A story for my grandchildren...

It comes up in conversation now and then - the story about me and the box. I think I've told my children the story, but if not I need to. It should be repeated in family gatherings in years to come to help my children's children understand that their parents come by certain things quite honestly. And perhaps it will help shed some light on their own behavior.

I had a paper route when I was a teenager. Back then, the Breckenridge American was published every week-day afternoon and the week-end edition was delivered on Sunday morning. This edition was actually printed Saturday afternoon and we went down to the newspaper office and rolled our papers and put them in our canvas bags and left them there to be picked up and scattered in yards across town early the next morning. They used to let us take them home overnight until some over-zealous carriers started tossing them on the way home Saturday so they could sleep in on Sunday.

Except for the dead of winter, I enjoyed the Sunday morning route. You got to avoid the traffic and the heat, and in the summertime you sometimes got to see who slept out of doors to avoid the hot un-air-conditioned houses.

And one Sunday morning I found a box. I don't remember where, but I remember it was HUGE! The possibilities of a huge cardboard box are endless; few prizes held more excitement to a young boy! When I say huge, I mean it was bigger than my bicycle! All I had to do was get it home! Being an enterprising sort of person, I figured out that I could get on my bike, turn the box upside down over me and, balancing the box, slowly pedal me and my prize home.

Okay, I know that right now you are thinking about some of the pictures in "Why women live longer than men." Yes. It does start at an early age. But there's more. I could move the bike and box, but I couldn't see where I was going. You think? But I discovered that if I pedaled down the stripe in the middle of the road I knew I was headed in the right direction! And yes, it was Walker Street - the main road through town - but it was six AM in the morning. No cars drove down Walker at 6AM, so off I went.

And I was right. There were no cars driving down the street. But there was one parked in the middle of the street. Officer Cozart had stopped his police car about a half-block further down and waited for me to arrive. I knew he was there when I ran into his bumper.

It was a small collision - I wasn't going very fast. And I was really mystified why some fool had parked his car in the middle of the road, so I raised the box to find Officer Cozart looking very stern, shaking his head.

To be honest, I don't remember our conversation. I am pretty sure it consisted of a bunch of "Yes, Sirs" on my part. And I don't remember how - or if - I got the box home. I probably did. I probably moved my operation to the sidewalk. And I probably put the box over my head and walked home.

So, Jericho, Jacob, Luke and Grace. This is your heritage. Enjoy your childhood.