I could not wait to turn 11. In New York, at least in the 80s, 11 was when you could get working papers to hold a paper route. I was eager to be responsible for my own income. Most importantly, I could earn money for my new trumpet. Like many students, I rented an instrument in 4th grade, and now that I was going into 7th grade, I was ready to buy my upgrade, a silver Bach Strad Model 37. I would be three years before I saved enough to pay my half (as agreed to by my mother).
Anyway, this story isn't really about the trumpet or the paper route, but what the paper route led me to, or rather who.
My paper route was near my house (as they often were). I would go to the corner of Mott and Brown, pick up my stack of papers, and head up Mott, down Exeter, around Eden, down Smallwood, and finally down Brown. I walked that route daily, including Sunday at 5 am, for years.
Many of my customers were the parents of kids I knew in the neighborhood. Some of them were people I knew from church. Most I didn't know at all. Such was the case with 8267 Exeter, a grey house at the corner of Exeter and Eden. Home of the Dobbins.' If my Swiss cheese memory serves, they had kids a bit younger than me (a couple of girls, I think) that I did not know at all. However, for reasons I cannot remember, I began to know Mr. Dobbins as more than just a guy whose door I would drop a paper in every day.
One day, at the start of my second or third summer as a carrier, I talked to Mr. Dobbins while on my route. I had recently realized I had a captive advertising audience to earn more money, so I put notes in each of my customer's papers advertising my services as a lawn care "professional." Mr. Dobbins had wanted to engage my services in mowing and trimming his lawn. Over that summer, in addition to delivering papers, I would go to 8267 once a week and mow the lawn. Each time he would give me tips and tricks about good lawn care (How high to set the mower to make the grass look nice but not let the summer sun burn the lawn, and how to change the direction you walk each time you mow to avoid "training" the grass to grow in a particular direction). I enjoyed the time I spent with Mr. Dobbins and learned a lot.
I went back the following summer to cut Mr. Dobbins's lawn again. In the middle of that summer, my mother took me aside and told me, "You won't be cutting Mr. Dobbins's lawn anymore." Mr. Dobbins had died unexpectedly. That was the first time I experienced the death of someone I felt close to. How I processed the whole thing is a bit of a blur. I remember going to the calling hours. I didn't completely understand a lot of it. I remember paying the family respects but not knowing what to say. They had lost a husband and father, and he was just a customer on a paper route.
Walking down Exeter was never the same after that. Even as an adult, when I walk down that street, I stop at 8267 and pause for a moment. The family moved out years ago, and a new family is making memories there, but when I pause, it is almost as if I can see myself walking up and down that lawn, pushing a mower. A piece of me still misses him.
However, part of me still honors him every day I cut my lawn. He taught me how to care for a lawn, but more importantly, he taught me how to care about doing a job. I could have just raced up and down the lawn just to get it done, but he taught me that part of mowing a lawn is making it look nice. I tried my best to walk straight lines and overlap the passes just enough to avoid stray, long grass blades. He reinforced a value my mothers always tried to instill in me that any job worth doing is worth doing well. I know those things are alive in me even today, not just when mowing my lawn.
An old saying is that people come in and out of your life for a season and often for a specific reason. My season with Mr. Dobbins was short, but I will never forget him and the lessons I learned mowing his lawn.
Who is the Mr. Dobbins in your life? Who are the people who have come into your life, however briefly, to teach you an important lesson?
Be well!
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