The Paperboy Years

Saturday and Sunday Mornings:
It was the early seventies, and I was determined to follow in the footsteps of my two older brothers, the neighborhood’s paperboy legends. Gene, the ringleader at fifteen, Nick, his devoted sidekick at twelve, and me—the ten-year-old wildcard, bringing my unique brand of “responsibility” to the mix. Nick, on the other hand, was the most responsible Lonardo, no question. Whether it was the heavy dose of Dad’s Sunday sermons, catechism, or just way too much church, Nick seemed to be born with a strong set of values, a work ethic, loyalty, and fierce family protectiveness. And let’s not forget that infamous temper—like a junkyard dog on crack, with a hair trigger.
Now, while these are admirable qualities, they weren’t exactly easy to live with in those early days. Let’s just say Nick was the guy who colored inside the lines… and I wasn’t.
Looking back, those days were chaotic, unpredictable, and filled with loyalty, lessons, love, and, of course, the occasional bruised body and ego (and a couple of broken hands). Despite it all, I wouldn’t change a single thing. Our family was—and still is—the kind where we love hanging out together, would do anything for one another, and know how to turn even the toughest moments into laughs. Mom and Dad must have known more about what they were doing than they let on.
Nick was the only one of us who actually had a code to live by during those wild years. He thought things through, was dutiful and honest, worked hard, and had a temper that could launch a rocket. At this point in life, I was the opposite. I was probably the worst paperboy the world has ever seen. Discipline, work ethic, a concept of money—none of that was on my radar. I was supposed to pay our manager, Mrs. Grover, every month for the papers, but when my brothers and I showed up to settle our dues, I was usually empty-handed, blissfully unaware of what I owed her, and flat broke by month’s end.
Mrs. Grover would come by daily, pulling her car into the alley next to our house to drop off the day’s bundles. One day, she asked if I’d been putting in the ad inserts, saying she’d had some complaints. I assured her that I had, right as she glanced at the trash cans where bundles of inserts were peeking out in plain sight. “Oh, Jeff,” she sighed, “just try to do better next time.” My customers had quite a list of complaints: no inserts, late papers, papers found soaking in oil puddles under their old American cars, tossed under bushes, or—my specialty—on the roof.
Saturday and Sunday were the real test. The papers had to be delivered by 7 a.m., so customers could enjoy them with their morning coffee. Nick took this deadline to heart. Dutiful as ever, he was up by 5 a.m., folding and banding each paper, packing them to the brim in his handlebar bags, and delivering with military precision. By 8 a.m., he’d be home, only to find me still snoozing, my papers untouched, my inserts untouched. And the phone? It’d start ringing off the hook with complaints.
Now, Nick had a “stick-based” approach to motivation, and the constant phone calls had driven him to his limit. Mrs. Grover might have told me to “do better next time,” but the Lonardo way didn’t involve carrots—it was all stick, or in my case, a swift kick out of bed. Nick “lost his shit”, kicking and dragging me awake, giving me his famous ultimatum: “Either get out there and do your job, or I’ll kick your ass and then do it myself.”
Well, he had me at “do it myself,” so I took option two: got the my ass kicked and enjoyed a morning off, thanks to Nick taking over my route.
These paperboy years were some of our craziest times, and thinking back, I realize how much love there was in those lessons, beatings and all. Nick may have had the temper of a junkyard dog on crack, but he also had the heart of a lion—and I wouldn’t trade those memories, or that bond, for anything.

Collection Days!
Eventually, I figured out a paperboy’s hidden superpower: a seemingly endless supply of customers to collect monthly fees from, most of whom didn’t keep track of when they last paid. Jackpot! I’d often go back to the same houses multiple times a month, usually dragging Nick along for companionship. I’d say, “Brother, let’s go collect just a few more dollars, and we can head to 7-Eleven for a big coffee and a cinnamon roll.” Back then, that combo was like the holy grail of treats.
Now, Vegas winters were freezing—especially when you’re missing a coat. But no weather was going to stand in the way of our coffee and cinnamon roll mission. We’d grab our dog Curly, pop her into one of the empty paper bags (normally reserved for papers), and pedal off to my first “victim” of the day.
Picture this: we roll up to Mrs. Cannon’s house on our old Schwinn bikes, Curly nuzzled comfortably in the bag. I’d knock on the door and say, “Collecting!” A puzzled look would cross Mrs. Cannon’s face as she’d say, “Didn’t you just collect yesterday?” With a grin, I’d reply, “Yes, ma’am. But I’m going on a trip with my family at the end of the month, so I thought I’d get my job done early.” I definitely picked this line up from brother Geno, he was the best! Most people didn’t mind or even remember when they last paid. Slightly confused, Mrs. Cannon would nod and head off to get the money.
As she disappeared to find her checkbook, I’d turn to Nick and whisper, “It’s colder than fuck—let’s go sit on the couch and warm up for a second.” Nick, with a look of fear would give me his look “don’t even think about it” while I nudged the door open and plopped myself on the couch. Oops, too late—Mrs. Cannon would return, only to find Nick uncomfortably, waiting at the door and me lounging on her couch in warmth and comfort. “Where’s your brother?” she’d ask, and then catch sight of me, slightly startled. “Oh! You’re… on the couch,” she’d say. I’d smile sheepishly and reply, “I’m so sorry, ma’am. It was just so cold, I needed to warm up a bit.” Most people didn’t mind much, seeing as we were young, harmless, and without coats.
With payment in hand, we’d ride off with Curly to claim our hard-earned coffee and cinnamon roll. To this day, I don’t think I’ve ever had a better cup of coffee or cinnamon roll. Maybe it was the thrill of our “extra” collections, I think it was spending quality time with my hot temper brother, minus the ass whipping along with the company of our coffee addicted dog Curly.

The Child Foreman Years!
During this era, Geno Lonardo Sr., in his infinite “wisdom,” decided to try out a new parenting technique. The plan? Assign a different child each week as the “foreman” over the others, making them responsible for inspecting everyone’s chores and certifying for Dad that they were done correctly each day. What could possibly go wrong?
You’d think the main challenge would be the age gap. After all, Tony was nearly eight years younger than Gene, and I was five years younger. But no, the real “challenge” came from Nick—our brother with the iron-clad work ethic. Nick didn’t just want chores done; he wanted them done his way, on his schedule. If they weren’t, that’s when his inner “junkyard dog on crack” would appear, and out came his famous ultimatum: “Jeff, either do it now, and do it how I say, or I’ll kick your ass and do it myself.”
More often than not, I’d go with option two. I’d take the ass kicking and let him finish my chores. I think most of all, I just didn’t want him to tell me how to do my chores. It didn’t stop him from pulling the stick out to get me working.
Looking back, these memories are priceless. You never know what will teach you life’s lessons. I think that the old saying “Never deny your children the adversity that made men out of their fathers.” Might just apply here.
Nearly sixty years later, our relationship has been filled with countless memories. We’ve cooked hundreds of dinners together, rebuilt homes, worked on thousands of projects, camped, fished, and everything in between. We’ve supported each other through good times and bad, laughed and cried together. There has always been an unwavering bond between us—the kind that doesn’t need words but is deeply felt.
I owe so much of my success to Nick; he has been the lighthouse in my life, providing guidance and wisdom over the years. His words and example have always been my beacon, helping to guide me. Nick would often talk about the future and the importance of education, eventually convincing me to go to college.
As a father, with Lynn’s help, he raised four amazing kids who love him beyond measure. It’s truly something to marvel at. Nick hasn’t changed in any fundamental way—he’s still the man with strong principles and values, a great sense of humor, fierce loyalty to family, wisdom beyond belief, and strength like a forklift, combined with the gentleness, love, discipline, and humility of a Buddhist monk. These days, the “junkyard dog on crack” is rarely seen; his anger and intensity have given way to warmth and compassion for everyone around him.
For nearly 30 years, he’s been up at 5 a.m. each day, serving some of the sickest people on the planet, never wavering in his care and always going the extra distance to help each person in any way he can. Then he comes home, helps with dinner, runs three miles, and spends time with family and friends.
Brother, you truly are my hero and the wind beneath my wings.
Love you, brother.
Happy 62nd Birthday,

Jeff