What does “My Paper Dream” refer to? Did the young boy’s dream come true? What did he get to know about his father through the whole experience? Read on and find out.

    By the time I reached the wise old age of eight, I was convinced: nothing would be more glorious than to have my own newspaper route. It would mean money in my pocket, independence and, I hoped, recognition by my father that I was capable of doing something.
     In my father’s eyes, doing a good job was expected. His parents had died when he was a boy, leaving him to be raised by a stern but benevolent（慈祥的） grandfather on a tiny farm in East Texas during the Great Depression. Working with his hands— picking cotton, turning the clay soil and now operating machinery at a plastics plant — was all he had ever known. To him, 1earning a trade was fundamental to a young man’s education. So far, I had shown little talent for it.
     Nightly, as our family of six gathered for supper, Dad unfailingly asked, “What did you learn in school today, boy?”¹ Everyone would grow quiet, all eyes on me.
     Never prepared for the inquiry, I’d stare at my plate and answer, “Oh, nothin’ much.”
    “Might as well quit and go to work then,² ” he’d say, a faint smile appearing on his weathered face.
     Each night I would retreat to my bunk bed to dream about my paper-route plans. There were a couple of problems with my ambition: I was four years away from the minimum-age requirement of 12, and the job was already taken. Frankie, 14 and almost twice my size, had thrown that route for as long as I could remember, and there were no prospects for his retirement. Nevertheless, I asked him repeatedly to recommend me if he ever quit. His assurances kept me going.³
     As Frankie’s volunteer assistant, I knew the route almost as well as he did. Each afternoon after school, I rode my bike to the corner where the newspaper bundles were dumped. Frankie and the other carriers⁴ were always there by the time I arrived. Bicycles, orange canvas bags, newspapers and rubber bands were scattered everywhere on the dusty concrete slab.
     After we folded the papers, Frankie would hand me a few, while he hauled most of the load on his sturdy bicycle. Pumping with all my might, I could barely keep up with him as he gracefully weaved up one driveway and down the next.⁵ Effortlessly, he hurled each tightly rolled bundle past giant oak limbs and wrought-iron railings, invariably finding his mark on the front porch.⁶
     As far as I could see, the only bad thing about having a newspaper route was the dreaded task of signing up new customers.⁷ Knocking on a stranger’s door after dark and asking him to buy something takes a lot of nerve. Every once in a while, someone agreed.
     “The evening paper?” they’d say. “We’ll give’er a try, I guess. When can you start?”
     “How about right now?” Frankie would answer with a grin and a complimentary(免费的) copy of that day’s edition. “Always give people more than they expect,” he’d say as we pedaled away beneath the glowing street lamps.
     Continuing this routine for more than two years, I couldn’t have been happier. Then one spring afternoon Frankie dropped a bombshell⁸ “I don’t know how to tell you this, ” he said, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Coach Black wants me as a starting pitcher, but we practice every afternoon. I ... I have to give up the route.”
     “Give up the…” I couldn’t say it. I was still too young to qualify for the job, and it was all I could do to hold back the tears.
     “ Listen, don’t count yourself out,”⁹ he said. “I told the route manager you were a great helper, and he wants to meet you.”
     That night, while sitting on the porch swing, feeling defeated, I heard the familiar plodding of Dad’s heavy shoes as he came outside for a smoke. “You feel all right?” he asked, lighting his pipe. “You hardly said a word during supper.”
     I pulled my knees to my chest and reluctantly explained the situation. “That’s a pretty big job, ”he said. “You honestly believe you can handle that route and do it right?”
     “Yes sir, ” I said boldly, though I had reservations. The Sunday paper was awfully big and had to be thrown before sunrise — but I’d find a way.
     He relit his pipe, the warm glow of the match reflecting the concern in his face. “Then I’ll go with you to meet the manager, but only as an observer. You have to do your own talking,” he said.
     Surprised, I looked up at him. So far this had been something of a game — a way of proving myself to Dad.¹⁰ With him involved, though, it seemed I was taking a bigger step than I had imagined.
     He turned to go back inside. “Oh, and wear a coat and tie to the meeting,” he said.
My feet hit the floor. “But no one dresses like that,” I protested, thinking how silly I’d look to the other guys.
     “They have a job and you don’t,” he said matter-of-factly.
     “But…”
     “No buts,” he said firmly. “This is a real job. If you’ re not going to take it seriously, don’t take it at all.”
     Two long weeks later, I nervously pulled out my dark-brown suit, white shirt, matching tie and Sunday shoes. We drove in silence to the meeting site, a parking lot in a nearby shopping area. As the carriers’ meeting was breaking up. Dad squatted and gently took my shoulders. “If he gives you this job, he’ll be bending the rules,”¹¹ he warned me, “and you know what that could mean. He’s probably got a family to support. Are you sure about this?”
     There was no backing out now. “Yes, sir,” I said.
     He paused, searching deep into my eyes. “Then get in there and show him what you’re made of,”¹² he said. “I’ll wait here.”
     With wavering confidence, I wedged my small frame through the other carriers and approached the heavyset man with dark, receding hair.
     “Well, what’ve we got here? ” asked the manager. “Mighty spiffy.¹³ You must be the young man Frankie spoke of.”
     “Yes, sir,” I replied. “I know I’m young, but if you give me a chance, I’ll be the best paper carrier you ever had. I know the route. I know the people. And I’m dependable — just ask Frankie.”
     “I have asked Frankie, ”he said, leaning back to give me the once-over. “How old are you?”
     “Ten-and-a-half, ”I said, trying to sound 12.
     He frowned. “You don’t think you’re a might¹⁴ small to handle the Sunday paper?”
     “I know I can do it.”
    “Suppose it’s cold and raining, what then?” he persisted.
     My shoulders dropped. He had me on that one.¹⁵ He knew it, I knew it and so did Frankie and the other guys waiting around. Silently, I stared at my shoes.
     “Then I’ll take him in the car,” my father said. Startled, I turned to find him standing only a few feet behind me. “A lot of the boys have help when the weather’s bad,” he added. The thought had occurred to me, too, but, for some prideful reason, I never would have asked my dad.
     Scratching his head, the route manager peered at my father, then at me “All right, we’ll try you for 30 days,” he said. “But if I don’t think you’re doing a good job, I’ll find someone to replace you. Fair enough?” He held out his hand for mine.
     I glanced at my father, suddenly seeing him as I never had before. I had stepped out on a limb and, to my surprise, he had stepped out with me.¹⁶ His warm smile and quick nod were all the assurance I needed.
     “Fair enough,” I said, placing my small hand in the manager’s.
     “When can you start?”
     A giant smile streaked across my face. “How about right now!” I said.
Three years later my family moved, and I had to give up my beloved paper route. But I took something invaluable with me: I had discovered my father, and he had discovered me. Together we had taken a chance, and together we got the job done.

(1380 words)