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?

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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.

Formula for a long life

A glimmer of hope:

I laid out the editorial pages for a few days last week, and I received a letter from a 92-year-old gentleman entitled "My formula for a long life."

It was over the word count, and I had to trim it from about 560 words down to about 400. No small task, as this fellow wrote about keeping a positive attitude, healthy lifestyle and positive associations with people, despite losing his wife to Alzheimer's after 69 years, battling a brain tumor, radiation treatments for prostate cancer, triple-bypass surgery and seeing the front lines in Europe during World War II.

Much was accomplished by rewording sentences, losing adjectives and cutting extra sentences. But I was worried I'd lost his voice in the letter.

As we do, I called him to verify he wrote the letter and to get his OK on a slimmed down version of what he wrote. I read it to him over the phone.

Here it is:

My formula for a long life

To the editor:

First and very important are three things: faith, family and friends. My faith has been important since I was put on the cradle roll at 1 year old at the very church we attend now. It has been my strength through many trials and fills my life with happiness.

I also have three words that mean a lot to me: attitude, activity and association. I think we must have a good attitude about life. For instance, I was married to a beautiful lady for 69 years, the last five of which, we had to deal with her Alzheimer's. My attitude is that we had a wonderful marriage, raising three sons, and we had many years enjoying our grandchildren. Things happen in life; the attitude is to be thankful for what we have.

I also think we should be active, to exercise our bodies and minds. I've been very active all my life. I worked until I was 77, repairing, refinishing and selling furniture, along with playing tennis, bowling, dancing and singing. Since retiring, I've added golf.

Third, association. By this I mean to associate with people of good character. If I associate with people who use drugs, gamble, drink to extremes, smoke, use profanity and many things I shouldn't do, guess what? I would be doing the same things. Don't misunderstand me, I love all kinds of people, but I just don't think some lifestyles are good for us.

Now, as life subsides, it is still good and I've found a new love. About two years after my wife, Kate, died, I invited out to dinner a nice lady we bowled with. After a time, we thought it would be nice to get married. We are both very happy and satisfied. I'm very glad Mar Jo is my soul mate now. She goes to my church and sings in the choir with me. We also entertain in nursing homes, senior centers and other places.

This completes my formula for a long life, and it has been a great journey. I still enjoy life. It gets more exciting with each passing day. Love is either here or on the way. 

I am 92 and still active using my formula. I've had a brain tumor removed, triple-bypass surgery, 40 radiation treatments for prostate cancer and am a veteran of World War II in action in Europe. As you can see, it hasn't all been easy, but my formula worked for me. Best wishes to you.

"That's perfect, thank you!" he said.

I hope the folks reading the Letters to the Editor on Monday think the same thing about his letter and his formula for a long life.

And I hope, one day, to have even half the life this gentleman has had.

Setting sail

The wind is blowing fiercely as I write this. 

The cliché would be to say, as the final 12 hours of 2013 tick down, that it is blowing out the last of the old year. 

Globally and locally, it's been a year filled with joy and misery. Every year is, of course. We always seem to forget that. 

The local good and bad:

I celebrated my second anniversary with Jennifer. I celebrated the birth of my daughter. I bought a new car. 

But I lost my grandfather. Relationships have grown strained, either by time or distance, or some other factor. And I feel like I'm not living up to my potential; like I'm not me. 

Of course, there's little I could do regarding Poppy. But those last two rest on me. 

The wind might be blowing me along, but it's up to me to set the sails and take the rudder.

Here's the part where, as I've done almost every year of my life, I resolve to make the next year better than the last. 

Before I do that again, though, I wonder: How can I guide the ship if I don't feel I have any navigational guides? I'm scared of where I'm going and where I'll end up. 

Yes, philosophers, religions, etc. offer routes, or compasses or star charts. 

I've followed those in some form or another to this point. Can I trust I'm on the right course? I suppose that's what faith is, and mine is being tested. 

Maybe Sophie is picking up on my wavelength: She has started to scream when Jen or I leave her alone for even a second. Like she's immediately lost without us there. 

I don't want Sophie to feel the way I do. But neither Jen nor I have found a solution. 

Perhaps my answer lies with Sophie's. The world is vast and there's much to explore. 

We're not lost. The wind hasn't blown us off course. 

It's OK to be scared. 

The world is round. 

Mamama

A brief note on the dichotomy of Dad-hood:

Sophie is, we're pretty sure, starting to teethe. She woke up wailing and sobbing at 2 a.m. and the only thing that would calm her was an ice cube. Add some Orajel and infant Tylenol, plus more sobbing, and an hour and a half later, you have a sleeping baby. 

Despite the sadness and frazzled nerves of that experience, something good came out of today. 

Sophie laughed. 

A real laugh, from the belly, not a squeak or a squawk.

And it was for something I did. It was simple. I said, "mamama!" She laughed, too, when I said, "dadada!"

That laugh. I mean, she has smiled at me and made noises. But this, this was a straight up laugh. 

It melted my heart. 

There will be ups and downs in our lives, I know. That's how things go with parents and children. 

But I will remember that laugh, and how it almost made me cry with joy. 

And things will be OK.

Stubborn old Bohunk

    Me, my brothers Nick and Steve, and Poppy in 2010.

I could say a lot about Jerry Dolivka.

Poppy, as he was known to the grandchildren, grew up in an area of East Baltimore known as Little Bohemia. He was the patriarch of a large family. He was a civil servant, working at Fort Meade. Later, he was president of Fairmount Federal Savings and Loan.

He was a strong — some might say stubborn — Bohunk whose smile and twinkling eyes could lift your soul, and he left an impression, especially with the waitstaffs at many area restaurants. 

But, in remembering Poppy, who died Wednesday at age 90, I think about the story of him going off to World War II. 

No, it's not a story about his military record or devotion to country. This story shows his Catholic faith and his devotion to the Blessed Mother.

Before shipping out, my grandfather and grandmother, Marie (Baba, to the grandchildren), prayed to the Mother of Perpetual Help. For those unfamiliar, it is a particular depiction of Mary holding an infant Jesus that is popular with the Redempterist Order. 

     Mother of Perpetual Help

My grandparents prayed and promised that, should my grandfather make it back from the war alive, they would name their daughters after the Blessed Mother. 

Through some interesting twists of fate, the brass discovered Poppy could type. He ended up a clerk for a brief time, avoiding the front lines. He later served as a guard on a prisoner transport in North Africa.

Baba and Poppy married June 22, 1946. 

My older aunt, Mary Lou, came along a few years later. Then my mother, Ann Marie. Then my younger aunt, Jeanne Marie. 

Three girls, all named honoring the Blessed Mother. 

In the decades that followed, Poppy and Baba's devotion to the Blessed Mother only got stronger. Visitors to their house on Chesaco Avenue saw the massive framed icon of the Mother of Perpetual Help in the living room. The tombstone on the grave where Poppy will go to join Baba has an engraving of the Blessed Mother on it. 

About a year before he died, I was sitting next to his bed visiting. He'd just been moved home after rehabbing a broken hip. He was in pain and confused. 

But on his dresser, I spied a keychain with a Mother of Perpetual Help image hanging from it. 

I held the icon up to him. 

"That's my girlfriend," he said, smiling. 

Despite poor health and senility, the stubborn old East Baltimore Bohunk held onto his faith.

That's how I most remember Poppy.

It's a rare quality, despite having many things that could shake it, to remain so devoted. 

It's a trait I hope to carry on and teach to my daughter, Sophie Marie. 

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. 

Bibulous

It's no secret journalists — generally — like to imbibe.

It was the Bard of Baltimore, H.L. Mencken, who coined the term "bibulous" to describe himself.

    Here's H.L. Mencken in a Baltimore bar shortly after the repeal of Prohibition.

Webster's has since defined the word as "addicted to or fond of alcohol." (That's actually the No. 2 definition. The first is "highly absorbent." Same difference.)

Anyhow, I've spent a few moments of my life perched on a barstool. It tends to fit the lifestyle: Long, odd hours filled with depressing news and jerks who don't want you to know things because, well, it might make them look bad/cost them a job/put them in jail. The fact the industry is going through dramatic, at times painful, changes doesn't help. 

It's not just the alcohol. I've never been to a bar without a friend. I've gotten reasonably good at darts and fooseball. And I've had pleasant, interesting and fun conversation. 

As I've aged, I've calmed my tendency toward vice. I owe some of that to Jen, who while helping rein me in, is not a Puritan herself. 

It's Sophie, though, who's put the biggest damper on my journalism lifestyle. A 2-month-old will do that. 

This is not a bad thing, mind you. 

I just find it strange that I've gone from throwing darts and sampling the microbrews of Blue Point Brewing Co. of Long Island, New York, to watching the Muppet Show on DVD while drinking water (filtered by our knockoff Brita, thankyouverymuch).

Sophie is very much worth it all. I just have to see her smile at me to know that.

   Sophie during a recent trip to the changing table.

But I wonder how other journalist types have dealt with this. What would Mencken do?

Then I remember: Mencken didn't have any children. 

Hi-tech

When I was a toddler, my mother used a tape recorder to record me saying, "Hi, Daddy!" for my father who was working long hours to put food on our table and clothes on my back. 

He'd listen to my babbling when he got home on that same tape recorder they bought from Montgomery Ward. You know the one; it had one large speaker, sheethed in metal mesh, and switch-like buttons that required force to press. 

I still have those tapes stashed away, though I'm scared to play them because they're more than three decades old now. The technology might not have held up. I do still have a tape player, though if I didn't, I could get one on eBay next to the 8-track player and Commodore 64.

I mention this glimpse of 1981 high technology because it struck me earlier today how things evolve. 

My wife used her cellphone to send me videos and photos of our daughter, Sophie, while I was at work putting food on our table and clothes on Sophie's back. 

Jen sent the pics and vids via text message, though she could easily have posted them to Facebook or Twitter. Or, if she wanted to be old school, she could have emailed them to me. 

No matter the transmission, I view them on my iPhone I bought at the mall. You know the one; a smooth touch screen that uses electro-static technology that gives the user more computing power than the Apollo 11 astronauts had when they landed on the moon. 

Looking at my 8-week-old child, I cannot begin to fathom what she might use to record her children's antics so loved ones can see what they missed. 

A Father Looks At Bedtime

I admit that I've not really been a big fan of Jimmy Buffett. 

"Margaritaville" was pretty much the only song of his I heard growing up, and it sounded rather depressing. 

Still does. 

Of course, there were a few other songs of his I heard later in life. "Cheesburger in Paradise" and "Fins" were popular covers done by my friends' band. "Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw" also was popular with some in college. Aside from music, I've written a story or two about local Parrothead Socities.

But, really, it wasn't until I met my wife that I heard all of "Songs You Know By Heart," let alone learned Jimmy had written several books. 

Jen has been to a few concerts and told me I'd enjoy them, mostly because of the large amount of drinking and the groovy atmosphere thereby created.

Perhaps. 

We also swung into Margaritaville in Key West on our honeymoon. While the margaritas were a bit overpriced to my liking, they were strong.

But all of that isn't why I'm now a fan of Mr. Buffett. 

You see, I discovered a few nights ago that my seven-week-old daughter Sophie calms down and falls asleep right quick to the likes of "Pencil-thin Mustache" and "Juicy Fruit" and "Son of a Son of a Sailor."

Admittedly, I feel awkward when "Drunk and Screw" comes on, but by that point, Sophie is usually asleep. 

One downside, though: I start to crave cheeseburgers and margaritas after awhile. 

Maybe Sophie and I will enjoy both some day, when she's old enough. 

OPA!

As a kid, I lived next door to a Greek immigrant couple. 

Mr. Nick and Mrs. Kula were like a doting aunt and uncle. They'd bring over Greek treats, like rice pudding with raisins. In summer, I'd swing past their patio for some loukoumades - dough balls soaked in a honey-cinnamon syrup and sprinkled with powdered sugar. At Christmas, we'd benefit from Greek pastries. 

It was more than food, though. Any time Mr. Nick would see Dad come home with a bag from the hardware store, the phone would ring. 

"David, what you doing?" Mr. Nick would ask, his accent as thick as a cup of coffee served across from the Acropolis. 

Once Dad would explain the project - installing a new vanity, repairing the kitchen sink drain - he'd say, "I be over." 

He'd examine the situation, muttering, "What the matter be…" And when a part or tool didn't work right, inevitably you'd hear, "DAMN SHIT!"

He taught Dad a lot about homeownership. And me, too. I've been known to yell, "DAMN SHIT!" at a piece of malfunctioning plumbing. 

Mr. Nick died around my birthday when I was in fourth grade. Mrs. Kula died earlier this year. 

But often, my family would attend the Greek festival in the Baltimore area. And Dad would get a shot of ouzo - like Greek sambuca - and toast Mr. Nick, yelling the traditional "OPA!" afterward.

When I became of age, I'd join Dad. And we'd tell stories about Mr. Nick and Mrs. Kula. 

Earlier this week, I got my dinner from a Greek Orthodox Church in Scranton. They had a food festival, though there was no rice pudding with raisins, loukoumades or ouzo. 

But over my lamb shank, Greek salad and piece of baklava, I toasted Mr. Nick and Mrs. Kula, and thought about the Greek immigrant couple who had a big impact on my life. 

OPA!

Reason for living

My wife and I haven't gotten much sleep lately. Sophie, who is coming up on 6 weeks old, is sleeping only a few hours at a clip. And much of the time, when she does sleep, one of us is holding her. 

We sleep when we can, but for this nightshifter, I've seen more daylight hours than usual. I'd forgotten that many people start their day at 7 a.m.; I was reminded by the sound of the traffic while singing "This Old Man" to Sophie. 

But here's the thing: I don't mind the lack of sleep. Every parent goes through it. Sooner or later, Sophie will sleep more than two hours at a time. 

It occurred to me last night as I held her against me while we rocked in the rocking chair: I'm the happiest I've been in my life.

In my arms was my little girl. She is my reason for living. And, as she wiggled a bit and gurgled before snuggling in against my chest, I realized there's no better reason. 

SMELL IT!!!

When I was little, there were times I'd be sitting on the couch watching television with my younger brothers, Nick and Steve.

We were silly, juvenile boys, so when a commercial would come on, invariably one of the three of us would take his foot and shove it toward the face of the nearest brother and yell, "SMELL IT!!!"

As we've gotten older, we've talked and joked about those times. And when Nick had a little boy of his own, of course Uncle Steve and I taught him "SMELL IT!"

We received frowns teaching it to Devin and warnings not to teach it to his sister, Ezralynn, or my daughter, Sophie. 

We'll see.

But poor Devin on Sunday broke his leg. He's in a cast that starts above his knee and will be for a good portion of the summer.

Nick, though, found a way to make things a little bright. On the foot of the cast, he used a magic marker to scribble, "SMELL IT!!"

Then he took a picture and texted it to me. I laughed aloud.

I talked to Devin over the phone later that day. 

"Did you get the picture my dad sent?"

"Yes, I laughed," I told Devin.

"Hey, Uncle Joe," he said.

You could hear the mischievous lilt in his voice, like a commercial had just come on the television. 

"Yes, Devin?" I replied.

"SMELL IT!!!"

Show me that smile again

Today, my four-week-old daughter, Sophie, smiled at me. 

She looked right into my eyes and cracked a grin. And it lasted a while, too. 

Now, I realize it was probably gas. The professionals say that babies aren't able to smile for happy reasons till they're a few months. 

However, I had a friend tell me her kids logged smiles at six weeks. 

Then again, I tend to smile when gas comes out of me, too. 

Whatever the reason, I'm marking this day down. My kid, whom I helped create, did a very real human thing, beyond just pooping or crying or sleeping (or not sleeping).

My baby smiled at me. 

I feel both awesome and humbled at the same time.