Ode to Whitman, Walt

He stands enthralled

Above a boulevard of life

Where matter counts;

The count does not.

Where the altered complexions

Of the seasons skies

Seem as his people:

Strolling, searching, striving.

Where he turns his back

To the glistening river running,

Calling to the world

In notes of silver and gold.

He keeps his verdant post,

A marker of beauty,

A marker of truth

Where the Gods would be green.

The Treasure

Below a cliff known as Coogan's Bluff, which is situated by a western bank of the Harlem, a diseased vein in a dying city, a treasure is buried. It is hidden there beneath tons of concrete and steel which rise up into a polluted sky. A monumental offering to its dwellers.

My memory permits me to bulldoze that beloved acreage on certain occasions so that I can rifle through some of the jewel-like presences of happenings long ago. I can see then, forinstance, the banners blowing across from left to right.

"Willie will have to really push them today, huh Dad?"

"Watch him," my Dad would say. "You watch that Say Hey Kid. He does it all."

And I knew he could, too. My Dad, he knew.

A rainbow of screaming Giants' fans converted a ballgame into a love affair. Our screams tore love out from deep in our insides, and we could feel them tickling our throats on the way out. Mom was never there, but maybe the paper bag beneath my wooden seat, the one with all those sandwiches in it, even made her a part of it all.

I was small then, but living in a world of friendly giants. After each game Dad would take me out onto the playing field. I can remember how I used to cross it to the centerfield exit bent in two. I walked that way so that I could run my fingertips over the grass. The grass where Willie ran. A magic carpet I never will cease to treasure.

Pith and Polish

As a retired proofreader, or corrector-of-the-press, as the task was previously entitled, I am not quite so appalled as I am disheartened by the rampant misspellings taking place here in the on-line universe that I have dubbed (meaning nothing derogatory) the Cyberswamp.

Swamps have been proven to be very important parts of our ecological system and a superb habitat for a number of natural wonders. Much that is useful can be learned therein, if one only slogs around in it for awhile. (And slog around one will once bitten by the Cyberswamp bug.)

As a person with a particularly professional penchant for pedantry I pray that perhaps people will prepare and polish their pieces prior to posting them.

After correcting proofs for more than a half century, I had begun to proofhear people when they spoke. Let me tell you brother (as one pedant to another) people simply will not tolerate prooflisteners in their midst. Nothing else, save beerfarting (in certain quarters) can so quickly force one out of polite society and into a dreary life wandering the Cyberswamp.

LIFO: Printing. What's Next? Fire or the Wheel?

I began to study the craft of typesetting at age 13. That was back in the mid-1950’s when learning a trade was thought to be a better option than going to college and majoring in some subject that might not help put the proverbial “bread on the table”. Marrying as quickly as possible after graduation from high school, however, was also considered a good idea. How quaint those halcyon days. How far we’ve come in so short a time.

Since I liked to read, especially comic books and newspapers (my father owned a newsstand), and because I had an uncanny knack for often spelling words correctly, I thought that typesetting would be an excellent career choice at the time. Also, I assumed that it would be a safe choice as well, since typesetting had pretty much been done in the same way ever since Gutenberg invented moveable type about 500 years earlier.

Then, in the early 60's I began to hear people ominously speaking of something called “Computer Automation”. Typesetters, as a rule, didn't like the sound of this, but we were assured (mostly by those white-collar guys who majored in such subjects in college) that this new innovation would actually create many more jobs than it would eliminate. We didn't protest too much against the computer’s entrance into the printing and publishing industry. Not that it would have mattered if we had.

As a result of computer automation, hot metal typesetters, like myself, soon became grist for the mill of anthropological studies. In what seems now, looking back, like the blink of an eye, a craft that had been developing for more than half a millennium suddenly disappeared, like a dinosaur, from the planet.

Luckily for me, I managed to keep myself versatile enough to stay employed for 50 years by continuously upgrading my typesetting skills in much the same way that you now have to continuously upgrade your software and hardware to survive in this brave new world.

The Internet today stands poised to erase yet another once ubiquitous tool of human communication: printing itself. My advice to any youngsters starting out today in whatever their choice of careers is simply this: Marry late, marry smart, marry rich, but in any event: go to college first.

Poor Ronald's Almanack

Inspired by Benjamin Franklin, the patron saint of printers, I have decided to create this blog. My aim will be to keep my posts interesting, entertaining, and informative, hopefully like Franklin would have made his. The posts will be remarks on an eclectic (hence the name: REKlektikos) mix of subjects rather than themed to a single one. This approach, I think, would have been Franklin's method had he access to this technology. My offerings will be open to comments from those viewing reklektikos.blogspot.com. While I will be moderating the comments before they can be published, I invite all who would like to contribute to the conversation to participate.