House hunting

An experience I haven't had in several years is rearing its ugly head again.

When Jen and I were searching for a home in the Scranton area, circa 2012-13, we looked at 50 houses, at least.

Before each visit to domiciles in Scranton and Old Forge and Taylor and Throop and Dunmore and Jessup and Clarks Summit, there was a feeling of excitement. Anticipation. It's the same kind of feeling I get before a Ravens-Steelers game.

Could this be it? Could this be the big win for us?

After each visit to those domiciles in Scranton and Old Forge and Taylor and Throop and Dunmore and Jessup and Clarks Summit, there was a feeling of letdown. Depression. It's the same kind of feeling I got after an Orioles' season between 1998 and 2012.

This wasn't it. This was a disappointment.

As we search for a new home in south-central Pennsylvania, this cycle has come roaring back. Only this time, we've got two small children in tow.

The most recent, and perhaps the most depressing, was a house for sale in the village of Pen Mar, situated just on the Pennsylvania side of the Mason-Dixon Line. The hamlet is at the top of a mountain, across the state line from Pen Mar Park in Washington County, Md. It also is a few dozen feet from the Appalachian Trail.

The house, built in 1900, looks onto the Cumberland Valley from its front and second-floor porches. It has five bedrooms, two bathrooms and was completely renovated over the past six years. It also fit into our price range, which admittedly, is modest.

Jen and I knew it was too good to be true. We knew there had to be a catch. But that excitement was there as we slowly drove up Pen Mar Road.

Could this be it? Could this be our new home?

We crossed a bridge over a set of railroad tracks that once carried pleasure seekers to the area, back when the park was in its hey days as a private commercial venture, and the village was reaping the benefits of serving the visitors.

There was the house, up on the left. The side facing us made it look less attractive than the photo. Of course.

But it was when we rounded the bend — crossing the state line — to go into the alley that my hope fell. The houses next door were what seemed like inches away from the one for sale. Both were old homes broken up into apartments.

A living room couch sat on one porch.

Across the alley, in the woods, a fire pit was smoldering, surrounded by a rusting barbecue grill, dirty and broken plastic children's toys and piles of other junk that would have disgusted Fred Sanford and his son.

As we slowly started back down the mountain, I gave a gusty sigh.

Jen concurred.

We knew it was going to let us down, but the feeling still stings.

All the same, the experience gave us a chance to drive through Waynesboro, Pa., where I noticed gas was cheaper than elsewhere off Interstate 81.

So, taking advantage of another day off that I had, we drove back down the next day to get gas, then took the girls to Pen Mar Park.

We caught part of the Andy Angel Quartet, performing at the pavilion as part of Pen Mar's Jim and Fay Powers Music Series. It was warm, but there was a breeze, and the girls got the chance to play on the playground equipment.

And we spent some time at the scenic overlook and hiking a small portion of the Appalachian Trail to the Mason-Dixon Line.

And thus, another experience I haven't had in a while lifted its beautiful face: Getting outdoors and spending time with my family.

There's always hope.

Sophie and Annabelle swing at Pen Mar Park, Md.

Not afraid of the wolves

I can't really recall all the details of the dream that I had a few weeks ago, but I do know that I was inside of a cave-type structure.

Walking out of the cave, it was not dark, but not light. I wouldn't call it dusk, though. It appeared sort of like the darkness you see in cartoons, where the sky is a midnight blue, but you can easily make out trees and fences and rocks.

I looked across a sort of gully into a wood line and saw a set of glowing yellow eyes. It was like seeing animals in the farm fields as you drive past at night, your headlights offering just enough juice to bring those eyes to life.

I'm not sure who was with me, but that person said, "Oh, those are the wolves."

I remember feeling a little nervous, but not like I wanted to run. I felt like I had to stand up to these wolves.

Then, I looked over my left shoulder. On a hillside behind the cave's entrance, there was a large pack of wolves (though they looked a little more like Siberian huskies that just received a haircut).

The animals were barking and pacing. Separating us was a shrub line and a broken-down wooden fence.

Again, there was nervousness, but this sense of knowing I had to stay and fight them off.

As the pack leader began to bark and jump over the shrubs, I kicked at it.

That's when I woke up. My big toe was throbbing as I moved my foot away from the wall I had just kicked.

Though the pain and memories from the dream were intense, I calmed myself down, rubbed my foot and fell back to sleep.

The next day, I discovered I'd cracked the toenail on my big toe.

That aside, I wondered what the bigger meaning was behind this dream? Who were these wolves? Why were they snarling at me, ready to pounce?

More importantly, why wasn't I afraid?

In past dreams where someone or something was attacking me, I was scared. Alligators, snakes, demons, ghosts, I've woken up scared. Sometimes, I was screaming, or swinging an arm (my wife will attest to this).

I have a theory.

In March, I reached the median age of the population of United States. I also have a wife and two daughters. 

Have I hit that age where the fears no longer matter? The age where you just get up, do what needs to be done, go to sleep, then repeat?

I don't know for sure. But I think that's what I'm going to take from this dream. 

It feels like there are lots of things out there trying to attack me. The stresses and strife have formed a pack to bag their prey.

But I'm not scared to take them on.

Main Street dies a little more

I stopped for coffee at a relatively new place on Lincoln Way East in Chambersburg, Pa. It's called The Daily Grind, and it fills the location once held by a Starbucks.

Said conglomerate closed its Lincoln Way location to open a new shop on the edge of town, where the big box stores and generic chain restaurants have set up shop.

A man — he looked like a dad his mid-40s — stopped into the Daily Grind and started placing a Starbucks-esque order while holding out his cellphone, apparently looking at the Starbucks app. I didn't catch all of it, but the word "venti" was used.

(Side note: I always bristle at that and never call the sizes by whatever term Starbucks uses. Stop being cute and give me the stupid coffee.)

Anyway, the woman behind the counter said, "No, you want Starbucks."

"Whoa, this used to be Starbucks," the guy said. "What happened? Where'd they move to?"

As he backed his way out of the door, the woman behind the counter told him where the conglomerate was now located.

I hollered, "Or, you could support local business!"

The woman behind the counter smiled at me.

The man didn't care. He probably didn't even hear me. He'd already gone out the door to get his mocha chocha latta whatever.

If he'd looked at the menu, he might have noticed that not only did the local joint carry products similar to Starbucks, but the prices were comparable (if not cheaper) than Starbucks.

And thus, Main Street died a little more.

The old brown coat

It was 7:30 a.m. on a Friday morning when the woman walked into my in-laws' garage.

The bonnet on her head and her long, plain-looking dress let observers know she was a member of the plain folk. She might have been Mennonite, or a sub-sect of the Brethren In Christ or another religious order with roots in the Anabaptists.

But she arrived in a car she drove, so she was not Amish.

Regardless, she wandered the tables set up with our family's brick-a-brack and clothing and toys. We decided to put most of the yard sale items inside the three-car garage because rain was predicted.

She made it to the last table, then stopped.

She picked up my old brown coat.

I bought it at Wal-Mart or Meijer or some similar store while I was living in Michigan, circa 2004. I needed a warm coat to withstand the frozen tundra, and this coat — a Carhartt knockoff — fit the bill.

It was warm and rugged. It looked more like the kind of coat you'd see a farmer wear. The brown was the color of milk chocolate, and the fabric was like canvas, but softer.

As time wore on, that coat and I went on many an assignment together. Fires. Car crashes. Standoffs. It did the job as I hustled to and from my car in the biting bluster blowing off Lake Huron.

I continued to wear it when I moved back to Pennsylvania in 2005, but stopped around 2008 because I was gifted a new winter coat that did a better job of protecting my neck (I had to wear a scarf with that old brown coat).

The coat then hung in a closet. Or in the basement. Or in the laundry room. It depended on where I was living.

I wanted to give it away to Coats for Kids, but for one reason or another, I always missed the collection.

Finally, as we prepared for the yard sale, I said that now was the time to get rid of the coat. I put a tag that read "$5" on it, but I would have taken less. I just wanted it to go to someone who could use it.

So I felt happy that the plain-dressed woman was eyeing it. She seemed like the type who would be the wife of one of Franklin County's many hardworking farmers. Maybe she thought that coat would work well for her husband, or son, who had to get up on very chilly mornings to tend to the dairy cows or make sure the tractor was running.

I had walked out of the garage for a minute, but walked back in just in time to see the woman handing a $5 bill to my father-in-law.

She handed over the coat hanger and said, "Thank you." Then she walked off quickly.

I wanted to tell her that I was glad it was going to a good home, or to wish the new wearer well for me.

Instead, I just smiled, then turned back to arranging items for sale on the table.

'Prepare yourself'

Bernard and Marie Deinlein's children: David, Helen, Bernie and Joan in 2014.

It had been almost two years since I had seen my cousin, Sue.

As I walked onto the deck of my aunt and uncle's cabin in the mountains outside Berkeley Springs, W.Va., I gave her a hug.

"Prepare yourself," she whispered in my ear. "Prepare yourself."

I knew going to see Aunt Joan would be hard.

Two weeks earlier, I'd learned that my father's oldest sister was in the intensive care unit with pneumonia. After being on a ventilator and a cocktail of drugs, one bodily system after another was failing her.

"When they'd correct one problem, it would cause another," said my cousin, Kathy, Sue's sister. "The doctor said that every day, there was a new life-threatening problem they'd have to correct."

Aunt Joan was independent. She didn't like the fact that my Uncle Carle had to help her move about their home after she suffered a stroke a few years ago. There also were several falls and broken bones, limiting her mobility further.

But that independence is what made Joan one of my favorite relatives. I always looked forward to seeing her. She was full of stories and jokes and laughter. And she loved to hear good stories and jokes and laughter, too.

Much of her time was spent in the garden, finding different ways to grow vegetables and to keep the critters out. At Christmas each year, once you turned 21, you no longer received a card with money. You earned one of her black walnut cakes, made with nuts grown at the cabin.

Even she referred to them as "door stops," but we discovered their slices made good French toast.

She'd share deep conversations on philosophical topics, including but not limited to spirituality and what happens to the soul when it leaves the body.

She found peace in nature and joy in the garden.

It wasn't a surprise to me when Kathy said Aunt Joan didn't want to be kept alive by machinery. It would be OK for a little while, but if it became obvious that things weren't improving, she wanted to be taken off.

Meanwhile, Aunt Joan continued to tell anyone who would listen: "I want to go home. I want to go home."

Kathy told me how she explained to her mother that she couldn't go home because she was sick. Finally, at one point, Joan appeared to understand.

"I told her, 'You can't go home because Dad can't take care of you there,'" Kathy said.

She went from feisty to being calm and resigned.

"The fight just went out of her," my cousin said.

When it became clear there was nothing more medical science could do for her — not without a tracheotomy, feeding tube and dialysis — Kathy, Sue and Uncle Carle made arrangements to bring Aunt Joan home. Her bed faced the sliding glass doors, looking out onto 17 acres of West Virginia wilderness.

As I walked through the screen door into what had been her home office, there was my aunt, her eyes half open, her mouth agape as she struggled to breathe, an oxygen tube in her nose.

Kathy, Sue and Uncle Carle said that, sometimes, Aunt Joan's eyes would flicker when you'd speak to her. There'd be a brief moment of what seemed like recognition.

But then it was gone.

I leaned in close to her.

"Hi, Aunt Joan," I said. "How are you doing?"

As soon as I said that, I realized how dumb it was to say.

I sat in the rocker next to her bed, patted her hand and talked with the family. They said how it seemed to them to have taken a long time for things to come to this, but really, it had only been two weeks.

Too many long days.

Shortly before I had to leave for work, my mom, dad and youngest brother, Stephen, arrived.

I knew this was a hard time for Dad, who was the baby of the family. He was more than a decade younger than Aunt Joan. Her son, my cousin, Carle, who died of cancer more than 20 years ago, was not much younger than Dad.

Joan was closest to Dad emotionally out of all the siblings. Put the two of them together, it was a party.

So when he walked in and sat down next to his dying sister, he looked ashen.

Despite Sue's advice, that was the part for which I was not prepared.

I had only ever seen my father cry twice in my life: When his dog died and when the Colts left Baltimore. Both happened when I was 5.

On that Saturday before Mother's Day 2016, I saw the third time.

And so I had to leave for work. I shook hands and gave hugs to the family.

Then I leaned in to Aunt Joan.

"Hey Aunt Joan," I said, touching her shoulder. "I have to leave.

"I will see you later."

Her eyes flickered.

"I love you," I said, then kissed her forehead.

It was in that moment that I realized it was the first — and last — time I had ever told her that I loved her.

We German English Bohunks aren't known for our warmth, Dad once told me.

I've discovered we're also not always the brightest, particularly when it comes to family relationships.

I said goodbye to everyone again and left.

Aunt Joan died the next morning. Dad called to tell me.

"She didn't exactly have a strong faith in God," he said, his voice low and gravelly, "but she was a good lady. And that's really what matters most in this world."

Rest easy, Aunt Joan. I think you prepared yourself well for whatever comes when the soul leaves the body.

When you're smilin'

Right now, for the most part, Annabelle sleeps, eats and soils her diaper.

She's only about a month and a half old, so this is in line with what you'd expect.

Except over the last couple days, Jen and I have noticed something.

Annabelle has smiled.

She has looked up at us and grinned a toothless grin. I managed to catch one of them on camera.

I caught our older daughter, Sophie, smiling at about the same age.

As with Soph, Annabelle's grin melted my heart.

Sure, it was probably gas. (I said the same thing about Sophie's smile.)

But it is another sign of our daughter's growing humanity.

And this little person, barely 10 pounds, is someone I helped create.

It still leaves me feeling both awesome and humble at the same time.

Love and...

I found out Wayne had died while on deadline.

I had just finished proofing my last page and was waiting for the copy editor to make the corrections and drop it into the system for final approval when I pulled up Facebook.

An old friend and former boss, Carl Whitehill, had posted a link to Wayne Kindness's obituary with the words, "Sad news ... good memories at The Evening Sun."

I felt my stomach drop.

"OH NO," I typed before clicking on the link.

The 69-year-old had been battling health problems since I met him in May 2001. He'd been in and out of the hospital several times over the past year, as he noted in his Facebook postings. So I guess it shouldn't have been a surprise.

Still, I couldn't help but feel shocked.

He was the assistant city editor at The Evening Sun in Hanover, Pa., for many years. Before that, he'd been a reporter, photographer and copy editor, and even run his own dirt-track racing publication.

He was a good guy and a good journalist.

He had a police scanner by his side at the desk — bringing in his own, not relying on the two already squawking in the newsroom.

After our 9 a.m. deadline (before his hip surgery) he'd bring a honeybun or bear claw or other sweet pastry back from the break room vending machine before setting to work on the next day's ROP pages.

But perhaps the thing I'll remember most about him was the way he told people how to spell his last name.

"Wayne Kindness. Just like 'love and....'"

Rest easy, big guy.

Poppy's girlfriend

For my cynical and/or atheist readers, I'm certain this blog post will sound ridiculous.

But, sometimes, you just have to believe there's something beyond you.

A few years ago, when my grandfather died, I wrote a blog post about him and mentioned his devotion to the Blessed Mother. In fact, shortly before he went off to World War II, he and my grandmother — also a Mary devotee — prayed to the Virgin Mary, asking for her intercession to protect my grandfather during the conflict. If he came home safely, they promised to name their children after Mary or St. Joseph, her husband.

Indeed, Poppy and Baba (as the grandchildren called them) had three girls: Mary Louise, Ann Marie (my mother), and Jeanne Marie.

For those unfamiliar with Catholic traditions, there are certain depictions of the Blessed Mother. They're all the same person, but as there are many people and many cultures in this world, she appears differently depending on whom you're talking about.

(And I don't feel like getting into why praying to Mary is not "statue worship," but think of it like this: If you ask your friend to help you move, he or she might not do it. Ask your friend's mother to ask your friend to help you move, there's a better chance they'll help you out.)

Anyway, the particular depiction of Mary to which my grandparents were devoted is the Mother of Perpetual Help. (In fact, my grandfather referred to her as his "girlfriend.") The Redemptorists were big devotees to this image, and the church in which my grandparents grew up was run by the order of priests and brothers.

So, it's safe to say that I have been familiar with this image since a young age, but it's not the sort of thing you're going to find in every church or religious setting.

Here's where the image really started playing a big part in my life. I'm 17 and my family and I are in Dayton, Ohio, visiting the University of Dayton. The place is run by the Marianists, and in fact my other grandfather was once studying to join the order at UD. I'd not actually considered the school, though, until the daughter of a friend of my father graduated from there and spoke highly of it.

However, I wasn't totally convinced. It was eight and a half hours from Baltimore, and no one else I knew had ever heard of it, let alone thought about attending.

We're touring the campus and we go into a chapel in one of the dormitories. Stained glass windows and small altar aside, it looks like an office. I glance around, then turn to leave.

On the wall next to the door was an image of the Mother of Perpetual Help.

It gave me pause. I pointed it out to my mother. She smiled.

I graduated from UD in 2001.

Flash forward to late April 2009. I had been dating this girl for a few weeks after being introduced courtesy of a crappy computer program and New Kids On The Block. I was living in Hanover, Pa., and she was an hour and 45 minutes away in Selinsgrove, Pa.

They always say long-distance relationships are tough to maintain, and I've watched a few crumble. I was a little uncertain where my relationship with Jen would go.

It was the first time I had been to her house. I walk up to the door and ring the bell, but then I glance inside the window next to the door.

There, on the wall inside, was an image of the Mother of Perpetual Help.

"Oh, OK," I recall saying, actually feeling my eyes well up a little. "I see."

Jen and I were married in June 2011.

We now have two children: Sophie Marie and Annabelle Rose.

And now we're living in Jen's hometown in South-central Pennsylvania, going to the church in which she grew up.

Admittedly, this move has been difficult. It took far longer than we expected to sell our old house in Clarks Summit. Having a toddler, and now an infant, living in the same house with five adults has been challenging. Job changes and work schedules, coupled with health issues and the usual trials of daily life, have worn on me.

They've worn on all of us.

Anyway, walking into the back of the church after we moved to town, I glanced at a large framed icon hanging on the wall next to the door.

There, looking down at me with those dark eyes, a look of peace on her face, was Poppy's girlfriend.

I gave her a wink and smiled.

This is where we're supposed to be.

Last mound of earth

Understatement of the century: A lot has happened in the past two weeks.

Let's summarize:

• Jen and I became parents again with the birth of Annabelle Rose on Feb. 19.

• I turned 37 on March 1.

• The future of the nation became beyond cloudy thanks to the results of Super Tuesday.

Annabelle Rose.

In a way, all three of these are related.

First, the joyful news.

Annabelle arrived at 1:24 p.m. She was eight pounds, eight ounces and 21 inches long. Though Jen was induced, much like she had been with our first daughter, Sophie, the process was far less traumatic.

Sophie took more than 22 hours, with four hours of pushing, before she was brought out with a suction cup. Her sister took only about six hours (much of that was so the different medications could take effect), with about 45 minutes of pushing.

I wonder if this is a predictor for my children's personalities?

Jen, Sophie and Annabelle.

Regardless, all three of my girls are doing well, and we're all adjusting to life with five adults and two children in my in-laws' house.

Side note: The search begins in earnest for a place of our own.

Now, the less joyful news.

I'm 37.

I suppose you could argue that this is good news, that I've made it around the sun 37 times, that I'm still relatively young and that there's much to look forward to thanks to Sophie and Annabelle.

Try as I might to focus on that, things have been cropping up that make that news less joyful. My back hurts all the time, reminding me that 37 is considered an antique in the automobile world. Hair is sprouting from places on me that it never used to. And the number of pills I'm taking to battle my afflictions is beginning to rival my father's regimen.

But the biggest thing that has cropped up is the 2016 election and how it relates to my children.

Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump are in the lead after the major primary elections and caucuses. Neither of them are palatable to me. In this day and age, how can people not see a snake-oil salesman when he or she is standing right in front of them?

Then again, there are explanations, such as this, or this, or this. Personally, I think a lot of it has to do with this.

The more painful part is the rhetoric and downright stupidity of other political operatives, such as congressmen, senators, governors and the like. To be honest, the problem is less the presidential candidates and more these background characters.

What kind of world did Jen and I bring our children into? What kind of future will they face?

Sure, every generation says that. Fear is a natural human instinct. The wiser humans don't let it bother them.

What does bother me, though, is that there seems to be very little that I, my generation, or even the next one, can do to fix things.

Is it too late?

Will I look back on the end of February/beginning of March 2016 as the point where the last mound of earth holding back the dam gave way?

Labor Playlist

It's amazing how much music can pick you up or bring you down.

The other day while driving in to work, I heard "The Underdog" by SPOON playing on The Spectrum, a channel on Sirius XM.

The first time I heard that song was the mid-00s. Things were beginning to take a more steep dive in the country and, specifically, at The Evening Sun in Hanover, where I was news editor at the time.

I felt as though I was the underdog, fighting an uphill battle.

Hearing the song's closing lines made me want to pump my fist in the air:

But you won't hear from the messenger

Don't wanna know 'bout something that you don't understand

You got no fear of the underdog

That's why you will not survive, right!

Here's the full song, courtesy of YouTube:

But there are songs, most definitely, that have me near tears. Sometimes, I need to hear them — like that sadness feels good, if that makes sense.

"Raining in Baltimore" by Counting Crows, for decades, was my go-to sad song. If you heard me playing that song, it was a sign that I wasn't just feeling depressed, but that I'd blanketed myself in it.

Here's a few lines that often resonated with me:

These train conversations are passing me by

And I don't have nothing to say 

You get what you paid for

But I just had no intention of living this way

Here's the song, again courtesy of YouTube, if you're feeling melancholy:

In a few days, Jen and I will be heading to the hospital to bring our second child into this world. 

No, I'm not depressed about that. 

But, like we did with Sophie, we'll be making a "Labor Playlist" for Jen to listen to as she battles contractions or is told to push.

We have a few songs in mind, but what are some of your suggestions?

Still going

A15.

That was the last page of The Herald-Mail that I laid out that will be printed at the Frederick News-Post.

Our company has found it cheaper and more flexible for us to print our newspaper in Mechanicsburg, Pa., on the presses of the Patriot-News. The press here in Hagerstown was removed a few years ago, a casualty of expensive repairs and too few parts.

I've witnessed newspaper transitions before. I've watched computer systems evolve... and devolve. I've watched printing presses stop printing forever. I've watched entire jobs be outsourced and centralized.

You'd think I'd be used to it.

In some sense, I am. The new deadlines brought on by the switch — they're a lot earlier — have caused me some consternation, but not the gut-churning borne by others in the newsroom.

Our publisher has said that the reader knows we, as a printed product, must "close the gate" once every 24 hours. We'll just be closing the gate earlier. The content will be in the paper, just on a different cycle, he said.

He's right.

Sure, people can visit our website, but not everyone does, particularly the older generation. And we're the only game in town when it comes to detailed stories about the happenings in Washington County, Md., and beyond. Television will parachute in, and even then, they'll only gloss over the story.

In other words, our product still has value to a significant group of customers.

But here's why I am feeling a little uneasy. It's not because of the here-and-now of this printing change. It's because of the dramatic shifts I've seen in the industry since I started 15 years ago.

It seems as though things have accelerated faster in the news business over that decade and a half than they had in the previous 30 years combined.

The Internet, social media, smart phones and tablets have led to the "digital first" philosophy. More news outlets will follow that path as their print readers shift their habits — or die.

I wish I could say that A15 had some ground-breaking story or really cool layout on it, to help mark the last time I put a page into the FTP program (called CyberDuck, by the way).

But it didn't.

Probably 80 percent of the page was advertising, leaving me enough room to run the weekly best-sellers list, printed Thursdays in Publishers Weekly, and an Associated Press story about how one of the Fiats used by Pope Francis on his visit to Philadelphia was sold at auction for $82,000 (the money benefited various Catholic charities).

Then again, books and the Catholic Church have had to weather many storms over the decades and centuries, even as the times have changed.

And they're still going.

Singing sister

Jen and I have taken to calling our impending child Doodlebug.

Jen and her mother and sister will sometimes call Sophie "Sophiebug," and so Jen suggested "Doodlebug" shortly after we learned she was pregnant. It's stuck.

What makes my heart melt, though, is when Sophie goes up to Jen's tummy and talks to the baby. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, it's beautiful.

The other day, Soph even was singing — in Sophie-eese — to Doodle while resting her head on the baby bump.

Even the cynic in me went, "D'awwwww."

Our Doodlebug will be here in a little over a month, and I'm looking forward to the relationship built between my children.

Now, I know from experience with my brothers, as well as plenty of TGIF comedies on ABC, it's not always going to be smooth sailing.

But maybe Soph will still sing to Doodle.