Saturday Night Rituals

The paper boy brought Sunday’s Post on Saturday night as our family watched “The Hit Parade” inside. We’d hear his cart rattling by on the icy pavement, then his song, in his nasal voice: “Baaay-berrr! ” Dad would give me two shiny quarters. Opening the front door, I’d see him there, small shadow in the streetlight’s wide corona. Slipping and sliding out into the middle of the deserted intersection, I’d make the exchange: warm coins for the thick, cold sheaf of paper folded with Blondie and Dagwood right on top. Our house came alive with our colorful visitor’s entry, its newsprint-ink perfume filling the den as it started to share tales of the world outside. Dad gave away the colors, distributing sections. I waited for the funnies and PARADE. But excitement did not last long. In truth, our visitor had not much to tell us. Its bright folds were filled with empty promise, its rainbow colors enhanced commercial phantoms. Soon it lay on the sofa like a discarded lover. Ourselves again, we began the next family ritual: turning off lights and getting ready for bed.