Story Thursday: The Letterpress

Thursdays from now on will be a day in which I share my writing: usually a very rough piece that I've written for the occasion. Welcome to the new series!

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(Photo by Garance Dore)

The letterpress was a family heirloom, passed down from father to son over so many generations that he was never certain how many had actually passed. It had been in existence some two hundred years, an unwieldy, cantankerous antique with a mind of its own. He had been raised with the knowledge that he would one day inherit the piece, along with its cabinet of tiny wooden letter blocks. These had always fascinated him: such tiny pieces of metal, all arrayed in individual drawers by typeface: Garamond, Benguiat Gothic, Sistina rubbing shoulders with Caslon Antique and Gentium.

In college, he had devoted himself to the history of books, an oft-romanticized field. Really, there was nothing romantic about the science of setting antique type, smearing it with ink, and rolling reams of smooth paper over it all. But he supposed that there was a certain magic to it. Late at night, as he sat in the university library among old machines, listening to the late night calls of janitors and the far-away hum of the computer lab. Up here in the antique book library was another world. Surrounded by lab tables and the silent hulk of antique machines, he felt at home.

But he was not prepared to inherit the press on graduation. Less than a day after commencement, his father handed him the deed to the business. Arthritis had attacked him young, twisted and gnarled his fingers so that he could not continue working the family business. And after all, didn’t his son want a good job? Didn’t he want to prepare for the future?

It was one thing to prepare for the future. It was another entirely to have it thrust upon you.

For years after he became the head of his little company, he resented his father. He worked the letterpress, designed and printed countless invitations for weddings, birthdays and funerals for those nostalgic enough to want handmade cards and wealthy enough to pay for them. He supplied pamphlets and posters to museums and historical societies; printed programs for the local opera and theater companies. His world became one of hot ink, hot vellum paper into which quips and witticisms by countless writers and philosophers were pressed; one of order forms and chemicals and distraught brides convinced that their entire future lay in the perfectly inked whorl of an antique letter “g”. There were times when he hated it all.

He shelved his dreams of moving to Europe to pursue a Ph. D in eighteenth century underground printing presses. I can’t leave the firm, he explained to his concerned girlfriend, then wife, when she pointed out his sadness. I can’t let my father down. I can’t let the family down. I can’t. I just can’t.
One night, ten years to the day from his commencement as owner of the business, he sat in his darkened workshop, head in his hands. I can’t go on like this. I’m destroying everything. He picked up the pressboard he had been setting-Save the Date! Julie and Nick are tying the knot!-and hurled it at the wall. Wood and iron typeface rained down on the floor. He kicked the letterpress itself; unimpressed, it did not move. That only served to enrage him further. He threw dye jackets, brushes, all the tools he could lay his hands on. Then he sank down and wept.

His wife found him soon after, looking glumly around at the wreckage of his temper tantrum. She turned the lights on and came to kneel before him. This is not what you want. Her hands were warm in his. The only person you will let down is yourself, if you continue to follow another man’s dreams for you. He looks into her eyes, and knows that she is right.

Fast forward ten years. Here stands the same man, older, a little wiser, happy again. He is showing his teenage daughter how to set the type for her birthday invitations. His invitation making days are a thing of the past, but hers are just beginning. The letter press is used for other purposes now, less homely ones, but ones that thrill him beyond belief. This company is now the number one purveyor of authentic eighteenth century Gothic chapbooks in the world. Fifteen different publishing companies pay him to make special edition books for them. He prints only small numbers, laying the type, sewing the pages together, gluing on the soft fabric cover. His books are expensive, works of art. They line the bookshelves of professor and amateur alike. His father is proud.

Have I done this right, Dad? His daughter asks, indicating an inked tray. How does it look?

Press a sheet and see.
It comes out perfect, a pink and gold confection on creamy white vellum, and his daughter’s face lights up into a grin. One day this will be yours, he thinks. Do what you want with it. Make me proud.