One of my favorite memories growing up was spending my summers in Key West with my grandparents. Every year, I would look forward to those long, hot days on the island. Part of what my grandparents did for a living was deliver newspapers all over Key West. My older cousin and I would wake up around midnight, waiting for the truck to deliver the stacks of papers and local ads. Our job was to insert the ads into each paper, and we would work through the night until about six in the morning, six days a week. We each got one day off, but for the most part, we worked side by side.
Even though it was hard work, it never felt like a burden, because it was time spent with my grandparents. And when the work was finished, my cousin and I had the rest of the day to fish, run around the island, and spend time with the local kids. But the part of the routine that I will never forget came every morning, just before we wrapped up our deliveries. My grandfather would always stop at a little Cuban bakery and pick up two loaves of fresh Cuban bread. On the drive home, my cousin and I could hardly resist—we’d tear into one loaf and eat nearly the whole thing before we got back to the house. The second loaf was for my grandmother. She would always be waiting for us, with hot coffee ready for my grandfather. She’d slice the bread, spread butter across it, and we’d sit together and enjoy those simple, perfect mornings.
It may not sound like much, but those moments—working hard through the night, sharing bread and coffee in the early morning light—are some of the sweetest memories of my childhood. They remind me of the love, the dedication, and the warmth my grandparents showed in both the big and small ways.
