For most readers, when the presses in the bowels of The Commercial Dispatch fell forever silent Tuesday evening, the moment passed without distinction or emotion.

That’s understandable. For print subscribers, The Dispatch will arrive at their home just as it has for more than 100 years. No one gives much thought to the remarkable process that made the newspapers they read possible. Why should they?

But for the staff at The Dispatch, as it is with all of the newspaper presses that have fallen silent over the past 20 years or so, the final press run leaves us misty-eyed, maybe a little tearful.

The good news is that The Dispatch will continue in print form as well as online. But in the interest of economy, those editions will be printed in Tupelo.

The reader is little affected, but for all of the folks for whom the grimey, greasy, whirring, ink-spewing press in the darkened basement was our Puff the Magic Dragon, we feel the loss personally.

I’ve been awed by this mechanical wonder since I saw my first press run of my hometown newspaper in Tupelo almost 50 years ago. I’ve seen the press run in Biloxi, Santa Rosa, San Francisco, Phoenix and, of course, Columbus. Pulitzer Prize work rolled off some of these presses, but so did the news, both big and small, that bear witness, inform, entertain, irritate and inspire untold thousands.

We, the ink-stained wretches who have devoted our careers to the newspaper business and what all it means to the community, will press on, even while our press won’t.

Much of the news today is delivered by a few keystrokes that send the news everywhere the internet can reach.

But for all that efficiency, there is nothing romantic or soul-stirring about fingers on a keyboard, certainly nothing like the hand of a pressman slamming on a button and watching this massive machinery grind and whir into action, turning blank newsprint into ink and color and print and images. Even for those of us who have watched press runs for years, it remains an impressive operation. When groups tour the newspaper office, it’s a visit to the press room, even when it’s not running, that is most interesting.

Most of the time, the craftsmen who tend, coddle, curse and operate the press are left to their work.

But there are times when a major story or a special publication lures reporters and editors to the press and all eagerly await the moment that button is slammed and the press grinds and groans, wheezes and rattles to life. In those moments, we feel a sense of pride and accomplishment and sometimes trepidation.

It is the culmination of all of the work of the entire newspaper staff, from receptionist to advertising to design, to reporter and editor. It is the moment that all of our paths converge.

The reader will never again have the chance to know the distinct sounds of our press, of the ink particles that fall like dust when the press is really humming, of the ink that rubs off on your fingers when the newspaper is warm and wet to the touch.

These are the sensations we will not experience again, not in Columbus, at any rate.

I wasn’t there for the final press run of The Dispatch on Tuesday evening, but I hope someone had the presence of mind to sing “Auld Lang Syne.” It is appropriate to the occasion.

Stop the press.

Slim Smith is a columnist and feature writer for The Dispatch. His email address is [email protected].

Slim Smith is a columnist and feature writer for The Dispatch. His email address is [email protected].