Reflections on Paper Collections

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE

of the editorial page staff

published by the StarTribune

July 16, 1960

   LET THERE BE no more mention of paper sales for a while.  I've labored long enough to raise funds for youth via old newspapers, phone books, magazines, mash notes and circulars.  The hour has come for repose.

   From the time my son entered kindergarten until his recent graduation from grade school, I lived from one paper sale to the next to satisfy the Robert Fulton school's gluttonous appetite for paper and my son's desire that his class be the top provider.

   It was more than chance, I like to think, that 90 per cent of the time his room did bring in the largest amount, and it would have been only fitting, when he finished sixth grade, had I received a plaque acknowledging my contribution, or at least a nod from the PTA.

Robert Fulton

   BUT THE school paper collections were mere warm-ups for the real thing.  The Boy Scouts are the unquestioned champions.  Not only do the kids learn how to tie knots, pitch tents, fry eggs, identify plants and live in the woods, but by the time they've passed their Tenderfoot tests they are experts at persuading their parents to help rustle paper.

   The troop my son is in--one of the greatest collections of father-son eager beavers I have ever felt out of place with--is going to camp for two weeks in August and is selling paper to partially defray expenses.  The Scoutmaster announced weeks ago that each boy was expected to bring in 40 feet of the stuff--a pile of newspapers 40 feet high, folded once.

   I recognized this as a staggering assignment but determined that my child and I would give it our best.  It was only right that we should.  I am quite a sedentary scouter and definitely not an "overnight" man.  I cannot sleep in a tent, cook on a camp stove or be denied a chair.  But through paper salvage I could partially save face.

   THE GARAGE soon bulged with paper, crowding out the car.  The cooperation of friends was at once heartwarming and exhausting, particularly on our final journey of collection.  At one stop the news of our coming had spread through the neighborhood and we were engulfed.  In the flood, I suspect, were collector's items dating back to the Custer massacre.

   When we hit home port with this last installment of treasure, I set up an assembly line from car to picnic table to garage.  I tied bundles and my son lugged them into the supply depot.  It reminded me of a newspaper mailing room handling the Sunday edition.

   All we needed was the roar of presses and I provided a fair substitute.  I had to keep roaring at my helper because of his maddening way of knocking off to read the magazines.

prized find at school paper drive

prized find at Scout paper drive

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              THE BITTER payoff came when we neared the end of the job.  My wife's prized scissors disappeared.  One moment  I was using them to cut twine.  The  next  moment they were gone like the morning dew, as though whisked away by a  malevolent and unseen hand.

   We searched the grass and we  searched the car and garage, while each accused the other of  dereliction.  Apparently the scissors had been wrapped inadvertently in a  bundle off paper.  We squirreled through several with no luck and then, fatigued and dispirited, gave up. This was the  crowning insult, the final galling reward for dedicated and sacrificial labor.

  But justice  occasionally  triumphs.  Heavy  hearts are  sometimes made light. A few days later, after  we'd made five  trips with paper to the final pickup point,  my son returned  home from  the  loading  job with a blissful smile--and handed me the scissors.


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