Is this real?

I had off Monday. 

My company, Journal Multimedia, parent of Central Penn Business Journal, was closed to observe Presidents Day. 

Before she left Friday, my boss at the business journal actually told me, "Remember not to come in on Monday."

I thought for a moment that this couldn't be real. 

I'm not going to lie, as a daily newspaperman my entire professional career, this feels … strange. 

This is the first time since I was a teenager, if not longer, that I've had off because the day was a federally recognized holiday (other than Christmas and New Years, and that's only because The Evening Sun didn't publish on some of them).

I've had off holidays, but it's been through a quirk of scheduling. Otherwise, I've had to talk to folks picnicking on Memorial Day, or hunting Easter eggs on Easter Sunday. 

Or, sometimes, I've had to call the coroner about a deadly crash on Thanksgiving. 

A day off with the rest of the 9-5 crowd is a change. 

Like it's a change for my old boss, Marc, to move from his job as editor in Hanover back to the main offices in York. 

Or for my friends, Caitlin and Brendan, to welcome their first child in August. 

It's the one lesson that's always been hard for me to learn: Change is the only constant. 

It never gets a day off. 

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. 

Do they make mental prune juice?

Writing is hard. 

Like that's something new. But here's my situation:

I've been thinking about writing a short story. Something uncomplicated that just lets out what is in my head. 

The problem I'm facing is, well, not to be too gross, mental constipation. 

Yes, I said it. 

I have ideas come to me all the time: That would be a great detail to include in a story. Or, that's a great character name. Or that's a good plot point. 

But then I pull up a blank page on the computer (or iPhone). The cursor is blinking. I know there are things in my mind that want — need — to come out. 

Nothing. 

I might struggle or strain. Nope. I sit there a while. Drink coffee. Read other people's writing. Nothing. 

Here's my self-diagnosis: I've been a professional journalist for more than a dozen years now. What I have written about (or edited or assigned) has been real. I'm working on a story or editorial that is grounded in reality. 

It's been a long time since I've flexed my creative writing muscle. Probably since high school, save for a few quickly constructed mock newspaper covers done for special occasions for friends and family. 

How do I get that mojo working again? It really hurts just staring at that blinking cursor, knowing I have to go but can't get it started. 

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.