A hospital is a very lonely place at Christmastime. In my early teens, I spent more than 1,000 days in a hospital, including on Christmas and other holidays.
Typically, I arrived at the hospital by 6:30 a.m. on school days. Loaded up with copies of the Chicago Tribune and Chicago Sun-Times under my arm, I stopped at patient rooms, except for those with a “do not disturb” sign. “Newspaper?” I called out in a clear but not annoyingly loud voice. Patients responded from inside darkened rooms. Then I would quietly approach their bedsides and ask which morning paper they wanted. Some bought both.
People who were hospitalized for days or even weeks recognized my voice and knew my daily routine. Many had their 15 cents for a newspaper ready for me. The good tippers gave me a quarter. I usually finished within an hour with pockets full of change. Then I repeated my paper route after school when I sold the evening newspapers to patients…