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Truly Botts
Commemorating
The Life & Antics of
Guy Raymond Botterill
April 13, 1928
Sept. 26, 2010
A Truly Memorable Person Who Loved Amateur Journalism, Printing and Typography
By
Richard L. Hopkins
February 2011
Hill & Dale Private Press and Typefoundry
Terra Alta, West Virginia
Cover photo and photo on page 11 thanks to Carole and Bob Mullen.
I took the liberty of substituting a couple of fonts of type for a Coke can on the cover.
Other illustrations are from the author’s files.
When I told a close friend that Guy Botterill had passed away, he said, “You know, when I first met him, I just turned around and walked away. I couldn’t stand him.”
Mention of Guy Botterill at any amateur journalism, hobby printing or typecasting meeting always brought a response, often negative. Thus far, his passing four months ago has brought virtually no response, so this journal is written as an effort to preserve Guy’s legacy, and to give you a better understanding of the man.
Most others in our circles lead lives of significance outside the realm of the hobby. We have friends, family, business, church, and social acquaintances, and we have plenty of interaction with them. This social interaction has given us the experience necessary to handle ourselves in what one would call “polite society.” Guy Botterill had no such background. His excitement over being with people with similar interests at hobby meetings made him hyperactive, and he had no background to guide him in how he should conduct himself.
We’ll never know how his isolation came about. I met his mother, his sister, his brother-in-law, and actually shared a meal with them in their home in Baltimore. I was treated with civility and cordiality, though I could detect a bit of undertow during the evening. Later, Guy confessed that he’d not spoken directly with his brother-in-law for years. If he needed the salt passed, he would ask his sister to ask her husband to pass the salt. Apparently the situation never resolved itself; the household chose to just tolerate it.
I came in contact with Guy Botterill around 1979 via his first contribution to the bundle for the Amalgamated Printers Association. Over the years occasionally I have sent notes or letters to folks when their work in the bundle has caught my attention and certainly the little card Guy had in the bundle struck a nerve with me. It was crude and vulgar, so I wrote to him politely suggesting that APA was not the place for such material. I explained that the group included women and children, pastors, and people of all walks of life who would not care to see more of this type of work.
Frankly, I had forgotten that I had sent the letter. Years later, when I visited Guy at his home, he took me into his impeccable shop – everything was in place with all the type perfectly lined up in the 2/3 sized cases he had in cabinets throughout a small section of the basement of the house they all lived in. The first thing he did was go to a filing cabinet in the middle of the shop, pull out a folder tagged “Rich Hopkins.” He retrieved the letter just mentioned.
“I want to thank you for sending this letter to me,” he said. “I had no idea my stuff would offend anyone. You see, I have worked the night shift at the post office for 30 years and have associated only with the low-life people who tend to work such jobs. They’re all crude people and since I slept during the daytime, I never associated with anyone other than them.” He explained further that his associates at work loved his little cards and always wanted more copies; producing them filled his idle hours before he joined our hobby groups.
To his credit, Guy changed direction dramatically in the work he contributed to the bundles. Never again did he contribute anything near being off-color. But this change of direction was not total, for Guy cornered virtually every person he met at hobby conventions, showing him (or her) a choice selection of his naughty cards. To his credit, if repulsed by his new acquaintance, he remembered and never again brought out his cards to show that person a second time.
Instead of doing cards for the bundles, he focused on type specimens, and especially little booklets of quotations. Frankly, I had forgotten how prolific he was with the little booklets, always sized 4¼x5½ inches, usually 16 pages plus cover.
That doesn’t sound like much work until one realizes the booklets were printed one page at a time on his treasured 5×8 Baltimorean press, and that nearly every page was printed in black plus a different color. His goal was to parade his magnificent collection of metal types, and apparently a very good collection of ink colors too. The booklet I have in hand went through his little press 29 times during its production. And my collection has over 60 different booklets which he produced. They always featured quotations from famous people or authors. The one used with this text was from Somerset Maugham. Guy’s thought process was intense. He could get “out of the gutter” as selection of these quotes and authors surely indicates. Likewise, he made great effort to match each title with an appropriate typeface, and he did a good job of it!
“Good heavens, Guy, why don’t you get yourself a larger press?” I asked. He said he liked the Baltimorean, had a sentimental attachment to it. With a gestured seep of the room he said, “I have no place to put a larger press.” Also, he noted that it was a below-grade basement, which would make hauling in a bigger press very difficult.
While on the subject of things printed by Guy Botterill, I must mention his pithy reports published after meetings such as the APA Wayzgoose and Conferences of the American Typecasting Fellowship. Guy didn’t even own a typewriter so it wouldn’t surprise me if he “wrote in the stick.” His printed reports read just as he spoke. Brief, detailed, to the point and sometimes too much so. I haven’t preserved them all, but these first liners might give you a feel for how they read. “Possibly the greatest affair yet.” “A fantastic affair.” “Marvelous.” “My God! It was damn near the ‘Goose to end all Geese.’” Guy seized on details which caught his attention and frequently, reading his reports on meetings where I also was present, I was amazed to garner details which had escaped me personally. They were wonderful summaries and I looked forward to them.
Hypocrisy: Hypocrisy is the most difficult and nerve-racking vice that any man can pursue; it needs an unceasing vigilance and a rare detachment of spirit. It cannot, like adultery or gluttony, be practiced at spare moments; it is a whole-time job.
Other treats from Guy Botterill were his famous type contests, entirely prepared by, funded and promoted by the man himself. He researched and printed quiz sheets himself, and he came up with all the prizes awarded. Since he focused on small fonts, often he sub-divided choice fonts in his collection and offered the second half to winners. A curious quirk was his insistence that neatness in filling out the contest form would be a strong consideration when selecting the winners.
I have far less knowledge of European type designs, which he focused on, and often complained to Guy, “Have a Monotype type contest so I can win.” He never complied, but I won a couple anyway. Questions often contained a smattering of organizational trivia, such as “Where was ATF Conference 3 held?” His memory was called “encyclopedic” and that extended to everything that interested him. He took pleasure in quizzing me on the where/when aspects of ATF Conferences, all of which I have been deeply involved in. He could recite dates, places, and other details with the least provocation. I’m lucky to remember where I was yesterday!
Guy used his type contest applications as a great excuse to approach everyone at any event he attended. I’m not sure he didn’t even hand his forms to the waiters and waitresses at those events. I’m certain no guest or honored visitor at any such event escaped receiving Guy’s type contest sheets and answer forms. Lynda, my wife, tells of a conspiracy she, Ginger Duensing (Paul’s wife), and Hazle Rice (Roy’s wife) pulled after he insisted they all take and fill-out the forms at an ATF Conference. They collectively asked knowledgeable folks for the proper answers and, using their best penmanship, filed complete forms. To his surprise, theirs was a three-way tie for top honors. He smelled the rat, but since he also was responsible for the awards, each received one of his quote booklets instead of a font of type which he knew they’d never use. Guy’s type contests often were the “ice breakers” which brought strangers together and promoted fellowship, and we have missed them in recent years.
The Baltimore Printing House Craftsmen were jointly hosting an effort at a regional printing trade show in 1980 and they asked me to “bring my typecasting stuff and set up an exhibit.” They were even willing to pay me, to help me get display cases, and gave me a large area for my display. They wanted a live typecasting machine but I refused on that one, citing safety issues. I was flattered enough and young enough to take on such an assignment and ended up hauling a Vandercook, my 7×11 Pearl, a Sigwalt tabletop press, a stand of type, and loads of printed specimens to Baltimore. My goal was a “working exhibit” where visitors could print for themselves a commemorative poster. I told this all to Guy (who still was a working man) and he snapped, “I’ll take time off and come to help you!”
Sure enough, the afternoon of “setup” arrived. I was there with my helper, unpacking things and screwing together the facade I had built with huge lettering above the window, “Yesterday’s Printer.” Guy walked in saying, “I’m here to help. I got time off from the job and will be here all the time.” I was surprised, but not knowing what kind of “audience” we faced, was relieved to have more help. I explained the setup to Guy. For traffic control, I had an “in” door and an “out” door. Right inside the in door was a stand of type which I had set up with the historic uppercase and lowercase arrangement and a large font of 18 pt. Century Oldstyle which I had planned to use in allowing visitors to set up their names to be included at the bottom of a poster already made up in the Vandercook press bed. My intention was to do this only when things were slow, but Guy picked up a composing stick and said, “I will take care of that duty absolutely.”
Next day when the show opened, Guy was ready with his apron on and stick in hand. Every person who walked through the door was greeted by Guy Botterill. “What is your name? How do you spell it?” He would write on a note pad and off to the races he went, hand-setting the names and explaining to them what he was doing. The man I brought with me, Jim VanGunsteren, was to handle the Vandercook, inserting the special lines of type in the form and allowing visitors to do the cranking. Soon visitors were lined out in the hall, waiting to come in, but no one got by Guy Botterill. He not only set the the type, he handled the crowd control too! No one got through our exhibit without a personalized poster!
The show organizers came by telling me how much of a hit our exhibit was, and warned that “The Public Printer” was scheduled to visit the next afternoon and they were sure he’d drop by. For those who don’t know the term, that’s the title carried by the top honcho of the U. S. Government Printing Office in Washington. Sure enough the next afternoon an entourage of suits appeared with everyone hanging around the chief. Ignoring all the attention from the “suits,” Guy interrupted with his staccato delivery, telling the Public Printer (I forget his name), “We’re going to print you a personalized poster. What’s your name? How do you spell it?”
The suits were amused, but Guy was unfazed with the appearance of “royalty.” He had a job to do, and even asked him to spell his name a second time. Furiously, Guy set the line and handed it to Jim. It turned into a wonderful “photo op” with cameras flashing from all angles as the Public Printer printed an “anti-technology poster” on our Vandercook. Guy ignored what was going on. He was busy getting names from all the “suits” too. Everyone got a poster!
At the end of the show, Guy had two 12×18 galleys full of standing type – all the names he had set during the previous two days. I told him not to worry, that I would melt it down and cast something different later. But he insisted, and while Jim and I tore down the exhibit, Guy dissed every single letter, handing me two empty galleys. During the whole weekend, Guy was in seventh heaven, interacting with and “in control” of a large crowd of people who gave him their attention and if nothing else, were amused with what he was doing.
I explained the many items on display under glass and worked the Pearl, doing covers for a commemorative Typographic Curiosities, folding the covers and stapling them, handing them to those who showed a special interest. But my area was subdued. I couldn’t hold a candle to the excitement of Guy and Jim printing those posters.
Two years later I was formulating plans to go to Oxford, England, for the American Typecasting Fellowship’s joint meeting with the British Printing History Association. To my surprise, the best connections were out of BWI (Baltimore-Washington International) airport so arrangements were made for Rodger Glessner, his wife Dorothy, Guy Botterill and me to make the Atlantic crossing together. It was convenient for me to leave my car at Guy’s house; his sister and brother-in-law drove us to the airport. As if we weren’t excited already, initial boarding was delayed over an hour. Once everyone was on the plane, the pilot courteously asked everyone to get back off the plane. An hour later we re-boarded; there had been a bomb scare and then had to do a complete search of the plane before departure.
Guess what? I didn’t get to sit with Rodger, nor with his wife. Guy was just about bouncing off the ceiling with anxiety and I got to sit next to him. He talked non-stop from Baltimore to London. Non-stop! That’s how I got a peek into his past, and learned a little about “what made him tick.” He started working with the U. S. Post Office as a parcel post sorter on the midnight shift 32 years previously… and though moved around occasionally, he retired from the Postal Service working at that very same counter, on the same shift.
He had a degree from Baltimore City College (which I didn’t know about until reading his obituary) but for a variety of reasons, he never was open to the idea of promotion or transfer. He stayed where he was comfortable. He was in the Army during the Korean War era. He talked about experiences in boot camp and about traveling cross-country and a layover in Chicago, but otherwise, he said nothing about whether he left the States or what he did while in the Army.
For several years Guy lived with a woman in a shared apartment. They weren’t married. In fact, he readily admitted she was a prostitute. Since they both worked at night, their arrangement was “convenient.” At first there must have been some attraction. But at the end he had nothing but contempt for her, watching her slowly degenerate and die of some awful malady which may or may not have been associated with her lifestyle. He admitted they had little in common. In the apartment he had a large collection of jazz recordings and enjoyed taking in shows when special names appeared in Baltimore. And he did a little printing with his Baltimorean and a few cases of type he kept stored underneath the bed. “There she was, dead, in that bed right on top of my cases of type!” he exclaimed.
After her death, Guy moved back to the house where he grew up, moving in with his widowed mother, and later joined there by his only sibling, a sister and her husband. By the time of his death, his mother was gone, and his sister also had died.
It was a long flight and Guy obviously had plenty of time to talk.
Arriving early in the morning and taking the train in to Victoria Station from Heathrow Airport, Guy and I were scheduled to spend the first day and night at the Grosvenour Hotel in downtown London. I’d studied maps and was convinced the hotel was close to Victoria Station. Guy still was hyper, so he rushed out of the train station into the street, trying to hail a cab, nearly getting run over. I pulled him back and said, “Let’s look around. I think we’re already very close to the hotel.” We were standing right in front of it!
The joint meeting with BPHS was a stunning success in large part because of Guy Botterill!
At Oxford University, we checked into our dormitory rooms featuring board-stiff beds and communal bathrooms which we had to share with men living on our floor and the one above. It seems the dorms were coeducational and upstairs facilities were reserved for the female students living there. “There are chicks living upstairs,” he said incredulously. Fortunately, I don’t recall that he made an effort to infiltrate.
That afternoon, we went to a campus center for a “mixer.” On one side of the room were casually dressed Americans, getting reacquainted (we had come from several areas of the states: Baltimore, Atlanta, San Francisco, Chicago). On the other side, in suits no less, were the BPHS folks – a clear divide. This was definitely failing as a “mixer” but Guy hadn’t noticed the impasse and soon was in the midst of his new English buddies showing them his pocket full of raunchy little cards. More than one of us detected this and quickly rushed into the group trying to defuse the situation.
We found ourselves apologizing on the one hand, while on the other hand trying to explain some of the apparently unique, American colloquialism included in the cards. “Hey, Baby,” was Guy’s classic greeting to his British fellows. Soon the keen bond between us all – type – prevailed and friendly discussions ensued. Our hosts even considered our complaints about the “warm beer” (their preference) and a few hours later a fully iced keg arrived.
A very meek and frail older gentleman came toward me and introduced himself as Berthold Wolpe and timidly said, “I’m a type designer.” I was just about to tell him I knew his work, and that I had English Monotype matrices for his Albertus design, when Guy broke in.
“You’re Berthold Wolpe?” Guy burst out, enunciating as Guy perceived German names should be pronounced. “You’re shitting me. Damn! I’ve never before met a live, breathing type designer,” Guy bubbled. “Hyperion? Albertus? Tempest? Pegasus… I’ve got three sizes of that face in my shop.” Wolpe was absolutely delighted. Guy Botterill knew of him and his work probably better than anyone else in the room. Guy continued his highly animated discussion and drew Wolpe out regarding opinions of other European designs. His “drunken sailor vocabulary” still was prevalent, but his profound knowledge of type and typography won the day.
After Guy broke the ice, we realized we all had something in common and mixed conversations broke out through the room. Since we traveled together on buses to the Monotype plant, and sat through all our meetings together, several abiding friendships developed… all because of Guy’s brashness.
The last day of the Oxford Conference started with a bus ride to the Monotype Works at Salfords – a most memorable visit. Afterwards, the bus headed for London would drop off American and English riders at various spots so they could disperse back to their homes or other destinations. Victoria Station was the last stop and that’s where several of us were going. The bus pulled up, double parking on that very busy street outside the railway station. As we stood waiting for the driver to open the luggage compartment so we could retrieve our bags, a smartly dressed young lady approached asking direction to someplace nearby. We admitted we didn’t have a clue; we were visitors ourselves. But Guy couldn’t miss this opportunity to help a damsel in distress. He bolted from our group pointing down the street and urging her to follow along. They disappeared into the crowd, and soon thereafter, the bus also disappeared.
As we stood on the sidewalk saying our farewells, Guy reappeared and barked, “Where’s the bus? Where’s my luggage?” The bus was on its way back to Oxford. Frankly, we were fed up with his shenanigans, and we essentially told him it was his problem, not ours. (I never found out whether he was able to help the girl seeking directions.)
He found he could board a train and return to Oxford. Someone placed a call for him and found where the terminal was, and confirmed they did have his luggage, so off he went back to Oxford alone. Many hours later, Guy returned with his luggage, plus an incredulous story about yet another adventure. At the time the news media were full of stories about a man who had just broken into the Queen’s chambers. Never knowing a stranger, Guy had started a conversation with a lady sitting near him on the train. She turned out to be the intruder’s wife, on her way to prison to visit him. They had an extended conversation and, I believe, she even had a cup of tea with Guy at Oxford before they went their different ways. He was brimming with trivial details of the palace break-in and my lack of interest was no excuse for me not hearing Guy recount every minute detail.
Once he discovered ajay and hobby printing groups welcomed all people of like interests, Guy was always at the meetings. The Indianapolis ATF meeting in 1986 was no exception. Charlene and Dave Churchman were handling most of the arrangements and that included an open house at their home, as well as sessions at their “Boutique de Junque” warehouse on the other side of Indianapolis, accented by a cloudburst which wrecked the tent they had set up for serving us lunch.
“There were a number of people I had never met,” Charlene recalls. “During the cocktail hour he sidled up to me and asked if I were ‘broad minded.’ Never having met him before, and he was a guest after all, I assured him I was – I guess. Then out comes those ridiculous adolescent cards to which I couldn’t even respond. Was I supposed to be polite, nod, and quietly inch away?”
I remember Charlene rushing by me, exclaiming “Who is that weasel? He keeps following me!” That would have been forgotten had I not been told later that Paul Duensing put Guy up to it. Paul knew Charlene well enough to figure she could handle it, so he told Guy that Charlene really loved dirty jokes. “She’s going to object and show absolute disdain, but that’s just a show. She really loves it!” Guy closely followed Paul’s instructions and refused to back away until Charlene earnestly threatened him not to get within 10 yards of her ever again. He complied.
Years later I confronted Paul with the story. He smiled broadly, but said nothing.
In her email, Charlene hits closer home on the essence of Guy Botterill. “In truth, I have missed Guy the last three or four years, not for what he was, but what he could be and wished he were at times…. Sadly, his miserable public persona was due to what he thought real men were supposed to be… aggressive, suggestive with women, a stud on the prowl, and worldly, in a sleazy sort of way.” Then she injected, “We really should forgive him his boorish behavior…. Once when I was cleaning up the hospitality suite Guy spent at least two hours working with me and was a normal, friendly, useful person.”
Greg Walters commented: “Unlike most of us, Guy had no reticence about revealing the most intimate details of his life to perfect strangers. I was a bit put off by him at our first meeting 22 years ago, but as I got to know him, I came to appreciate his joie de vivre and our shared interests.”
There is suggestion that Guy’s “ugly side” was just an act to get attention. Bill Riess and Dale Dippre were observing his antics at the Williamsburg ATF meeting in 1992. As the evening wore down, Bill’s 17-year-old daughter Crescent and her friend Sissy came into the room and overheard the two men voicing misgivings about Guy’s “act.” Bill explained that “she has my personality and decided to call his bluff. Before I knew it, those two good-looking teenagers interrupted Guy’s boastful rantings. Crescent ran her hand over Guy’s bald head; the two girls acted as if they were coming on to Guy. He became flabbergasted, near speechless, and quickly left the room.”
This might be regarded as “calling his bluff.” But it also provides evidence that Guy did have a largely hidden sense of propriety and wanted to have no part of such a situation.
Until about three years ago, Guy was a constant fixture at the various ajay and printing hobby groups meetings. These offered the rare times each year that he could shine, have the opportunity to mingle with other people and possibly command their attention because of shared interests. For many years, Guy was “runner” for auctions conducted by Dave Churchman and Dave Peat. Charlene says, “He absolutely thrived on being runner at the auctions. It meant he was a player and no amount of sarcasm while he was working diminished his pride. Didn’t you love the handkerchief he draped over his hands (when handling the merchandise)?” Keep in mind, the “merchandise” consisted of dirty old type, greasy press parts, and old cans of ink.
Dave Churchman says, “He could identify type faces like no other person I ever met. Show him a font or mail him a proof and he was all over it. Never missed.” Phil Driscoll confirms, “He was a waking encyclopedia of typefaces. He could tell you the designer and originating typefoundry of almost any hot-metal face.”
George Chapman, a jazz buff himself, points to Guy’s huge knowledge of jazz. “Over the years we had some great jazz challenges but he was as good at jazz as he was with typefaces. Like: who played third trumpet in the 1937 Goodman band? or some equally obscure fact.” When you got Guy Botterill into these realms, away from an audience, he glowed brightly as the sun. He had no equal in his knowledge and beamed with joy when he found himself among people who knew enough about the subjects to express surprise and delight with his great knowledge.
Guy never was much for extensive correspondence. He certainly had no interest in computers and emails. Instead, he communicated, infrequently, via postcards, written out with a tiny, all-cap hand, usually filling the card with chatter. Somewhere along the line I chided him in a bundle, hinting that he was intending to print a larger poster on his Sigwalt. He responded Jan. 6, 1993, “Possibly you forgot that I have a 5×8 Baltimorean. A printer in Baltimore with anything but a Baltimorean press? But I forgive you.” His messages became fewer. In 2007 I received only a newspaper clipping – no note – revealing the obituary of Thomas R. Volker, who worked over 20 years at Baltotype and knew Guy. I knew Tom too, for ultimately, I bought what was left of Baltotype from Tom, his brother Bob, and their uncle, Herb Czarnowski.
Guy did provide for disposition of his equipment in his will, though there are complications and his niece is working at getting the details worked out. Throughout his lifetime, Guy never drove a car. He always was at someone else’s indulgence in traveling to our various meetings. Distance kept me from knowing him better, but I wish I had found opportunity to talk more openly to him about what “good life” was really all about, including issues dealing with the soul. I regret that never happened. Around Guy, most often I was the listener. Under his facade there was a brilliant, generous person, clumsily seeking to break out of his isolation and loneliness. He truly lacked knowledge of how to do it.
About two years ago I sent Guy a note asking for information regarding some aspect of Baltotype. He spent many hours in the plant and knew the operation well. But his sparse postal came back over two weeks later saying, “Sorry I didn’t reply sooner. I check the mail only about once every two weeks (even though he had residential delivery daily). You know more about Balto than I. I can’t help you. I’m just an old man sitting around with nothing to do.” Apparently he was doing exactly that when his time came to an end Sept. 26, 2010.
An 11-Year-Old’s ‘Botts’ Experience
by Laurie Hopkins Noland
Guy Botterill… I’m pretty sure that if you would look up the word “unique” in Webster’s dictionary, Guy’s picture would be there. Guy kind of reminded me of a chipmunk, running haphazardly from one place to another with reckless abandon! His conversation kind of reminded me of a chipmunk too – very fast chatter!! I cannot remember when I first met “Botts,” as we affectionately referred to him at home, because my childhood was littered with many typecasting events, conferences, etc. Going to typecasting and hobby printing conferences for me was kind of like going to a family reunion every summer. We became friends with many of the attendees (many of you!) and looked forward to seeing them annually.
When my dad, Rich Hopkins, heard – rather belatedly – about Guy’s passing, he asked me to recount one of my “fondest” memories of Guy Botterill. We can laugh now, but at the time was not quite so humorous for me! I was about 11 years old. My sister and I were attending a convention held in Baltimore with our dad. I don’t remember why, but we went with our dad to the convention – without our mother. I’m pretty sure it was the last time Mom allowed that to happen – after what transpired while we were there.
Apparently, Guy was one of the “hosts” because it was in his hometown, or maybe he just wanted to take care of his friends. Many people were in the hospitality suite. Suddenly, Guy realized that they had run out of mixers for the drinks. I don’t think any other person in the room was too concerned by the shortage; they were more intent on enjoying the company. Guy Botterill, however, was extremely bothered by it and immediately set to make it right. I don’t remember why, but I do remember asking dad if I could go down to the lobby with Guy to help get more mixers. Dad must have agreed, because we took off in the elevator. Imagine Guy’s chagrin when the grand hotel staff told him they could not help.
In his typical fashion, he rushed to the front door to seek assistance beyond the walls of the hotel. I stopped him and said that I need to go ask my dad before leaving the hotel. Guy assured me that it would be fine; we were just going across the street. So, I went with him. We walked a block or two without finding a place to purchase the much-needed mixers. Guy proceeded to hail a cab. I got more nervous at this point, did I mention this was night time? It was dark outside! Guy would not be deterred. He was on a mission and intended to complete the mission without delay.
My 11-year-old mind was spinning. Should I walk back to the hotel, by myself in the dark, or should I stay with the “responsible adult” and get in the cab? I decided to stay with him. The fear of walking back to the hotel by myself in the dark in that big and unfamiliar city outweighed the fear of my dad being angry or of getting lost.
We got in the cab. Reminder: Guy didn’t have his own car. I don’t even think Guy had a destination for the driver. He just said to take us to the nearest bar. Thinking back, I wonder what that cabbie thought of us – an old man and a young girl hailing a cab in the late evening heading for a bar. The cab driver took us to a bar in a back alley somewhere in the city. I certainly don’t know where we were and I’m not sure Guy did either.
When we arrived, Guy tells the cab driver to wait for him and tells me to stay in the cab! I guess he had enough sense to know the bar was no place for this 11-year-old girl. Folks, allow me to give you a little background for those of you who haven’t had the pleasure of visiting Terra Alta, West Virginia. We don’t even have stoplights here, let alone cabs, traffic, and nightlife! (Well, there may be nightlife, but I was never exposed to it at home.) In a word, I was terrified!
In my frightened stupor, it seemed like Guy was gone for hours, when in reality, it probably was only 10 minutes or so. I don’t even remember if the driver and I talked, I was just trying to sink into my seat and look small. And I was trying really hard not to think of all of the “what ifs,” or about how I could get back to the hotel by myself without knowing the hotel’s name or its address.
When Guy returned to the cab, I think I wanted to hug him – and slap him – all at the same time. We returned to the hotel unscathed, with Guy’s mission complete. We returned to the hospitality suite with mixers in tow.
To make a better ending, I want to say that my dad hadn’t even missed me, even though I felt like I had been gone for hours. But in reality, I think things in the hospitality suite had been winding down and that dad had started to get concerned about my absence.
Never having had children of his own or even being around children much, I don’t think Guy realized that he should never have included me in his excursion. But, honestly, I don’t believe he would have intentionally put me or anyone else in harm’s way. I didn’t know much about his “real” life until I was much older, but I truly feel that he was most happy when he was with his hobby printing buddies! I don’t get the impression that he had much of a social life otherwise. What a sad, lonely existence.
I wasn’t so traumatized that I failed to take note of the incredible fireworks shot out over Baltimore’s Inner Harbor later that evening. Anyway, it makes for an entertaining story that we recount often at home. So, Guy – or “Old Botts” – here’s to that late-night cab outing in downtown Baltimore.
Page Two Flag
A hobby journal published very infrequently by Richard L. Hopkins, Terra Alta, WV 26764. This particular issue is published for members of the Amalgamated Printers Association, the National Amateur Press Association, the American Amateur Press Association, and the American Typecasting Fellowship.
Members of all of these groups were touched by Guy Botterill’s presence and their various meetings over the past 20-30 years or more. When I heard of his death – nearly four months after it occurred – I thought to myself, “We just can’t let a person like Guy Botterill pass from the scene in such loneliness and anonymity.” He touched us all and I simply had to get something down on paper. The absolute luxury of email communication with most of the persons named herein have made it happen. I hope it helps you to know Guy, and I hope “old Botts” himself approves.
The digital font used throughout this issue is called Arno, named after the river that runs through Florence, the center of the Italian Renaissance. While inspired by the past, Arno is distinctly contemporary in both appearance and function. It was designed by Robert Slimbach, Adobe’s principal designer, born in 1956. The display face is called Planet Benson 2, called a “wacky graffiti font” by its designer, Ray Larabie, born in 1970, and available free on the internet. Wacky! Just like our buddy Guy Botterill.