The first time I saw a newspaper press in action it was the mighty behemoth that once ruled from the basement of the self-proclaimed World's Greatest Newspaper.

The summer after I graduated from high school I worked at The Chicago Tribune.

As the newest department employee, I was told it would be my job, near the end of each workday, to go down to the pressroom and bring up a fresh stack of afternoon editions. Employees would pick them up to take with them on their commute home.

I was taken down to the pressroom and shown where to wait. At that time the press was silent, but a platoon of pressmen were ministering to it.

When the time came to pick up the papers, I went down early so I could get a look at the press in action.

As I stood in the pickup area, a pressman walked up and offered me a clean sheet of newsprint. I didn't know what to make of that, so I shook my head. The pressman gave me a squint, then shrugged and walked off.

As the press cranked up, the sound became deafening, but the sight impressive, as the majestic machinery and its sound picked up.

As the fresh newspapers came by on a conveyor, a pressman scooped up a stack of them and dropped them, heavy and warm, in my outstretched arms.

I turned with my cradled load and looked at the short line of others waiting behind me. I noticed they were holding clean newsprint sheets. The fellow behind me was holding one edge in his mouth so the sheet draped in his arms. Even so, he was smiling.

I shifted my stack of papers away from my chest and looked down. There, in a neat repeating row inked on my shirt and tie, was the ribbon of headline and news from the fold of the front page of that days issue.

Since then I have seen a number of newspaper presses in operation.

A suburban newspaper I worked for was printed at the Kankakee Daily Journal. Reporters took turns on "press watch" duty. Our job was to check as each edition came off to make sure all the replated pages were in the proper sequence.

Between editions, we could sit in a lunchroom with a window overlooking the press, or just hang out on the press floor. The latter was the best, since Mario, the press foreman, didn't consider it the job of him or anyone on his crew to tell you when a new run was starting. So I spent a lot of time on the press floor, watching and coming to appreciate the sights, smells and skills that make the actual newspaper itself become a reality.

When I started at The Times, then The Daily Times, and my new employee tour brought me into the pressroom, I was struck with a feeling of familiarity.

From time to time I would look into the pressroom as the newspapers churned out. Sometimes I would just pause at my desk to hear the familiar rumble.

Either way, it was both satisfying and reassuring.