ON JOBS

My first job was a paperboy for the Calumet Press in Northwest Indiana. I got paid three cents per paper delivered (with a 175-house route), and I got a dollar bonus if all the papers were on porches instead of in driveways, not delivered, etc. I got that bonus every week, although there were definitely weeks where I had to share it with my sister for helping me - although I suspect she came along because of the preponderance of friendly dogs on the route.

My next job was a more traditional paper route for the Gary Post-Tribune. Every morning, I got up and delivered papers to a rapidly-shrinking circulation base. Although the real credit goes to my parents, who got up and folded/bagged/rubberbanded the papers as necessary, and ended up driving me on my route most days (especially when it was cold or rainy).

When I turned fifteen, my mom started pushing me to get a "real" job. I applied at three places; two never called, but one contacted me the evening I applied. I was terrified of becoming a busboy at Aurelio's Pizza, but knew that I needed money for whatever fifteen year-olds need money for. (With my first paycheck, I purchased a Super Nintendo console.) I honestly don't know why I was so keen to get a job. I'm pretty sure my parents manipulated me somewhere along the line.

These three jobs shaped my work ethic. Not, of course, the actual working of it, but the knowledge that my parents genuinely cared about me and WANTED me to develop a work ethic. And my hunger for approval forced me to work hard, not for the joy of a job well done, but to HEAR "job well done" every once in a while. I'm a sucker for compliments on my work.