Paul's Bike

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Christmas Cheer

BY: Linda L. Osmundson

I love the Christmas-tide, and yet,
I notice this, each year I live;
I always like the gifts I get,
But how I love the gifts I give!
~Carolyn Wells

Late one June evening, our oldest son, his dad and I discussed a newspaper route with a morning delivery manager. From the dining room I could hear the television where a younger son, Paul, watched his favorite program.

The man described two available routes. "And if you keep a route for at least a year, the bike we lend you becomes yours to keep."

"How old do you have to be to have a paper route?" Paul piped in.

I stared at Paul. How long had he been sitting at the other end of the table?

"How old are you, son?" asked the manager.

Paul stretched himself as tall as possible. "Ten."

"Well," answered the manager, "we like the boys to be at least eleven."

"But you have two routes in our area. I could do one," insisted Paul.

"Okay, if your parents agree that you can do it. Let me know tomorrow."

After the man left, I laid out some rules. "If you take these routes, they are yours, not mine.

Don't expect me to drive you when the weather is bad or you get up late. I don't want to remind you to collect each month either."

The manager trained the boys for two days. On Saturday he presented each boy with a paper-route bike.

The bike was one-speed, large, fat, tired and ugly red. A basket rested over each side of the back fender to hold papers, and a large canvas bag hung from the handlebars.

I watched Paul's face. He smiled, rode the bike down the driveway, then parked it in the garage. After the first week of riding the bike to school, he chose to walk.

Each morning, Paul got up early on his own to deliver his papers. Even if I offered to drive him in the freezing cold, he refused. He finished his collections on time without my urging. Each month he cashed his checks at the local drugstore, paid his paper bill and hid his profits in a sock in his underwear drawer.

With Christmas a couple of months away, the boys and I made many trips to Target. Each boy went his own way. I'd find Paul in the bicycle department.

"Why are you always looking at bikes?" I asked him. "You have one that you seldom ride."

"Mom, the kids make fun of my clunky paper-route bike. I want one like everyone else has. By Christmas I'll have enough money to buy this one."

Every day after school, Paul counted his money. On each trip to various stores, his brother showed me Christmas gifts he'd purchased. Paul never bought anything. He spent the whole time sitting on new bikes. In December, he did his collections early.

On our final Christmas shopping trip, I again discovered Paul at the bicycle department. His shopping cart was empty. "Are you buying the bike?" I asked.

"I have enough money," he boasted.

"Well, hurry up. We'll wait for you at the front." We waited and waited. At last Paul came out carrying one little bag to the car.

Each boy took his turn in my bedroom, secretly wrapping his gifts. Paul didn't take long. He placed a few small packages under the tree.

That night I went to tuck the boys into bed as usual. When I entered Paul's room, he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. His brown eyes sparkled. "I can hardly wait for Christmas," he said. He put his hands behind his head, and his face filled with a huge smile.

"Why, Paul?" I dreaded his answer. "Will your new bike arrive soon?"

"I didn't buy it, but I spent all my money!" He looked happier than I'd ever seen him.

"Everyone's going to love what I got them for Christmas!"

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