Old Man Moore was a maestro of the hand-fed printing press in my father’s print shop. With his ruddy, grizzled face, gap-toothed grin, and ink-stained, battered clothes, he looked like he’d just walked in from one of Dickens’ London alleys. On his good days he was a competent pressman….continue

The Bride Looked Beautiful

While scanning the pages and the microfilm of my father=s newspaper, I couldn’t resist noticing the wonderfully gossipy stories on the society pages. My father’s Aunt Klara had been the Post’s first society editor, but these more recent entries were collected by a neighbor named Sally who would arrive at the shop in a dither of papers and notes and gush about the small daughter always in tow…continue