#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.

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.

House Nite

When in the course of human events, things begin to turn more... insane, one tends to retreat into memories of better times.

I went into the depths of my mind the other day, thinking of a time when a group of six guys living in a house with four bedrooms and one bathroom not only managed to get along, but actually kept the place relatively clean.

I speak of House Nite.

It started when my housemate, Kevin, and I were sitting at Flanagan's Pub in Dayton, Ohio, the summer before our senior year of college. Kevin and I and four other fellas — John, Bob, Chris (called "Kac") and Steve (called "Zaf") — would be living together at 118 Lawnview in the University of Dayton's student neighborhood, the Ghetto.

I remarked to Kevin how this would be our final year before adulthood (at least for those of us who weren't on the five-year plan or headed to graduate school). We should do what we can to savor our time there, our time together, I said.

Over the previous three years, we six, plus three other guys who fell into our circle — Craig, Joe and Adam (called "Pauko") — had formed a bond like those formed among fraternity brothers. It was the first time in my life that I felt like I belonged somewhere. I valued their friendship and knew I'd miss our camaraderie after I would graduate in May 2001.

That's not to say that things were always smooth. Our junior year was a little turbulent when it came to upkeep of our house in UD's Darkside neighborhood.

Let me put it this way: At the end of the academic year, rather than clean the huge pile of dishes in our kitchen sink, we opted to put them into a box and throw them out because they were so dirty, we felt they were beyond saving. That, and because none of us had a pressure washer.

With all of this in mind, I proposed to Kevin, the unofficial leader and Alpha male of the group, that we reserve one night a week where, after classes and meetings and such, we all agree to gather in our house and clean it, doing chores on a rotating basis.

After the cleaning, we spend the rest of the night hanging out, either at a local watering hole, drinking beer and playing foosball at our house, or doing some other kind of fellowship-building exercise. (By fellowship-building exercise, I mean playing pranks on neighbors and rivals).

I finished my pitch, which admittedly was partly inspired by Milwaukee's Best Light that was cheap on draft at Flanagan's, by naming the weekly gathering.

"We can call it 'House Nite,'" I said, noting the slang spelling was on purpose. Because screw The Man.

"That's a good idea," Kevin said, apparently giving his approval to both my idea and the alternate spelling.

It didn't take much to convince the fellas that House Nite was a worthy endeavor.

The time we spent talking, playing games and enjoying what would be the very last months of our pre-Real World lives are some of the best memories I have.

Zaf, Kevin, Bob and the giant snowball
on the porch of 529 Irving.

From these nights came pranks that include rolling a snowball the size of two fourth-graders onto the porch of our rival house, 529 Irving. Or planning the "wedding wine" tradition and the "death wine pact." Or games of hula-hoop ringtoss. Or countless foosball tournaments — very few of which, if any, I won.

And, through it all, our dishes, bathroom and floors were clean.

We are scattered now. A few guys are still in Ohio. One guy's in North Carolina. Another is in Louisiana. One is up in Massachusetts. Still another is living in Spain. I'm in Pennsylvania.

Over the course of recent human events, I've been thinking about them all, retreating in my mind to a time when we owned the nite.

Because screw The Man.

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.

Calling for Jane Jetson

They say that social media postings are the highlight reel of your friends' lives.

Sure, there are lots of photos of laughing, smiling children and adults.

Check-ins at restaurants for glorious meals or bars for tasty beverages.

Status updates musing on how lucky one is to have such a great family/wife/kid/dog/cat/guinea pig.

But what's not posted — the dark stuff — is really what makes up life.

The stresses of work. The arguments with parents or spouses or kids. The mounting debt brought on by trying to provide for your family while battling seemingly unending bills.

Or your own psyche.

I know those things are out there, too.

Yet, I'm human. Perception becomes reality, even if I know better.

So, with that, I'm thinking of letting go of social media.

That's tougher than it sounds, and not because of the huge role the medium has played in my life over the past decade.

I work for a news-gathering service. Part of the way we disseminate the news is through social media.

I've not gotten the kinks worked out on that end of it, so that's why I'm just thinking about it for now.

What about you, gentle reader? How have the creations of people such as Zuckerberg and Dorsey and Musk affected your perceptions and realities?

Is it time to get off this crazy thing?

The zen of Maryland crab soup

Making Maryland crab soup has become, for me, a form of meditation. 

There are some specific steps you need to take, but in general, how you arrive at the destination — crab soup — is largely in your hands. 

Beyond this, however, there is a simplicity that can inspire the mind.

I made some soup before heading to work today using the leftover crabs from the vacation dinner Jen, Sophie and I had at Chic's Seafood in Hagerstown, Md. 

There were maybe six or eight smalls we brought home. This is an instance where bigger isn't always better. Smalls (as opposed to mediums, larges and jumbos) are economical. 

Here's how I made my soup. 

First, you must pick the crabs. You can't have crab soup without crab meat. It took me about 45 minutes, and yes, you have to break apart a lot of shells. It takes time.

I've had friends and family tell me they don't like to work that hard for their food. Again, there's a life lesson here: A little work results in sweet meat. 

I picked out the lump meat from the backfin and what the professional crab packing houses would call the "special." (That's all the other meat attached to the legs and claws.) 

But I didn't pick the claw meat. I left the claws whole and, with the lids (the crab's top shell) and back flipper, I tossed them in the pot. 

Once I finished the picking, I moved on to making the stock. I covered the claws, lids and flippers with water, plus threw in a bay leaf, then put the spurs to it. After it came to a boil, I let it bubble for about a half hour, losing maybe an inch of liquid. 

Meanwhile, I refrigerated the crab meat, and got a large can of crushed tomatoes and a few bags of frozen mixed vegetables. 

Once the stock was made and I removed the shells, legs, flippers and bay leaf, I brought it back to a boil and added the tomato and vegetables. Again, I brought it all to a boil before cutting back the heat. I let it go until another inch of liquid had evaporated. Then it was time to add the star of the show: the crab meat. 

Yes, take a closer look. It was sweet. 

Gently, I pushed the meat from the bowl into the hot liquid. I kept the heat low for about 15 minutes. The meat is already cooked; you're just warming it. And you don't want the lumps to break apart.

Then, I tasted it. Good stuff. 

Please note: I didn't add any Old Bay or other seasoning. I let the pepper — a mixture of salt, cayenne, celery salt and other spices unique to each crab house — that was on the shells, as well as the unpicked claw meat, flavor the whole affair. 

That's sort of the big life lesson this little meditation is supposed to make clear to you, I suppose. 

A little effort to get the meat, but keep the preparation simple. 

The reward is worth it.