August 6, 2008 Archives

It rained this morning. No, scratch that, it poured. By the time we got on The Giant the storm was finished, but it was still wet.

Today's discovery--it's much more difficult to take our hike when it's wet. The rocks and pebbles that cover the trail started shifting with each step. My sneakers never got the traction I'm used to. Each step brought less distance.

On top of that it was humid. The dew point is hovering close to 70°. The sweat was pouring off me. Helaine doesn't sweat, she glows.

For the first time in a long time we took a short break just before reaching the tower at the summit. Mother Nature wins.

We ran into Scot Haney on our way down. Scot's a meteorologist for the competition in Hartford. He was in the third SUV of a three car entourage heading to the top. These were the first passenger cars we've seen driving here all spring and summer.

Ever Been To The Register? That was the subject of an email received last night from Tom Powers. Tom often comments on the blog and we've run into each other over the years. He works at the New Haven Register, keeping its mechanical plant working.

This is the kind of invitation I can't resist. If 50 years younger, I would have been the right kid to give that DVD with nothing but construction equipment at work!

I showed up just before midnight and Tom began to take me around. I'd been to the Register before a few times. When I first visited, the paper was being put together with the help of X-ACTO blades and paste.

I've written before about print journalism and my undying love for it. We really do need newspapers, or at least someone to do what newspapers do (the Internet does not). Every day newspapers print some things that interest a tiny percentage of their readers--a handful of people. It's important to document these little bits of minutiae, though most readers simply turn the page and go on.

Last night's trip was more about mechanics than journalism. Publishing a newspaper is still a dirty, noisy job with every piece of gear immense. The colored ink comes in cylindrical man sized tubs. The black ink is stored in a silo. Rolls of paper, handled by forklifts with mechanical pincers, are piled high in a warehouse. They are transported to the presses with a sub-floor railway in much the same way your car is pulled through the car wash.

It's all done with machinery that seems "antique technomodern." Just like those 1930s movies, spools of paper unwind into the presses while fully assembled newspapers fly overhead in a mechanized march to the delivery trucks.

Tom's installation worked well. This morning's newspaper was delivered with a little sticker affixed to the front page.