Heavy leather belts begin to turn the wheels of the giant Columbia oscillating sander. Photo by author.
He was bobbing around laughing and smiling, his broad chested yet smallish stature accentuated by the 23,000 lbs of 19th century iron machinery that he was tweaking here and there to coax it back to life. It came from an era when the railroad industry was at its height, three drums of varying sandpaper oscillating to prepare the wood, and a fourth drum covered in brushes to clean it off and ready to use.
I sat there watching him, though surreptitiously as I was supposed to be doing my homework for my doctoral program. My books and iPad were perched upon the hand-built wooden table saw that the original owner of this post & beam furniture factory had built for himself complete with little victorian flourishes of details in the handles and guards.
But I just couldn’t help trying to keep track of my new beau Steve’s efforts as he climbed up on top of the giant Columbia sanding machine. Then he would hop down again to check the webbing of more large leather belts and their matching steel pulleys that would have made the machine turn its wheels back in the days of steam power.
I remembered when my husband Keith and I first bought this property, not even two years before. We bought it at first sight, a 20th Century post and beam building filled with many pieces of 19th and early 20th century heavy machinery all used to make furniture. An accomplished woodworker himself, Keith had planned to make it all his. Alas, the stars were aligned differently and he passed away from a very aggressive cancer barely a year after we purchased it leaving me, his widow, to sort out what to do with it all.
And then the stars sent Steve. I think KEITH sent Steve, perhaps after being horrified at my poor attempts to try and sell some of the tools I knew I would never use, but that had left me grifted by his own friend. Steve would become my protector. But perhaps in this case it was not that he had fallen in love only with me, I wondered sometimes. It was this place, where it seemed that many ghosts had congregated to protect the legacy of this old maker space.
I looked up and there was Steve, dancing around the machine grinning from ear to ear.
As I tried to go back to my homework on my table-saw desk, I heard the roar and rattle as the beast came to life. Keith had tried to do this before, but the belts were too loose and fell off within seconds. He never had the chance to go back and try again before his illness had progressed too far.
I looked up and there was Steve, dancing around the machine grinning from ear to ear. As I watched this elfish man jump around this iron giant, he went to one end of the machine where large wood panels would come out, fully sanded and brushed off, ready to use for railroad cars. I snapped a picture of him with the light behind him.
The ghosts that haunt me now. Photo by author.
Later that day I would look again at this photo only to catch my breath. There it was, a ghostly shadow of a slim man leaning over just behind Steve. Keith was there, cheering for the success of this rebirth of this giant, perhaps the last operational Columbia belt-driven panel sander left in the country I’d discovered after further research. I took this rebirthing as a sign that I should never take for granted that I am ever alone on this path. And to accept that my angels are never very far from me, despite the temptation to succumb to sadness. That death of my loved one is not an ending. But a new beginning.
– Mara Jevera Fulmer, February 18, 2026
The “K” at the end of the line. Photo by author.
The above prose was expanded from a 13-minute writing exercise during a six-week workshop offered by @LauraLentzWriter and her Literati Academy. The writers participating in this series are exploring their way through grief and the hero’s journey.
This continues my effort at catching up on reminiscences and memories from over the summer 2025.
8/19/2025, Tuesday, 8:50 pm
It was a big day in the print shop. I worked with wood. Does that make me a woodworker? Dunno.
But… I faced my fears and actually used the full-sized table saw, not just my smaller type saw that I like to use. More power tools and experiments with a Vicks bit to countersink some screws and nuts into a board.
The day’s results – I turned an old crappy bench into a rolling table to put beside my presses. AND even made a carry board for another letterpress tool. And better yet, I still have all ten fingers! I’d call the day a success!
Figured it might help to add context on that “overcoming my fear” thing regarding the table saw.
At around 7 yrs old, I remember my dad – a concert pianist – was working in his wood shop which was in the lower level of the house. He came upstairs and had blood around his lips and his hand wrapped in a bloody rag. He grabbed the car keys with his good hand and told me to stay with my friend and tell mom (who was out with her friend) that he went to the hospital. Turns out he’d nearly cut off his left index finger with the radial arm saw. The entire episode pretty much traumatized me for life, and ironically probably helped steer me towards marrying men who could actually WORK around these tools without losing pieces of themselves.
Although radial arm saws are rarely used these days, the closest I have feared as a result of this is the table saw with its blade that sneaks up above the surface, out of sight for a brief moment just before it can cut your hand in half… if you do something stupid like my dad tried to do. So ever since that time as a child, I feel this irrational fear that immediately takes me back to that time.
So… I have to thank my husband Steve for encouraging me with the purchase of Hamilton Glider type saw that is basically a very small table saw (with a guard). I love that little saw and have used it for far more than type. It gave me a bit more confidence for being around such blades.
I know this is all entirely ironic since with the passing of each husband, I have become the sole owner of a huge woodworking shop, and have always been around large and dangerous power tools. When Keith or later Steve would be using those tools, I’d wait just outside of their view until they hit the red “stop” button for fear of distracting them and possibly suffering the fate my father did.
BTW, dad’s hand DID heal… though he never fully regained feeling in that finger, he still managed to play a mean piano.
So today, well, I marked up the board but could not fit it on the little type saw. I finally decided the time had come. I could do this… and I did! After nearly six decades.
These next few posts are adapted from diary entries during the final days/hours of Steven’s life. It was a second marriage for both of us, and far too short. I’m playing catch up now and wanted to share some of the moments I’ve written about recently.
Steve’s visions
As I write this, on 5/25/25, I remember something you told me about when two of your children visited a few days earlier. You had described to them that there was a large owl standing on the chair on the deck just outside the French doors of the bedroom. I looked and there was a brown patterned pillow on the chair, but that was all. I wondered if you were mistaking the pillow for an owl. And remembered also that there was an owl decoy on the retaining wall that could be seen out another window but that’s not where you were looking. But I was reminded that in some cultures the sight of an owl was a sign of impending death. In some Native cultures, owls could even be messengers from the afterlife.
It was you who told me about your other vision. You told me you saw a vision of God. He was standing at the foot of his bed. I slowly prodded you for answers to a few questions.
What did he look like? You responded, God looked like he was in his mid-30s. He had dark shoulder-length hair. And most notably, he was wearing a white suit. You also added that he was wearing glasses.
So I asked, could you see his eyes? Were they nice eyes? You responded that they were kind eyes. Speaking with my voice low, I responded to you that, should God reach his hand out to you that it would be okay if you took his hand to go with him.
May 25, 2025
My dearest Steve, I know you’d love the symmetry of the date as a point to mark your passing, your transition to the space of love, light, and free of the bonds of the physical body that has tortured you these last couple of years.
The terminal restless that has plagued us both these last couple of days has been replaced by the torturous gurgles of your breaths, still coming strong and regular, though with a gulping lurch consistent with the 83% blood oxygen levels I measured just moments ago.
Your heart races at 136 beats per minute as that muscle does its darnedest to keep itself going. But, like a runner who keeps going despite their legs collapsing beneath them, you, too, will face the end of your physical capacity. Simply put, it will wear itself out, and quickly.
Steven, yours is a magnificent soul. An old soul craftsman who has lived a life of joyful creation with the youthful exuberance of the 12-yr-old you oft-claimed to be. I wonder how life for you would have been if you’d been able to live with that joyful abandon before I met you.
Father Joe came to visit Thursday morning at my invitation. I knew your daughter would appreciate it and I was so glad you were able to meet him. We’d laughed often at his FB posts about parking in the parrish parking lot. He always wrote with a disarming humor that made it hard to argue with. So I was actually excited and honored that he’d accepted this Jewish girl’s request to have him visit my (lapsed) Catholic husband. Your daughter was even able to get here just in time to join in the prayers. As he left he offered to come back, though I wasn’t sure how I’d reach him over the holiday weekend.
We had a visit yesterday, Saturday, by your ex-wife, along with both your daughters. I have no ill will when it comes to your ex. After all, she let you go so you would find me, and for that I am grateful.
They arrived just as you and I were in a struggle, having wrestled a bit for more than 20 minutes as you insisted on getting out of bed. Your mind was disoriented, oxygen-deprived, and could no longer understand the words I spoke, pleading to you to stay in bed, that the catheter would now limit your movements.
But you looked at me with wild eyes, and a physical strength I would have found impressive at your late stage of dying, that is, if I weren’t trying to keep you from knocking me over, as well.
We stood in a strange embrace, you with the look of a caged animal desperate to leave the chains of your body, and me with tears welling up as I tried to find ways to reason with you on our next dance steps.
Part of me actually was taken back to our first dates together, a dance class you said you’d take with me. It was part of your pickup line. “I wish I could dance with you,” that you wrote when I had shared that I’d started a dance class after Keith had died. I had needed to move, to feel part of the music, to feed my aching soul.
And you willingly put yourself out there, to try and dance with me, sheepishly and a bit out of rhythm and step. But you gave it your best try. You did it for me, to help heal my aching heart while also getting closer to me. It worked.
Now 12 years later, we are standing here in an embrace, your body degrading against your will, your mind disintegrating from the lack of oxygen. And all I want to do is take away your pain.
A moment of understanding happened when I asked you “Steve, do you want your ex and your daughters to see you like this?” No, you shook your head. So I managed to get you to sit and then lie down on the bed. The next struggle would be to get you to a better position since you had ended up too close to the foot of the bed.
I called out for Steve’s oldest daughter who I knew was now in the house with her sister and mom. I called again, but no answer. Finally I went to the bedroom door and opened it to find his younger daughter standing in the kitchen. Her sister had been in the bathroom down the hall. “I need physical help,” I told her urgently. Soon both the girls were in the bedroom struggling to get Steve further up the bed, lifting his arm from each side.
As I stepped back to let them work, I turned around to see his first wife standing beside me. I did what I’d done the last time we’d met, almost exactly 11 years before. I held out my hand to shake hers and said “Hi. I’m so sorry that we keep having to meet around death and dying.” I was referring to the first time we’d met at Steve’s mother’s funeral. Thankfully, she was gracious and responded warmly to thank me for allowing her to come to see him. It had been an interesting turn since I had invited her a week or so earlier and she had politely declined. But apparently her daughter had been able to convince her it was important to them.
The rest of that day, Saturday, was a bit of a blur. The on-call nurse finally arrived again after taking care of another patient who’d fallen. It was Memorial Day weekend and she was the one on call for the weekend. And she’d already been here until 3 am that same day to insert the aforementioned catheter.
Before the nurse had left from that middle-of-the-night visit, and after she’d admonished me to get some rest myself, I confided that I’d need it because Steve’s ex and daughters would be arriving in the morning. “Oh, I want to HEAR about that, girl!” We laughed. So when she’d arrived for the second time, with all of them present, I was very pointed in introducing everyone before she got too far. She met my eyes with a knowing look (so THIS is the ex!) after I’d introduced them all.
Later, after I’d taken the short nap that my favorite nurse had urged while admonishing the girls that they needed to do their part, I suggested to their mom that she might like a tour of the place and a short walk outside. I needed it myself. The sun was shining, though the air was still a cool 52 degrees, rather chilly for this time of year. As we walked around, I shared stories of the property and what we’d done to it. And more than once, and then again in the workshops, she remarked that Steve had found his heaven on earth with everything… the tools, the shop, the playful space for creating. She seemed to understand more about why Steve had found me.
They’d left around 3 pm Saturday to head home, saying their goodbyes to you, Steve, knowing that would likely be the last time they’d see you alive. And your youngest son arrived around dinner time and we began to trade shifts through the longest night.
The Last Hours
It’s 9:50 am on Sunday now and I’ve been writing and listening to music, your favorite tunes, as I try and capture my thoughts during these last hours.
Your breathing has gotten “jerkier”, for lack of a better description. The gurgling is a bit louder, deeper in the chest. I checked your O2 and it briefly showed 60% with only 40 bpm. But when I checked the left hand, and then again your right, I could get no reading at all. The line that indicated your pulse rate would only occasionally show a blip. For a moment I was fascinated by this data-informed visualization of your impending departure from this earthly plain.
But then my own heart began to ache. Your phone had been dinging, messages from a close friend. She was desperate to hear from you, to get comfort for a difficult diagnosis she was facing. But I’m concentrating on you, my dear love. Do I bother with the last dose of morphine? You’re not in pain. So maybe it’s best to leave that alone. You’re done being the subject of medicine.
It’s time to release your soul to the other side… a place of peace and love. Part of me envies you that you will find peace while the rest of us deal with the pain of missing you.
Go with love, my sweetheart. Go with love and peace.
I play the Beatles for you. I’d bought tickets to Rain, a Beatles-tribute band, and you absolutely loved every minute of it. Finding our shared joy in music was another thing that brought us closer.
It’s 10:19 am. The Beatles music ended with “Shake it up Baby”. And so did you, and so will I.
Love you, my sweetheart. Go in love and peace.
Preparing for the Public Goodbyes
It’s 1 am on 5/31/25, nearly a week after you left this earthly plane. I’ve been keeping busy… making your final arrangements, researching and ordering up the hourglass urns, navigating the conflicts arising from my inability to please everyone all the time.
A couple of hours ago, I glanced at the clock and it read 11:11 pm. The angel number that may mean you’re trying to send me a message, that everything is anew… for you in the afterlife… and for me here in among the living.
Sarah said I have a type. And then I as we hugged in pain from the news, Steve said the same thing, “you have a type.”
I guess by that they meant that I loved sharing my life with a partner who also shared my curiousity, creative sense of play and exploration, and whose work complemented my own as we supported each other’s pursuits. The implication, however, was that they often worked with materials that were toxic, or shared the habits of their generation such as heavy smoking and drinking, suffering the consequences of the indiscretions of youthful hubris.
The sad part is that there are no guarantees on longevity. None of us gets an assurance on how long we have on this earth, on how much time we have to spend with our loved ones. And no amount of love, no matter how deep, will keep them here on this earth if their fate is meant to be somewhere else.
[N]o amount of love, no matter how deep, will keep them here on this earth if their fate is meant to be somewhere else.
Not Again
Steve had been feeling sick since late September and was finally able to get a telehealth doctor’s visit in late October. That lead to an immediate trip to the ER due to pleural effusion and three days in the hospital. More follow-up doctor’s visits and then another visit to the ER and a week in the hospital, collapsed lung, more thoracentesis, CT scans, pathologies, and finally a confirmed diagnosis – stage IV non-small cell lung cancer adenocarcinoma. Followed by biopsies, colonoscopy/endoscopy, and PET-CT and finally a meeting with the oncologist.
Treatment would be palliative to keep the cancer from spreading further. Depending on the analysis of tissue from the biopsy, it would include immunotherapy, or a combination of immunotherapy and chemotherapy. Prognosis was dependent on the outcome of that treatment – months or years.
In dark times like this, sometimes a morbid sense of humor results. “I thought I had a 10-year warranty on our marriage!” I said to Steven as we shared a quiet celebration of our 8th anniversary this week. “And I intended to renew it with another 10-year extended warranty!” Geez.
Preparing for the holidays…
This past weekend Steve was able to fit in some moments of normalcy between naps and directing from his stressless recliner as visiting family members helped with chores that culminated in decorating a much smaller Christmas tree that I’d ordered. At half the size of the 12′ tree we’ve had the past few years, the smaller 6-1/2 footer allowed me to manage its assembly and grandkids to help with decorations without a ladder. The job was done in a matter of hours instead of days. Although not the grand tree we usually had, it put a smile on Steve’s face and that’s what mattered to me most.
The new 6-1/2 ft tree was decorated with help from family including grandchildren. It replaced the 12-1/2 ft tree that normally fills the room but that takes two adults on ladders to do. This smaller tree was put up and decorated in a day and still managed very nicely to make everyone smile with gratitude and appreciation.
And an anniversary
When we first started dating, he’d show up at my door with two roses in his hand and a silly grin on his face. It always made me smile in return and lightened my heart. Steve gives the best hugs and so it has been my goal to return those hugs and their healing power as much as I can and he’s willing to accept them as his body fights back.
Copper orange roses for our 8th anniversary.
So on our 8th anniversary this week, I brought him a dozen copper orange roses, a box of chocolates, and a Hallmark card. These were what he would have brought me but driving hasn’t been his option for the last two months. So I did it for both of us. His lip quivered a bit fighting back tears as he read the card and saw the roses. I split them up – 8 in one vase for the years we’ve been together, and another 4 for blessings going forward.
Dinner and The Voice
We sit here and watch the finale performances for this season’s The Voice. We’re in the new bed I bought, a split adjustable king bed that would allow Steve to raise and lower his back and legs to help him breath and get a bit more comfortable.
This afternoon, while I was in online meetings and student reviews in my home office, Steve was riding the tractor down the hillside out back with John following so they could hook up the plow blade for the inevitable snowfall we anticipate for the winter, yet haven’t seen much of yet.
I was part horrified when I learned of his joyriding out back while holding back my critique as he looked at me painfully while trying to eat his dinner. He’d been asking me to make this dish he saw on Facebook – baked honey sesame chicken which was basically a sweet and sour chicken – and so I made it. But that pained look told me he was struggling to eat it – not because he didn’t like the taste, but because as soon as he starts to eat, his stomach says “no more.”
“Did you feel almost normal when you were riding around on the tractor?” “Yes, almost.” “Then it was worth it.”
“How have you been feeling?” I asked. “Crappy all over,” he replied. “It’ll be okay,” I replied. But he broke down. He didn’t like this crappy feeling, he said between tears. “Did you feel almost normal when you were riding around on the tractor?” I asked him, touching his arm gently. “Yes, almost,” came the reply between the slowing sobs. “Then it was worth it,” I whispered.
But deep inside, I wondered how many more of these “close to normal” moments there would be in his future.
Silken Windhounds, Louie (white and tan) and Ralph (dark grey and black) curl up beside Steve as he watches the singers on The Voice between short naps.
As I write this, Steve munches on some Lays Waves potato chips, craved from the power of suggestion as The Voice’s Blake Shelton did a shtick where he steals the Voice award by swapping the award sitting on a pedestal rigged with an alarm with a bag of Pringles. Steve looks happy. And if I didn’t know better, I’d say all was normal as both Ralph and Louie are curled up with their heads against his side. How I long for this moment of normalcy to last.
A first proof of a project on the Poco No. 0 press rescued from the trash.
I can get lost in the type. Surrounded by cases and cases of letterpress type, metal, wood, very large to very small. It feels comforting to be around, like visiting long lost friends. And I get to spend some time nearly every day just hanging out with my type friends getting to know them better.
It feels comforting to be around, like visiting long lost friends.
My thoughts wander as I look at the individual letters that once made up a story. It’s like they’re destined to be reborn, found again to make a new story. But for now, the pile of type is pied, jumbled. And I wonder about that word – pied. Did that mean that the Pied Piper of Hamelin was “jumbled” too? Turns out “no,” not exactly.
In the story, however, the Pied Piper wore a very colorful costume and pied was referring to the multiple colors. But I like the idea that perhaps he was a bit “colorful” in his thinking, too. As in the stories lost in the pile of pied, aka jumbled, type. And here I was, playing the role of the Printer’s Devil, sorting through the pile of tiny pieces of type, first by size, and then by typefaces, with some of the metal type tossed into the hell box for melting if too rough a condition to use. Once the second round of sorting is done, then finding a home for the more complete sets of type will be necessary. And that job usually comes with having to clean and probably restore the warped bottom of one of the last cases still available to fill.
Could they have been the whispered prayers of a grieving soul? Might the words they make be the silent voice of strength in the face of adversity?
What some may see as tedium, I find meditative. As each tiny letter appears before me, I admire the details, the design decisions made in their creation, the changes from one letter to the next in different typefaces, even among the same size. This afternoon it was 6 point to 18 point type. The majority was at the smallest size and fascinated me with the differing heights and widths of the capital letters from different typefaces even as they measured the same physical size.
I wondered… what could have been written with these tiny letters? Was it the fine print of a contract? Could they have been the whispered prayers of a grieving soul? Might the words they make be the silent voice of strength in the face of adversity? These thoughts wander through my mind like wisps of smoke as I pick up small handfuls of the pied type, blowing off the dusty fragments of nesting material from mice who’d made their way into the typecases in an abandoned printshop long before the cases made their way here, to my little corner of letterpress heaven.
A small batch of pied type ready to be sorted. Previously, I had sorted through bags of new type that had fallen from their original boxes.
The letterpress studio has been a longtime coming. I think about how it has been a whirlwind of activity ever since early May when my younger daughter told me she was thinking about selling her Charles Brand etching press, the one that I bought her the Spring after her dad passed away. The seller was an old professor of hers in Ann Arbor and we’d settled on a price. But then a few days later he came back asking for more, apparently having gotten a higher offer. It was a poor business practice but I wanted her to have the press that would allow her to do what she’d been thriving with in college, and in her work for mentor Endi Paskovic, with woodcut printing.
The letterpress studio has been a longtime coming. I think about how it has been a whirlwind of activity ever since early May when my younger daughter told me she was thinking about selling her Charles Brand etching press, the one that I bought her the Spring after her dad passed away.
When we finally settled on a price and went to pick it up, with Steve’s help and that of several of my daughter’s friends, I stood with the seller and was chatting about printing and letterpress since we had printed my older daughter’s wedding invitations on our own little Kelsey 6×10. He pointed out the pieces to a printing press scattered across his garage floor, a very large 12×18 Chandler & Price platen press that he had brought from California long ago and now was doing a full restoration after his divorce. Do you want it? he asked. For free… since you were buying the other press, he said.
The 2500 lb. press made its way home, with lots of help and an extra trip to Ann Arbor since the combined weight with the Charles Brand would have been too much for the box trailer we were using. That was nearly 8 years ago. The C&P is still here… and so is my now husband, Steve who is more determined then ever to finish assembling the press, especially now that it has an honored place in the newly reorganized studio. Once the Charles Brand was set to sell, and my daughter’s flat files removed from precious floor space in the studio, things changed quickly.
A Vandercook #4 proofing press was in an estate sale south of us, an unusual opportunity that I couldn’t pass up. But a weekend before the sale started I called the estate sale manager to ask questions. After a little back and forth, he asked me to come down to look over the printing stuff to give him some advice since his own knowledge of it was far more limited than even my own.
We drove down in the pouring rain in the Tesla on Monday, driving dirt roads when I’d mistakenly thought it would be safer to stay off the highways. By the time we got there, nearly 2 hours later, we spent time going through everything, putting items that belonged together, describing the purpose of some of the items, and generally noting the condition of many of the pieces. I asked about the Vandercook’s sale price, and he said he’d asked an expert to provide an valuation. He said he was told it would be worth around $9-12,000. I laughed nervously saying that was too rich for my blood. But I left him with a lower offer I thought I could manage. Still he said no, that he was going to auction it off. We drove back in the rain, this time taking the highways and got home in less than an hour.
The next morning, after all the rain, Steve discovered quite a mess in the basement of the Gallery House, a building we renovated next door to use as an extra studio/gallery space. The sump pump had failed and there was now at least two inches of water throughout the basement. It was quite a chore to get a pump running in order to drain as much water as possible. Mopping up the mess that was left took care of most of the rest of the water.
After some reflection on needs vs dreams, I convinced myself that spending thousands on a printing press was just not going to happen and the money would be better spent cleaning out the mess at home.
Then there was the chore of emptying as much of the soaking wet boxes that had not been set up off the floor. There was also the stack of uprights for the custom cherry library from Dad’s office in Florida that my late husband Keith had made. In a rush to get them out of the garage, they had been put directly in the plastic that covered the pea rock of the Michigan basement. That meant the first three or four pieces – 12-15” wide by as much as 10’ high – were soaked, warped and water stained. As I looked around the mess, not knowing if it would dry out before getting moldy, I began to think I was going to have to spend a lot of money to hire someone to unload the mess from the basement. We were finding it too painful for two old people with bad backs working in the 4’10” Michigan basement. After some reflection on needs vs dreams, I convinced myself that spending thousands on a printing press was just not going to happen and the money would be better spent cleaning out the mess at home.
Dealing with the aftermath of a dead sump pump.
The following Sunday was the last day of the estate sale so I weakened and called to see what was left. The Vandercook was still there. But so was an 8×12 Chandler & Price platen press, almost identical to another one we had bought very cheap at an auction a couple years before. The one we had, however, was missing a gear and Steve was willing to make one. But here was a press we could strip for parts since we believed it was no good as a press, having become rusty from sitting under a leak in the basement under the front porch of the house.
Thinking we were going for parts, we headed down there with some tools to buy the press and take the gear with us, and perhaps buy a few other goodies that we might be able to use that were now selling cheap on the last day. Having failed at selling the Vandercook, the estate sale manager asked me if I was still interested and I explained that things had changed at home due to the basement flood and I could no longer afford my original offer. While we were disassembling the C&P, I overheard him talking to the family representative on the phone, telling her that “she wasn’t interested in the press anymore” which I took to believe that he had been depending on selling it to me to make up for the lack of a higher priced sale.
We headed home in the Tesla with a full carload of iron and various letterpress pieces parts and began making plans to come back later for the last pieces of the C&P.
As it turned out, Steve had forgotten to bring a Johnson pry bar to get apart the last pieces of the C&P. And the C&P itself turned out to be in much better condition than we’d thought, the rust turning out to be only superficial.
We were still there after 3 pm when the sale was supposed to end but weren’t able to get it apart. So I asked the estate sale manager if we could come back the following weekend to get it. “No problem. They’re not selling this place anytime soon.” And the Vandercook, along with everything that was still left, would be sold at auction using an app for the estate sales. So we headed home in the Tesla with a full carload of iron and various letterpress pieces parts and began making plans to come back later for the last pieces of the C&P.
A couple days later I got a text: “When you’re ready to pick up the rest of the press, text Janet” along with her number. I thought maybe Janet was his employee, but soon learned that she was the family member, and that she’d fired the estate sales guy. I called her the next day and also learned that he’d never told her we had already bought and paid for the C&P. She had started getting estimates for getting it removed (the platen alone weighed over 400 lbs.) by a guy who was going to torch it to cut it apart! In a room dripping with leaked oil and solvents!
Janet also told me that the Vandercook was still available and I could have it for a price that was far less than my original offer to the estate sales guy! Another Vandercook #4 had been in an online auction I was following that same week and my mind was blown as the price of that one soared to a final price of over $15,000.
Even so, I told her my concerns about having to pay a fortune for movers get it out of the basement. I knew, at over 1140 lbs, this was something far too big for the two of us to do on our own. We set a date to come back for the C&P and I said I’d let her know then. We went yet again, this time bringing the truck to pick up what was left of the C&P.
Our trip yielded many more items, and a new negotiation for the Vandercook, finally settling for a total price of under $1000 that included a bunch of other items big and small. Once again, we made plans for a return trip, this time with my favorite mover.
In the end, we brought home far more than I’d ever guessed. But the one thing was certain: Norman – the original owner of the press and builder of that home where it lived in its basement – wanted the press to go home with us. It cost me $1500 including a generous tip for the movers for the day. But they carried up the those basement stairs a lot more than that press, including the 400 lb. platen and frame for the C&P, a Hammond Glider Saw, another letterpress-specialty saw, a giant composing cabinet that had to be disassembled, several hundred pounds of metal “furniture” and leads, and miscellaneous stuff too numerous to remember.
It needs rollers and a bit more cleaning and adjusting, but the Vandercook No. 4 is settling into its new home very nicely.
I reflect upon these events as I sort through the bags of pied type, the case of dusty mouse-ridden type from earlier acquisitions, and the newly rearranged shop around me, light streaming in as the presses stand like soldiers waiting for orders.
The original restored Kelsey 6×10 – purchased by Keith to print wedding invitations for our oldest daughter. This one started it all.
The 12×18 C&P that was given to us when buying the etching press.
The Potter proofing press I bought at auction.
The Poco proofing press Steve found on FaceBook Marketplace that someone was going to throw away… picked up at the end of the driveway.
The 5×7 Kelsey that Steve bought me from a local auction as a present.
The 8×12 Oldstyle C&P that we bought at a small town auction which also came with a second much larger 12×18 C&P that we’ve since decided sell for parts.
The Vandercook #0 that was buried among piles of other stuff the guy with the two C&Ps was trying to sell.
The 8×12 New style C&P we bought at the May sale for $50 just to get the gear we needed.
The Vandercook #4 that I’d walked away from, at least twice. And yet it still managed to find its way to our home.
These presses are my creative army preparing for the work ahead, telling stories, sharing typographic expressions, and maybe open up new voices, new thoughts expressed in printed form.
These presses are my creative army preparing for the work ahead, telling stories, sharing typographic expressions, and maybe open up new voices, new thoughts expressed in printed form.
I think that maybe we’re a bit of a pied bunch ourselves: me, Steve and the presses. A bit mixed up. We’re all a bit colorful in our own histories. Whatever it turns out to be, I understand now that all of these presses have found their way home to the pied piper of printing. And together we’ll see what colorful stories we’ll print in the future.
This is an icon I created when working in Fiji. It was one of 24 icon-style illustrations with Pacific themes. Being my favorite, I adopted this one as a psuedo-logo.
Mara Jevera Fulmer's Blog 