My father was a printer. He owned his own printing business for many years.
To A Very Special Man
During those years I was lucky enough to share many days with him at "the shop", both as a child and then as an adult.
He taught me how to hand-set type, to place the set type in a chase and build it snug so it can be lifted into the press, to run a small jobber (press), many small chores that encompass the printing business, and of course, to collate (gather) pages.
It seems like just yesterday that my cousins and I were walking around a table filled with pages to gather together so they could be either stitched (stapled) or punched for plastic binders. The piles seemed 10 feet high, and it took forever to be finished!
Well, times change. Now there are offset presses; I doubt many people still use hand type. And there are electric collators.
My father was 80, passing away 12 days after his birthday. In the past 5 months, he only went down to the shop sporadically, as his health permited. I work at the local hospital, doing something that has absolutely nothing to do with printing. But I would not trade those precious years for all the gold in the world.
Bent fingers fly over the case,
The lumps of metal turn to words.
Centered on twenty ems,
Twelve lines to the verse.
He barely glances at the copy,
His hands have traveled over
The same lines for almost forty years.
Only the names are different…
Marisa instead of Mary,
Jason, not John.
Though his fingers are swift,
His work is meticulous.
Pride is manifest
To the on-looker.
Each job is as his first,
Perfect in every detail.
Spaces are expertly placed
Between the lines – it must
Be vertically centered as well.
Then it is laid in the
Middle of the chase.
Wood builds to a tight fit.
Tap the type. Quoins are turned.
On to the press!
Slowly the wheel turns.
The rollers grab the ink,
Then relinquishes it to the type.
The arm is released.
The paper receives its message.
The press is stopped, so
The composition can be examined.
The spelling is accurate,
All is right, except –
A serif is broken.
No one will notice, but he knows, so…
Back to the stone.
Soon the press is rolling
To the beat of a song.
Off with the left hand,
On with the right.
The rhythm unbroken
Until he slams the arm back.
A paper ought not be askew
The ink must be bold.
His eyes constantly scanning
For newly broken type.
The job is finished. To be placed
In a box to await the bride.
It is late. He puts on his coat,
And flicks off the lights.
As he turns the key, he smiles.
It was a good job.
8/25/78