There was a time when the ink on their fingers could measure the loyalty of a newspaper reader.
It rubbed off. It smeared. They could read the local news stories, and then carry the residue on the palms of their hands for the rest of the day.
They read the obituaries and solved the crossword puzzle at their own risk. By the time they finished, it looked like they were emerging from a coal mine.
I was a member of that fraternity. As a teenage boy, I mostly read the sports section. I devoured the baseball box scores and learned the craft of writing from some of the best in the business.
Those ink stains followed me to journalism school and early in my career as a newspaper writer.
Having your arms smothered in black was a byproduct of the profession. It was your battle scars, like getting dirt on your uniform.