The Pink Huffy
The Pink Huffy
From 4th to the end of 5th grade, I would sit cross-legged on our soft and yellowy-tan shag carpet in the corner of our add-on living room, and roll Garland Daily News newspapers while watching two of the three best TV shows ever made: Gilligan’s Island, I Love Lucy, and The Dick Van Dyke Show. This rolling of papers started after an older brother who tired of throwing newspapers at people’s houses, handed down this unique and extinct childhood business. I’d sit cross-legged and one paper at a time, fold and roll newspapers until the over one-hundred and twenty five thin manuscripts were tightly curled and banded by red rubber bands. The distribution of The Garland Daily News was a daily occurrence immediately after school five days a week, and very, very early on Sunday mornings.
I don’t recall the circumstances in which the pink “huffy” brand bicycle was given to me, which is odd, being that bikes and kid pairings are usually momentous occasions. But I do remember it was small and bright pink, and the soft pink seat provided the perfect harness for the double-sided, canvas saddle bag which stored and protected my valuable merchandise.
After all the papers were rolled and banded, each newspaper would be evenly and neatly aligned, standing straight up, inside the canvas pouches hanging on each side of the bright pink bicycle. Then the three to four mile late afternoon journey began as I peddled up and down the middle of streets named after flowers between Broadway and Kingsley. Honeysuckle, Tulip, Marigold, and Sunflower Streets became my commerce in Garland, Texas. There was oddly a street named Donald Dr. included in this business tract which obviously was either a mistake of some sort, or perhaps the name of the developer. After many, many trips up and down the streets with my older brother trainer, houses became familiar and planted in my memory. This business excursion usually took about thirty to forty-five minutes and, if memory recalls, yielded a tidy sum of about $80 a month. A small fortune for a fifth grader in the 1970’s.
On one particular very early Sunday morning later in my newspaper girl career, still dark as night, a posse of young boys were circling on their bikes underneath a single street light. As their silhouettes turned into a few recognizable older faces, it was requested that I lend out my pink huffy, as one of the toilet paper bandits was without wheels. So, I willingly surrendered the pink huffy and sat alone in the dark, on a cement curb on Tulip Drive, way before the sun could reveal any of their mischievous doings. They peddled off into the darkness with rolls and rolls of toilet paper soon to be tossed high into the treetops of their unsuspecting target home. Toilet papering someone’s house was innocent fun, (at least for the perpetrators), and it made me feel excited to be part of such a raucous and devious group of gangsters. The toilet paper pranksters returned soon enough, and this fifth grader gave little thought to sitting alone on a curb, in the middle of Garland, Texas, in the darkness of the morning.
On very cold Sunday mornings, or during inclement weather, I would ride in the back of our white station wagon, driven by my dad, and throw newspapers at houses while hanging out the back window. Reluctant payers on those days might not find their Sunday papers so easily on those mornings, or worse, not at all. Station wagons did not offer the mobility or agility of a pink huffy, and Dad was more inclined to “let that one go” instead of hunting down a misfire.
The newspaper boy, or girl, was charged not only with the task of distribution, but also with collections. Waiting on a front porch in the Texas summer heat while watching some lady through a screen door, walk back and forth in a white house dress with curlers in her hair, while trying to find her purse, was excruciating. Often times the “begging at the door” occurred during dinner time, and I would be asked to come back tomorrow, or another time, as if riding my bike to their home to collect $2.50 was worth three trips. The sheer defeat you would feel matched what must have been felt deep down inside these shameful adults avoiding their obligations. There were also homes that were just too creepy for collections and eventually were just conveniently forgotten.
At a store called The Young Texan next to the TG&Y, I purchased a long, light pink chiffon dress with my hard fought door-to-door newspaper collections. The dress had short, puffy sheer pink sleeves, and tiny pink flowers around the neck and waistline. More tiny pink flowers formed rings around three layers as the dress reached my toes which were covered in white patten shoes. My curly bright red hair, along with my tomboy attitude, clashed harshly with this soft delicate dress, but it was the prettiest dress I had ever seen. I was certain it would make me look like a princess. I wore it to a piano recital which I reluctantly played in. Practicing piano was at the bottom of a long list of things I’d rather be doing, but the princess dress was perfect and a piano recital was the perfect place to show it off.
This short-lived career of “porching newspapers” fostered a strong right arm that pretty much guaranteed the runner was not going to be safe at first base. And peddling three to four miles a day yielded quick, sturdy legs that would sustain a high school cheerleader’s jumps, flips, and sprints for four chaotic and wonderful years. I don’t recall the beginning or the end of the pink huffy, but the pink dress made it to my mid thirties hanging in the back of a closet covered in plastic, and then eventually folded and tucked away in a shoebox somewhere. Although I’m quite certain it is still the perfect princess dress, most likely now it is a much lighter shade of pink, just like the pink huffy.