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?

#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.

Sold

Moving day on Woodcrest Drive.

We sold the house.

Finally.

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

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

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

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

It was the first house that I ever bought.

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

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

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

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

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

Pomp and Circumstance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dots

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

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

— Steve Jobs