Setting sail

The wind is blowing fiercely as I write this. 

The cliché would be to say, as the final 12 hours of 2013 tick down, that it is blowing out the last of the old year. 

Globally and locally, it's been a year filled with joy and misery. Every year is, of course. We always seem to forget that. 

The local good and bad:

I celebrated my second anniversary with Jennifer. I celebrated the birth of my daughter. I bought a new car. 

But I lost my grandfather. Relationships have grown strained, either by time or distance, or some other factor. And I feel like I'm not living up to my potential; like I'm not me. 

Of course, there's little I could do regarding Poppy. But those last two rest on me. 

The wind might be blowing me along, but it's up to me to set the sails and take the rudder.

Here's the part where, as I've done almost every year of my life, I resolve to make the next year better than the last. 

Before I do that again, though, I wonder: How can I guide the ship if I don't feel I have any navigational guides? I'm scared of where I'm going and where I'll end up. 

Yes, philosophers, religions, etc. offer routes, or compasses or star charts. 

I've followed those in some form or another to this point. Can I trust I'm on the right course? I suppose that's what faith is, and mine is being tested. 

Maybe Sophie is picking up on my wavelength: She has started to scream when Jen or I leave her alone for even a second. Like she's immediately lost without us there. 

I don't want Sophie to feel the way I do. But neither Jen nor I have found a solution. 

Perhaps my answer lies with Sophie's. The world is vast and there's much to explore. 

We're not lost. The wind hasn't blown us off course. 

It's OK to be scared. 

The world is round. 

Do they make mental prune juice?

Writing is hard. 

Like that's something new. But here's my situation:

I've been thinking about writing a short story. Something uncomplicated that just lets out what is in my head. 

The problem I'm facing is, well, not to be too gross, mental constipation. 

Yes, I said it. 

I have ideas come to me all the time: That would be a great detail to include in a story. Or, that's a great character name. Or that's a good plot point. 

But then I pull up a blank page on the computer (or iPhone). The cursor is blinking. I know there are things in my mind that want — need — to come out. 

Nothing. 

I might struggle or strain. Nope. I sit there a while. Drink coffee. Read other people's writing. Nothing. 

Here's my self-diagnosis: I've been a professional journalist for more than a dozen years now. What I have written about (or edited or assigned) has been real. I'm working on a story or editorial that is grounded in reality. 

It's been a long time since I've flexed my creative writing muscle. Probably since high school, save for a few quickly constructed mock newspaper covers done for special occasions for friends and family. 

How do I get that mojo working again? It really hurts just staring at that blinking cursor, knowing I have to go but can't get it started. 

Mamama

A brief note on the dichotomy of Dad-hood:

Sophie is, we're pretty sure, starting to teethe. She woke up wailing and sobbing at 2 a.m. and the only thing that would calm her was an ice cube. Add some Orajel and infant Tylenol, plus more sobbing, and an hour and a half later, you have a sleeping baby. 

Despite the sadness and frazzled nerves of that experience, something good came out of today. 

Sophie laughed. 

A real laugh, from the belly, not a squeak or a squawk.

And it was for something I did. It was simple. I said, "mamama!" She laughed, too, when I said, "dadada!"

That laugh. I mean, she has smiled at me and made noises. But this, this was a straight up laugh. 

It melted my heart. 

There will be ups and downs in our lives, I know. That's how things go with parents and children. 

But I will remember that laugh, and how it almost made me cry with joy. 

And things will be OK.

Stubborn old Bohunk

    Me, my brothers Nick and Steve, and Poppy in 2010.

I could say a lot about Jerry Dolivka.

Poppy, as he was known to the grandchildren, grew up in an area of East Baltimore known as Little Bohemia. He was the patriarch of a large family. He was a civil servant, working at Fort Meade. Later, he was president of Fairmount Federal Savings and Loan.

He was a strong — some might say stubborn — Bohunk whose smile and twinkling eyes could lift your soul, and he left an impression, especially with the waitstaffs at many area restaurants. 

But, in remembering Poppy, who died Wednesday at age 90, I think about the story of him going off to World War II. 

No, it's not a story about his military record or devotion to country. This story shows his Catholic faith and his devotion to the Blessed Mother.

Before shipping out, my grandfather and grandmother, Marie (Baba, to the grandchildren), prayed to the Mother of Perpetual Help. For those unfamiliar, it is a particular depiction of Mary holding an infant Jesus that is popular with the Redempterist Order. 

     Mother of Perpetual Help

My grandparents prayed and promised that, should my grandfather make it back from the war alive, they would name their daughters after the Blessed Mother. 

Through some interesting twists of fate, the brass discovered Poppy could type. He ended up a clerk for a brief time, avoiding the front lines. He later served as a guard on a prisoner transport in North Africa.

Baba and Poppy married June 22, 1946. 

My older aunt, Mary Lou, came along a few years later. Then my mother, Ann Marie. Then my younger aunt, Jeanne Marie. 

Three girls, all named honoring the Blessed Mother. 

In the decades that followed, Poppy and Baba's devotion to the Blessed Mother only got stronger. Visitors to their house on Chesaco Avenue saw the massive framed icon of the Mother of Perpetual Help in the living room. The tombstone on the grave where Poppy will go to join Baba has an engraving of the Blessed Mother on it. 

About a year before he died, I was sitting next to his bed visiting. He'd just been moved home after rehabbing a broken hip. He was in pain and confused. 

But on his dresser, I spied a keychain with a Mother of Perpetual Help image hanging from it. 

I held the icon up to him. 

"That's my girlfriend," he said, smiling. 

Despite poor health and senility, the stubborn old East Baltimore Bohunk held onto his faith.

That's how I most remember Poppy.

It's a rare quality, despite having many things that could shake it, to remain so devoted. 

It's a trait I hope to carry on and teach to my daughter, Sophie Marie. 

Changes in latitudes. Changes in attitudes.

There's no denying it: I've been in a funk. 

Stresses in many parts of life have led to me being grouchy, as well as a recurring headache. 

In the days before marriage, such stress was dealt with upon a barstool, with compatriots in the collective misery of being 20-somethings in a world set upon making our futures bleak.  

That didn't help much. 

After hitting my 30s and marrying Jen, we began to adventure. We'd explore the central Susquehanna Valley, getting lost in Union County's West End or romping around Shamokin in Northumberland County.  

Adventuring didn't cure the stress, but it gave both of us a clearer head with which to deal with it, which is something I couldn't always say for my barstool solution. 

Monday, after chores were done, we took Sophie on an adventure. It wasn't much, if you're from the Abingtons. We wandered the nature trail at Abington Community Park. 

Packed in the front-loading sling, Sophie bounced along as Jen and I wanderd the pond. Meanwhile, the Abington Heights Comets practiced football and rehearsed cheers on the upper fields. 

Despite a little crying, I think Sophie enjoyed the walk. And that sling is much easier than carrying her by hand. 

We also took the chance to drive out Route 309, which turned into Route 92, which led us to the fabled town of Tunkhannock. A minor detour south to see the Tunkhannock Viaduct (aka the Nicholson Bridge), and we jaunted down U.S. 6 to Clarks Summit and home. 

A nice little adventure. It cleared my head a bit, and I'm sure Jen feels the same. 

But what about our newest adventurer?

Well, Sophie squawked a bit and cried as we tried to get her to sleep later in the evening, as is the usual.

But during the trek, her eyes darted in every direction, trying to take it all in. 

I think she'll get the hang of it. 

Mopar to ya

We just returned from a few days in Amish Country. Indeed, we were in Bird-In-Hand, Pa., for the 35th annual National Chrysler Products Club Meet. 

Because nothing says automobile fandom like Amish Country. 

Seriously, though, it was a fun time and I've come to look forward to the meet. But I'm not a car guy, and I drive a Pontiac. Why would I want to go to a Chrysler car show?

For starters, my father-in-law is the club treasurer. 

I'm married to the club chairwoman.

When I asked for Jen's hand in marriage, my father-in-law said two things. 

"Well, you're going to have to become a Dallas Cowboys fan, and you're going to have to drive a Chrysler product."

Anyone who knows me and my love of Baltimore sports knows the Cowboys thing wasn't going to happen. (We've worked it out to where I support my wife in her support of her team.)

But I said I could get behind the Dodge thing. In fact, I've since priced out a new Dart, with its reported 42 mpg thanks to Fiat. Once the Pontiac dies, and we've got the money, it's a purchase I'll likely make. 

All that aside, I also have been tapped by the editor of the club journal (also my father-in-law) to write a few cover stories. One is a recap of the meet; the rest are stories gleaned from the Mopar fanatics showing their trophies on the show field.

In talking with these motor heads, I find I can relate to their passion. No, I barely know the difference between a radiator cap and a gas cap, but I listen to the stories. 

Like how the 1962 Chrysler 300 H was a long project for Mark Souders of Centerport, Pa. 

The car was a hunk of metal in Lancaster, N.C., when his friend wanted to fix it up. A lost lease and trailer ride later, Souders ended up the owner and did a lot of the restoration himself. 

It's the detail he speaks of when it comes to the car. The hand-assembly of the upolstery. The steering wheel cast in two parts — not one and painted to look like two — from a shop in California. The literally thousands of hours spent working and tinkering to make her purr. 

When I talk about the intricacies of journalism or the fruit flavors in a well-made IPA, I get just as passionate. Newspapers and beer are two great loves in my life (other than Jen and Sophie, of course).

It's the details that make the story, and for some, those details are life itself. 

That's part of why I knew I was going in the right direction when my father-in-law brought his family's love of Chrysler products into the conversation with me. 

It's that passion. 

It makes life worth living. 

Bibulous

It's no secret journalists — generally — like to imbibe.

It was the Bard of Baltimore, H.L. Mencken, who coined the term "bibulous" to describe himself.

    Here's H.L. Mencken in a Baltimore bar shortly after the repeal of Prohibition.

Webster's has since defined the word as "addicted to or fond of alcohol." (That's actually the No. 2 definition. The first is "highly absorbent." Same difference.)

Anyhow, I've spent a few moments of my life perched on a barstool. It tends to fit the lifestyle: Long, odd hours filled with depressing news and jerks who don't want you to know things because, well, it might make them look bad/cost them a job/put them in jail. The fact the industry is going through dramatic, at times painful, changes doesn't help. 

It's not just the alcohol. I've never been to a bar without a friend. I've gotten reasonably good at darts and fooseball. And I've had pleasant, interesting and fun conversation. 

As I've aged, I've calmed my tendency toward vice. I owe some of that to Jen, who while helping rein me in, is not a Puritan herself. 

It's Sophie, though, who's put the biggest damper on my journalism lifestyle. A 2-month-old will do that. 

This is not a bad thing, mind you. 

I just find it strange that I've gone from throwing darts and sampling the microbrews of Blue Point Brewing Co. of Long Island, New York, to watching the Muppet Show on DVD while drinking water (filtered by our knockoff Brita, thankyouverymuch).

Sophie is very much worth it all. I just have to see her smile at me to know that.

   Sophie during a recent trip to the changing table.

But I wonder how other journalist types have dealt with this. What would Mencken do?

Then I remember: Mencken didn't have any children. 

Hi-tech

When I was a toddler, my mother used a tape recorder to record me saying, "Hi, Daddy!" for my father who was working long hours to put food on our table and clothes on my back. 

He'd listen to my babbling when he got home on that same tape recorder they bought from Montgomery Ward. You know the one; it had one large speaker, sheethed in metal mesh, and switch-like buttons that required force to press. 

I still have those tapes stashed away, though I'm scared to play them because they're more than three decades old now. The technology might not have held up. I do still have a tape player, though if I didn't, I could get one on eBay next to the 8-track player and Commodore 64.

I mention this glimpse of 1981 high technology because it struck me earlier today how things evolve. 

My wife used her cellphone to send me videos and photos of our daughter, Sophie, while I was at work putting food on our table and clothes on Sophie's back. 

Jen sent the pics and vids via text message, though she could easily have posted them to Facebook or Twitter. Or, if she wanted to be old school, she could have emailed them to me. 

No matter the transmission, I view them on my iPhone I bought at the mall. You know the one; a smooth touch screen that uses electro-static technology that gives the user more computing power than the Apollo 11 astronauts had when they landed on the moon. 

Looking at my 8-week-old child, I cannot begin to fathom what she might use to record her children's antics so loved ones can see what they missed. 

A Father Looks At Bedtime

I admit that I've not really been a big fan of Jimmy Buffett. 

"Margaritaville" was pretty much the only song of his I heard growing up, and it sounded rather depressing. 

Still does. 

Of course, there were a few other songs of his I heard later in life. "Cheesburger in Paradise" and "Fins" were popular covers done by my friends' band. "Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw" also was popular with some in college. Aside from music, I've written a story or two about local Parrothead Socities.

But, really, it wasn't until I met my wife that I heard all of "Songs You Know By Heart," let alone learned Jimmy had written several books. 

Jen has been to a few concerts and told me I'd enjoy them, mostly because of the large amount of drinking and the groovy atmosphere thereby created.

Perhaps. 

We also swung into Margaritaville in Key West on our honeymoon. While the margaritas were a bit overpriced to my liking, they were strong.

But all of that isn't why I'm now a fan of Mr. Buffett. 

You see, I discovered a few nights ago that my seven-week-old daughter Sophie calms down and falls asleep right quick to the likes of "Pencil-thin Mustache" and "Juicy Fruit" and "Son of a Son of a Sailor."

Admittedly, I feel awkward when "Drunk and Screw" comes on, but by that point, Sophie is usually asleep. 

One downside, though: I start to crave cheeseburgers and margaritas after awhile. 

Maybe Sophie and I will enjoy both some day, when she's old enough. 

OPA!

As a kid, I lived next door to a Greek immigrant couple. 

Mr. Nick and Mrs. Kula were like a doting aunt and uncle. They'd bring over Greek treats, like rice pudding with raisins. In summer, I'd swing past their patio for some loukoumades - dough balls soaked in a honey-cinnamon syrup and sprinkled with powdered sugar. At Christmas, we'd benefit from Greek pastries. 

It was more than food, though. Any time Mr. Nick would see Dad come home with a bag from the hardware store, the phone would ring. 

"David, what you doing?" Mr. Nick would ask, his accent as thick as a cup of coffee served across from the Acropolis. 

Once Dad would explain the project - installing a new vanity, repairing the kitchen sink drain - he'd say, "I be over." 

He'd examine the situation, muttering, "What the matter be…" And when a part or tool didn't work right, inevitably you'd hear, "DAMN SHIT!"

He taught Dad a lot about homeownership. And me, too. I've been known to yell, "DAMN SHIT!" at a piece of malfunctioning plumbing. 

Mr. Nick died around my birthday when I was in fourth grade. Mrs. Kula died earlier this year. 

But often, my family would attend the Greek festival in the Baltimore area. And Dad would get a shot of ouzo - like Greek sambuca - and toast Mr. Nick, yelling the traditional "OPA!" afterward.

When I became of age, I'd join Dad. And we'd tell stories about Mr. Nick and Mrs. Kula. 

Earlier this week, I got my dinner from a Greek Orthodox Church in Scranton. They had a food festival, though there was no rice pudding with raisins, loukoumades or ouzo. 

But over my lamb shank, Greek salad and piece of baklava, I toasted Mr. Nick and Mrs. Kula, and thought about the Greek immigrant couple who had a big impact on my life. 

OPA!

Reason for living

My wife and I haven't gotten much sleep lately. Sophie, who is coming up on 6 weeks old, is sleeping only a few hours at a clip. And much of the time, when she does sleep, one of us is holding her. 

We sleep when we can, but for this nightshifter, I've seen more daylight hours than usual. I'd forgotten that many people start their day at 7 a.m.; I was reminded by the sound of the traffic while singing "This Old Man" to Sophie. 

But here's the thing: I don't mind the lack of sleep. Every parent goes through it. Sooner or later, Sophie will sleep more than two hours at a time. 

It occurred to me last night as I held her against me while we rocked in the rocking chair: I'm the happiest I've been in my life.

In my arms was my little girl. She is my reason for living. And, as she wiggled a bit and gurgled before snuggling in against my chest, I realized there's no better reason. 

SMELL IT!!!

When I was little, there were times I'd be sitting on the couch watching television with my younger brothers, Nick and Steve.

We were silly, juvenile boys, so when a commercial would come on, invariably one of the three of us would take his foot and shove it toward the face of the nearest brother and yell, "SMELL IT!!!"

As we've gotten older, we've talked and joked about those times. And when Nick had a little boy of his own, of course Uncle Steve and I taught him "SMELL IT!"

We received frowns teaching it to Devin and warnings not to teach it to his sister, Ezralynn, or my daughter, Sophie. 

We'll see.

But poor Devin on Sunday broke his leg. He's in a cast that starts above his knee and will be for a good portion of the summer.

Nick, though, found a way to make things a little bright. On the foot of the cast, he used a magic marker to scribble, "SMELL IT!!"

Then he took a picture and texted it to me. I laughed aloud.

I talked to Devin over the phone later that day. 

"Did you get the picture my dad sent?"

"Yes, I laughed," I told Devin.

"Hey, Uncle Joe," he said.

You could hear the mischievous lilt in his voice, like a commercial had just come on the television. 

"Yes, Devin?" I replied.

"SMELL IT!!!"

You can't always get what you want

I was voter No. 237 in Precinct 1-2 of South Abington Twp. on Tuesday.

The woman handing out the ballots, noting that I was registered non-partisan said, “Oh, we only have 35 people like you” in the precinct.

She said I was No. 8 to vote.

I told her there was no way I was going to miss this vote. It’s one of only two times in my life I’ve been able to vote in a primary.

Thanks to the Lackawanna County commissioners and a local businessman, there were some countywide questions to vote on.

Ignoring the politics behind the ballot questions (let’s just suffice to say it seems to me to be more Lackawanna County politics as usual, just in different clothing), there’s the bigger issue of not being able to cast my ballot for judge, sheriff and a host of other county row offices, as well as a few municipal and school board seats.

The simple answer is, of course, I’m not a Republican or a Democrat, so I don’t get to pick who represents that party in the general election come November.

But the real answer is, actually, I’m not being allowed to truly pick my representatives in government.

Why?

Because, in a lot of these small races, the only candidates running are in one party. By the time November rolls around, I only have one choice.

The other reason has to do more with the demographics of primaries.

Ask any political science major and you’ll hear about how the “base” of the party turns out to vote at primaries. 

Total countywide turnout is usually no more than 20 percent. That means the reasonable, rational candidates are shunted aside and the extremist, who matches the base’s extremist views, are the ones that make it on to the next round.

Then, who's left for me to vote for?

Partisans.

I don’t want partisans.

I’m tired of partisans.

I want compromise. That’s the way government works. In fact, loyal patriots, that’s the ONLY way it’s worked since 1787.

Why?

I answer that by quoting the great 20th Century philosopher, Mick Jagger:

"You can’t always get what you want. But if you try, sometimes, you get what you need.”

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Show me that smile again

Today, my four-week-old daughter, Sophie, smiled at me. 

She looked right into my eyes and cracked a grin. And it lasted a while, too. 

Now, I realize it was probably gas. The professionals say that babies aren't able to smile for happy reasons till they're a few months. 

However, I had a friend tell me her kids logged smiles at six weeks. 

Then again, I tend to smile when gas comes out of me, too. 

Whatever the reason, I'm marking this day down. My kid, whom I helped create, did a very real human thing, beyond just pooping or crying or sleeping (or not sleeping).

My baby smiled at me. 

I feel both awesome and humbled at the same time. 

No smoking aloud

The printed photograph was of a sign that had a cigarette with a slash through it.

The sign read, “No smoking aloud.”

“Shhhhh,” I said, as I pinned it up in my work space.

If nothing else, working for a newspaper offers the opportunity to laugh at linguistic and grammatical mishmash.

As with all human beings, I am far from innocent when it comes to such errors. When typing quickly, I’ve confused “it’s” and “its” and “your” with “you’re.”

And I’ve rightly taken my lumps.

That doesn't stop me from giggling at the quirks of language. It has also made me realize just how important knowing the basics of language, grammar and syntax really are.

Here’s an absurd example that’s made the rounds:

"Let’s eat, Grandma," is not the same as "Let’s eat Grandma." Punctuation saves lives.

I point this out because, recently, a family member or two has taunted me for being a “grammar nazi.” I take some umbrage, as I’m not some sort of tyrant about it.

Believe me, if I was asked to diagram a sentence, I’m not sure I could do it. Maybe when I was in sixth grade.

My concern has more to do with knowing my family members have benefited from an upbringing similar to mine, and I’m sure our parents would be sad to know the money they spent on 12 years of Catholic schooling bounced like a brick falling off a highway overpass.

A basic understanding of the rules is all I’m asking for; I’ve been trained to write for the masses at a fourth-grade level in hopes everyone will understand what I’m trying to say. The least the masses can do is live up to that fourth-grade education.

And maybe try to take some pride in their upbringing.

Newspapering is an abusive relationship

I’ve often said that the newspaper business is an abusive relationship.

We love it. We defend it. We live for it.

But it beats us down. It treats us badly. It slowly kills us.

Yet, every day, we go back in.

I once had a journalism professor, Larry Lain, say that it’s the newsprint itself. The ink that ends up staining your fingers seeps into your bloodstream.

In truth, he tried to get away from the industry. He started out at a small Midwestern newspaper, but grew tired of the crazy schedule. He became a high school English teacher.

The principal made him adviser of the student newspaper.

Then he decided to get his master’s and his doctorate in communication. 

After becoming a professor at the University of Dayton, he was made adviser of the student newspaper.

“You can’t get away,” he told us the day the 2000-2001 Flyer News staff gathered for the first time.

Little did I realize, as I took on the mantle of editor in chief that year, he was right.

I’ve tried to leave it. I’ve applied for jobs outside of the industry.

But then I get assigned a story that sends me hunting down experts and documents. Or the emergency dispatcher comes across the scanner calling out a three-alarm structure fire. Or, as of late, I’m told to design the cover of the newspaper, with popping graphics, splashy photos and prosaic prose.

That’s why I disagree with Dr. Lain about the ink being what gets in you.

I think it’s the instant gratification.

I pour my soul into a piece of work, then I have to wait less than 24 hours to see the results. And not only do I see the results, but tens of thousands of others across the area get to see it, too.

I love it.

My work day starts when the sun is setting and isn’t over until there’s an hour or less till last call. My schedule changes weekly, depending on who else on the copy desk has vacation, or if there’s an election or major catastrophe that requires all hands to be on deck.

The pay... well, it’s better than it was when I was a reporter, but it certainly doesn’t match my friends who are engineers and actuaries and college professors. I’m certainly the poorest of my college friends, financially.

But I love this job and I keep hoping it will love me back.

There are a few flickers.

The boss says, “Good job with that story.” A source sends you a thank you note. The publishers provide free food.

And I’ll be back at the desk tomorrow, ready to take on the next assignment.