By STAN STAPP

THE OTHER DAY, my wife Dorothy came across copies of some interesting correspondence of her father, Trevor Kincaid, who died in 1970, at the age of 97.

Her dad headed the Zoology Department at the University of Washington for many years, is known as the father of the Oyster Industry and developer of the Friday Harbor Marine Station. Kincaid Hall on the University of Washington campus is named in his honor. Trevor also was a charter member of the Mountaineers.

But what interested me most was his interest in printing, somewhat paralleling mine. "When I was a boy of 15," Trevor wrote, "my brother got out a small amateur paper in which I played the part of general factotum and printer's devil."

(Yes, factotum is a word: "a person employed to do all kinds of work as the chief servant of a household" - and as a printer's devil I may add. A "printer's devil" is a printer's apprentice. Likewise, when I was a boy of 12, I also published a little paper: The Magnet, "Picks Up the Good, Leaves the Dirt.")

One Kincaid letter, written when he was 94, recalled his memories of what the University of Washington campus was like. "I hardly know my way around there any more," he wrote. "When I entered the University in 1894 the institution was still downtown, about where the Olympic Hotel is now located. The present campus was wild stump land, and the first building, Denny Hall, was under construction. There are now 20 instructors in the Department of Zoology, practically all of them, except Dr. Hatch, strangers to me."

Trevor learned the rudiments of the printer's art, but during the intervening 65 years," he wrote, "I have not had a piece of type in my hand, so you will see I was rather 'rusty' in starting in again at 80. I use a small hand press with a 10x12 chase. My main font of type is of the Caslon variety, 12-point size, with corresponding italics. Printing, he said, "is nothing more than setting one piece of type after another."

(The dictionary describes a "chase" as a "rectangular iron frame in which composed type is secured or locked for printing; and Type as a rectangular piece or block, usually of metal, having on its upper surface a letter or character in relief.")

Trevor's shop was located in the basement of his home at 1904 NE 52nd. My shop was located in my basement at 4203 Woodlawn Ave., home of the Outlook newspaper for many years. Trevor's press was an ancient second-hand Kelsey.

I inquired about Kelsey's too, and found a second-hand press was available, but I couldn't afford the $15 price. In addition, my older brothers said they'd teach me how to operate a Chandler and Price platen press - which the Outlook had in the basement - and I was soon printing all kinds of jobs. For money, that is. But not for much.

But, as the Washington Mutual Bank used to preach to its school banking kids: "A penny saved is a penny earned."

"As a piece of reading matter for general readers my papers will not be 'best sellers' as I presume," Trevor wrote. "There are not more than a few dozen persons in the country who will be 'thrilled' by them."

After his retirement, Trevor pursued his interest in insects, taking up as a hobby the collection of the species found within the limits of his city lot.

As Trevor neared the age of 95 he was making a study of the ecology of Willapa Bay as related to the oyster industry. He operated the State Shellfish Laboratory at Nahcotta for 11 years. By then he was deaf, but still had good eyesight.

"One of my papers dealt with 'The Ant Plant,' one of our local plants, Orthocarpus pusilus Pursh, which is highly specialized to be fertilized by ants, 'the only case on record for such a phenomenon in the entire world.'

"A few other subjects that I have dealt with included: the Thinobius frizzell Hatch which I shipped to England (and threw in a few additional staphylinids); the microlepidopters; and the like."

When, at age 95, Trevor admitted he wasn't feeling up to the stand-up mechanical operation of his printing equipment and began using an offset method of his own invention, making master sheets on his typewriter and multiplying them with contact paper. He then turned out a paper involving 41 pages of text, and 19 plates. It was a sit-down job, he wrote, "but I can manage it."

In 1963, Tom Rice of Poulsbo wrote Trevor about his own publication, that was handset, and looking forward to the last issue to be done that way: "I have just purchased a Linotype machine and hope to have it running for use on the July issue. It will cut our time by 1/8th to 1/10th of what it takes now, which will mean we can issue a larger paper."

Well, I'd like to see that! A Linotype operator may be able to turn out a lot of type in an hour - but only if he or she (or someone else) is knowledgeable about its operation if something goes wrong.

I know, because although I became a pretty good operator myself, I learned how to take care of the machine - but it took me some 40 years to solve all the problems that can arise.

* * *

SEVERAL WEEKS AGO when Dorothy and I seated ourselves at our usual table in Ming's Restaurant, right across from Carle Rising's table, we noticed he wasn't there. He ALWAYS had been there before - for quite a number of years. Five days a week he was the first one there, arriving at opening time, 5 p.m.

Once a week, nearly always, Dorothy and I were the second ones to arrive - followed later by several others.

Dorothy had known Carle slightly, both having attended University Heights Grade School. In 1938, Carle graduated from Lakeside High School, Dorothy from Roosevelt High School. Ming's Restaurant, in Wedgwood at NE 85th and 35th Ave. NE, is not very large, attracting maybe a dozen diners on a big night. Carle had eaten at Ming's MORE TIMES than anyone else, walking there from his nearby home on NE 87th where he lived alone; Dorothy and I have dined there over the MOST YEARS; and Bill McCoy must be a STRONG THIRD.

We used to eat once a week at noontime until the restaurant changed to evening-only hours. At noon we usually sat at "Carle's table" before we knew Carle, which we relinquished when we changed from lunch to dinner - losing our table to Carle at dinner time because he was always there first. So we began adopting the middle table next to Carle's as our NEW ONE.

Some other patrons also sit at the same table each time - but it's no big deal if someone else beats them to it.

At Ming's, most customers know the owners, Sam and Ivy Cheng, as well as most of the other customers - so it has a rather friendly atmosphere.

We all were aware recently that Carle had not feeling very well. And that first night that he didn't show up, we were relieved to learn that his relatives were taking care of him. However, a couple of weeks later, on Jan. 26, he died at age 81.

Carle had been an avid sports fan, following most of the teams on TV, particularly the Mariners. At times (not subscribing to a daily paper) he had difficulty finding the right television station and the right time.

Sometimes he'd eat dinner listening to the game on radio, wearing his head phones, and then rush home to see the finish. Several times, so he wouldn't miss a game, I phoned, or handed him a note at Ming's with the correct information.

Sometimes Carle and I discussed the Big Bands because Carle had been involved with that kind of music as a musician, and I had been a ballroom dancer.

Carle played swing and jazz and played with several Big Bands: Bob Harvey, Gay Jones, Tiny Martin, John Holte, and the Olde Seattle Rhythm Band, and contributed recordings to Les Paul and Mary Ford. One day Carle told me that he'd started playing professionally at the age of 12. And 68 years later he was still playing trumpet, mainly at Senior Centers.

At one time Carle worked for Blackstone Music, a music instrument store near Northgate Mall, teaching jazz to young people. I hadn't known that before, although I knew Wilbur "Blackie" Blackstone, the original owner of Blackstone Music, quite well as he was a neighbor of mine when Dorothy and I lived in Anacortes in the late '70s and early '80s.

I'm sure all of us who knew Carle missed him the moment we walked in the door - and he wasn't there. And neither were his empty dishes: fork, knife, spoon, and paper napkins neatly stuffed upright in his glass, and the glass inserted in his cup - easy for Sam to clear the table.