Expensive newspaper

It's four below zero in Burnsville this morning. We've got an ongoing battle with our 20 year old furnace that wants to keep puttering out and I've gone to bed several nights in the past two weeks of below-average temperatures thinking we may be frozen to the bed in the morning. Last night we were victorious once again. So, it's really cold here. But we've got nine inches of snow on the ground and it definitely feels like December should 'feel.'

I am sitting on the downstairs couch that looks out onto our small plot of back/sideyard with a view to the main road in front of our place. From my vantage point, I can see (an obviously crazy) person walking slowly on the street. I couldn't see what this person was doing until he got over the snowdrift that was blocking my view of him/her.

It was the humbly paid local newspaper delivery boy/old man. It's hard to tell how old anyone is after age 12 nowadays, especially so bundled up in layers in four below zero temps. But, as he slowly, slowly got closer, I could tell he was an older gentleman. With a beet-red face. And he was delivering the little local paper that I read maybe once a year because of someone I know in a story. It typically sits on our front step, two, three or four bi-weekly editions deep, collecting mold, until someone decides it's finally time for recycling.

I watched the man amble slowly-with his drop foot and shuffling gait, to the other townhouses on our street. It took a while-long enough to develop frostbite if you weren't very careful-to get to our place. I imagined why he must be doing this. The news must be delivered to the people! Or maybe the regular delivery guy was "sick" and he was a last-minute stand-in on this frozen day. Or maybe it was his only source of income as a retired person and he is supporting himself and his wife with it.

We're really good at being end-users. That neat little boxed-up term that means we don't have to do any of the grunt work, we just get to enjoy the final product. I get to savor a meal prepared by a middle-aged man on medication for depression-just barely holding his job. I get to wear clothes made by children who are forced by their parents to work 15-hour days. I get to experience life and freedom because someone who didn't have to gave their life.

There is a backstory to everything. I have an intense 'context' complex that (forces me or allows me) to see situations, attitudes, facial expressions, dialogue, etc. nestled in the context of the backstory, the history or special circumstances surrounding a person. It helps me to a better glimpse of why we are the way we are. We are so accustomed to seeing the tip of the iceberg, the head of the pin, that we often forget what went into getting to that place. I wonder if we stopped and considered the backstory more often we would hold our tongue, our thoughts, suspend our judgements more...just long enough to find the common ground in both of our contexts.

The CEO who has risen to the top of his/her field after 40 years in the industry. The alcoholic desperately trying to cover a life of disappointment. The single parent. The successful teacher. The car salesman. We all have backstories. The man with the makeshift cart delivering the community newspaper to a townhouse development on a crazy cold Saturday morning.

If for no other reason, I'm going to read that paper for the delivery boy and the painstaking effort I know he took to deliver it.