The dissolution of a nearly 130-year-old family business is more complicated than one might think. In fact, being a member of a family that is deeply ensconced in a business is its own complicated and multi-layered situation, and something that only those in similar circumstances can understand fully. I am brought to this place in light of the selling of The Republican newspaper, which transpired just a little over two years ago. I have only arrived at certain realizations because those two years have passed, and I needed time to digest the sale and its repercussions. I understand now that I am just beginning to work through it with some clarity and, thankfully, less emotion. Not that I am not constantly fighting the battle with wistfulness. And I expect to do that for a while yet. But I’m much better. I’m healing. I think other members of my family are as well, even as we struggle some with the excising of a lifelong component of our identity.
A few weeks ago, my husband John and I traveled to Lancaster, Pa., and set up a booth at the annual Lancaster Printers’ Fair. According to Val Lucas, a professor of printmaking at Towson University (who has been an invaluable guide in all this), we should have been swarmed by printers for all we had to offer them. Well, the swarm was fairly small, really, and we didn’t sell a great deal. However, the entire experience rattled us farther along on the old roller-coaster of life for sure, with some fascinating discussions with random folks, and a surprising unity with people for whom printing is familiar and meaningful. For those interconnections made, I am grateful and edified.
For a while now I have been digging out long-forgotten sets of letters and numbers of varying fonts and point-sizes. Some of them have not been in the light of day for possibly 50 or even 75 years. Maybe longer. There is definitely something satisfying about dragging them out, wiping them off, and considering that perhaps the last hands to touch them were my dad’s or my grandfather’s or my great-grandfather’s, or perhaps my great-uncle George Hanst’s, who was the editor for nearly 40 years. Any of those guys. To them, these things were just tools of the job. They didn’t look at them and feel nostalgic, I don’t think. They rooted through them and picked out what they needed to spell out a sentence or design an ad. And then they carried on with it. Now I sit in that office entirely alone, looking at all that stuff. In my mind, reason battles with emotion until I want to send them both to their rooms without supper. I don’t like always feeling nostalgic or wistful. It’s time-consuming and can be depressing. I’ve had the fight going on in my brain for years now, launched when we first started talking about the possibility of selling the biz. The idea seemed surreal. How could we consider giving up the family business? The newspaper and print shop? The very sustaining entity of all our lives through five generations? But, at exactly the same time, we were stumped as to how we could continue to run it. The newspaper and print shop world is dying. Its time is passing. A family-owned newspaper, printed inhouse, is nearly extinct. As I have noted before in this blog, printers are going the way of the blacksmiths, wheelwrights, and milliners, among others. Technology charges along and takes no prisoners. What is left are the lovers of the past, the artisans, and the nostalgic. Of course there is merit in preserving history in some ways, and I am in great support of those who love to engage in the art and revel in the process. But to maintain such a workplace on a regular basis became defeating and illogical. Such is life.
At the printers’ fair, people would walk by our booth and catch a glimpse of our old fonts or line gauges or Linotype instruction books. They would stop then and linger over the stuff, saying things like “wow” or “I haven’t seen one of these since college” or “what the heck is this?” But then they would go on. John and I soon learned that if we started talking to them about our family history with the paper and print shop, their faces would change. They would light up, make eye contact, and really listen. It seems our family history is fairly interesting — to some, even fascinating. Having grown up in the family, I find it difficult to understand the fascination, honestly. It has always been part of my life, and my siblings can all say the same. But I was truly struck by the reactions and the engagement of these random people as we chatted about it. And it helped me to remove myself a little bit from what has always been, and to see it from a new place. The fact that a young man (Benjamin Hinkle Sincell/Ben/B.H.) bought a business in 1890 and his family kept it going through 2017 is pretty unique.
To make it more fascinating, we have a vast plethora of written words that record all of it. Ben wrote an editorial every week, and put the pages together completely on his own for years. So all those newspapers from 1890 on through the late 19th century are by his young hand alone. To augment this recorded history, we are also fortunate enough to have letters that he was writing at the time to his love, Lillian “Tay” Byrne Morris, who would later become his wife. But when he was a lowly newspaper editor and printer, she was of a more elite West Virginia family. She was trained in painting and enjoyed a rather comfortable existence. Her parents, especially her mother, were not keen on this inky fellow from across the tracks and state line. He was not up to their standards, and the marriage of the two would be put off for years. His letters are full of pleas and urging of Tay to marry him, along with proof that his printing business is gaining ground, professing at one point to be “in the office in my shirt sleeves, with more work than I know what to do with.” The letters provide a most beautiful setting for those early years, adding a deeply human component to the history being pressed out each week in Ben’s newspaper.
Removing myself from the lifelong experience of being a member of the family as well as a worker at the business, I do see that it is rich — this family business history that was born with these two young people, in love but being kept apart, at least for a while. At last she was free to marry him, by the way, and they did so in 1895. They went on to have five children. And that is when the first tendrils of family involvement uncurled and began to take root. I don’t know for sure if the five kids worked much at the office when they were young. I hope to somehow find out about that. But I imagine that there were days when B.H. might have needed his kids there. Sometimes work just piles up, and able hands are required. I grew up with that knowledge, spending many evenings at the shop stuffing papers (putting a section inside another section) or doing some repetitive task in what we called the “job shop,” which was where the commercial printing was processed. There we would collate booklets or run the stapler machine or help jog (shake together to straighten) piles of papers. Surely there were days when B.H. said, “I’ll need some help today at the shop.” And the kids would go. That’s how it was done, on through the years. My own sons grew up doing the same, in fact.
Ben and Tay’s children matured and went on their own ways. One daughter, Mary, died in her early 20s, of what ailment we are not certain, although she was apparently “sickly” most of her life. Of the remaining four, one did stay to work at the newspaper. That was my grandfather, Donald “Mose” Sincell. According to some family folks, Mose originally had designs on becoming a Lutheran pastor, and even enrolled at Gettsyburg College. But there was pressure to remain in Oakland, made more weighty when B.H. had some health issues. How would they get the paper out if B.H. could not? So Mose became a pressman. This is the point when I feel a pang of wistfulness. Did Mose sacrifice his calling to stay at the family business? Such a question crops up through the ages, for sure. My husband is always quick to note that in the early 20th century, people didn’t necessarily strive to work at a job that “fulfilled” them. People worked to survive. And if there was a job available, a person would step into it without considering whether or not it was the proper color of his soul’s parachute. And if the business owned by a father was in need of help, the offspring were the first to be called in. So Mose went, and he stayed for the rest of his life.
I have quite vivid memories of seeking him out in the job shop, where inevitably he would be standing at the Heidelberg press running some print job. He would smile and greet me kindly every time. I knew if I stood there for just a little while, he would dig in his front pocket and jangle the change, and then produce a quarter for me. Understand that a quarter was a lot in the late ‘60s. I could go downstairs to Proudfoot’s Pharmacy and buy a whole little bag of candy and gum with that. Sometimes he would give me two quarters. I’m sure his donations went toward my first foray into buying Christmas gifts when I was about 5. I gave all my brothers and my dad new combs — each in its own little case — and to my mom and sister, I gave tiny bottles of perfume, everything purchased at the Ben Franklin 5 and 10. I felt very greathearted that year. I probably should’ve given something to my grandfather, yet I don’t think I did… but now I’ve digressed.
Another sibling, my Aunt “Tink,” came to the newspaper, too. Her real name was Adeline. She was the baby, born in 1910. Mose was about 11 years her elder, so he had been at the office a long while when she came to proofread sometime in the early 1960s. And actually she was officially brought in to “hold copy” for yet another relative, my grandmother Elsie Hanst Sincell, Mose’s wife. My grandmother worked in the front office, accepting classified advertising, answering the phone, and proofreading. Her brother, George Hanst, came to the office as well, making the leadership of the newspaper shared among two families, yet the ownership remained purely Sincell. George served diligently as the associate editor until B.H’s death, and then was the editor in chief until 1977. So the family connections became rather complicated. B.H. was the founder, his son Mose was his successor. Mose’s wife Elsie’s brother was brought in as an editor. Elsie was always a bit adamant that all understood Tink was “just holding copy.” The tensions of an intertwined family business are hard to describe, but it suffices to note that competition is always there, lying in wait and coming out through some passivity as well as some overt aggression, depending on the moment. Working together with the same people with whom you gather for holidays, see at church, rely on in trouble, celebrate in joy, or grieve can make for some deep challenges and stress.
Tink’s husband, Bob Ruckert, worked there, too. He was a veteran of World War II and was working at the front desk of the Algonquin Hotel in Cumberland when he and Tink were first married. Tink asked her father to hire Bob, and soon he was on the staff. The family sent him off to learn how to run a Linotype. He then served as the company’s instructor of that complicated machine, eventually teaching my mom how to run it. (He told her that she learned it more quickly than he had ever seen, by the way. Mom is always so self-deprecating, claiming all the time that she’s not creative or smart, but her life accomplishments consistently say otherwise.)
George Hanst’s wife, Polly Johnson Hanst (married in 1931), contributed to the newspaper as well. She wrote a column titled “It Runs through My Mind.” It was about family, farming, 4-H, and life in general. Often she was clever and funny, as was George. I think sometimes how they must have had fun together. He was quiet and reserved, but witty. She was a huge personality in a tiny body, and she did love a good laugh. Together they influenced the direction of the newspaper quite a lot, especially in those earlier days. But there was always tension. B.H. maintained ownership of the company even as other family members joined in. The pay was adequate, just. I would never call the business “high-income.” I don’t think anyone in the family would. I believe there was a definite lack of frank discussion about pay and ownership and other touchy issues, which led to resentment, or at least some disappointment. The work was hard. Any dedicated staff member over the years would agree. It could be tedious and exacting, and it was definitely deadline-driven. Every single week. Every year. Every decade.
After World War II, my dad, Robert Sincell, took his place there, too. And another pang arises. Did Dad want to be there? In letters that he wrote to his parents during the war, his outlook changed over time. When he was first away, the world seemed thrilling and new and wide open. After three years of service, which was not in combat but on the outer edges of it, also tedious as well as lonely, he was ready to come back to the mountaintop. He missed the place that was in his dreams. Home. He missed his family, he missed the land, and the lure of the office was always there. He would go on to get his degree in journalism from West Virginia University, with an emphasis in advertising. And then he joined the family biz, bringing my mom along. B.H. died in 1947, so the business then fell mostly on the shoulders of George, Dad, and Mose, although Tay maintained some influence, as did Polly. The women of my clan were not submissive, for which I am ever grateful.
We in my family have often talked about Dad’s interest in medicine. He was fascinated with the human body and how it worked. Perhaps more importantly, he grew passionate about emergency medical care and went on to become a National Ski Patrol instructor, and later still co-founded the Garrett County rescue squads. He was the first emergency medical technician instructor in the county, training people for service in both the south and north. He was brilliant at it, frankly. So on the one hand, I have wondered if he might have led a different sort of life if the family business were not a component early on. On the other hand, perhaps he found sufficient joy in the emergency care while remaining loyal to his grandfather et al. The question is simply unanswerable, but one can certainly see the pull of a family organization for a young man willing to serve and wishing to be of aid. A well-trod path that lies smack dab in front of a young person’s feet is hard to resist when the world is pressuring him to choose. In the end, he was content with his career. Proud, even. As he should’ve been.
As time went on, our mother began her stint at the office, running the Linotype first and later the Compugraphic typsetters and the confounding “headliner” machine, which did not show you what you were typing but just spat out expensive film with your headlines on it, misspelled or not. My brother Ben learned how to operate the Linotype, as did Don. They all worked over summers or during busy times. Ben took on some of the paperwork of the business, too, helping out with that for years. Don worked as a photographer. Then in 1977, he stepped in to take over George’s position as editor. Don had earned his bachelor’s degree in psychology, though… And I earned mine in theatre arts, as did my husband, who also became a nearly 30-year staff member and officer of the company. I don’t think anyone would peg any of us for lifetime newspaper people. But that’s where we ended up. Did we pursue what we would’ve or should’ve? I can’t answer that. But I can attest to the fact that the pull of a family biz is firm.
As for me, I certainly did not predict my longevity at the paper. I joined in 1990, having moved back home after some years in North Carolina. John and I had married in 1989, and while he was content to stay in Chapel Hill, I was desperately homesick. I missed cool weather, I missed my parents, I missed living on top of mountains rather than down in the Piedmont. I wanted to have a baby, and the thought of doing that without my mother nearby was daunting. I wrenched us both out of N.C. and back to Maryland, where a writer in the newsroom had just quit. I decided to grab up that position “for the time being.” My plan was perhaps to go back to school and get a master’s degree so I could teach… And John came with me, of course, but without a job. However, the ad manager had also just given notice, so John went there. For a while. Then he took over my mom’s position as a typesetter and ad designer. When the photographer left, John moved into that role. I stayed in the newsroom throughout, writing thousands and thousands of articles and stories over the years. Ben’s wife Bev Sincell was a longtime staffer in the newsroom some 30 years ago. Our nieces Angie and Rachel both joined the company as well, and nephews Adam and Matthew worked stints, too, making it a truly five-generation biz. My boys put in many hours over the years. All of us, lifting that mantle.
What if there had been no family business? What paths would we have taken up in the end? There is little point to pondering such a question, especially since our work was not unimportant. We made differences in our community, and we worked hard to be of service. All of us. That was a key component of shouldering the mantle. But a family business does present a host of issues, some good and some bad. One can get swept into the current without planning to stay in the river, but getting back out can be a real challenge. John and I proceeded to have three sons in four years. We were therefore ensconced in our work, because the boys had to come first. We were tasked with providing for these kids we opted to have. The endeavor of finding other comparable work in this area was too much. Our lives were full and busy, with some lovely elbow room in our own company that allowed us to be with the boys more than we might have been in other work, but also with the ongoing responsibility of always being connected, 100% of the time, even on vacations or when sick. The task of producing a weekly newspaper is a compact, intense project, which we achieved every seven days. In the later years, the leadership of the newspaper was on Don, John, and me. All staff issues, health insurance challenges, equipment problems, building questions — all of it was our responsibility, combined with getting the paper out and keeping the job shop in business. Desktop publishing took a huge bite out of the commercial business, and printing our own paper with all our own equipment was growing more challenging by the day. The time came to sell. And we did it.
All those roots, grown deep and intertwined over more than 100 years, are now being pulled apart, gently but firmly. A family business has so many branches and tendrils, and the entire “plant” is symbiotic. The work provides some identity to those who do it, as well as those who are connected by family ties. I knew about “paper day” and the “office” and all of it from the very beginning of my life, as did my siblings, as did my cousins, as did my dad, as did my grandfather. In all those roots that grew and split off and twisted about, there were many that caused trouble. Tensions at work easily spilled over at home since everyone was connected. Family get-togethers could be tiresome after working all week with the same folks. Disagreements on how things should be run, who is in charge, who gets the credit, who should be hired and who should be let go, how company money should be spent — on and on — can all taint the family unit in ways that non-business folks often don’t realize. A tribe has to be sturdy to survive a company run by its members. We have certainly had our fallings-out over the years. And there are scars. But as we finally finish this chapter in the Sincell family history book, I think we can do it with confidence — confidence that the decision to move on is an acceptable one, and confidence that the entire journey represents, on the whole, work well done.
The loosing of the company tether has been a journey. For a long time, I felt like a balloon that had been let go, floating who knows where. My whole life, like my relatives, had in part been defined by the newspaper and the company. Now we are set free from it. We are set free from that exacting weekly deadline. We are free from having to pay attention and be alert to every county event or breaking news. We can slip in and out of a public meeting without saying anything, asking a single question, or writing even one word about it. We also have the new and welcome opportunity of looking forward to seeing one another. I miss my brother now. We worked next to each other through thick and thin, with dedication. We were together every day, often in tense circumstances. I never really had the occasion to miss him. But now we have moved on, and it is fun to see each other and catch up on things we used to talk about regularly. And my husband has a new job. In the mornings, he goes off to work, and I don’t go with him. I don’t know every nuance and event of his day since I am not there. He gets to tell me these things. What fun! We have worked together for almost our entire relationship, starting with Domino’s Pizza in North Carolina, then nearly 30 years at Sincell Publishing. The experience of having our own time and our own adventures is rejuvenating.
There are other families in Garrett County who have maintained businesses for a long time and then moved on. The Beachys and Fikes, the Shirers and Callises, the Brownings, the Stucks, and more. I’m sure all of us could have long talks about the unique odysseys of family-owned companies. I’m sure they, too, have had the occasional former customer ruefully complain, “Why did you give up the company? We miss it!” We get that sometimes, and I always feel a little wistful, and a little guilty. I know some people miss our brand of newspaper and the service it provided to our community, and I’m sorry about it. But to everything there is a season.
When I am sitting alone in the office, examining the tools and belongings bought at some point by someone in my family to help improve the business, I imagine the folks being there with me. I can feel the connection, and if we could speak, we would revel in our similar life stories, bound together so deeply by this endeavor, and by our strong family ties. We would agree that a business does not have to be the definition of a family, but we can be grateful that it lasted 130 years, employed hundreds of people, gained respect for its integrity and constancy, and operated full-steam ahead for such a long time. To those who work in a family business, I offer you my hand in solidarity and understanding. We should go get a beer and chat. We’d have a lot to talk about. And to my forebears, I offer my gratitude. Thank you for founding the business, for instilling in us the value of hard work, and for providing many of us with good, meaningful careers. It has been such an adventure.