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.
Saturday, March 26, 2016
Sunday, March 13, 2016
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 2, 2016
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.
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?
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?
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. |
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. |
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?
Saturday, February 13, 2016
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:
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:
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.
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?
We have a few songs in mind, but what are some of your suggestions?
Saturday, January 30, 2016
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.
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.
Thursday, January 14, 2016
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 30, 2015
#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.
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.
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