My Father's Papers

Growing up, there were always newspapers in the house. There were usually three newspapers delivered to the house.  These papers arrived daily for my father’s enjoyment.  As kids we poked around with the Sunday paper after my father had gone through it.  I read the Parade and my brothers the comics.  My mother bypassed the news in search of sales.  She mostly used old newspapers to capture the skins of peeled potatoes and shucked corn when cooking.   Sometimes I was able to amuse this deeply religious woman with the daily horoscope, “Ma, today you will find love in unexpected places.”  But it was my father who thoroughly read the newspapers. He would read them at the kitchen table, from his big chair in the den, while sitting on the front porch or by the wood burning stove in the basement. 

The papers lived in various parts of the house which annoyed my mother.   There’s nothing more unruly than a paper once opened.  It can’t be returned to its former pristine state.  It’s easier to leave them opened and disheveled all over the place.  Sometimes my mother expressed her frustration, “I’m so tired of Your Father’s Papers.”   She always said Your Father’s Papers as if to mockingly announce a great novel or play.  But what was she to do?  All things considered, this is just the byproduct of a man that likes to read newspapers.   Still, the papers were just one more thing she had to corral to maintain some semblance of order at home. 

I’ve always been amused that my father involves my mother in the reading of his newspapers.   He doesn’t seem to notice her shoddy rapport with his papers.  Sometimes he would suddenly appear from another part of the house with his paper “Rudell, look at this!  I told you…they going to jail!”  They were usually a political figure that he had been following.   He would monitor their hopeful rise to office all the way to their ruinous end.   Mom would acknowledge his five alarm news with a slight nod or lift of the eyebrow.   He would walk away muttering his convictions into the air and shaking his head, ”Naw, uh-uh…you just can’t do that.”  

I often think of my parents as I try to manage reading and taming the Washington Post I have delivered to my apartment once a week.   I know there is no great mystery or feat in reading a newspaper.  If I were speaking to a therapist, she would look over me closely and say “Mystery…hmmmnnnn….let’s explore this a little more…”   Obviously I don’t rely on this once a week delivery, that I pick through, as my primary source of information.  So, why do I have the subscription? We all do things that tie us to our childhood.  We desire to have a better understanding of it or want to relive a feeling or experience that we know we can’t get back.  Sometimes it’s a conscious choice and other times not.  Maybe that’s why I have them living with me in my small space.

There are still a lot of papers in my parent’s house.  I wasn’t sure which ones so I asked my dad.

“Dad, what papers do you get at the house?”

 “The (Baltimore) Sun and The (Capital) Gazette”

“I thought there was another paper like the Afro American or did it go out of circulation?”

“Oh Yeah, I get the Afro American but that’s just once a week.  They still around.” 

“You read these papers every day!” 

 “Yeah.  Why?” 

“I was just wondering.”

Of course, I wasn’t just wondering.  I was just amazed.