In this day and age when more than half the American population is under economic distress the concept of working Christmas isn't even an option. Most employers inform them verbally that they will be summarily dismissed if they fail to attend their Christmas scheduling. So at this point it is important to get the stories out about how we as a society are so cognitively dissonant that we can not see how our culture sets up the poor to pretend to be joyous all the while slaving and hoping they do not fall ill on Christmas lest they lose their job.
So let's have it, what was the first Christmas you worked and what did you do?
Or perhaps you have a notable working on Christmas tale?
My first Christmas working I was twelve and it was a paper route. I'm certain nepotism had a hand in my being employed. And my family secured my second job for me as well. But they could see the futility of my applying normally somewhere, especially after the manager of a Jack in the Box called them to tell them I had gone to his interview in a dress and was using my birth (female) name. But it was a job and I'm someone that constitutionally needs to stay busy.
Of course it was in the foothills of Southern California so my longest stretch of "flat" street was little more than a hundred yards. The rest, slopes of varying steepness including one section that would give the residents of Filbert street in San Francisco leg cramps. On that section I broke the crank on my heavily laden beach cruiser at thirteen trying to force the bike beyond it's physical limitations.
Being in Southern California the cold was not bad but since it was all I knew it seemed cold to me. The true challenge for Christmas newspaper delivery are the inserts. Those pages of glossy colorful advertisements and coupons vendors use to lure shoppers to their retail outlets. On holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas those inserts can triple or quadruple the weight of the newspaper easily. Making the easily origamied missile into a five to ten pound cannonball that shakes the cement porch slabs when dropped on them.
Now multiply that by about a hundred. The ink smearing across your hands as you insert and then attempt to fold using rubber bands charged to my income. The ink building to the point that your hands glide across the newsprint when you try to turn the flat stack into a bundle. Then carrying as many as you can pack on to your route. I would go to the neighborhoods further out first when the loads were heavy. Unloading my parcels at subscribers doors and then returning home to gather another load for another sector. Because it was a holiday and people would be wanting to peruse the after Christmas sales first thing instead of receiving the bundles of papers to be assembled at five am they were dropped between one and three.
So my eyes were sandy and my brain had to think to start the well worn routine of folding papers. The stacks became a pile of giant newspapers festooned with ads escaping the confines of the newsprint burrito. The porch soon became blocked. And then I felt as if I were in a Laurel and Hardy G.I. potato peeling scene as my ankles and knees became encumbered by the growing pile.
Then it was time to load, we were sold canvas over the shoulder saddle bags that could double on a bike rack with careful tying. Instead of up to twenty in each pouch section getting more than two of the behemoth advertising papers without damaging them into the pouch was a challenge. Fortunately I had access to a wagon that assisted in carrying the larger loads. And it was handy to ride back down to the house from the upper elevations. Although I'm sure, on reflection, that rolling in a wagon down the street before dawn probably did not endear me to the neighbors.
Plodding along pushing the bike because my frame had not acquired the strength to move the load by pedal yet. I made my way in the predawn darkness to the furthest section of my route, the "new" houses. A place I once played peek a boo with burrowing owls on my way to school. The darkness was absolute. A breeze from the west announced the wind would soon reverse as the air warmed by the sun begins pushing from the east. I kept my eyes open for skunks as they tended to be easily surprised. There were no actual problem dogs on my route, and those are usually problem owners anyway.
I reached the new houses and started my deliveries. The first paper thudded far too loudly. I had to come right up onto each porch in order to deliver them without setting off the seismograph. I was glad to rid myself of these papers as they were precariously balanced on the bike and myself in order to bring the correct number to this section in one trip. After ridding myself of the unsecured papers I quickly addressed the load on my person. Although the canvas was wide, the physics of the design created stress points across my shoulders that would dig with each step. I can still remember how exuberant I would get to offload that last paper. Even if it was to return for a new trip.
They also moved the delivery time back an hour on the holidays. So the coming grayness of dawn was a sign my hourglass was quickly emptying. The plodding steps soon acquired hustle as time pressed upon me while I mentally calculated my completion time and found it deficient. Even though it was chilly I would sweat as I climbed the hilly sidewalks and made my deliveries. As my Timex hand wound it's way to the appointed time I walked the last few papers to the recipients on my street. Leaving me with a small pile of miscounted adverts and strips of bundling binders to be discarded before I could go inside and wash the ink off my blackened hands.
I'm pretty sure I took a nap that Christmas morning and missed most of the day itself.
I have no internet where I'm staying and the trip into town usually means I need to buy something to get wifi. And I can't always get to town depending on the weather. So I'll have to wait to respond to comments.