words because the meanings of words change with use and time.

The same goes for idioms.

When I was a kid and I kept asking for the same thing over and over again, my parents might say, "You sound like a broken record." I knew what they meant.

My Dad had a record collection consisting of old-time gospel acts, early sixties surf music, and folk. The covers of the gospel albums usually depicted white women with beehive hairdos standing primly in grassy fields. Sometimes there would be a dude wearing a suit and a crew cut sitting behind a piano (grassy fields can't be good for pianos). The surf albums (The Ventures, The Surfaris, Jan and Dean) usually had clean cut young men wearing short sleeve striped shirts, chinos and tennis shoes standing on a beach with surfboards and hot rods in the back ground. The folk albums (Kingston Trio, Peter Paul and Mary, and the New Christy Minstrels) depicted clean-cut young men and women clutching guitars and banjos. Most of the folk albums had a train somewhere on the cover (folkies love trains).

No matter how hard these artists boozed or smoked reefer, they were all clean-cut. It was quite a contrast with those bands that came just a few years later.

Anyway, we would play these mono records on our phonograph. Being kids we weren't too gentle with the vinyl discs either. Most of them ended up with at least one scratch.

And we all know what happens when the needle hit the scratch.

My kids have no idea what a record is. I doubt they've ever seen one. Even CDs are rare. As far as my kids know, music comes from the radio or Daddy's phone. "You sound like a broken record" is meaningless.

So what do I tell them when they say the same thing over and over.

My Crappiest Job Ever

When I was a young lad, there wasn't a lot of money floating around my house. If I wanted to buy the finer things in life such as Big Gulps, Gobstoppers, or Hershey bars I needed to earn money. I mowed the neighbor's lawn and worked for my Grandpa during the summer. When I turned twelve, I started delivering the local newspaper.


When I was younger, one of the neighbor kids had a paper route. He would deliver papers in our neighborhood after he got home from school. I helped him out a few times and it seemed like a fun way to earn a little extra cash. Between that time and the time I started throwing papers, the San Gabriel Valley Tribune changed from afternoon delivery to morning delivery. Afternoon delivery is col and fun; morning delivery sucks.


When I started, the route in my neighborhood was taken. I got a route that covered some condominiums and apartments about a mile from my house. I've been by since and they are pretty sketchy. Not the kind of place I would let my twelve-year-old ride around.


Every morning (7 days a week, 365 days a year) I would wake up at about 5:00 AM to find a stack of newspapers and inserts on the driveway. I'd lug them inside and start folding the papers. I'd put the insert in the paper, fold it up and secure it with a rubber band. On rainy days they gave us plastic bags to protect the newspaper. I'd load up my canvas bag, put it on the handlebars of my BMX bike and ride to my area in the dark.


I tried to get every paper on the porch believing that I would earn better tips that way. I got good enough I could throw the paper up to the porch from the street. This worked great unless I hit the screen door. The only sound louder than a hammer falling on an empty chamber is the sound of a newspaper slamming into a screen door at five thirty in the morning. After about an hour of throwing papers, I would ride back home, shower and go to school.


After I got home from school, I would pick up my stack of perforated billing cards, and go to all the customers in my area to collect for the month. I'd knock on the door, hope that someone would answer, and then pray that they had the money to pay the five dollar bill for the month. If they didn't have the money, I would have to come back another day.


Sometimes I would get a tip. Tips ranged from a quarter all the way up to a full dollar. I don't remember how much I earned for the month but it was probably about 50 dollars - not bad money for a twelve-year-old but not much for the amount of work.


There were no days off. Rain or shine, holidays, sick or well - the papers had to be delivered intact to the doorstep of the impatient, demanding customers. If the paper was wet I'd get a complaint. If it was late I'd get a complaint. If it was too far from the porch I'd get a complaint. Fortunately, I didn't get many complaints.

My sisters got a route a while after I started. My Dad drove my sister around while she delivered the papers. A little while after that, we consolidated the route. Judy and Sara got up early and folded the papers. I did the delivery. We did this for about a year and then we wisely quit.

I appreciate the responsibility a job teaches a young man. However, kids have a job. It's called school. My school work suffered when I couldn't stay awake in class. I got my first "F" in junior high.

The Times, They are a Changin'

I cleaned out my locker at work. For eight years it was packed floor to ceiling with things I might need. I was surprised at some of the stuff I found in there.

Remember when...

... you could eat a piece of chocolate and not worry if it were fair trade. Or you could enjoy a cup of coffee and not concern yourself that it was shade grown. Or buy clothes without worrying that it was made in a south-east Asian sweatshop.

The good old days.