I caught up with an old friend last week.

I met Little Ted Sevold, who stands all of 5 foot tall, in about 1973 when I took a job as a printer's helper.

Ted remembers that first week. "Oh yeah, that was when you backed your Dad's Model A out of the shop and caught the fender on the edge of door," he said.

Ted snorts and laughs loudly. It's infectious, the way he grins hugely. And that's why we're still friends. It's hard to get miffed when you see so much mirth.

Ted Sevold was born in Milton, Washington, way back in 1947 and he spent his wayward youth largely in that town but also around the entire state.

He got into the printing trade at the urging of a friend and began as an ink barrel scrubber for Rotary Offset Press in White Center.

As the shop grew in work and employees, Ted gained the level of Journeyman printer, and I will always remember the first time I saw him. He was wearing a paper hat (printers make square hats out of newsprint to keep the ink out of their hair) and a pair of coveralls, size four. I thought he was a jolly little elf at first, he laughed so loudly over the din of the presses.

"Bolo!" he shouted (Ted is known for creating nicknames for everyone the first moment he meets them), "You got to get ALLL the way down in the bottom o' that barrel to get the best ink."

And when I immersed myself in the drum of oily, indelible schmutz to come up with a large gob of black, Ted howled with approval. Besides showing me the ropes of how to put ink to paper, Ted helped usher me into the world of the inveterate carouser.

Printers are known for their predilection for drinking and fighting, perhaps even more so than soldiers, fisherman or ironworkers.

Something about that paper dust and the unabated roar of the offset press must foster some need to interact physically with anyone who doesn't share your opinion.

One night, after a rousing poker game in the back of the shop, two large fellows, Howie and Swampy got into it and began rolling around on the cement floor near the loading dock.

Ted walk up to the red-faced wrestlers and said, "Now boys, if you don't knock that off, you're gonna have to take it up with me!" Somehow, the sight of the small man and his odd delivery got through to the big guys and they got up and shook hands, just as Ted instructed.

About four years ago, Ted was at his job at the Wall Street Journal threading a web of paper through the presses steel rollers when his arm was pulled in, crushing his elbow.

Ted was off work for nearly a year and after an additional year of his return to painful shift work, Ted filed for medical disability and quit his job.

Though the injury curtails some of his movement, Ted is philosophical, " Some days, Bolo, it hurts pretty good, but....I'm still here."

At Ted's neat bungelow just off Military road above Trout Lake, he keeps a working, single cylinder steam engine on a dedicated trailer he can haul around to local fairs and shows.

Ted fired it up for me last summer and the thunk-ka-thunk sound resonated around the neighborhood while Ted shouted over the noise, "Reminds you a little of the U-banite (press) don't it, Bolo!"

In the corner of the yard is a cute building Ted put up to keep chickens. Ted gave me my first chickens, way back when and because I had no idea of how to tend to them, they ended getting away and roosting in the nearby trees. Since his retirement, Ted is away too much to keep up with the feed and the eggs, so he gave away his hens.

"Them were some good eggs, though, weren't they Bolo!" Stowed snugly in a hastily made addition to the back of the house is an enormous full dress Harley Davidson, a gift Ted gave to himself.

"Oh, you know, Bolo..a man has to have a Harley sometime in his life." Though the bike is several orders too big for him, he rides it to biker gatherings in the summer, and because he's an accomplished rider, he doesn't seem to have much trouble negotiating around on the big scooter.

Though the gray in his hair and ample beard has mostly overtaken the brown, Ted is still as mirthful as ever.

As he leaned over to pet my dog, still employing his peculiar nicknaming habit, he said, "Well....how are you 'Doko'....good Doko..ha, hah..ha."