May 21, 2019:
I still have the little bookcases.
I do not still have the Jr. Pressman Printers Shop stored on one of them in May 67. But it's easy to remember.
It used rubber type which you'd compose into aluminum trays that slotted onto a hard plastic drum. You'd paint the ink on with a brush, which guaranteed the first copies were darker than the subsequent ones. A small handle turned the drum. If you'd put it all together properly the type would both transfer ink to the paper and at the same time pull the paper forward, leaving you with a freshly printed sheet.
Naturally, it frequently went FUBAR. The paper would snag so you'd overwrite lines. The ink would saturate the top of a page, so that the top was darker than the bottom. Generally it was a semi-functional PITA, but if its goal was to be educational it certainly worked. It left me very clear that I did not want to work in a print shop.
I did want to write. For that I needed a typewriter. I had a Sears portable, which I used for fine copies. Usually I wrote in spiral notebooks. At first, satirical shorts and jokes. After a few years, vignettes. I'd type out the final versions and bind them with paperclips. A newsletter of sorts.
I'm glad those days are gone. You'd spend so many hours on tedious tasks of copying and correcting. The burden then was duplication and distribution. Today those things are immediate and effortless, leaving you free to concentrate on the part that matters.