As a youngster growing up in the late 1930s, I'd travel around the neighborhood in the early mornings sitting atop my brother's red wagon that was filled with the Newark Star-Ledger morning newspapers. On those cold winter days in New Jersey, my brother Thomas would lean me to the side, or tilt me to the front so he could slide out one of the delivery issues, then climb the porch stairs to place the paper under the doormat or lean it against the customer's front door.

My sole purpose for riding in the wagon was to keep the newspapers from blowing away while Thomas went door to door making deliveries. I really didn't mind being pulled along because during long stretches between customers, we would sing songs and giggle. Sometimes, he would grip the wagon handle and race the wagon along the sidewalks. At the end of each square of concrete, the thin wagon wheels would make this clacking sound, and I would laugh so hard I'd forget my nose was running or that I was shivering from the cold.

The winter wind howled down the empty streets. For being a helper, I was paid in candy bars for the effort. Bundled up like a snowman, only my red nose was visible under layers of sweaters and a knitted woolen cap.

So many times he'd remind me I could be replaced by a red brick, and we'd both laugh.

Thomas, three years older than me, experienced great difficulty on collection day, counting out change for customers on the route. That happened twice a month, but I realized years later, it was a most terrible time for him. Thomas would stare at the quarters and dimes in his hand. His face would flush the color of strawberries, and he'd struggle to count out loud, while the customer would stand patiently waiting.

I was just a tyke but, by 6 years of age, I could make change, and even tell what time it was with little effort after I'd figured out which hand was the big hand and which was the little hand. It was on those collection days I felt most valuable to him. He'd ask me to make the collections while he waited by the curb for my return.

The only part I didn't like was climbing all those stairs. I'd reach up on my toes and ring the bell at each house. A lady might come to the door, smile, and say, "Hi, David, where's big brother?" I'd explain I was being trained to be a delivery boy, and I'd hand over the collection bag to the customer, and they would make their own change. Then, they'd mark the collection book "PAID" next to their name for that period of time. On more than one occasion, I'd return with two cookies.

Outside again, Thomas would check the collection book and smile when he saw I had handled the transaction successfully. What a team we were! I stammered when I spoke, and my brother had difficulty in life with arithmetic. We learned early on to laugh at ourselves and to always find the humor of every minute we spent together.

He would really listen to me when I talked, and genuinely enjoyed our time together. He staunchly defended me when others ridiculed me for my speaking difficulties.

Even as old men living thousands of miles apart, we'd talk on the phone for hours, recalling the antics of childhood.

Sept. 12, 1995, Thomas passed away and left behind a treasure chest of special memories. I count the days I shared with him as golden.

Softball games

Drop-in softball games are waiting for you to drop by. The fun starts on Tuesdays and Fridays, for ages 50 and older, from 8:30 until 11 a.m. at the Thousand Oaks Community Center. For more on this, call Mark Williams at the Goebel Center, 381-2744.

— Star columnist David Nankivell may be reached by e-mail at calendar@VenturaCountyStar.com.