In Missouri where I come from, we don’t like fanciful titles or road signs. The main highway leading from St. Louis to Clayton, Missouri, my home town, is called Clayton Road. It is so called because it goes to Clayton. Similarly, in the suburbs of St. Louis there was a road called North and South. You will be amazed to know that it actually ran north and south. It was my fortune to have worked at a filling station located where those two roads met. On the northeastern corner, there was a Mobil gas station run by a fellow named Carl Schroth. On the southeast corner, there was a Shell station run by a fellow named Gordon Kohlbry. Obviously we wanted to sell as much gasoline as possible and so we were sort of rivals. But in fact the people at the competing stations were quite friendly.
But I am getting a bit ahead of my story. In the afternoons around 4:00 or 4:15 PM, an open backed pick-up truck would appear on North and South Road. The pick-up truck was populated by the driver and a fellow who sat in the back of the truck. It was the job of the fellow in the back to determine how many newspapers to drop off at the corner of Clayton and North and South Roads. This was a cold job because in the first place heaters came along much later in life. But heaters really had nothing to do with it. The fact is that the sides of the rear of the pick-up truck were totally exposed. For example when they reached the corner of North and South Road and Clayton Road, newspaper deliverers would throw off the number of newspapers that they hoped to sell that day. If the newspaper vendor stationed at that corner thought he could sell more papers, he would give a signal of some sort and the additional papers would be thrown off the following day.
Faithfully around 4:00 PM, a fellow on a bicycle riding westward on Clayton Road would appear. I came to know him quite well while I worked for Mr. Schroth. His name was George Sam Pollard. Sam would ride up and park his bicycle. Then he would take the papers that had been dropped off at the corner and cut the small wire that held them together. In those days, newspapers were sold at the rate of two cents per copy. A driver riding by the corner of Clayton and North and South Road might see the yellow box where Sam Pollard stored his papers. He would honk at Sam and Sam would scurry across either North and South Road or Clayton Road to deliver the paper. Sam wore a changer on his belt so that he could pick out the number of coins for the change. I never specifically pinned Sam Pollard down but I suspect that most of his customers gave him a nickel or a dime and waited for their change. This of course was in the middle to late 1930s.
The corner of North and South Road and Clayton Road was a fairly busy intersection traffic-wise. But Sam Pollard seemed to be able to dodge the traffic and to deliver the St. Louis Post Dispatch to his customers.
But as time went on, Gordon Kohlbry, the owner of the Shell station, determined that Sam Pollard would make a good employee. And so he hired Sam. The going rate at that point was about $15 per week. Over time, Sam became my friend. Sometime in 1940, I elected to go to work for another gas station called Williams Friendly Service. Unfortunately that was the end of our friendship or, I should say, the friendship had a long pause.
Now I do not like stories that have no ending. Unbeknownst to Sam or me, we went our separate ways and both of us became involved in the war that took place in 1941. From 1940, I had simply lost track of Sam Pollard.
As it worked out, the fortunes of Sam and myself were quite similar. Apparently Sam had gone to work for AT&T in Baltimore. I suspect that this was after World War II was finished. At the same time, my career with AT&T resumed when I was released from military service in 1945. Now if we can take a break from 1940 until the latter part of the 1960s, the story will resume.
It turned out that Sam Pollard and I found ourselves working for AT&T in Washington DC. We were in separate organizations of AT&T but I was amazed to find that Sam Pollard and I had followed essentially the same career paths.
To add a little bit of luster to this story, Miss Chicka, my wife, found herself reporting to Sam Pollard before my arrival. And so it was that one day I happened to discover that there was a person working for AT&T in a different location by the name of Pollard. I have forgotten the circumstances but in any event we looked each other up or maybe I looked him up and sure enough, it was Sam Pollard, the fellow that sold newspapers. Interestingly, Miss Chicka did not know of any such prior meetings between Mr. Pollard and myself. Although we did not keep it a secret from her, it was only after she arrived in New York that I found out that she had been acquainted with Sam Pollard.
So life takes some funny twists and turns. I believe that it was in the late 1960s that Sam and his wife – her name was Florence – came to our house for dinner. It was a distinct pleasure to talk to Sam once again.
Now as to the title of this essay, when Sam delivered his two-cents newspaper to his customers, they would pay for it with a nickel or a dime. My belief is that they rarely told Sam to keep the change. I know it was the Depression era, but a young man scurrying across the streets to bring them a newspaper ought to be rewarded. But apparently that was not the case.
But once again what this recounts is that Sam Pollard and I lost track of each other again. I hope that he is well and if he were to come around to this part of New Jersey, I would look forward to entertaining him.
Now as a matter of fact this essay came about because in addition to Sam Pollard, it has occurred to me that change – quarters, dimes, nickels, pennies and half dollars – is a rare commodity these days. I suppose that the advent of credit cards has made change obsolete. I know that in our local travels, Miss Chicka has change in the glove compartment of our car. When there is an occasion such as parking meters, she will take the appropriate amounts to insert in the meter.
I used to carry the change in my front right-hand pocket. There were times when the pocket became so heavy that I would go to a restaurant and trade in four quarters for a dollar bill. But those days are no more. If I am interpreting news reports correctly, it appears that the penny will soon depart forever. Now the pennies cost more to produce than the one cent that they represent. As a matter of fact, I miss the change in the right front pocket of my trousers. These days I have no reason to carry change but nonetheless the change in my pocket seemed to represent a degree of prosperity. I know that you don’t get wealthy by having a lot of change. But the fact is that a handful of change in my pocket brings on an aura of prosperity.
Well there I have told you a story of change. I told you a story about Sam Pollard and about having change in my pocket. There is one more thought that I wish to leave with you.
Our great and good friend Mrs. Frances Licht has an illuminating story that has absorbed me for a number of years. Apparently her father ran a bakery in the community of North Adams, Massachusetts. At the same time there were some Hebrew scholars of a very orthodox sect who as they began their scholarly studies, liked to have some baked goods. Mrs. Licht, who was then Frances Kaplan, has informed me to my great consternation, that when these scholars purchased something which required some change, the change was always to be laid on the counter. This was to avoid any contact between the holy scholars and Mrs. Licht. Mrs. Licht is an attractive woman. But I suppose that those Hebrew scholars did not wish to take a chance on any enticement from a female.
Well, I have told you what I can remember about Sam Pollard and about the effect of credit cards on change and, finally, about Frances Licht. It seems to me that that is a full helping for one essay. And so I will leave you with a thought expressed many years ago, “Don’t forget your change.”
E. E. CARR
April 30, 2012
Essay 650
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Kevin’s commentary: I look forward to one day having as life as full of strange coincidences as Pop’s has been. Although in this instance I feel like facebook and the like may take some of the surprise out of things, because they let you see which of your old friends are where at any given time.
Is it weird that to me the coolest part of this essay was the idea that “keep the change” used to actually mean something? Like, telling someone to keep the change implied some legitimate generosity back in the day. Today, sure it’s nice to let a store keep the change, but since I’ve been alive amounts less than $1 have generally mattered very little. Likewise the idea of a nickel or dime being able to actually purchase something is utterly foreign. Maybe my grandkids will think the same of $1 and $5 bills.