A paper boy remembers . . .

The army of paper boys and girls charged with delivering the Gisborne Herald every day got together for a photograph in the press hall in 1973, a year short of the paper’s centenary.

Today marks the end of an era as The Gisborne Herald moves to a morning newspaper and its traditional paper boy and girl delivery is taken over by local drivers contracted by publisher NZME. Herald chief sub-editor Chris Taewa takes a nostalgic look at his experiences as a paper boy.

Friday was a good day for this late-70s/early 80s paper boy.

It was the day I headed downtown to The Gisborne Herald and Margaret behind the counter in circulation would hand me a small brown envelope.

In that envelope was cold, hard cash. Not much but enough to satisfy my sweet-toothed cravings.

With that weekly windfall I would head to the dairy to buy a 2-litre bottle of Coke, raspberry drops, a king-size Milky Bar and Jersey caramels, or stop off at Mayfair Caterers bakery for cheap end-of-the-week Chelsea buns and cream doughnuts . . . and still have plenty of 20-cent coins left for Galaga at the Young Image, Defender at The Trend or Dig-Dug at Cliff’s Place.

Paper and milk runs were part of the fabric of growing up. Hundreds of Gisborne children from my era on slapped the green paper sack over the bar or carrier of their Healing, Raleigh 20, Loline, Cruiser or Chopper bikes, and headed to a designated shop to pick up their stash.

It wasn’t a job that was going to lead directly to a career in rocket science — though I don’t know if Elon Musk or Peter Beck were paper boys in their youth — but there were skills involved.

One of the runs over my delivery career covered Roebuck Road, Kahutia and Anzac streets. Over 70 papers — a decent number considering The Herald was broadsheet size then and on some days rolled up to the width of a small log.

The challenge for the seasoned deliverer was to get around a run without having to stop.

It meant rolling up the paper on your thigh while pedalling and deftly inserting it into a mailbox on the go.

Achieve that flow — without knocking out an empty milk bottle hidden in the parcel area of the box with glass-shattering effect — and I would get around in no time flat, giving me the rest of daylight to beat the Springboks or Australia in backyard test-match rugby or cricket.

Paper runs weren’t danger-free.

On a run that took in Townley Street, I was terrorised by a giant German Shepherd that would rush up to the gate, barking with the intensity of a jet engine and armed with drool-dripping, werewolf-like fangs. The movie Cujo was yet to be released but it reminds me of the day that Townley house gate was left open.

I learned the hard way to watch where I was riding, thanks to a paper run. Hitting a parked car in Childers Road with a full sack of papers on the back and flying over the handlebars is as painful as it is humiliating.

But the newspaper must get through and after returning from la-la land I completed the mission with my pride the only serious wound.

I had no idea over those years that my career path would go full circle. Astronaut, not reporter cum sports editor cum chief sub-editor, was at the top of my vocational list.

I also never thought that 40 years later I would become a “paper boy” again — relieving for my son when he was away on a school trip.

The irony of delivering the paper — while riding  his bike —  featuring a front page I had edited and headlined was not lost on me.

But it did give me a sweet taste of nostalgia that had me hankering for a Coke and a Jersey caramel.