ROANOKE TIMES
Copyright (c) 1996, Roanoke Times
DATE: Thursday, November 21, 1996 TAG: 9611230002
SECTION: NEIGHBORS PAGE: N-1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: NANCY GLEINER STAFF WRITER
MEMO: NOTE: Also ran in November 24, 1996 Current.
WILFORD Harris leans his tall frame into the back of his pickup truck and dips his head under the strap of his old canvas newspaper bag.
He hoists the sack, stuffed with newspapers lined up like sardines. The broad strap crosses his chest, the weight of the 63 papers supported by his hip.
A second sack waits until later.
It's not as heavy as the 50 or so pounds of hay he used to heft growing up on his family's farm in Floyd, but he was a lot younger then.
In the dark stillness of 4 a.m., Harris starts up a hill in his Southeast Roanoke neighborhood, beginning his three-mile delivery route. His truck sits silent. Harris does his route on foot.
The fact that Harris, a retiree and 72, is one of the oldest carriers delivering The Roanoke Times is not unusual. That he makes his deliveries without use of an internal combustion engine is.
The temperature is in the 30s. Harris' breath quickens, getting a little more shallow as he nears the top of the hill. His steps remain steady.
His way is lighted only by stars and an occasional street lamp, but his sure-footedness makes it seem as if he could find his way blindfolded.
His arm swings smoothly in a half arc, as if he were lobbing a bowling ball onto a waist-high alley. His eyes follow the paper log to make sure it lands right where it should.
Ka-thunk.
The newspaper hits a metal storm door, landing so close his customer won't even have to step outside to pick it up. He lobs more than 100 newspapers this morning, missing his mark only twice. Even then the aim was perfect; there just wasn't enough force.
Harris knows which customers prefer their deliveries at their side doors or placed between their storm and front doors. Schooled in country etiquette, he leaves gates open or closed, just as he finds them.
``This lady here had a problem picking up the paper. I came by one day and she had something in her hand, trying to pick up the paper with it. I just started laying it on the chair [by the door] for her. She was on someone else's route for a while, then she quit taking the paper. When she found out I was doing this route, she started up again. I don't know whether that tells you anything or not,'' Harris said.
For more than seven years, Harris has walked these streets six days a week. For the heavy Sunday papers, he uses his truck. Through hurricanes, heavy snows and branch-breaking ice storms, Harris has never missed a day, except when he went on a church mission; his wife and stepson helped out then.
Sometimes, the route takes hours. Sometimes, he gets so wet he has to change his clothes midway. Sometimes, he has to break his own track through the deep snow, only to do it again the next day after the wind blows the snow back. Always, he takes care that the papers are delivered dry.
Each carrier is an independent contractor who buys his own supplies - rubber bands, plastic bags, cards to write notes and past-due notices. The quality of service depends mostly on them. Carriers must pay for the newspapers they receive, whether the customer pays for them or not. Collecting from those who do not direct-mail their payments could be a problem.
Harris has little trouble collecting from his customers as he goes door-to-door once a month. It is often the only time he sees them. ``They run their mouths once in a while when the price goes up, but there's nothing I can do about that,'' he said.
A customer once complained about the thwack of the newspaper against his door. That was one complaint too many for Harris. He walks that path every morning, carefully placing the paper just to the right of the door.
Otherwise, his customer satisfaction rating is high.
``All his customers think the world of him,'' said Donna Anderton, his former district manager. ``If you're looking for a model carrier, he's definitely one of the best.''
Harris zigzags across streets, making a circle up and down the hills, rarely retracing his steps. He has changed his route several times, sometimes for efficiency, sometimes for variety.
He winds through bushes as though following a path that has been carved out for him. He crosses several sloping open yards in a row. The residents told him he could walk through their yards, rather than climbing up and down their stairs.
``I appreciated that,'' he said.
When his sack is empty, he returns to his truck, moves it in front of his house, then grabs the second sack and heads uphill again.
He laughs heartily when asked how many pairs of shoes he's worn out.
``I don't know, many. I'm telling you, I figured up the other day I've walked enough to go to California and back doing this.'' Almost 7,000 miles, to be more precise, without counting Sundays.
A dog lunges out of the darkness; a short chain yanks him back. Harris never flinches. At another house, a motion-detector light springs on, like a flashlight shining in his face. There are few lights on, an occasional TV. Mostly, there is silence and darkness, inside and out.
Harris has the healthy, weathered face of a man who has spent a lot of time outdoors. The paper route has been beneficial for him.
``I needed something to do [after retiring from a manufacturing job],'' he said. ``I needed to walk. I decided I could make a few dollars and walk, too.''
Harris never planned to be a carrier for so many years. ``As long as my health is good, I'm better off doing this than not,'' he said.
His doctor took him off his blood pressure medication after he had been delivering papers for a while.
A woman greets him as he approaches her door toward the end of his route, saying, ``I see you've got someone with you today.''
Too humble to tell her his companion is a reporter writing a story on him, he replies, ``Yes, she's walking with me to see if I'm doing things OK, I guess.''
Harris' bag is empty again. Still, few lights are on. The sun hasn't even begun to rise.
He takes out his own newspaper from his pickup and heads up the walk toward his house, calling back, ``Well, now you've got proof that I've walked it one time, anyway.''
LENGTH: Long : 115 lines ILLUSTRATION: PHOTO: ERIC BRADY/Staff. Wilford Harris, who deliversby CNBnewspapers in Southeast Roanoke, figures he's walked almost 7,000
miles, not counting Sundays. color.