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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

Advice from the hairy buddha

It has been about a week since Jen, Sophie and I announced on social media we'd be expanding our family by one, due in late February.

It was Jen's idea to make up a mock front page; I just ran with it after my working hours were done.

For three months plus, my joy and excitement has been in high gear, knowing that another little Deinlein will be running around soon. 

At the same time, though, I've felt anxious, like riding with the fuel light on.

We're still not in the most ideal living situation, borrowing space generously provided by my in-laws.

We did just sell our old house in Clarks Summit, so that's a plus. But, because of the money we've had to spend, it will be a while before we will be able to move out and get a place of our own.

So, that has left me with questions: How are we going to arrange sleeping space, with a toddler who will be pushing 3 by the time the new baby arrives? How are we going to handle feeding and caring for the new little one with five adults and the aforementioned toddler in the house? How is Sophie going to react when she's no longer the single center of attention?

Those had been just a few things rattling in my brain.

But then entered my friend, Jonathan "Bear" Murren. 

I refer to him as a hairy buddha because his beard is a thing of beauty, and as Jen and I were announcing our impending progeny while moving the last items out of our old house, he provided wisdom:

Those of you that know me know that I'm not much of a motivational speaker. But I've noticed that some of you have been fighting some of life's gremlins lately, and it brought to mind something my instructor taught me in a motorcycle riding course a long time ago. When executing a curve, if you focus on where you're currently at, you'll find the ride through the curve to be a little wobbly and unsteady. However, if you put your focus ahead to the other end of the curve, you'll naturally glide smoothly through it.

Just something to think about as you navigate the twisted road of life.

Holy damn, it's been a twisted road. Just geographically for me: Baltimore to Dayton to Hanover to Port Huron to Hanover to Selinsgrove to Scranton to Harrisburg/York to Hagerstown (the last two were by way of Chambersburg).

I don't presume to speak for Jen, but her road has been rather windy, too.

Yet, if both of us focus on our Fiat 500 of a living situation, we're just going to grow more anxious. And that's not good for either of us, or Sophie, or Baby D.

No, Bear is right: We need to focus on the other end of the curve.

With both hands on the handlebars, we'll get there. 

How a crappy computer program and New Kids On The Block changed my life

If you've ever met me in person, you likely have heard the story I'm about to tell.

But I realized today, as Jennifer and I mark four years of marriage, I've never actually written it down.

Picture it: Hanover, Pa., March 2009.

President Barack Obama had been in office just over two months. Mount Redoubt, a volcano in Alaska, began erupting after a prolonged period of unrest. A young Jimmy Fallon took over for Conan O'Brien on NBC's "Late Night."

And I was uncertain about my future, both professionally and personally.

Less than three months earlier, about a third of the editorial staff of The Evening Sun was laid off as part of cost-cutting by then-parent company MediaNews Group. The mother ship decided to consolidate the majority of the copy desk functions at the main office, 18 miles away in the York, Pa., suburbs.

That included my job as news editor. I laid out Page A1, the jump pages and other things.

Because I had some longevity, then-Evening Sun Editor Marc Charisse managed to keep me employed, but I was essentially demoted, returning to reporting on the municipal beat.

In the transition, there were some technological kinks that needed to be worked out. Namely, The Evening Sun was operating on Mac OSX computers using the top-notch Adobe InDesign layout program that we'd just purchased nay a year before.

The York Newspaper Co., which oversees the operations of the York Daily Record/Sunday News, operated on PCs that dated to Bill Clinton's first term and used a layout program called Harris. It was created in the mid-1990s by what many believe to be a group of drunken sixth-graders.

But, since The Evening Sun was the red-headed stepchild of MediaNews' Pennsylvania cluster of papers, it was required to devolve its computing ways to match its antiquated bigger sibling.

To teach the remaining Evening Sun staffers how to use this piece of junk, the Daily Record sent over then-Day Metro Editor Amy Gulli.

Flash back a few weeks earlier, and Amy was attending a New Kids On The Block reunion tour stop in Hershey with one of her best friends from college. This friend, one Jennifer Lynn Botchie, told Mrs. Gulli over dinner before the concert that, after some difficult relationship issues in the past, she might be ready to try love again.

Flash forward to The Evening Sun newsroom, where, after a crash course in drunken sixth-grade computer coding, Amy, my pal James and I decide to take a break.

During that break, I begin to lament my love life. Earlier in the day, I'd received a phone call from a girl that I had met through ... sigh ... an online dating site. We were to go on a date that weekend, but she canceled because she had met someone else and didn't want to ruin things.

I talk about my life to Amy (James already knew most of it), mentioning off-handedly that I'm a Baltimore sports fan, Catholic and still had a passion for journalism, even though the institution had beaten me down.

Gulli smiles at me.

"So you are a football fan?" she asks me.

"Yeah," I say.

"Would you be interested in a girl who is a Cowboys fan, but also cousins with Vince Lombardi?"

"Uh, ok, that's cool."

"And you're Catholic?"

"Well, I do have 16 years of Catholic schooling."

She smiles wider.

"I might have someone for you," she says. "She's a good Catholic girl who is a former cheerleader and former sports editor."

My curiosity is piqued.

A few days later, after some pestering, Amy suggested Jen and I be "friends" on Facebook. That led to posts and messages over several weeks and a first date, at the Blue Parrot Bistro in Gettysburg, on April 10 — Good Friday.

History was made.

A year to that day, I asked her to marry me.

Two years, two months and 15 days after that first date, we got married. (Amy was the matron of honor, listed in the program as "The Matchmaker.")

And three years and 12 days after our meeting, Sophie Marie was born.

Through job changes and new residences, we've snuggled and struggled and laughed and cried.

Meanwhile, we've managed to not only not kill each other, but grow as individuals and as a couple.

At least, I like to think so.

And, to think: If it weren't for a crappy computer system and New Kids On The Block, we never would have met.

Happy anniversary, Jenny.

I love you.

Or, as Sophie would say, I ee ee!

Changes in latitudes. Changes in attitudes.

There's no denying it: I've been in a funk. 

Stresses in many parts of life have led to me being grouchy, as well as a recurring headache. 

In the days before marriage, such stress was dealt with upon a barstool, with compatriots in the collective misery of being 20-somethings in a world set upon making our futures bleak.  

That didn't help much. 

After hitting my 30s and marrying Jen, we began to adventure. We'd explore the central Susquehanna Valley, getting lost in Union County's West End or romping around Shamokin in Northumberland County.  

Adventuring didn't cure the stress, but it gave both of us a clearer head with which to deal with it, which is something I couldn't always say for my barstool solution. 

Monday, after chores were done, we took Sophie on an adventure. It wasn't much, if you're from the Abingtons. We wandered the nature trail at Abington Community Park. 

Packed in the front-loading sling, Sophie bounced along as Jen and I wanderd the pond. Meanwhile, the Abington Heights Comets practiced football and rehearsed cheers on the upper fields. 

Despite a little crying, I think Sophie enjoyed the walk. And that sling is much easier than carrying her by hand. 

We also took the chance to drive out Route 309, which turned into Route 92, which led us to the fabled town of Tunkhannock. A minor detour south to see the Tunkhannock Viaduct (aka the Nicholson Bridge), and we jaunted down U.S. 6 to Clarks Summit and home. 

A nice little adventure. It cleared my head a bit, and I'm sure Jen feels the same. 

But what about our newest adventurer?

Well, Sophie squawked a bit and cried as we tried to get her to sleep later in the evening, as is the usual.

But during the trek, her eyes darted in every direction, trying to take it all in. 

I think she'll get the hang of it. 

Mopar to ya

We just returned from a few days in Amish Country. Indeed, we were in Bird-In-Hand, Pa., for the 35th annual National Chrysler Products Club Meet. 

Because nothing says automobile fandom like Amish Country. 

Seriously, though, it was a fun time and I've come to look forward to the meet. But I'm not a car guy, and I drive a Pontiac. Why would I want to go to a Chrysler car show?

For starters, my father-in-law is the club treasurer. 

I'm married to the club chairwoman.

When I asked for Jen's hand in marriage, my father-in-law said two things. 

"Well, you're going to have to become a Dallas Cowboys fan, and you're going to have to drive a Chrysler product."

Anyone who knows me and my love of Baltimore sports knows the Cowboys thing wasn't going to happen. (We've worked it out to where I support my wife in her support of her team.)

But I said I could get behind the Dodge thing. In fact, I've since priced out a new Dart, with its reported 42 mpg thanks to Fiat. Once the Pontiac dies, and we've got the money, it's a purchase I'll likely make. 

All that aside, I also have been tapped by the editor of the club journal (also my father-in-law) to write a few cover stories. One is a recap of the meet; the rest are stories gleaned from the Mopar fanatics showing their trophies on the show field.

In talking with these motor heads, I find I can relate to their passion. No, I barely know the difference between a radiator cap and a gas cap, but I listen to the stories. 

Like how the 1962 Chrysler 300 H was a long project for Mark Souders of Centerport, Pa. 

The car was a hunk of metal in Lancaster, N.C., when his friend wanted to fix it up. A lost lease and trailer ride later, Souders ended up the owner and did a lot of the restoration himself. 

It's the detail he speaks of when it comes to the car. The hand-assembly of the upolstery. The steering wheel cast in two parts — not one and painted to look like two — from a shop in California. The literally thousands of hours spent working and tinkering to make her purr. 

When I talk about the intricacies of journalism or the fruit flavors in a well-made IPA, I get just as passionate. Newspapers and beer are two great loves in my life (other than Jen and Sophie, of course).

It's the details that make the story, and for some, those details are life itself. 

That's part of why I knew I was going in the right direction when my father-in-law brought his family's love of Chrysler products into the conversation with me. 

It's that passion. 

It makes life worth living.