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.