The old yankee we bought the press from wouldn't talk to Kate directly. He told me everything, even all the really complicated parts I didn't understand, even when Kate asked him the questions.Kate: So when you ink the ink plate, how do you know there's enough on there?
John, looking directly at me, while pumping the foot treadle of his own press, moving the rollers across his ink plate: Hear that, Dan? That's what enough ink sounds like. You'll hear it. Yeh.
He was showing Kate and I plus another couple about to spend hundreds of dollars how to use the presses and each time he expalined about measurements, he said, "Sorry girls, more math..." Then he would explain a really esoteric concept, like two picas plu,s two picas, plus another two picas ... wait for it ... equals six picas.
Maybe if he used a more easily digestible unit of measurement the gals could understand: like kittens or lengths of pretty, pretty ribbon.
Of course, Kate knows way more about actually operating the press than I do, and when it comes to me and tools, I'm basically lucky to be alive.
Anyway, I'm positive there are no paperboys buried underneath that guy's spooky old warehouse.
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