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.

Profane prayer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. Apparently prayer should suffice.

Charm City

Flag of the City of Baltimore

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

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

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

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

St. Wenceslaus Church, Baltimore

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

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

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

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

The riots, they'd tell me.

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

Ten-year-old me accepted this.

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

Maryland state flag

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

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

Exhibit A: Addiction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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