Dad

David Edward Deinlein
1951-2019

Once, Dad was speaking to a family member at some gathering and said he was proud of me. I happened to overhear.

He was talking about my job as a reporter in Hanover, Pa. He noted that while he wished I'd gone into a line of work that might have provided a more comfortable salary, he said he realized that what I was doing meant something as he began to see my byline atop stories on the paper's website, or when I'd bring down editions on visits home to Kingsville, Md.

Though his views on my profession weren't always positive, he knew that I liked what I was doing and was glad that I felt I was making a difference in this world.

And so, it's fitting perhaps that the last time I spoke to him was Oct. 2, 2019, from the old pressroom of my newspaper, of which I had become the managing editor not long before. It's the old pressroom because the printing press was dismantled and sold a decade earlier. The space is now an event venue, with hints at the deadlines and spilled ink covered with faux wood flooring and flat gray paint.

It was just after noon when I called him in his hospital room. He was there for treatment after his second heart attack in 18 months. Though his voice was weak, he seemed in good spirits. He joked about the nurses not letting him have potato chips.

I told him about work — an industry under pressure from all sides. I bragged about my daughters, how smart they were for their ages and how talented they were in art. I could hear a smile in his voice.

On that Wednesday afternoon, I told him that I'd be down to see him on Friday. I'd already spoken with Mom earlier and made the plan. With work and other obligations, it would be easier that day.

As we were hanging up, my finger poised above the red button of my iPhone, I thought I should say, "Hey, Dad, I love you." But it was too late. My thumb was already on the screen, and I'm pretty sure Dad had put his receiver down, too. He died two hours later.

Dad circa 2010, feeling no pain
at a family wedding.

To be fair, we rarely expressed love to each other. When I was a teenager, attending a high-school retreat, he wrote me a letter at the behest of the retreat organizers. He and my mom were asked to express how they felt about me. He noted that our heritage is Czech, German and English — three nationalities not exactly known for their warmth.

But he said that he tried to show his love and pride by providing me opportunities. I went to Catholic grade school, high school and college. I was taken to historic sites in and around my hometown of Baltimore. We had a computer and printer, and I had a car when I was 16, albeit one that had seen happier times. I was able to attend summer enrichment programs at local colleges while in grade school, and went to a young journalist confab in D.C. when I was in high school. All the while, he often worked 12-hour days or longer in an industry also known for being under pressure.

Now, looking back at that last moment I spoke to him, wishing I'd been able to say, "I love you," I hope he knew.

My brothers, my father and I on my wedding day.

I hope he knew I was proud of him and that I appreciated him working himself to death for me, my brothers and our mother. I hope he knew that his love for me was embodied in my being able to do something I enjoyed and that I thought made a difference in this world.

Even though I'm a writer by trade, I couldn't bring myself to put into words the thoughts that have been swirling since October. 

So on this, my first Father's Day without him, I want it known that I loved him, was proud of him, and hope I can be half the father he was.

May the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.

Amen.

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.

#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.