Is there time and space for a grateful tribute or two? In my youth I had a paper route. Up early in the cold mornings, get your papers, fold them, load the bicycle’s baskets, front and back, off to “porch deliver” to customers, most of whom never said a word unless one was late because of bad weather or some mishap.
Later, in high school days, I would hurry to catch my postman father, getting on in years, and finish his route for him, probably flouting any number of postal regulations. In that small Illinois town, no one ever squealed on us.
So here’s to my postal carrier-is that the term now?-and to my Times delivery man. I’ve been there.
FRED SCIFERS Downey .