A Change in Times

by Marion J. May

In 1974, my 16-year old brother offered to take over delivery of a friend’s daily newspaper routes inside the Civic Hospital during Spring Break week. The problem: my brother already had a part-time job, so I convinced him to subcontract to 13-year old me. At the time, girls weren’t allowed newspaper routes in Ottawa. But times were changing, and a neighbour who worked at the Ottawa Citizen suggested women might soon be allowed to wear pantsuits to work instead of only skirts and dresses!

My brother and I agreed he’d keep ten percent, and he would drive me to and from the hospital. In exchange, I’d collect the papers, load all the vendor boxes, collect the slot box coins, carry the two sacks of papers to the wards for delivery, and sell the papers on demand. Like a Town Crier, I would walk the halls of the wards calling out: “Ottawa Journal! Ottawa Citizen!” My brother didn’t mention anything about tips.

We didn’t tell our parents; Mum might have endorsed the venture but Dad, being risk-averse, would have killed it. Fortunately, during that week, our parents were visiting relatives in Chicago. Our parents left us emergency cash and these instructions: NO parties, don’t burn down the house, tidy up, and shovel the driveway.

After my first day on the job, I arrived home with blisters on my feet, aching shoulders, and a very croaky voice. I had walked many miles around the hospital in my uncomfortable winter boots, got lost several times, all the while carrying a loaded keyring, sacks of coins, and two heavy newspaper satchels. The next day I vowed to wear running shoes, carry fewer newspapers at a time and reload my satchels as needed. I also envisioned a headline: First-ever Newspaper Delivery Gal Challenges the Status Quo.

An encounter the next day affirmed my belief in positive thinking and personal headline-writing.

At 11:45 a.m. on my second day, I found myself crawling under the bed of Canada’s 13th Prime Minister, John Diefenbaker. I was picking up loose change. On my last round, on the neurology ward, I had heard a deep, familiar voice beckoning me. When I approached, John Diefenbaker wanted both newspapers and offered the correct change in his trembling hand. The change spilled under his bed, night table, and into his slippers. He apologized for making me crawl under the bed, but I found this less embarrassing than facing this former Prime Minister — who was revered by my mother and grandmother — scantily clad in a hospital gown.

He asked me my name and commented that he had never heard of girls delivering newspapers. Being afraid he might report me for being a girl with a newspaper route, I just smiled and said, “Well, the world changes every day, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, Marion, and for the better,” he replied, as he handed me a crisp two-dollar bill.

The next day, I sold him the two newspapers and I showed him a headline on the back page of the Ottawa Citizen: “Women skirt dress code at Ottawa Citizen. Female employees allowed to wear pantsuits at work.”

“Pantsuits will be warmer in the winter than skirts and dresses.” He laughed heartily, and his fat jowls jiggled, just the way the political cartoonists portrayed.

Over the next three days, he had the correct change neatly stacked on his night table and a two-dollar tip for me. On my last day, I found his room empty. I strongly suspected he had not died because his death would have made front-page news.

A nurse called out to me by name and gave me a small House of Commons envelope with my name printed on the front in a shaky handwriting. She added with a wink, “He called you the little newspaper gal,” and explained that he had been sent home.

In my room that night, I carefully opened the envelope. It contained 2 two-dollar bills and a note:

Thank you for your service, Marion. It was a pleasure to meet you. I hope you can pick out a nice pantsuit for yourself.

Mr. Diefenbaker

As I was going to sleep, I thought about the women in my family who might have taken other jobs. My mother, a concert pianist instead of a nurse. My grandmother, an agriculturalist instead of a baker.

At fourteen, old enough to work legally, I took a part-time nurse’s aide job at a convalescent hospital. I aspired to be a nurse, however, after lifting heavy patients, changing soiled bedsheets, cleaning dirty bedpans, I realized nursing wasn’t for me. Besides, I was always being scolded for taking too long to feed patients, or tucking them in for the night. They were happy to have someone to tell their life stories to. When Stacie, a patient who tapped out Morse Code on her dinner tray, told me she was a spy during WWII, I knew she was telling the truth. A spark ignited in me that night: to be a writer!

In August 1979, when I was moving to Toronto to start a college writing course, I heard the news that Mr. Diefenbaker had died. Ottawa radio shows featured callers’ recollections of “Dief the Chief.” Female callers praised him for his progressive views on women’s rights, and an older caller recalled John Diefenbaker as being an aggressive, hustling newspaper boy. I’d like to think that Mr. Diefenbaker — as well as a certain enterprising young lady — had a hand in allowing girls to have paper routes in Ottawa.