#2015bestnine

This is the time of year when you're supposed to think of profound things.

You're supposed to look back over the past year, observe the good and the bad, and reflect on their impact.

Then you're supposed to look to the coming year, think about what things are likely to happen, and reflect on their impact.

I've been feeling anxious, thinking about all this stuff. A lot has happened. A lot is going to happen. How the hell am I going to deal with it all?

But then the Interwebs took over, at least for observing the past year.

I had been noticing all those #2015bestnine hashtags and the accompanying photographs.

If you're unfamiliar, this jazzy website goes through your Instagram account and assembles the nine most-liked photographs you've posted in the past 365 days.

Of course I hopped on that bandwagon. But the nine photos picked did a lot to help me recall the past year — both the good and the bad.

I'm not going to tell you what's good and what's bad. Frankly, I just don't feel like getting into it, and really, do you want to hear about it all, anyway?

But I will share the photo with you.

This was my 2015.

Happy New Year.

Lieutenant

My grandfather, Bernard J. Deinlein Sr., died 45 years ago today, Dec. 19.

I was born almost nine years later, but my father and relatives have told me stories about him.

He was only 65 when he died, when my father was 19.

He had retired as a Baltimore City police lieutenant not long before that. He had been assigned to the Central District.

When my dad has told me stories of my grandfather, he always has himself and other family calling him "Pop" or "Pop Pop" or "Bernie." But when other voices in those stories speak of my grandfather, he is called "Lieutenant."

Silently, it conveyed to me the respect he commanded. And rightfully, so, as I'm told.

Dad once told me that when my grandfather was a teenager in the era of the first World War, he beat up a bunch of kids who were picking on his sisters because of their last name.

He was a husky 250-pound German who stood more than 6 feet tall when walking the beat on Baltimore's Pennsylvania Avenue. And he'd sometimes be treated to a warm meal or a drink from a tavern owner glad to have a cop nearby.

I've heard how he was involved in temporarily shutting down the city's first Kentucky Fried Chicken franchise under orders from the city health department. The event, apparently, was tied to a political battle that involved the father of a current U.S. congresswoman from California.

In more hushed tones, I also was told of my grandfather's 24-hour shifts during the Baltimore riots of 1968, and how he was almost killed by a rioter with a hatchet. His crisp white shirt and white cap, signifying his rank, were stained crimson, but the blood wasn't his.

Yet there's another, more interesting side to my grandfather. He was studying to become a Marianist brother at the University of Dayton in Ohio.

Yes, my alma mater.

I've heard the tale told several ways, but essentially, my grandfather was in his second or third year at UD studying and teaching mathematics when his father died. He returned to Baltimore to take care of his mother and two sisters.

He never returned to Dayton, instead working as a shoe salesman and a Western Union teletype operator before becoming a cop.

When we went to Ohio to scout out the school, my family and I spent several hours in Roesch Library, looking through old yearbooks. We found a few shots that could have been my grandfather, but yearbooks back then apparently didn't believe in attaching names to every photo.

If you look through some UD yearbooks from 1997 to 2001, you might find my mug without my name attached, too.

Perhaps it's a trait I inherited from him.

More likely, though, I inherited his poor genes.

Pop Pop had too many chronic illnesses to name. The biggest — diabetes — is what took his toe, then his foot, then his leg up to the knee.

It also took his life.

My father has inherited similar problems, though he's not lost any body parts due to diabetes. My brother, Nick, and I are not yet afflicted with it, but our youngest brother, Stephen, is.

Instead, Nick and I are dealing with other health issues that Pop Pop shared, such as high cholesterol, among others.

Thanks to the miracle of modern medicine, maybe the four of us will be able to forestall the effects of genetics.

No matter my health, on this last day of fall, as the earth tilts its farthest away from the sun, I'm thinking of the man I never met, but without whom I would not be here.

Pop Pop, here's hoping you were treated to a warm meal and a drink by some folks glad to have a cop nearby.

House Nite

When in the course of human events, things begin to turn more... insane, one tends to retreat into memories of better times.

I went into the depths of my mind the other day, thinking of a time when a group of six guys living in a house with four bedrooms and one bathroom not only managed to get along, but actually kept the place relatively clean.

I speak of House Nite.

It started when my housemate, Kevin, and I were sitting at Flanagan's Pub in Dayton, Ohio, the summer before our senior year of college. Kevin and I and four other fellas — John, Bob, Chris (called "Kac") and Steve (called "Zaf") — would be living together at 118 Lawnview in the University of Dayton's student neighborhood, the Ghetto.

I remarked to Kevin how this would be our final year before adulthood (at least for those of us who weren't on the five-year plan or headed to graduate school). We should do what we can to savor our time there, our time together, I said.

Over the previous three years, we six, plus three other guys who fell into our circle — Craig, Joe and Adam (called "Pauko") — had formed a bond like those formed among fraternity brothers. It was the first time in my life that I felt like I belonged somewhere. I valued their friendship and knew I'd miss our camaraderie after I would graduate in May 2001.

That's not to say that things were always smooth. Our junior year was a little turbulent when it came to upkeep of our house in UD's Darkside neighborhood.

Let me put it this way: At the end of the academic year, rather than clean the huge pile of dishes in our kitchen sink, we opted to put them into a box and throw them out because they were so dirty, we felt they were beyond saving. That, and because none of us had a pressure washer.

With all of this in mind, I proposed to Kevin, the unofficial leader and Alpha male of the group, that we reserve one night a week where, after classes and meetings and such, we all agree to gather in our house and clean it, doing chores on a rotating basis.

After the cleaning, we spend the rest of the night hanging out, either at a local watering hole, drinking beer and playing foosball at our house, or doing some other kind of fellowship-building exercise. (By fellowship-building exercise, I mean playing pranks on neighbors and rivals).

I finished my pitch, which admittedly was partly inspired by Milwaukee's Best Light that was cheap on draft at Flanagan's, by naming the weekly gathering.

"We can call it 'House Nite,'" I said, noting the slang spelling was on purpose. Because screw The Man.

"That's a good idea," Kevin said, apparently giving his approval to both my idea and the alternate spelling.

It didn't take much to convince the fellas that House Nite was a worthy endeavor.

The time we spent talking, playing games and enjoying what would be the very last months of our pre-Real World lives are some of the best memories I have.

Zaf, Kevin, Bob and the giant snowball
on the porch of 529 Irving.

From these nights came pranks that include rolling a snowball the size of two fourth-graders onto the porch of our rival house, 529 Irving. Or planning the "wedding wine" tradition and the "death wine pact." Or games of hula-hoop ringtoss. Or countless foosball tournaments — very few of which, if any, I won.

And, through it all, our dishes, bathroom and floors were clean.

We are scattered now. A few guys are still in Ohio. One guy's in North Carolina. Another is in Louisiana. One is up in Massachusetts. Still another is living in Spain. I'm in Pennsylvania.

Over the course of recent human events, I've been thinking about them all, retreating in my mind to a time when we owned the nite.

Because screw The Man.

On The Job

We took Sophie to Mister Ed's Elephant Museum & Candy Emporium for the shop's annual pumpkin painting event, and there I came face-to-face with my past.

Sophie had picked out a pumpkin and we walked her to the folding table set up outside the shop on the Lincoln Highway.

It was about then that I spotted him.

He was young, maybe in his early to mid-20s. He was wearing a gray hoodie, had blonde hair and was generally pleasant.

In one hand was a note pad. In the other, a pen.

He spoke to Mr. Ed — shop owner Ed Gotwalt — and nodded as the bearded candy purveyor described the scene and why he hosted this get-together for the children.

I know a guy on The Job when I see one.

A few moments later, I saw him, smiling, looking at Sophie as she globbed blue paint onto her pumpkin. He and I made eye contact.

I knew that look.

It was the same look that I had given hundreds of people hundreds of times at hundreds of community gatherings.

Town fairs. Demolition derbies. Halloween parades.

All the same.

"Excuse me, folks, can I talk to you for the newspaper?" he asked.

"Which newspaper?" I asked, knowing what was coming. 

"The Public Opinion," he replied.

"Actually, no," I said. 

He looked taken aback.

"I work for The Herald-Mail," I said, motioning to the south.

"Oh," he said, then walked away. 

I couldn't help but feel bad. I've been there.

It takes more courage than you realize to walk up to complete strangers and ask them to open up to you about the family fun they were trying to have until you interrupted them.

The only thing I ever had to lean on, to keep me from cowering back into my natural, shy state, was my smiling mug on the press pass I usually had hanging from my neck.

I'm not a creeper, I would think. See my badge? I'm just a guy trying to write a story.

Regardless, I also faced rejection. The worst was in Algonac, Mich., when I approached a man to get his take on a dying shopping center in the town situated where the St. Clair River emptied into Lake St. Clair.

"BACK OFF!" he growled at me.

That scene flickered through my head as I told the Public Opinion reporter that I could not speak to him because I work for the competition.

I wanted to find him later and explain to him I knew what he was dealing with. I saw him talking with a family near the pile of pumpkins, but when I looked up again, he was gone.

He'd gotten his story and left.

I know that feeling, too.

You heard me

The other day, I needed to stop looking at the stories I was editing.

My brain was beginning to turn to mush, the kind of mush that comes from hours of reading details about local municipalities, such as the phone number, mailing address, town council members and what days trash is picked up.

So, like so many other mid-30-somethings these days, I turned to Facebook and found a friend had posted one of those click bait quizzes.

Steph posts such things from time to time, and I usually don't click. But this was "What Muppet Hides Inside You?"

You heard me.

Anyway, I needed the mental distraction. So, sipping my black coffee, I took the quiz.

The questions included things such as, "Out of the following adjectives, your friends would say you are most...?" Or, "Out of the following activities, what sounds the most appealing?" Or, "When you and your friend or lover get into an argument, you apologize by...?"

I clicked the most appropriate responses, then was told Animal hides inside me.

Animal

You heard me.

Anyway, the description that accompanied the results:

You can be quite the rager, and definitely know how to have a good time! You love music, and may or may not let it all out on the drums, (or some other instrument)... but you certainly connect with good jams, and are always up for a great concert. When it comes to other areas of your life, you are adventurous. You like to try new things, meet other wildlings, and let loose whenever possible. You know how to party, most certainly, but you also thoroughly enjoy a day in bed, or two, or even three!

It's been many moons since last I engaged in any sort of real raging. My college and post-college years could be described as a little Animal-like. I wasn't too crazy, I don't think, before I met Jen. But I had a good time.

These days, though, I'm more likely to be singing songs from "Mary Poppins" or "Cinderella" than Journey or Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros.

"I do not think that's accurate," I wrote on Steph's original post.

"Maybe it was once," she replied. "Hence, it's hiding inside of you."

That made me sad.

The sadness was driven home further that Friday night.

Much like my tween and teen years, I found myself watching "Full House." Nick At Nite has become the echo of my youth the way it was the echo of my parents' when they were my age.

However, as the Tanner family navigated another trial and tribulation that was solved through family love and understanding, something occurred to me.

This time, instead of watching TGIF with my parents and younger brothers, I was accompanied by my wife and 2-year-old daughter who refused to go to sleep.

Through the television's glow, I looked at them.

There is nothing I would not do for Jen or Sophie. Or for our unborn kid, due in February.

That includes being silly so they giggle and have a good time. Or playing an eclectic mix of tunes and dancing like a maniac. Or going on adventures driving around the countryside or wandering stretches of the Appalachian Trail. Or encouraging them to try new things and lose their fears. Or encouraging them to sleep because sleep is a great thing and you should really try to sleep more often because why are you still awake?

Anyway, maybe Steph is right.

I am still Animal-like, just he's hiding inside and coming out in a different way.

You heard me.

Calling for Jane Jetson

They say that social media postings are the highlight reel of your friends' lives.

Sure, there are lots of photos of laughing, smiling children and adults.

Check-ins at restaurants for glorious meals or bars for tasty beverages.

Status updates musing on how lucky one is to have such a great family/wife/kid/dog/cat/guinea pig.

But what's not posted — the dark stuff — is really what makes up life.

The stresses of work. The arguments with parents or spouses or kids. The mounting debt brought on by trying to provide for your family while battling seemingly unending bills.

Or your own psyche.

I know those things are out there, too.

Yet, I'm human. Perception becomes reality, even if I know better.

So, with that, I'm thinking of letting go of social media.

That's tougher than it sounds, and not because of the huge role the medium has played in my life over the past decade.

I work for a news-gathering service. Part of the way we disseminate the news is through social media.

I've not gotten the kinks worked out on that end of it, so that's why I'm just thinking about it for now.

What about you, gentle reader? How have the creations of people such as Zuckerberg and Dorsey and Musk affected your perceptions and realities?

Is it time to get off this crazy thing?

The zen of Maryland crab soup

Making Maryland crab soup has become, for me, a form of meditation. 

There are some specific steps you need to take, but in general, how you arrive at the destination — crab soup — is largely in your hands. 

Beyond this, however, there is a simplicity that can inspire the mind.

I made some soup before heading to work today using the leftover crabs from the vacation dinner Jen, Sophie and I had at Chic's Seafood in Hagerstown, Md. 

There were maybe six or eight smalls we brought home. This is an instance where bigger isn't always better. Smalls (as opposed to mediums, larges and jumbos) are economical. 

Here's how I made my soup. 

First, you must pick the crabs. You can't have crab soup without crab meat. It took me about 45 minutes, and yes, you have to break apart a lot of shells. It takes time.

I've had friends and family tell me they don't like to work that hard for their food. Again, there's a life lesson here: A little work results in sweet meat. 

I picked out the lump meat from the backfin and what the professional crab packing houses would call the "special." (That's all the other meat attached to the legs and claws.) 

But I didn't pick the claw meat. I left the claws whole and, with the lids (the crab's top shell) and back flipper, I tossed them in the pot. 

Once I finished the picking, I moved on to making the stock. I covered the claws, lids and flippers with water, plus threw in a bay leaf, then put the spurs to it. After it came to a boil, I let it bubble for about a half hour, losing maybe an inch of liquid. 

Meanwhile, I refrigerated the crab meat, and got a large can of crushed tomatoes and a few bags of frozen mixed vegetables. 

Once the stock was made and I removed the shells, legs, flippers and bay leaf, I brought it back to a boil and added the tomato and vegetables. Again, I brought it all to a boil before cutting back the heat. I let it go until another inch of liquid had evaporated. Then it was time to add the star of the show: the crab meat. 

Yes, take a closer look. It was sweet. 

Gently, I pushed the meat from the bowl into the hot liquid. I kept the heat low for about 15 minutes. The meat is already cooked; you're just warming it. And you don't want the lumps to break apart.

Then, I tasted it. Good stuff. 

Please note: I didn't add any Old Bay or other seasoning. I let the pepper — a mixture of salt, cayenne, celery salt and other spices unique to each crab house — that was on the shells, as well as the unpicked claw meat, flavor the whole affair. 

That's sort of the big life lesson this little meditation is supposed to make clear to you, I suppose. 

A little effort to get the meat, but keep the preparation simple. 

The reward is worth it. 

Advice from the hairy buddha

It has been about a week since Jen, Sophie and I announced on social media we'd be expanding our family by one, due in late February.

It was Jen's idea to make up a mock front page; I just ran with it after my working hours were done.

For three months plus, my joy and excitement has been in high gear, knowing that another little Deinlein will be running around soon. 

At the same time, though, I've felt anxious, like riding with the fuel light on.

We're still not in the most ideal living situation, borrowing space generously provided by my in-laws.

We did just sell our old house in Clarks Summit, so that's a plus. But, because of the money we've had to spend, it will be a while before we will be able to move out and get a place of our own.

So, that has left me with questions: How are we going to arrange sleeping space, with a toddler who will be pushing 3 by the time the new baby arrives? How are we going to handle feeding and caring for the new little one with five adults and the aforementioned toddler in the house? How is Sophie going to react when she's no longer the single center of attention?

Those had been just a few things rattling in my brain.

But then entered my friend, Jonathan "Bear" Murren. 

I refer to him as a hairy buddha because his beard is a thing of beauty, and as Jen and I were announcing our impending progeny while moving the last items out of our old house, he provided wisdom:

Those of you that know me know that I'm not much of a motivational speaker. But I've noticed that some of you have been fighting some of life's gremlins lately, and it brought to mind something my instructor taught me in a motorcycle riding course a long time ago. When executing a curve, if you focus on where you're currently at, you'll find the ride through the curve to be a little wobbly and unsteady. However, if you put your focus ahead to the other end of the curve, you'll naturally glide smoothly through it.

Just something to think about as you navigate the twisted road of life.

Holy damn, it's been a twisted road. Just geographically for me: Baltimore to Dayton to Hanover to Port Huron to Hanover to Selinsgrove to Scranton to Harrisburg/York to Hagerstown (the last two were by way of Chambersburg).

I don't presume to speak for Jen, but her road has been rather windy, too.

Yet, if both of us focus on our Fiat 500 of a living situation, we're just going to grow more anxious. And that's not good for either of us, or Sophie, or Baby D.

No, Bear is right: We need to focus on the other end of the curve.

With both hands on the handlebars, we'll get there. 

Sold

Moving day on Woodcrest Drive.

We sold the house.

Finally.

Jen and I were ready to be done with the place, given the troubles we've had since moving away from South Abington Township about a year and a half ago.

Two floods. Ruined clothes. Ruined boxes. Ruined memories.

But also: A broken grinder pump. Dust. Dirt. Musty odors. Keeping the grass cut. Fixing the deck.

Yet there was a very real sense of sadness as we loaded up our oversized U-Haul truck.

It was the first house that I ever bought.

It was the house to which we brought our daughter from the hospital.

It was where we had dreams of creating a decorative stone wall behind the wood-burning stove.

It was where we were going to start a vegetable garden and grow tomatoes and peppers and cucumbers.

It was where Sophie was going to run around the yard and make friends with the neighbor kids and play games.

It's weird: A weight has been lifted off our chests, but the impression left by that weight isn't rebounding so quickly.

Formula for a long life

A glimmer of hope:

I laid out the editorial pages for a few days last week, and I received a letter from a 92-year-old gentleman entitled "My formula for a long life."

It was over the word count, and I had to trim it from about 560 words down to about 400. No small task, as this fellow wrote about keeping a positive attitude, healthy lifestyle and positive associations with people, despite losing his wife to Alzheimer's after 69 years, battling a brain tumor, radiation treatments for prostate cancer, triple-bypass surgery and seeing the front lines in Europe during World War II.

Much was accomplished by rewording sentences, losing adjectives and cutting extra sentences. But I was worried I'd lost his voice in the letter.

As we do, I called him to verify he wrote the letter and to get his OK on a slimmed down version of what he wrote. I read it to him over the phone.

Here it is:

My formula for a long life

To the editor:

First and very important are three things: faith, family and friends. My faith has been important since I was put on the cradle roll at 1 year old at the very church we attend now. It has been my strength through many trials and fills my life with happiness.

I also have three words that mean a lot to me: attitude, activity and association. I think we must have a good attitude about life. For instance, I was married to a beautiful lady for 69 years, the last five of which, we had to deal with her Alzheimer's. My attitude is that we had a wonderful marriage, raising three sons, and we had many years enjoying our grandchildren. Things happen in life; the attitude is to be thankful for what we have.

I also think we should be active, to exercise our bodies and minds. I've been very active all my life. I worked until I was 77, repairing, refinishing and selling furniture, along with playing tennis, bowling, dancing and singing. Since retiring, I've added golf.

Third, association. By this I mean to associate with people of good character. If I associate with people who use drugs, gamble, drink to extremes, smoke, use profanity and many things I shouldn't do, guess what? I would be doing the same things. Don't misunderstand me, I love all kinds of people, but I just don't think some lifestyles are good for us.

Now, as life subsides, it is still good and I've found a new love. About two years after my wife, Kate, died, I invited out to dinner a nice lady we bowled with. After a time, we thought it would be nice to get married. We are both very happy and satisfied. I'm very glad Mar Jo is my soul mate now. She goes to my church and sings in the choir with me. We also entertain in nursing homes, senior centers and other places.

This completes my formula for a long life, and it has been a great journey. I still enjoy life. It gets more exciting with each passing day. Love is either here or on the way. 

I am 92 and still active using my formula. I've had a brain tumor removed, triple-bypass surgery, 40 radiation treatments for prostate cancer and am a veteran of World War II in action in Europe. As you can see, it hasn't all been easy, but my formula worked for me. Best wishes to you.

"That's perfect, thank you!" he said.

I hope the folks reading the Letters to the Editor on Monday think the same thing about his letter and his formula for a long life.

And I hope, one day, to have even half the life this gentleman has had.

Valuable lesson

My Nintendo was similar to the one seen here.

My first lesson in economics, in the end, was worth $75.50.

Or $125.35 if I wanted store credit from 2nd & Charles in Hagerstown, Md.

Let me bring you up to speed. Jen and I have been consolidating boxes we've moved from the garage of our old house in Clarks Summit to a storage locker in the Chambersburg area.

In the process, I came across my old Nintendo. You know, the 8-bit. Up, down, up, down, B, A, Select, Start.

My Dominator was similar to the one seen here.

Along with it and the original controllers and gun, I also found about 50 games, plus "The Dominator" — a large joystick-equipped controller that worked using infrared.

The hours Nick, Stephen and I would spend playing these games. A lot of brotherly bonding… and fighting. Still, that Nintendo entertained us through much of the late 1980s and early 1990s.

Despite pangs of guilt, I knew it was time the old NES and I parted ways.

To be fair, I had tried to do that once before. I offered to give the unit to a coworker in Scranton when Jen and I moved up there. I even brought it into the office. But for one reason or another, Big Jim never took full ownership. The system languished in a file-cabinet drawer for months after the sports department got its fill of playing Bases Loaded and Tecmo Bowl.

When I departed The Times-Tribune, I pulled the equipment and games from the file cabinet and put them in a milk crate in our garage.

There they sat.

Through two floods.

Now, they were off the ground. And the NES itself was not near any of the water. But some of the games were sprinkled. All of mine, however, retained their black plastic sleeve and thus were protected. Because I took care of my Nintendo games and system.

Because it was mine.

It was, indeed, the very first thing I ever bought with my own money.

As a boy, I begged my parents for a Nintendo, one just like all my apparently spoiled friends had received from their apparently rich parents who were apparently growing money on trees.

Seeing the opportunity to teach me the value of a dollar, Mom and Dad said I could get a Nintendo, but that I had to buy it. They drove me over to Chesapeake Federal Savings and Loan on Joppa Road and set me up with a passbook savings account. 

I don't recall the interest rate, but I know it was better than the passbook savings account Jen and I set up for Sophie last year.

I stashed away nearly every nickel and dime I came across, either through the exchange of services (I mowed a lot of lawns) or found on the sidewalk. 

Every few weeks, I'd pedal my bike through the neighborhood, up and down hills, dodging the dangers of Old Harford Road to deposit my spoils.

I'd wait anxiously as the bank teller would slide my passbook into her printer, the piercing DOT Matrix whine updating my growing financial empire.

TMNT II arcade version.

Meanwhile, I searched every circular put out by Toys R Us, Montgomery Ward and Circuit City for a unit that was less than $99.99 in hopes I might reach my conquest sooner. (A few years later, I received a coupon from Nintendo of America Inc. to make up for the price-fixing scheme.) 

But once that unit came into our lives, my brothers and I felt like normal kids. We could talk with the other kids at school about the secret mushroom extra lives on Super Mario, or how you could throw a bullet pass from Jim McMahon to Ron Morris in Tecmo Bowl if you ran McMahon back to his own end zone, switched the receiver to Morris, then passed. 

Original TMNT game.

I was too cool for school when I eventually received the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II Arcade game. I also had the original, less fancy TMNT game.

Through it all, though, the experience taught me the valuable lesson: If I work hard and save my money, I can get what I want.

In today's dollars, that lesson's value had depreciated to $75.50.

But in my heart, it's one of the most valuable ones my parents ever taught me.

How a crappy computer program and New Kids On The Block changed my life

If you've ever met me in person, you likely have heard the story I'm about to tell.

But I realized today, as Jennifer and I mark four years of marriage, I've never actually written it down.

Picture it: Hanover, Pa., March 2009.

President Barack Obama had been in office just over two months. Mount Redoubt, a volcano in Alaska, began erupting after a prolonged period of unrest. A young Jimmy Fallon took over for Conan O'Brien on NBC's "Late Night."

And I was uncertain about my future, both professionally and personally.

Less than three months earlier, about a third of the editorial staff of The Evening Sun was laid off as part of cost-cutting by then-parent company MediaNews Group. The mother ship decided to consolidate the majority of the copy desk functions at the main office, 18 miles away in the York, Pa., suburbs.

That included my job as news editor. I laid out Page A1, the jump pages and other things.

Because I had some longevity, then-Evening Sun Editor Marc Charisse managed to keep me employed, but I was essentially demoted, returning to reporting on the municipal beat.

In the transition, there were some technological kinks that needed to be worked out. Namely, The Evening Sun was operating on Mac OSX computers using the top-notch Adobe InDesign layout program that we'd just purchased nay a year before.

The York Newspaper Co., which oversees the operations of the York Daily Record/Sunday News, operated on PCs that dated to Bill Clinton's first term and used a layout program called Harris. It was created in the mid-1990s by what many believe to be a group of drunken sixth-graders.

But, since The Evening Sun was the red-headed stepchild of MediaNews' Pennsylvania cluster of papers, it was required to devolve its computing ways to match its antiquated bigger sibling.

To teach the remaining Evening Sun staffers how to use this piece of junk, the Daily Record sent over then-Day Metro Editor Amy Gulli.

Flash back a few weeks earlier, and Amy was attending a New Kids On The Block reunion tour stop in Hershey with one of her best friends from college. This friend, one Jennifer Lynn Botchie, told Mrs. Gulli over dinner before the concert that, after some difficult relationship issues in the past, she might be ready to try love again.

Flash forward to The Evening Sun newsroom, where, after a crash course in drunken sixth-grade computer coding, Amy, my pal James and I decide to take a break.

During that break, I begin to lament my love life. Earlier in the day, I'd received a phone call from a girl that I had met through ... sigh ... an online dating site. We were to go on a date that weekend, but she canceled because she had met someone else and didn't want to ruin things.

I talk about my life to Amy (James already knew most of it), mentioning off-handedly that I'm a Baltimore sports fan, Catholic and still had a passion for journalism, even though the institution had beaten me down.

Gulli smiles at me.

"So you are a football fan?" she asks me.

"Yeah," I say.

"Would you be interested in a girl who is a Cowboys fan, but also cousins with Vince Lombardi?"

"Uh, ok, that's cool."

"And you're Catholic?"

"Well, I do have 16 years of Catholic schooling."

She smiles wider.

"I might have someone for you," she says. "She's a good Catholic girl who is a former cheerleader and former sports editor."

My curiosity is piqued.

A few days later, after some pestering, Amy suggested Jen and I be "friends" on Facebook. That led to posts and messages over several weeks and a first date, at the Blue Parrot Bistro in Gettysburg, on April 10 — Good Friday.

History was made.

A year to that day, I asked her to marry me.

Two years, two months and 15 days after that first date, we got married. (Amy was the matron of honor, listed in the program as "The Matchmaker.")

And three years and 12 days after our meeting, Sophie Marie was born.

Through job changes and new residences, we've snuggled and struggled and laughed and cried.

Meanwhile, we've managed to not only not kill each other, but grow as individuals and as a couple.

At least, I like to think so.

And, to think: If it weren't for a crappy computer system and New Kids On The Block, we never would have met.

Happy anniversary, Jenny.

I love you.

Or, as Sophie would say, I ee ee!

Silly thing

As we finished up graduation season, the copy desk at The Herald-Mail encountered the term "Silly String" for the first time this year. 

A quick Google search found Silly String is the trademarked name of the foam — at least, I think it's foam — product.

This led the copy editor in me to wonder: Is there a generic term for it? 

For those who are asking, "Why not just call it silly string?" the simple answer is that newspapers should avoid using trademarked names. Do we know for certain the students didn't use "Goofy String"? Or maybe they used "Fun Streamer"?

Yes, this is the kind of thing copy editors think about. And the Associated Press Stylebook, loathsome as it is at times, is what we're supposed to use as guidance when we encounter trademarked names.

Other examples include Dumpster (AP says, "Use trash bin or trash container instead"); Band-Aid (AP says to use "adhesive bandage"); and Kleenex (AP says to call it "facial tissue").

Yep. Even Rollerblade should be called "in-line skates," AP says.

So, what about Silly String? There is no listing in the AP Stylebook. And I don't have the money to get an account with AP's online stylebook, on which a forum might have addressed the issue at some point in the past.

Another Google search landed me on Wikipedia, which suggested "aerosol string."

Um, no.

I mean, "After the diplomas were awarded and the class custom of spraying aerosol string completed..." just lacks the same punch.

For simplicity's sake, we decided to leave the name Silly String, capitalized, and prayed that no one from one of the competing manufacturers gets upset, should their product have been used at the Greencastle-Antrim High School graduation in Greencastle, Pa., instead of the brand name.

Pomp and Circumstance

It's graduation season, and at a small-town newspaper, that means a plethora of stories and photos featuring caps, gowns, tears and cheers.

Plenty of talk of "reaching for the stars," and "making the future brighter."

And, from the rogues gallery that is the copy desk, plenty of cynicism.

I must admit, as the older folks groused about the future the teens are supposed to make brighter, I offered one of my favorite lines:

Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you'll still end up in the vacuum of space where no one can hear you scream.

Setting aside the grizzled comments from journalists who've lived at least three and four times as long as this year's graduates, I began thinking about my own high school graduation.

Based on other graduations I've witnessed, mine was atypical.

You get that with an all-boys Catholic high school run by Jesuits in the rich side of town. (I didn't live on the rich side of town; thanks to my mother teaching in a Catholic school, I was able to attend Loyola Blakefield.)

Anyway, our graduation wasn't in the gymnasium or on the football field. It was in the Hollow, a section of the 60-acre campus, nestled between some of the classroom buildings and the Jesuits' residence, that was typically used for Frisbee-throwing and napping in good weather.

We didn't graduate in caps and gowns. We wore white tuxedo jackets. It was like 172 James Bonds processed into the ceremony.

And, if memory serves me, we graduated on a Sunday.

Other than hugs from family and friends — some of whom are no longer with us — I don't really recall too much else about my graduation. And no, it's not because I was under the influence of some elixir or potion normally not allowed an 18-year-old.

I guess what was said at that time really didn't have much impact on me. For that, I apologize to Mike Evans and Chris Co, classmates who I recall speaking.

And so, these thoughts have helped diminish some of my cynicism. You see, I didn't go to high school in a small town. The local paper — The Baltimore Sun — didn't cover it.

I've realized, after sitting through probably about two dozen graduations as a reporter, and reading more than a hundred graduation stories as an editor and copy editor, that graduation coverage is one more public service done by the local newspaper.

Grandma or Aunt Ethel clip out the story and save it for you, to help you recall that time when you were young and innocent and thought maybe, you might just reach those stars.

BabyholdHands!

Parents: A question.

Does, or did, your 2-year-old want to hold the hand of other small children? I mean, to the point of actually chasing the other child around the playground?

Sophie and St. Joey share a hug.

I mean to the point of saying "Baby hold hands!" at the mere mention of other children and/or a trip to a location known to be a regular hangout for the under-5 crowd?

Sophie is so cute when she says it. It's like one word to her. "BabyholdHands!" she says with a barely contained blurt of excitement.

Because we know how weird it is to have a random munchkin come up to your kid and try to hold his or her hand, Jen and I have been trying to make sure Soph at least asks the kid.

So, usually, "BabyholdHands!" is followed up by "Axs the baby," completed with a solemn head nod. A "pease" is usually thrown in there, too.

Jen and I are torn over Sophie's love of hand-holding.

Like I said, I know it's weird. And it could prove dangerous if such activities continue with bigger people. Right now, the victims have been those under three feet tall.

But it also shows a very tender side of our 2-year-old as she begins to develop a personality.

It all started when Jen took Sophie to an open gym at the local college a few months ago. A girl, probably about 4 or 5, came up to Sophie and took her hand, sort of like a protector in the sea of rug rats and gymnastics equipment.

Since, she walks right up to someone the same size as her, seeking to hold his or her hand. Sophie can be shy when talking to people she doesn't know or is not around frequently, but with this, she's fearless.

Jen and I appreciate this. It took me becoming a reporter — someone who has to approach people you don't know or you don't eat — before I could overcome the level of shyness Sophie seems to have overcome. At least with little people.

So, I ask you, fellow parents: What, if anything, should we do?

Profane prayer

Foul language should neither offend nor shock a person who has spent any amount of time around a newsroom.

And so, when the night content production manager of The Baltimore Sun used some salty language during a workshop I attended the other day, the word did not surprise me.

But not because the term was one I've heard hundreds of times... and said hundreds of times... while in the daily production of a newspaper.

Cover of "Occupation Foole," on which
George Carlin uses the "bad word"
in a routine called "Filthy Words."

(Because this is a family blog, I won't use the word, but just know that George Carlin once called it "the heavy, the one you save for the end of the argument.")

The word didn't surprise me because I've heard more and more people use it in the same way John McIntyre used it.

The workshop McIntyre, a long-time copy editor, was leading was on skeptical editing. He said the copy editor is one who should come to the prose dispassionately, unlike an assigning editor or reporter, who views the work the same way a proud father watches his son score a touchdown.

No, the copy editor should be the devil's advocate. He or she should be the one to ask the awkward question. When the whole group says, "Yes, this is a great idea," the copy editor is the one who should, however the method, say, "Wait, something's not right here."

Unfortunately, copy editors are no longer viewed as important cogs in the machinations of news.

They're viewed as expensive: Many are older, a benefit to the green reporter learning a beat, but a curse to the budget-conscious media conglomerate that has an ever shrinking profit margin. Besides, the higher-ups think, that college-trained newbie should know how to use an archive and be familiar with proper grammar, style and punctuation.

McIntyre told the workshop that at one time, The Sun had 54 copy editors. Today, including him, there are four.

With this in mind, I asked John how a copy editor, who sometimes also has to fill the role of assigning editor at smaller newspapers, maintains the skeptical view needed to properly edit a story.

He sighed. Hands resting on his cane, he closed his eyes a moment, then looked toward the ceiling of The Sun's first-floor conference room.

He said that once the workshop was over, he would head upstairs to the newsroom and copy edit items for the bulldog edition of the Sunday paper, which is printed early. He then would slot the Saturday newspaper (which means deciding what stories go on what page), as well as copy editing some of those stories.

Along with that, he would be responsible for proofing pages. And as he was also slot for the Sunday paper, he said he'd have to start copy editing and handing out stories for that edition. And when that's completed, proofs of the business section awaited him.

"Then, at 1 o'clock, as I get home to my bourbon, I'll take a sip and pray that I didn't ---- anything up," he said.

As I stated, the way he used the swear is not the first time I've heard someone in the industry mix curse word with prayer.

And that's a sad commentary. For decades, it's been do more with less.

There should be people checking stories for more than just grammar and punctuation, if they even do that. There also should be copy editors to check for context, credibility, chronology and bias.

The wall of The Sun's conference room
contains front pages dating back to the
newspaper's founding in 1837

How many hundreds of people, be they print readers or web readers, are relying on the trustworthiness of your news organization?

Instead, more and more newspapers are slashing copy editing positions and asking reporters to self-edit before the story gets posted online.

Trust is the only real bond you have with the reading public. Journalists of bygone eras knew this, learning it over more than a hundred years of trial and error.

Working without a net can lead to some big losses in trust... and lawsuits.

One would think a copy editor's salary and health care is cheaper in the long run than being hauled into court. It's akin to taking out an insurance policy.

No. Apparently prayer should suffice.

Charm City

Flag of the City of Baltimore

As a kid, I used to sit on the living room floor when my grandfather and grandmother would come over Sunday evenings after they'd had their dinner at the restaurant down the street.

Poppy would tell stories about growing up in East Baltimore, about the "way things used to be" in the city. Baba would nod her head in agreement, recalling a time gone by when things were simpler, pristine and gentile. My parents, who grew up in that neighborhood and were teenagers when the 1968 riots convinced their families to move to the county, would also chime in.

I'd listen to those tales about the neighborhood that used to be called "Little Bohemia" because of it's heavy concentration of Czech families with names like Cvach and Dolivka and Bocek and Kotesovec and Pinkas.

Street names would be thrown about. Places like Ashland, Madison and Monument. My mother grew up on North Montford Avenue, next door to my great-grandparents and great aunt. My father grew up a few blocks away on North Kenwood Avenue, just a couple blocks south of the railroad tracks.

St. Wenceslaus Church, Baltimore

And you'd hear about the trials and tribulations of being an altar boy at St. Wenceslaus. The beautiful old church was built, partly, by members of my family on both sides, too.

And my grandfather, grandmother, great aunt, mother, father, aunts and uncles all went to grade school at St. Wenceslaus. The youth would go to the school's Lyceum on weekends, where they'd play basketball, bowl or dance on the rooftop dance floor.

And all was so great and so grand and so wonderful back then.

Then I asked what happened to change it. Why wasn't I going to St. Wenceslaus for church and school? Why wasn't I living blocks away from where my parents grew up?

The riots, they'd tell me.

"The neighborhood changed," they'd say. "It wasn't safe there anymore."

Ten-year-old me accepted this.

Now, I'm 36. I've read up on the sociological history of America and Baltimore, in particular. First off, I know that things in those years gone by weren't so pristine and wonderful. And I also know that, despite the tone behind what they had to say, it's more than just "riots" and "change" and "safety" that was at play back then.

Maryland state flag

Those factors definitely were a part, but so was the loss of good-paying manufacturing jobs in America's industrial towns, like Baltimore.

There are other factors that would take an entire doctoral thesis to even begin scratching the surface of.

Exhibit A: Addiction.

In short, it's more complicated than just "riots" and "race" and "safety" and even "jobs" and "addiction."

Charm City, despite its recent attempts at believing in itself, is still struggling with hopelessness. It's sort of like Pagliacci: Smiling on the outside with its Inner Harbor and historic sites and great eateries, but crying on the inside with its drugs and poverty and despair.

The investigation into the death of Freddie Gray, and the resulting public protests and riots are the manifestation of that.

Lord knows the prozac the city and region needs to settle its manic depression won't take effect overnight. It doesn't seem like anyone can even find the prescription pad.

But I know it won't come by marginalizing people, or by destroying property.

I've not lived in the state, let alone the metro area, for more than 15 years, but I still consider Baltimore my home.

And I hope the "way things used to be" does, in fact, become real life one day for the city I love.

Her own language

"Hanny na na," says my daughter, who is just shy of 2 years old.

That means Halloween.

"Hama ni mani," she says.

That means Susquehanna.

"Howbop," she says.

That is short for "How 'bout them Cowboys?" It's also become the term for the Cowboys.

"Ra ra," she says

That means Ravens.

"Oh wals," she says.

That means Orioles, hon.

"Bigabba gabba goes," she says.

That means Peppermint Kandy Kids, what has become her favorite album.

"Mina mina," she says.

That means Grandma, my mother-in-law.

"Danny," she says.

That means Granny, my mother.

"Gockyew," she says.

That means glasses.

"Awk a gawk," she says.

That means Local on the 8s.

"Pee que," she says.

That means pictures, usually those on an iPhone.

"Tatee," she says.

That means Sophie, her name.

"I ee ee," she says.

That's the most important one. I means, "I love you."

I ee ee, Tatee.

I Will Follow You Into the Dark

When I first heard this song nearly a decade ago, I thought it was about a guy who saw love of another as the one, true faith.

But recently, I listened to this song again and came to a different interpretation.

As some of you are aware, I just went back to working the night shift for a daily newspaper.

For decades now, newspapers have been forced to reinvent themselves to varying degrees of success. No one really knows exactly where they are going. But it's for damn sure the old way is breathing its last. 

Some of us, though, are too in love with the newspaper life to simply give up. 

Though uncertain, we're sticking with her. 

Listen up

The scratchy static of the police scanner.

The sports guy loudly asking, "What was the score?"

The ticks and clicks of dozens of keyboards and mice.

I'm back in a daily newsroom.

I started as Sunday editor at The Herald-Mail in Hagerstown, Md., on March 31. My job is to plan and execute the Sunday edition, as well as picking up copy editing and layout duties the rest of the week.

Before I can plan and execute, I have to learn the system here. That's nothing new; I've worked at five other newspapers in the past 14 years. Each place had its own quirky computer system and house style.

But for the past year, I worked for a business weekly based in Harrisburg, Pa. My week was split between the home office and the "satellite office" down Interstate 83 in York.

While relatively pleasant, neither location felt like a newsroom.

And so, as I end my third night on the job, I take in the sounds, sights and... yes, smells... of a daily newspaper's headquarters.

It feels good.

Drying out

The clothes in the dryer don't know when their cycle is over.

They just keep riding the spin until it stops. 

Sometimes, the towel or shirt is comfortably pressed against the spinning cylinder. Sometimes they are falling, only to crash to the bottom of the dryer. 

Occasionally, they're mixed up with a dirty old sock. Sometimes, they're with some silky unmentionables. 

And, sometimes, someone might stick another quarter in the machine to keep things going. 

But, eventually, the cycle will end. The dryer will stop spinning. And the clothes will be removed, fluffed, folded and put away. 

Clearing

I left the house at 9:41 p.m. and before making it to the end of the street, I encountered the fog.

The cliche is "thick as pea soup."

I'd argue this ground cloud was on par with clam chowder. 

Even after leaving the neighborhood, there were dense patches on the winding, hilly road. 

A little more than an hour later, I was driving back. 

The fog was gone. In fact, the sky had become so clear, I could see my old pal, Orion. Jupiter (I think) was glowing brightly, too.

And I could see farther down the winding, hilly road. 

It struck me: What a difference an hour makes.

Dots

I was in need of comfort and guidance. Google gave me this.

"You can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something - your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life."

— Steve Jobs

Rainbow

We arrived at St. Peter's Cathedral in downtown Scranton at 4:30 for the 5 p.m. Mass.

My wife and I had just spent the day assessing the damage to our house caused by a flood. It's the second flood in seven months we've had in this house that's about three hours north and has been for sale for almost a year. 

I prayed for guidance. I prayed for wisdom. I prayed for help. 

The first reading was from Genesis, about what happened immediately after the flood waters receded in the story of Noah.

The priest started his homily with, "We are all familiar with the destructive power of water," then proceded to tell a story of two of his friends whose West Pittston home was inundated in one of the most recent hurricanes to hit NEPA.

A key line: The wife was crying over a water-soaked wedding photo, and the husband said: "Don't cry for anything that can't cry for you."

Another key line: The priest, in relating back to the story of Noah, stated that God made a covenant with humanity, saying he would never again destroy the earth by flood. 

I damn-near cried.

This is certainly not the first time I've had strange coincidences happen to me that seemingly offered guidance, wisdom and, ultimately, help.

When light hits water the right way, the result is a rainbow. 

Artsy flood shot of my garage shortly after we arrived.

No coincidences

Throughout my life, there have been times I've felt like I was being called to do something.

Little omens would pop up. Something that seemed totally random and out of place would show up before me, hinting which direction I should take. 

I've almost always listened to these signs. And, almost always, things have worked out. 

The problem: Sometimes, you get things you think probably are omens, but you're not sure toward what you're being directed. 

Fight on

Depression is a hard thing to battle. 

The only way out, though, seems to be through. 

If you're battling, too, know you're not alone.