It was my first job. In exchange for a weekly allowance of 50 cents, I fetched The Boston Evening Globe off the front porch of our three-family house in North Cambridge and placed it beside my father’s supper plate.
I learned early how to fold the broadsheet so that his eye would fall first on the lead story in the upper right-hand corner, above the fold. The phrase “above the fold” is, of course, as much a relic of the pre-digital age as the Globe’s afternoon edition, which ceased publication in 1979.
But precision in newspaper folding mattered in our house in 1962. My father had only two hours between his early shift at the post office and his night job at a package store. Between 3 p.m. and 4 p.m., he slept. Between 4 p.m. and 4:30 p.m., he consumed the Globe with my mother’s signature beef