In the Blood

Brother Don

Don wrote about all manner of subject – the rose at his grandmother’s house, taking his kids for their first snowball. He would scribble short verses of immense humor, almost always with a sarcastic bite. There was pinpoint accuracy for the thought in mind. The sheer scale and volume of his writing is unknown. I have reams of paper, crumpled, torn and otherwise. These are only the tip of the iceberg. 

There was a time not so long ago when newspapers were the voice and identity of the people. Every job, from the pressman to the editor, was hard work and deadlines were always met. At the time, Baltimore was a two-paper town covering local, national and world news. Don worked at the News American until its final days. The union contract was ironclad for a lifetime, but when the paper died so did the union work. These days, there’s only the Baltimore Sun. Out of work despite his union dues, Don scribbled perspective on the death of his livelihood.

Some time ago, Don left this world for another. He’s still very much alive, still very much with us. But, the stroke he suffered crippled his ability to perform that magical process of writing described earlier. Thoughts still come through the ether. The blood still churns, grabbing those thoughts and wrestling with the words is still going on, of that I’m sure. He just can’t complete the circle, getting those thoughts onto paper, but that’s okay. Our lives are measured by a compendium of our past times, as well as the times we are in now. He set the bar high back then and, without words, does so still today.

I am just a union printer, in the mold of old mark twain
And I miss the feel of hot lead like the hobos miss the train
I can’t speak for every brother, but I’m not the only one
Who sees the craft a dyin’ like the sad ole settin’ sun

Just a union printer, compositor by trade
And now it’s turnin’ winter for a thing that’s union made
Just a union brother, in a long, unbroken chain
And I miss the smell of printer’s ink like the hobos miss the train

Ben Franklin was a printer, too, and I was once a lad
When I came into the trade, ya know, the pay was not that bad
A man could go from coast to coast and up and down this land
Find work in nearly every shop that needed one more hand
But now those days are gone, linotypes don’t sing no more
Like the blacksmith, like the hobo, the printer’s gone for sure