Finding a Type

The two-year anniversary of the sale of our newspaper and the closure of our printing company was July 1. I keep doing the math to be sure that is right. It’s right. My brother Don, his wife Suzie, my husband John, and I released our family legacy two years ago this week, altering our very sense of ourselves with the move. The newspaper had been our identity for going on five generations. To sell it to another company was a difficult decision to make, of course, and we didn’t know for years how it would all go. We did know that we would probably have to sell — for a wide range of reasons. First, the industry was (and still is) changing with such speed that it was nearly impossible to keep up with the technology. After doing things pretty much the same way for decades, we were faced in the last 10 years with changes every few months in how we created the paper, obtained enough advertising to stay afloat, put the info together, and published it — every week, without fail, no matter what. And second, as a family, we had no one coming up in the generation after mine who had any interest in keeping it going. As we struggled along over the past years, our offspring saw firsthand how trying the business could be. They knew about the relentless deadline and the growing stress over machinery, technology, and staffing issues. It was hard work, every week, with little respite. None of the fifth generation wanted that, and none of us blamed them. So we knew. We were going to have to either just let it die with the three of us who ran it — Don, John, and me — or we had to find a buyer.

For the sake of our community, we wanted a buyer, and yes, for our own sakes, we wanted that, too. And after a few years of angling about, a buyer did float to the top. Brian Jarvis, a 30ish man who already owned a couple other papers, was very interested. After some haggling and figuring, we agreed on the sale. A whirlwind followed as we informed the staff (they knew something was up), separated out our assets and resources, and severed the Sincell ties with ownership of the newspaper bought by our great-grandfather in 1890 when he was 21. All through his adult life, then through his children’s lives, chiefly his son Donald (known as Mose) who worked at the paper all this life; then all through my dad’s life, Bob Sincell, and all through my siblings and my life… it was our industry, our company, our lifeline. And two years ago, we said goodbye to it.

The transition has been long and strange. It was like we were all shoved into this deadline box for so long, with just enough elbow room to move a little as we created a product every week, slowly on Monday, much faster on Tuesday, writing stuff to fill the first section to be printed that day — usually the smallest section of the week. Then Wednesday morning the pressure was much more intense as we worked to figure out how much news we might have, how many pages we should do on that day’s section… all elbowing each other in that little box. Then Thursday would come again… and we would shove that front section together, still writing that morning the news that would hit the streets that afternoon. Then we would all fly downstairs to the press room to get the whole thing together and out. Always pressure, always stress. It was a dance, every week, and everyone knew their steps. Hurry, hurry, hurry. Then we would be finished. Thursday evening was the quietest. Friday was sleepy, too, although the edge of the next week was always visible again. Round and round.

I must say that it was an interesting job, for sure. I was well aware of the goings-on in the county, whereas now I am not much at all. It is strange to be disconnected, to not leap at the idea of a story for the paper, or to get a few details of an event so I can throw it into an article. Not anymore. When we sold, we were all released out of that cramped box. We floated up and out, no longer tethered. No longer operating every day with the next day on our minds. The freedom was odd and uncertain, as if we might just float away. In a few months after the sale, Brian moved the company to a building he bought two doors down. And our office, built around the turn of the 19th century by my great-grandfather and his two brothers, was suddenly silent. Today, there are a million items still lying around, as if some folks have just left. Scissors, pens, tickets and posters and programs printed in our back shop, phones, wires, fans, desks, chairs, shelves, and so much paper. It’s all still there, mostly because it has been too hard for us — especially Don and me — to go in and start sorting. When we walk into that empty place, the lifelong memories roll in, and it’s so hard to even come up with a plan for organizing it all. We need to sell stuff, throw other stuff out, save some things, refurbish others…. there is just months and months of work in there. And we stand there looking at it all, at a total loss as to where to begin, thinking of Dad, and of his dad Mose… and all those people. All those folks with whom we worked all those years to push out a county paper every week. So many people.

At long last, I have mustered the strength to push on a bit. Some lovely moments of serendipity led to my meeting a professor from Towson University who is a print-maker artist, and who teaches print-making at the school. She has visited twice now, diving into the vast resources left in our print shop by all those generations of hard-working Sincells and staffers. She is over the moon about some of the equipment, and is leading me through a learning process. I know now what is valuable or at least sale-able of much of our inventory. Seems there is a market for some of that dusty old stuff, and she — Val Lucas — has jumped in to help us figure it all out. I’m so grateful for it. She is a small woman with auburn hair and sparkly eyes. She stands with her hands on her hips, assessing the various dusty piles. She knows so much. Every little piece of printing equipment, strewn about on old desks and printers’ blocks, she knows. “Oh, this is a [insert name]! And it’s in good shape! Wow, that’s great…You’ll want to clean that up with mineral spirits…”

Val is helping me makes lists of what we have, and she has taught me some cleaning methods to get a lot of it ready to sell to other print-makers. She finds such joy and fun as she roots through dusty, dirty type drawers that have not been opened in years. She examines a piece of type and in a moment announces what font it is, and what size. She smiles if it’s a good one. I think it must be a real treasure trove to her, and her appreciation of the stuff is contagious. As she handles these bits of steel or metal or wood, giving sound to their names and smiling at her finds, I feel such relief. We aren’t going to just let this stuff rot. We aren’t going to just throw it all out. We are going to find avenues right to print-makers who will love it all, too. I think of how my great-grandfather must have obtained some of those things — probably through great effort and cost. And he used them, publishing a paper every week, like we did, and printing booklets and programs and invitations, like we did. I love that we can respectfully hand this stuff on to people who will clean it, use it, and most importantly, appreciate it. I know it’s just stuff, just things. But in this wrenching transition of leaving behind such a significant part of our family’s heritage, I am finding great peace in the knowledge that a good bit of it will live on through this effort. We can spread out the wealth of that shop to those who will value it and give it new life. I’m grateful.

So I will now set in to work, back at the office, by myself. I will gather up those letters of type, learn what font they are and what size, and I will bind them up with string as Val showed me. I will prepare them for the Lancaster Printers Fair in September, where avid print-makers will come shop and, I hope, be wowed by what we have to offer. All the while I will keep my forebears in mind, thinking of B.H. when he bought his first Linotype (the many parts of which I will be sending to perhaps the country’s last Linotype repairman, who happens to live in Maryland); and of Mose, my dear grandfather, who was gentle and kind, and who I remember most standing in the back at the printing presses, always ready to hand me a quarter with a smile and a chuckle. I will think about Dad, a printer who operated with precision and expertise, and who could design and print lovely pieces with all that equipment. I will think of my grandmother and great-grandmother, and my grand-aunts — all of whom either worked at the paper, or had great influence over it in their day. I will remember my great-uncle George Hanst, who steered the ship as associate editor and then editor-in-chief for nearly half a century. And of course of my own mom, who was there for many years, and my siblings, and so many dear friends. We have all had a common experience, working together in that place with all those things that now lie unused and quiet. As I clean type and gather fonts together, moving farther on through the adjustment to this jarring life change, I will think on all of them. The personalities, quirks, humor, kindnesses, intelligence, artistry, determination, constancy — all of it — because in the end, of course, it is the people who matter anyway. All types.