I remember the sound of early weekend mornings at 4 or 5 a.m. “Time to get up” shouted from the bottom of the stairs.
I remember the sound the bundles of newspapers made as they hit the patio. “Boom.”
I remember the sound of the second warning. “Keith! Get up!”
I remember the sound of the rubber bands being tied around dozens of newspapers. “Snap Snap Snap”
I remember the sound of the car starting up and car doors slamming to bring us to the trailer park to deliver the newspapers. “Slam, slam, let’s go!”
I remember the sound of the papers hitting the porch. “Bam.”
I remember the sound of the snow as I made my way through my route in winter. “Crunch, crunch.”
But what I really remember, what I really remember is the smell of the pastries we got to choose at a little shop called The Dainty Pastry on Main Street when we were all done with a hard morning’s work.