Montana’s Baby Blue
By: Christopher Lovelace
Tags: Humanity, Stories And Culture, Adventure, Fishing, Youth

Badfinger is belting out Baby Blue

Don’t cross the solid yellow lines. Original photo by Chris Lovelace

Montana got his first paper route when he was twelve or thirteen years old. He delivered the Richmond Times-Dispatch along one of several paper routes in the Westover Hills area. There were many more routes in other areas of the city as well. The decade was the 1960’s when things were somewhat different than they are today. A paper route consisted of anywhere from one hundred customers up to, perhaps, two hundred customers.

The driver of a large step van would drop bundles of newspapers out on the southeast corner of Westover Hills Boulevard and King William Road around 4:30am-5:00am each day. The driver was also the area manager. There wasn’t much bossing for him to do other than to make sure the papers were delivered by the paperboys and that payment was made by the paperboys for the papers.

Each drop location serviced maybe eight to ten paperboys working eight to ten or more routes. Some paperboys handled a second and, occasionally, even a third route. These kids were probably the breadwinners in their homes. They would probably rule the world when they grew up.

The bundles of newspapers were held together with baling wire. Each bundle had a printed identifier so individual paperboys would know which bundles were theirs. There was also a drop/add sheet identifying new customers, vacationing customers, and customers who dropped their subscriptions. The paperboys had to keep up with the temporary and the permanent changes.

Montana would leave the house around 5:30am most days and peddle his banana bike six blocks to the paper drop. He had bolted a large metal bike basket to the front of the handlebars. Supports were bolted onto the sprocket hubs on the front wheel. It was a substantial assembly and could handle a full load of newspapers or even a rider. Montana placed his heavy canvas Times-Dispatch newspaper bag inside the basket so it draped over all four sides.

He used a pair of wire cutters to open the bales. Next, he would do the magic fold the newspaper in on itself trick to form a tight newspaper cylinder. Each one was then placed in the canvas bag in the basket. He could pull the draped canvas bag material over the folded newspapers. This covering provided some semblance of weatherproofing from rain and snow.

Some days the newspapers were thinner than on other days so the basket might hold all of the papers. On thick newspaper days, like Thursday and Sunday, he would make a second trip to where the bundles were dropped off.

Probably 80% of the homes along the route subscribed to the Times-Dispatch. The trick was for the paperboys to memorize his route so he tossed papers onto the porches of subscribers and did not run short by providing freebees to non-subscribers. Montana was a southpaw and he rode his bike on the sidewalks so the homes were on his right. The trick was to toss a paper across his chest and onto the porch without it bursting open. The tightness of the magic fold the newspaper in on itself trick was integral to the overall success of the operation.

This work occurred when the weather was nice and when it was nasty. Neither rain nor sleet nor wind and snow could delay the delivery of this vital societal link. Montana’s dad said that people were considered well-informed if they read one newspaper a day. Montana’s dad was well-informed. It was Montana’s job to make sure others were also well-informed.

Montana had been issued a payment book along with the heavy Times-Dispatch canvas bag. The payment book was a thick, hard material covered in heavy green cloth. It was approximately 5 inches by 8 inches by 2 inches thick. Inside were pages of small green stamps worth 25 cents each. The Times-Dispatch was delivered for a nickel a day for the five weekdays and an additional 25 cents for Saturday plus Sunday. Montana would ride his bike along his route an evening or two a week and collect payment from his customers. He traded the newspaper stamps for hard currnecy.

Sometimes Montana would handle two routes if another paperboy was sick or on a family vacation. There was reciprocation, meaning the delivery of the news of the world went on uninterrupted. Thereby the readers stayed well-informed and Walter Cronkite was happy.

Occasionally, someone would call in a complaint about a late or wet paper, even when there was a foot of snow on the ground and riding a bike was impossible or it was raining cats and dogs. Montana worked hard, was proud of his work and overall, he was a fairly good kid. Words from his older brother Willy summed up his thoughts about the complainers. Fuck ‘em.

On Thursday morning all the paperboys met with the area manager at the paper drop and turned over 75% of the money they had collected. Sometimes a bit of reconciliation was required but the transactions went quickly and smoothly. This way Montana and the other paperboys were able to make 15 to maybe even 25 bucks or so a week. Not bad for kids with an entrepreneurial spirit. There were no job interviews or resumes involved. The kids did their job and kept 25% of the gross. Lazy kids were very quickly weeded out, usually in a single morning.

Routes were passed down from older brothers to younger brothers or cousins or friends. The area manager just wanted to know papers got delivered and he received payment. It was strictly a cash business at this level so no tax papers passed hands and the area manager and the paperboys were often not even on a first-name basis.

It is noted that the term paperboy is used herein. That is because there were no papergirls. At least there were no papergirls that Montana was aware of during his several years as a paperboy. Bob Dylan and The Band did mention, however, That the Times They Are A-Changin’. Maybe there are papergirls today.

Montana played football and basketball from about fourth grade on. He was mediocre at best but was always on the teams. He also shoveled snow for several neighbors when it snowed and he cut several lawns every week or so when the grass grew. Once basketball was over, fishing season began on the mighty James River. It just so happened that the trail down between the granite cliffs leading to the river was two blocks from his house.

All in all, Montana was a busy kid. He enjoyed the work and the sports and the fishing and he tolerated school. One lawn he cut belonged to his aunt and uncle. They lived across the river and way out in the west end of Richmond. They owned a mower, so Montana would just hitchhike (thumb) over on a Saturday or Sunday and do the deed. They were quite generous and usually gave him four and sometimes five dollars.

Montana would thumb back east a couple of miles and stop off at Hawk’s house. The two had known each other from the crib. Tales of some of their adventures are told elsewhere. Well, at least some of what can be discussed openly. The home was always open and Montana was always welcomed. Hawk’s folks were legendary for their warmth and generosity. They were quite successful in all aspects of life.

Montana’s folks were hard-working professionals. His dad ran the big hospital downtown on Broad Street, and his mom was a Registered Nurse. They put in a lot of hours working. They never complained about the long hours, they just did the work necessary to get the job done correctly and professionally.

Together they provided themselves and their kids with a warm and comfortable home and a few trinkets to go along with it. This had a huge impact on Montana even though it was never really discussed. The lesson was, however, self-explanatory. Work hard, do your job, do it well, and good things would happen. So be it.

A kid named Tommy lived next door to Montana. His mom had gotten a divorce so Tommy and his older brother Monster had moved in with their grandparents on a temporary basis. Montana and Tommy were both fourteen and did a lot of fishing and rabble rousing together.

One week that spring was a game-changer for Montana.

On Tuesday he and Tommy were at the 7–11 store near school. Tommy bought a pack of cigarettes for his mom. What the hell Tommy said as he opened the package and pulled out two Winston’s. All of the folks smoked so why shouldn’t they.

He struck a match from the safety pack advertising an art degree for ten dollars. Montana inhaled and scorched his lungs. It required downing his entire grape Slushy to extinguish the fire. Tommy laughed so hard he lost his balance and fell off the curb. Tommy obviously did not have a very good sense of humor.

On Friday they went to a party near Forest Hill Park. They knew some of the kids there, others were from further east. Altogether there were ten to fifteen kids, both boys and girls. As darkness was surrounding them one of the boys lit up a funny-smelling smoke. They all had their first toke of pot.

On Saturday evening Tommy said he was going to borrow a little of his granddad’s Jack Daniels whiskey. Montana said it sounded like a cool idea so he poured some of his dad’s Ancient Age into an empty Jif peanut butter jar. He grabbed a bottle of Coke as a chaser, opened it with a church key, and headed out the back door.

Tommy was waiting and they went down Montana’s backyard into the woods behind the houses and crawled into one of the wooden forts that were scattered across the five-acre new and old-growth hardwood-pine mixture. They sipped and gulped the nasty shit, and both agreed how cool they were. They both puked and felt like a train wreck all the next day.

During that one week in the spring of Montana’s fourteenth year he started smoking cigarettes and pot and drinking whiskey. Hell of a way to head into the later teens!

Montana would turn sixteen in August, ’71. At that time, in Virginia, a person could get a learner’s driving permit at fifteen years eight months. Montana did just that. He got his full permit on his birthday. He always knew he wanted his own car so he had saved his money from the paper routes and the lawns and the snow shoveling.

His folks had made it clear, if he wanted a car, he would pay for it. He would pay for the insurance and the gas and the oil and the tires too. Walking and riding a bike and thumbing were all fine but, in his mind, owning a car meant an open gateway to the world. Montana was destined to travel more than his fair share of miles over the years to come. A car was that first step on the trip of the proverbial ten thousand miles.

A friend of Montana’s dad ran the repair shop at the local Buick dealership. Dad asked him to keep a look out for a suitable used car. One day the mechanic called and said he found a good and reliable candidate. The original owner was literally a little old lady. She bought the car new in ’64 and the repair shop had maintained it for her the last nine years.

Montana and his dad drove to the Buick dealership. Montana met his Baby Blue. She was a ’64 four-door Buick Special, baby blue in color, and they instantly fell in love with each other. Anyway, that’s the way Montana tells the story even to this day. The sleek beauty had 57,000 tenderly cared for miles behind her and a bunch more out ahead.

Each and every one of those miles to come would be with Montana behind the wheel. He shelled over exactly four hundred and twenty-five dollars of his hard-earned money and received two keys and a car in return.

Late that afternoon Montana crossed the Nickel Bridge driving Baby Blue, then made his way westward to Hawk’s. Most of the family came out to admire the beautiful machine. They all exclaimed their admiration and Hawk’s mom said drive safely and don’t cross the solid yellow lines.

Montana said he surely would as Hawk climbed in shotgun. Montana made it around the corner and headed back south toward the river. He pulled out a home-rolled from his Marlboro box and handed it to Hawk. Hawk fired it up with the dashboard cigarette lighter, took a big toke, and said it don’t get no better than this.