An allegory

There's this house.

It's a beautiful, old house. But, it's not been perfectly maintained over it's many decades. The paint is pealing on the shutters. The brick front steps need cement.

Overall, it's a solid house, if not a little ragged looking on the outside.

I can see through the big front window. Inside, there's a large group of people, and they're mingling and talking with each other. 

Some are doing things: Cooking and baking and crafting and sewing. A few have glasses of beer or wine or whiskey.

All of their tasks seem to be slowly turning the ragged feel of the house into one of warmth.

While they seem happy, the people inside also seem stressed. You can see the worry lines on a few of their faces.

However, the front door is open, and while a few people glance at that door, no one walks toward it. It might be tough sometimes, but it seems like everyone inside the old house is working together.

And I'm outside, looking in, describing what's happening, but feeling like I'm not doing a very good job of it.

I want to be inside, doing work, being part of making the house warm.

But like it's been for almost all of my life, my place is outside. Looking in.

And so I keep looking.

Daily prayer

I don't recall what grade I was in, or what teacher it was, but we would start class every day with this prayer:

In formal circles, it's known as the Serenity Prayer.

Whatever teacher that was also told us, grade schoolers at St. Ursula's in Parkville, Md., that this was also known as the Alcoholics Anonymous prayer.

Despite the odd pedigree attached to it, I remember thinking as a grade schooler that it was a very comforting mantra.

I saw the prayer the other day, written onto a Pewtarex plate, while waiting to do an interview. I took the above photo.

I felt like I had to take the photo. It's like I was being reminded of the things I've been taught in my sundry religion classes over my lifetime, be they in the classroom or in the pew or somewhere else.

I'm not going to get into the arguments over what religious tradition is correct. I'm not even going to get into an argument over the existence of God. I'm going to focus on this:

Sometimes, life gives you challenges. You've got to know that some of those challenges you can master. Some you can't. And you have to figure out what category your particular challenge falls into, often on the fly.

This is the essence of our human existence. And we share it with each other.

Be serene, and we'll make it.

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.