Some mornings when it is very cold and miserable, it makes me wonder how I was able to wake up at 4:45 a.m. every day riding my bike down dark streets and sidewalks.  It didn't matter if there was a foot of snow, rain, or a beautiful June sunrise.

My least favorite part of the job happened in evenings and on weekends when I would go out and ask each of my customers to pay their bill.  Not only was I a child laborer, I was a child fee collector who many people really didn't want to see.  I remember it was $1.10 a week - those dimes really piled up and change was difficult to make after a few houses.  We'd leave tiny receipts that had the week paid and amount stamped on them.

Though I'd occasionally see my customers when I collected, it was a lonely job except for elders who took time to stop and talk.  They'd share their experiences when they were young, show me their gardens and ask me to put their papers in special places that would keep them out of the weather and be able to pick up easily.

For some reason, tales of tips were not readily shared among my paper carrier peers at the 12 Points Station in Terre Haute where we met to pick up and fold our papers, setting out into surrounding neighborhoods.

So I was very surprised during my first holiday season when customers would pay their bills and then hand me cards the shape of money telling me to have a Merry Christmas.

Looking back, it wasn't the money I remember the most.  It was the feeling that someone cared about the work and effort I made.  They cared enough to give me a gift to show their appreciation.  

Who do you know that needs recognition for their difficult and thankless work?