Of a life lost and a heart broken

Trevor Davis. Photo courtesy of his Facebook page.

Trevor Davis broke my heart for the first time in August 2008 when he finished his summer internship at The Frederick News-Post.

He broke it for the final time when he died one year ago today after valiantly fighting an aggressive form of lung cancer. He was 28.

Trevor is the reason I stopped talking to summer interns. I was so crushed when he left that I vowed not to get attached to any in the future.

And boy did I try. 

I met Trevor in June 2008 when, as a freshly minted University of Oregon graduate, he landed an internship through the fiercely competitive Dow Jones internship program. He was assigned to the News-Post, the daily chronicle in a town I’m sure he had never heard of before accepting the position.

He packed his trusty Honda Civic with his belongings and drove from one coast to another to work a summer job that would pay barely enough to rent a room, put gas in his car and eat once in a while.

And he couldn’t have been happier—he was working at a respected newspaper where he would have the chance to gather some professional bylines.

Trevor, by the luck of an empty spot, sat at the desk next to mine in a pod of six work stations. He hit the ground running and filed a story on his first day about a new business that had opened in town.

Over the course of his 10-week internship, we became friends. I took him to lunch on occasion, and discovered a little bit about his personal life.

For example, he was head-over-heels in love with a girl named Mandy. The two met in an old-fashioned way—as pen pals when they were kids. He lived in Oregon and she lived in Missouri. Over the years, the friendship grew into a romantic relationship and he beamed from ear to ear whenever he talked about her.

I knew, over the course of the summer, that saying goodbye to Trevor at the end of his program was going to be painful. I’m not so good with goodbyes. It’s difficult enough to say farewell to a colleague who unexpectedly gives notice to move on to the next opportunity. It’s all the more challenging knowing a colleague’s days are numbered at the very beginning of his tenure.

We held out hope he might be offered a full-time position at the end of his internship. But 2008 was a rough year— in fact, the beginning of a long, tough stretch — for print journalism. The newspaper industry was finally figuring out that, in addition to those for aging celebrities and elected leaders, a newspaper needed to have a first draft of its own obituary on file, just in case.

That summer’s interns were a talented bunch. In addition to Trevor, the paper benefitted from the talents of a wonderful photographer from Ohio and the annual Hood College intern.

There were no job offers at the end of the 10 weeks for any of them, and some of the paper's reporters and photographers celebrated the departing youngsters at a Frederick brew pub shortly before they all headed in different directions.

Trevor packed up his car and headed home to Oregon. He soon landed a job at the Tulsa World in Oklahoma and again packed the car and headed off to the next adventure.

But his beloved field of journalism put the screws to him in short order. Just a couple of months into that job, and shortly after he signed a year’s rental lease, he was laid off at the World.

He ultimately landed a job in the communications office at Kansas State University and again set off to a new state. He found his professional home at K State, despite going to the “dark side,” the term news people use for jobs in communications, marketing and public and media relations.

The talented writer flourished at the university and began to build his personal life with Mandy. She moved to Kansas to be with him and enrolled at the school, where she finished her undergraduate degree.

While still at the News-Post, Trevor told me about Mandy’s struggle with a disease called Friedreich’s ataxia, a progressive disorder that causes spinal cord and peripheral nerve degeneration, according to the National Institute of Neurological Disorders and Stroke website. He would never have used these words, because he didn’t have an egotistical bone in his body, but I think he considered himself Mandy’s knight in shining armor. He loved her so much and expected to be by her side for many, many years, being there for her as her illness progressed.

They were a beautiful couple, and adopted an adorable dog “child,” Chloe. They traveled, hung out with friends, vegged at their home and chronicled their all-too-short married journey through social media posts. The photogenic couple positively glowed with happiness in every picture taken of them, and the love for them shown by friends and family members was palpable.

Trevor and Mandy Davis were married Aug. 10, 2013. Photo credit: Trevor's Facebook page.

Mandy and Trevor were married on Aug. 10, 2013, and no doubt thought they had decades ahead of them.

But life threw them another curve ball when he was diagnosed with cancer just a month or so later and died a year after that, on Sept. 23, 2014.

I wasn’t in Trevor’s inner circle, so I didn’t immediately know the severity of his condition. He put on a big smile and a brave face as he underwent heavy-duty treatment that required longterm hospitalizations.

As we had more in-depth conversations via email chat, he shared that the disease was indeed kicking his butt. He had to resign from his beloved job at K State and was on longterm disability as he fought the illness that took his life way too soon.

On Sept. 5, 2014, Trevor posted on Facebook that he and Mandy had moved to Oregon. I hadn’t chatted with him for a couple of months, and my immediate thought was that he had gone home to die. And as much as I knew that in my brain, it still took my breath away when the announcement of his death was posted less than three weeks later.

I lied earlier in this post when I said Trevor broke my heart for the final time on Sept. 23, 2014.

It breaks every time I think of him, and it breaks for his beautiful wife, who was robbed of a lifetime with the man of her dreams. I realize that we aren’t guaranteed anything on this earth, but to be married and widowed in little more than a year’s time — at the age of 28  — strikes me as unusually cruel.

Mandy and Trevor Davis exchanging vows and rings at their August 2013 wedding. Photo credit: Trevor's Facebook page

During the summer of 2009, I did my best to steer clear of the newspaper’s summer interns, and was pretty successful until Chris Eckard was moved from the hinterlands of the videography department to an empty desk next to mine. Since it’s impossible to not speak to someone sitting in an adjacent desk, I again found myself attached to another wonderful young journalist, and was just as devastated when he left.

I managed to avoid the interns of my final two summers at the FNP, and I apologize to them for protecting my heart in such a selfish manner.

If I was still at the paper, I’d make it a point to welcome and mentor new interns in honor of Trevor.

He would have gotten a kick out of that gesture — perhaps a little embarrassed, but appreciative nonetheless.

Trevor Davis
photo courtesy of Mandy Davis

Another eastside tradition bites the dust

Here in Baltimore County, it seems that government officials are bound and determined to erase all vestiges of a simpler, kinder, more nostalgic lifestyle.

On my beloved eastside of the county, government wonks have zoned, permitted, licensed and taxed hardworking, blue-collar folks out of a lot of waterfront property, only to see the land sold to wealthy developers (and big campaign donors) who build ugly, gaudy McMansions that their wealthy friends (more campaign contributors) then snap up.

The affectionately-named "summer shore shacks" have all but disappeared from the landscape, and with them, a whole way of life.

I won’t even get into what Senate Bill 509 would have done to portions of Essex and Middle River had it been successful, but thankfully those blue-collar workers united and successfully put the issue on the voter’s referendum, where it was soundly defeated. (Much of then-County Executive Dutch Ruppersberger’s plans for the “under-used, blighted” land eventually panned out, but at least it happened on the free market and not by eminent domain).

But I digress.

It looks like the latest throwback experience to bite the dust is the roadside pit beef stand. A county health inspector made his rounds a couple of Sundays ago and effectively shut down Steve Austin’s pit beef stand that has set up shop on the front parking lot of Donovan’s in Edgemere for the past 15 years.

Steve Austin driving his catering truck in the 2010 Dundalk Independence Day parade. Photo credit: Austin's Facebook page.

Austin, who runs a licensed catering business called This Swine’s for You, sets up his popular stand on Sundays whenever he doesn't have a catering gig or other plans.

But no more. 

County officials told him that he can’t operate unless he works from a completely enclosed food truck, trailer or building, according to a post he published on his Facebook page Sunday morning. He routinely used Facebook to let his loyal fans know when he would set up shop at Donovan’s.

Steve Austin's catering truck is a welcome sight in and around Edgemere . Photo credit: Austin's Facebook page

I’d put money on the inspection being complaint-driven, probably spurred by a local restaurant owner worried about competition. But voicing such a concern would be like saying Ford threatens the existence of Mercedes-Benz.

When I want a sit-down restaurant experience, that’s what I do. When I want to pull my car over after seeing the big red truck parked on North Point Road, and I want to stand in line salivating over the unmistakable aroma of a well-stoked grill, catching up on neighborhood news while waiting to place my order, that’s what I want to do.

This decision hurts not only Austin’s livelihood but also business at Donovan’s. No doubt many people gather their sandwiches and then head in to the neighborhood pub to grab a bag of chips while washing down their sandwiches with a cold brew or a soft drink. (Donovan’s doesn’t have a kitchen and the owner encourages folks to bring their own food).

Lorraine and Steve Austin run This Swine's for You catering services. Photo credit: Steve Austin's Facebook page

Austin said the county's issue is food being served outside, where bugs are flying around.

"That's extremely unhygienic," Austin said the inspector told him.

But by that logic, no restaurant should be able to serve food to outdoor dining tables. While the food is prepared inside, it is being served outside, where those nasty bugs can help themselves.

And what of the pit beef stands that have contained trailers for food ordering, but are still cooking their meats on open outdoor grills? Those businesses hand over sandwiches through service windows to customers who then avail themselves to outdoor shelves or sills holding fixings like mustard, catsup, mayonnaise, onions, barbecue sauce and horseradish? Again, fully accessible to those dirty bugs.

"There is no logical flow of information, that's for sure," Austin said Sunday. "I can't figure it out myself."

While logic might be missing from the equation, Austin said he has no choice but to obey the order to shut down his stand.

I’m sure the county can tout many laws and reasons for making this decision but I for one am tired of losing the little things that make life a little friendlier and allow neighbors to experience a sense of community and togetherness.

Next thing you know, the county will shut down private, backyard cookouts, because they know better than us what's best for us.

Golden Girl does it again!

These events always sneak in under the radar so I take it as my responsibility to let you know the 2015 IPC Swimming World Championships kicked off yesterday in Glasgow, Scotland.

Baltimore County’s own Jessica Long wasted no time in making her mark on the tournament, claiming a gold medal in the 100-meter butterfly (S8 classification). The swimmer's first gold of this meet is Long’s 24th world championships medal and her 20th gold.

For those unfamiliar with Long, she was born in Russia and reared in Middle River after being adopted from a Russian orphanage. She was born with malformed lower legs and feet. After coming to America, it was determined that Jessica’s future would be best served by amputating the lower portions of her legs so she could be fitted with prosthetic limbs.

She’s been competing at the international level of disability swimming since she was 12. She won three gold medals as an unknown entity at the Paralympic Games in Greece in 2004 and is now almost the senior stateswoman of the U.S. Paralympic swim team.

And along the way, Baltimore County has become a hotbed of disabled swimming, with Brad Snyder (who was blinded while serving with the military in Afghanistan) and Rebecca Myers building their own reputations as swimmers to be reckoned with. McDonogh High School graduate Ian Silverman was also an accomplished swimmer in the program until the International Paralympic Committee recently classified him out of the disabled swim categories. Silverman suffers from a “mild form” of cerebral palsy that affects his legs. The IPC regularly checks on the classifications of its athletes, according to an article in Swimming Magazine, and told Silverman in March that the governing body no longer considered him disabled, according to its standards.

On Monday, Long was just one of three Americans to stand atop the medal stand. Cortney Jordan claimed the first U.S. medal when she finished first in the 100-meter freestyle (S7 classification). She finished ahead of Russia’s Ani Palian and Great Britain’s Susannah Rodgers to win her fifth world title, according to an article on the USOC website.

                                                    Jessica Long (center) claimed her first gold medal of the IPC 

                                                    Swimming World Championships in Glasgow on Monday when

                                                    she won the 100-meter butterfly.  Screen shot posted on 

                                                    Long's Facebook page.

Snyder won his first world title when he finished first in the 100-meter freestyle (S11). His time of 56.78 seconds was just 11-hundredths of a second off the world record set in 1968 by U.S. swimmer John Morgan, according to the USOC article by Brianna Tammaro.

Also on day 1 of the meet, four Americans, including Rebecca Myers, just missed the medal ceremony by finishing fourth in their races.

Competition continues through July 19. The meet can be viewed via live stream at USParalympics.org. Race results and the complete meet schedule can be found on the IPC website.

Just shaking my head — again

It’s on days like today that my heart breaks for folks who were born and raised in Dundalk and have faced a lifetime of selective highlighting — and bashing —of the community they love and protect. They're almost always on the defensive, preparing to counteract the jokes, generalizations and accusations made about their hometown.

And though I didn't grow up in Dundalk nor have I ever lived in Dundalk proper, I find myself becoming just as sensitive as I constantly defend a community against those who choose to put it down with thoughtless statements and jokes.

In spite of the portrait painted by many media outlets, Greater Dundalk is just like any other community across this state and indeed the nation. Community residents work hard, play hard and always have a few extra bucks or hours of sweat equity to donate to a favorite cause. Sure, there’s crime and drugs and any number of negative societal problems, but I dare you to come up with a ZIP code that doesn’t have such problems.

But Greater Dundalk also has an awful lot going for it, including its historical significance, its miles and miles and miles of waterfront (including more waterfront parks and beaches than most communities have), its dedicated community organizations, churches and schools, and its reputation for being some of the most generous people when it comes to supporting a cause. 

But when it comes to media coverage, it seems like the domestic violence, shootings and stabbings, drug busts and arsons always get media billing but the positives almost always get ignored. 

And today, it happened again.

Dundalk’s largest single celebration, its 4th of July three-day party, kicked off yesterday when the 40th annual Heritage Fair opened at noon at Heritage Park in downtown Dundalk. The fair, begun in 1976 to help commemorate the nation’s bicentennial, is a typical summer festival with all the usual trappings: food and beverage stands, musical entertainment on three stages, community displays, carnival rides and other attractions (pig races!), and a variety of demonstrations, from Scouts pitching tents to chainsaw artists doing their thing.

Rarely does a media outlet other than The Dundalk Eagle write about these happenings. Much more important — and wealthier — communities like Towson, Catonsville and Annapolis have Independence Day events so that’s usually where “big” media goes.

So today, I was shocked to see that The Baltimore Sun bothered to send a reporter to the fair. Until I read the headline of the article: Confederate flag debated at Dundalk Heritage Fair. (I’d provide a link but I don’t want to drive traffic to the article).

The entire 600-plus-word story was about the flag being sold, with other recent hot media topics mixed in to the conversation — the church shootings in South Carolina, the Baltimore city decision to review the status of Confederate memorials and a network’s decision to stop airing reruns of “The Dukes of Hazzard” because the Confederate flag is painted on the roof of the “General Lee” car made famous by the show.

I repeat, the entire article was devoted to this topic.

The reporter who wrote the article had to walk right by (and ignore) all the wonderful, eclectic, fun things the fair has to offer.

No where did I read about the wonderful displays and information provided by the great folks at the Dundalk-Patapsco Neck Historical Society and Museum. Nor did I read about the many alumni who each year staff the Dundalk High School Alumni Association booth.

The descriptions of squealing, happy kids who rode their first carnival ride or won a little stuffed animal in a midway game? Not there.

The lifelong friends, now scattered across the country, who make it a point to return to Dundalk each year for the 4th of July? No mention.

The committee of local residents that labors all year long to stage the three-day affair with its accompanying parade and fireworks? Might as well not exist.

Volunteers who take a week of valuable and hard-earned vacation time each summer to dig holes and install fencing to enclose the fair area? Not a word.

Neighborhood volunteers staffing pizza and soda and hot dog stands to raise money for a rec council, Scout troop or church? Zilch.

The varied list of entertainment scheduled for the weekend, ranging from the General John Stricker Middle School steel drum band to the nationally known band America? Nada.

The chainsaw artist, the camping display set up by the Scouts, the general sense of community pride hanging in the fair air? Not worthy of mention.

I could go on (and on and on), but you get the picture.

As a journalist, I understand the need to go after the sexy, the controversial, the sensational, the clickable, the debatable. I also understand how editors don’t necessarily like “warm and fuzzy,” good news stories. They much prefer the controversial and wiil often browbeat reporters to find exactly that. I’ve had that argument with editors, and I’ve had my byline on articles that I wouldn’t have chosen to write.

But as a community resident, I resent the use of a celebratory event to advance a story that does nothing to bring people together and everything to drive them apart.

The fair brings people —all people — together and celebrates a community that is just a tiny piece of the nation we celebrate this weekend. We celebrate the independence of that nation and its entire history — we don’t surgically excise pieces we don’t like and we don’t concentrate on one small piece to the detriment of the whole.

The fair is intended to be a fun party for the entire family and shouldn’t be used to drive a political agenda or sell newspapers.

See you at Heritage Park!

Almost everything you want to know about Dundalk's 4th of July party!

                                                     Image from Heart by Heart website

It seems like it was just yesterday that we were all huddled under blankets, lamenting one of the coldest winters in recent memory. Summer seemed a long, long, long way away on the best day and on the worst winter night, we thought we’d never see another warm, sunny day.

But in the blink of an eye, here it is, July 2. And for those of us familiar with the southeast side of town, that can only mean one thing — it’s time for Greater Dundalk’s annual Independence Day celebration.

The festivities kick off tomorrow (Friday, July 3) at noon when the three-day Heritage Fair opens. Started in 1976, the Heritage Fair was created to celebrate the nation’s bicentennial. It was meant to be a one-time event, but public demand resulted in the fair becoming a yearly gathering.

The three-day festival, organized by the Dundalk Heritage Association, includes all the usual fair fare, including two stages of entertainment; a karaoke stage in the beer garden; food, beverage and dessert stands; carnival rides; and a crafters’ tent. 

                                                      Image from Crack the Sky website

The three main musical acts this year are Heart by Heart (which includes two original members of the group Heart) on Friday night, America on Saturday night and Crack the Sky on Sunday night. The Mahoney Brothers, a tribute band known for its Beatles act (and fair favorite), will play Sunday fem 4:30 to 7 p.m.

                                                                  Image from Heart by Heart website

Among crowd favorites are the pig races. And even with big name entertainment, I try hard not to miss the General John Stricker Middle School steel drum band. The students play on the Shipway stage from noon to 2 p.m. Saturday.

A complete entrainment schedule is available at the Heritage Association’s website.

Dundalk’s annual Independence Day parade kicks off Saturday morning at 8:15 a.m. It forms at the Logan Village Shopping Center on Dundalk Avenue, marches up Dundalk Avenue and winds through Old Dundalk before ending at the judge’s stand near Dundalk Elementary School.

Go early to get a prime parking space and then cheer on the runners in the Dundalk Heritage 6K road race. The race starts at CCBC Dundalk at 7 a.m, follows the parade route and ends at Dundalk Middle School on Dunmanway, according to the Dundalk Renaissance Corp. website.

                                                             Image from the Dundalk Renaissance Corp. website

And finally, the town’s fireworks display will begin around 9 or 9:15 p.m. on Saturday. The pyrotechnical display is shot off from the grounds of Grange Elementary/North Point Government Center. Folks can gather on the campus grounds, and the fireworks can be viewed from many local shopping center parking lots and the CCBC Dundalk campus.

Admission to the fair is $7 a day for adults (includes all entertainment); children under 12 are admitted free of charge.

A volunteer bucket brigade marches along the parade route to collect donations to help fund next year’s parade and fireworks display..

Unfortunately, many local weather forecasters are calling for a wet weekend; let’s hope this stalled weather system finds someplace else to go and soon!

                                                                                            Above photos by Marge Neal

Never easy to say farewell to a pet

In February 1999, I was at a serious crossroads in my life.

I had been working for a local recreation and parks department full-time for nearly 16 years, and had logged eight years of part-time service before that. I had become increasingly frustrated and disillusioned with the department, which was treading water and resting on a reputation earned in the 1950s, when it truly was visionary and state-of-the-art among public recreation entities.

Unfortunately, the department had done very little to grow since the 1950s and ’60s, and the job was pretty much a repetitive cycle of following the calendar and putting into place this year the same programs that commenced at the same time the previous year.

Many volunteer-driven recreation councils were out of control and filled with egotistical, power-hungry, dishonest members who were involved for all the wrong reasons. It was rare to come across an altruistic volunteer; many were involved for bragging rights, a plaque on the wall and, in way too many instances, private gain from council proceeds.

My last assignment was with a council lead by the most corrupt, “me, me, me” volunteers I encountered in my career. The council leaders were used to calling their own shots, bending the rules (when they bothered to abide by them at all) and generally running the show. Permits to use a school building? Who needs a permit? Yeah, I have keys to facilities that I shouldn’t have, but what are you going to do about it? Adults lied to me about the keys they had, they accessed schools when they had no permission to do so, they misused council money, etc., etc., etc.

I knew I had to make a decision about my career when a program volunteer took it upon himself to hold a scheduled outdoor awards ceremony in an elementary school cafeteria when rain dampened his original plans. This could have been handled by submitting a permit to cover inclement weather, but that was apparently too much for the volunteer to handle.

The group left quite a mess, and needless to say, school custodial and cafeteria workers weren’t too happy to see the mess that greeted them on a Monday morning. The school’s principal, fed up with repeated violations by the same group, had the security system’s code changed and didn’t share it with us.

The following weekend, the legitimate gymnastics program set off the alarm, and classes were chaotic because the alarm kept sounding and school security officers responded.

That Monday, I got called into my supervisor’s office and received a written reprimand because the new code had not been passed on to the appropriate people. The fact that I had not been informed about the new code pulled no sway.

The reprimand was the straw that forced me to look at whether I had 14 more years in me to deal with this BS. I decided the answer was no, and I got my doctor to put me out on sick leave.

I burned through all my accumulated sick and vacation time while trying to figure out what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. To say I was depressed and suffering from a loss of identity is an understatement.

I had been wallowing in my self-pity for about a month when a friend called me to tell me of a little orange tabby kitten hanging around an apartment complex near her home. She told me to come look at it; it obviously had been abused and needed a home.

I went to look at this little ball of fur and instantly fell in love. Someone had not been kind to the kitten that I estimated to be about 12 weeks old. The tips of both ears had been cut off, as had about a third of her tail.

Arrangements were made to take her to a vet to check her out and test her for feline leukemia; I had two other cats at home and couldn’t risk taking disease to them.

Many of you know I’m an Olympic freak, and on the drive to the vet I decided I would name the cat, whose gender was unknown at that time, Sydney, in honor of the summer Olympics scheduled for Australia the following summer. Regardless of gender, the name would be appropriate.

She was given a clean bill of health—though she tore the vet up who attempted to draw blood —and she became a loved member of my household.

She did all the things cats do: she chased her tail, she sat in window sills and hunted birds, she chewed plants and flowers, she tossed hairballs, she batted toys under the stove, she drooled over hits of catnip and chased sunbeams. She would curl up in a ray of sunlight and nap, moving only when she became aware that she no longer was bathed in that sunlight. She would stand up, move a bit and go back to sleep.

But most of all, she loved me.

Sydney followed me around the house like any dog would, jumped in my lap when I sat down, sat on the newspaper when I tried to read it, did likewise should I dare pick up a book, greeted me at the door when I came home from work, let me know (quite loudly) when she was hungry and screamed at me when she decided it was treat time. And she came when I called her.

She slept with me every night, and gradually worked her way up to the position of prestige … the pillow. There was a definite pecking order among my cats, and that order wasn’t demonstrated any more clearly than it was in the bed. When she came into my home, she was the newest and youngest of three cats. Luther, the elder of the den, slept up on my pillow with me. Middle child Morgan slept in the crook of my knee, and Syd took the foot of the bed. It’s as if she understood her place and that was OK with her.

When Luther died at the age of 17, Morgan moved up to the pillow and Syd assumed the spot behind my knees. As the life cycle progressed, she earned the pillow and Beijing, who came into the house when Syd was 9, took over the lower half of the bed.

Sydney even gave birth to a litter of kittens, even though she never went outside and both of her “brothers” were neutered.

Once, when Sydney happened to be in heat, a neighborhood male cat tore a hole in a screen in a window that overlooked my back deck and helped himself to my house and to my little girl. 

Sydney was quite vocal and enjoyed conversations in which she seemed to take turns talking (which is more than I can say for many humans). She purred at the drop of a hat, and she drooled with happiness when I held her at the end of a long work day.

It struck me as appropriate that she was as verbal as she was, given my new vocation as a newspaper writer. She loved to sit between me and the keyboard, and I often had to delete her contributions to my written efforts.

To say that she became a vital part of my everyday life doesn’t give enough credit to the loving, beautiful, sweet creature that she was, and the value I placed on her presence in my life.

Sydney turned 16 this past November, and she was beginning to show some signs of an aging cat. She lost a little weight and, based upon water consumption and output, she was probably beginning to suffer from kidney disease. But she was healthy and happy, overall. Great appetite, still running crazy at nighttime, still opining on my decorating tastes by knocking stuff off shelves, still screaming for treats any time she found me by the cabinet that she knew housed them, still sleeping on the pillow, continuing to purr even after she fell asleep.

Thursday morning, I woke up to realize something was very wrong with her. She was huddled in one place, not moving, even when I called her. I picked her up from her perch, held her for a while and then put her down on the floor. She wobbled a bit and fell down. When she made no effort to get up, I picked her up and cradled her in my arms. She gave me a look that said, “I think this is it; just hold me and love me.”

About 10 minutes later, she suffered a major seizure that wracked her little body for about 20 seconds or so. When it ended, she turned her face to mine and looked into my eyes. I stroked her under her chin and watched the life slowly leave her eyes —those beautiful orange-yellow eyes that had loved me for 16 years.

I find it still stunning to even be writing this, just 12 hours or so after her death. To have a beautiful cat, loving life one day and dead the next. I’m assuming she might have had a stroke, which caused the wobbling of her gait, and then the seizure was too much to overcome.

I might not know exactly what killed the sweet girl who was a vital part of my life, but I do know this: she loved me unconditionally and I returned that love.

And right now, that has to be enough.

On St. Patrick's Day, everyone is Irish

                                                                                         photo by Marge Neal


Area residents will be treated to yet another gift from Greater Dundalk’s fabulous network of volunteers this Saturday when the annual St. Patrick’s Day parade kicks off at 11 a.m. from the Logan Village Shopping Center on Dundalk Avenue.

Even Mother Nature is on board for this year's event. On the heels of some of the most brutally cold weather any of us can remember, Saturday’s high temperature is projected to be about 58 degrees. In the past, this parade has been snowed out, rained out and greeted by nasty cold temps. If Saturday’s forecast holds out, look for parade watchers to be in shorts and flip-flops as they welcome this unofficial beacon of spring.

Though Dundalk has a rich Irish heritage, the town’s St. Patrick’s Day parade is an infant in comparison to other community celebrations and events. Dundalk was founded and named by Henry McShane, the founder of the McShane Bell Foundry. The McShanes named a railroad stop that served the foundry Dundalk after Henry McShane’s hometown in Ireland, and the name stuck for the community now known as Dundalk.

"Over 300,000 McShane church bells ring out from the towers of cathedrals, churches, municipal buildings, universities and schools every day, all over the world," according to the foundry's website. "Our bells are produced using time-honored techniques and with state-of-the-art foundry craftsmanship and technologies to produce bronze church bells that are as beautiful to hear as they are to view."

Today, many McShanes still call the Greater Dundalk area home, and the family serves as the Grand Marshal of the procession each year.

Many organizations, including the Dundalk Chamber of Commerce and the Heritage Fair Association, sponsor and organize the parade. The lineup includes pipe bands (of course), honor guards, antique cars and fire apparatus, community groups and organizations, clowns and Irish dancers.

Off all the exciting and fun participants listed in the parade lineup, one category of marchers is glaringly (but pleasantly, in my opinion) missing. In a sure sign that 2015 is not an election year, there is not one single elected leader or wannabe scheduled to march, according to the lineup as printed in this week’s Dundalk Eagle.

That’s an even better reason (again, in my opinion) to make sure you show up and support this great family-oriented event in downtown Dundalk!

Grab your chairs and blankets (just in case) and enjoy the show. It starts at 11 a.m Saturday (March 14). The procession will kick off from the Logan Village Shopping Center, travel up Dundalk Avenue and follow much of the traditional 4th of July parade route, including marching along in front of the Dundalk Village Shopping Center.

Once again, I'm clueless about this year's Oscar-nominated performances

Oscar Sunday has rolled around yet once again and I find myself in the same boat I’m in every February. I haven’t seen a single film nominated in what seems to be a million different categories honoring every aspect of filmmaking, including acting, directing, costume design, cinematography, lighting and music.

I don’t remember the last time I saw a movie in a theater. I want to say I saw "Witness," but I just honestly can’t say. There are always a bunch of movies I want to see, but I never seem to get around to it. One reason is my known habit of falling asleep just minutes into any movie, regardless of how exciting or loud it may be. I’m sorry, but if you put me in a comfortable, cushy seat and turn the lights off, I’m doing what nature intended — I’m taking a nap.

I choose not to pay for my naps.

I published the following column on Columbia Patch three years ago:

Feeling Like an Oscar Failure Yet Once Again

For about the 20th year in a row, I haven’t seen one single film or performance nominated for an Oscar.

No doubt all the behind-the-scenes action for the Oscars ceremony tonight is at full speed as the presentations of perhaps the world's most coveted entertainment awards approach.

Every year, when the Oscar nominations are announced, and I realize that yet once again I have seen none of the nominated films, I vow that next year will be different.

Next year, I tell myself, I will have seen all five of the films nominated for Best Picture.

And year after year, that never happened, and then it became Mission: Impossible when the Academy of Arts and Sciences decided, in an effort to be more inclusive, to nominate 10 movies for Best Picture instead of five.

It's not that there aren't a bunch of movies I want to see — there certainly are. I don't know why, but I just never get around to seeing any of them.

It could be because I'm known to sleep my way through movies.

There's something about the combination of a comfy, reclining, rocking seat and darkness that just compels me to close my eyes.

And the quality of the picture has nothing to do with me snoozing — no one should take it as an insult if I sleep through the product of their hard work, to say nothing of their financial investment.
I fall asleep when watching movies, and that's all there is to it.

And my basic theory is, I'd rather fall asleep in front of the television than at a movie theater where I paid upwards of $15 to catch a nap.

Anyhow, back to this year's Oscars.

I had good intentions, I really did.

I meant to see "The Help."

Ditto "The Artist," "The Descendants," "Extrememly Loud and Incredibly Close," "Moneyball" and "War Horse."

I also wanted to see a couple of other movies — nominated for awards but not the "big" one — including "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo," "Bridesmaids," "Puss in Boots" and "The Iron Lady."
Eclectic tastes, I know.

But today, on Oscar Sunday, I'm 0-10 in the movies I actually wanted to see and 0-9 in Oscar Best Picture nominations (I guess even the Academy couldn't come up with a 10th film worthy of nomination).

But even feeling like a completely-in-the-dark fan, I still look forward to the Oscars production and pull for my favorites, even though I do so for woefully uninformed reasons.

For example, I'm pulling for George Clooney to win for Best Actor in a Leading Role for his performance in "The Descendants," even though my more informed friends tell me he isn't deserving.

I'm also rooting for Meryl Streep to win for Best Actress in a Leading Role for her portrayal of Margaret Thatcher in "The Iron Lady."

So I have a fresh batch of microwave popcorn at the ready and, should the mood strike me and I feel giddy over the results, I even have a bottle of champagne chilled.

Let the Oscars begin!

Stepping back into 2015, I can only say at least I’m consistent. I again have no informed opinions or predictions about this year's winners, but I do have microwave popcorn and chilled champagne ready.
And like many people who watch the Super Bowl just for the commercials, I like awards shows because of the great hosts who here lately steal the show.

I'm not making any promises about seeing more movies next year — who would I be fooling?

                                               
                                                   Neil Patrick Harris hosts the 2015 Oscar ceremony.
                                                   Photo: Facebook screen grab

Thanks to volunteers, there's always something to do in Greater Dundalk

I’m totally amazed at the volunteer efforts that create much of the sense of community in Greater Dundalk. 

For a relatively small, off-the-beaten-path blue-collar community, there are a hell of a lot of area special events that bring people together and put Dundalk on the map for positive reasons.

From major holidays to lesser events, Dundalk has a special event that marks the occasion while bringing pride and purpose to the community that major media outlets like to refer to as “gritty,” “downtrodden,” and “an industrial wasteland.”

Just off the top of my head, I can recall the St. Patrick’s Day parade, the Mega Egga Easter egg hunt, Heritage Fair, the 4th of  July parade and fireworks, Concerts in the Park, Santa in the Park — which has segued into a Christmas festival that includes the Dundalk cookie tour and street business festival — and the annual Christmas parade. Other events, including the annual Arts Festival, the Wise Avenue Volunteer Fire Company's annual Christmas garden, the Dundalk-Pataspco Neck Historical Society’s Christmas garden, community flea markets and festivals, holiday decoration contests, the annual Defenders Day celebration at Fort Howard Park — are all powered by volunteer efforts, hours, sweat and pride.

A volunteer board has spent countless hours attempting to restore Todd’s Inheritance, volunteers spend almost unaccountable hours running activities and programs at area churches and recreation councils, state parks, animal rescue efforts, soup kitchens and any number of other community efforts that build pride, help those a little less off than ourselves and bring attention to the historical significance of our beautiful, largely waterfront area.

And if you're looking to get more involved in your community, all of these organizations and groups are always looking for more members and more volunteers.

I’ve lived in many places in my adult life, and I have to say that the biggest sense of community and sense of belonging has occurred while living in the Greater Dundalk area. But even in our community, which is dissed by the mainstream media, there is a sense of us versus them. People who live in Edgemere take great offense when others refer to them as Dundalk residents. The folks who live in Fort Howard (at the end of North Point Road after leaving Edgemere “proper”) take offense at being called Edgemere residents.

That said, I tend to refer to the Dundalk, St. Helena, Turner Station, North Point, Edgemere, Fort Howard area as Greater Dundalk. When the general media refer to anything bad that happens east of Towson as occurring in Dundalk, we locals shouldn’t be so picky and territorial about our territory.

In short, Greater Dundalk is a large community that looks out for its own. It defends its down-on-its-luck residents, commiserates with all the industrial workers who have lost their jobs and pensions and haven’t come close to replacing former salaries, protects its children, brags about its accomplishments and is honest about its failings.

Regardless of Zip code — I live in Fort Howard’s 20152 — I’m proud to say I live in the Dundalk area and am constantly defending my community to people who have never stepped foot in any of our neighborhoods..

I wasn’t born here and I didn’t grow up here but I’m not embarrassed to say where I live. And no one else in my community should be either.

See you at the St. Patrick’s Day parade. Parking’s better than downtown, and more people will talk to you while you enjoy the procession.

All photos by Marge Neal

Mr. Potato Head Down; Looking Forward to Next Offering

The Wendler brothers of Edgemere are quite the talented duo.

And lucky for the rest of us, they are creative exhibitionists who share their artistic efforts with the world — or at least the North Point peninsula.

For ten years or more, brothers Scott and David Wendler have been building over-the-top holiday displays in the North Point Road yard that separates their houses. These scenes usually pop up as Halloween approaches, and then in true transformer fashion, morph to celebrate a series of holidays through Valentine’s Day — and sometimes later.

I’ve lost track of all their creations, but some are definitely more memorable than others. Back when Martha Stewart was in trouble for her insider stock trading, the guys incorporated a “Camp Cupcake” theme into the display in a nod to the cushy, while-collar penal institution the domestic goddess was calling home at the time.

When the community was up in arms fighting off a liquified natural gas plant proposed for the Sparrows Point area, the brothers built a huge crab pot in their yard. The pot was “powered” by gas that fed into the vessel by way of yellow PVC pipes labeled LNG. The display culminated in a scene of swapped roles, with human body parts hanging out of the pot while a huge crab in an apron supervised the steaming.

More recently, Dave and Scott have had a huge wooden Pez Dispenser overlooking North Point Road. Built to last, the Mr. Potato Head dispenser has greeted community members for more than a year and a half. 

In true Mr. Potato Head fashion, body parts were added and props were put in the character’s hands to mark holidays, including Halloween, Veterans Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s, Valentine’s Day and Memorial Day.

The huge spud held a turkey leg at Thanksgiving, a lighted penguin at Christmas and a champagne glass at New Year’s. The eyes and mouth changed and sunglasses were added on occasion.

I’m slightly biased (in part because of a collection of hundreds of Pez dispensers) but I got a special kick of the monster candy dispenser replica.

Dave Wendler said that, because the dispenser was built so durably, it would enjoy more than the usual time in the yard. Most displays are built to last just a short period of time.

This past fall, the Wendlers built an Area 51 trailer park, complete with community residents visible through the windows of their homes, and a lighted UFO that flew overhead. I missed it, but Dave Wendler told me one of the scenes depicted an abduction by aliens.

One year, in a nod to the unofficial kickoff to summer known as Memorial Day, the brothers put a car in the yard. In Beverly Hillbillies fashion, the top of the car was loaded with every item of beach paraphernalia you can think of—lawn furniture, beach toys, coolers, you name it.

The Pez dispenser is now retired, though part of the Area 51 scene still graces the roadside.

I was sad to see Mr. Potato Head come down, but I look forward to the brothers’ next creation.

And on behalf of the community, I thank them for sharing. No matter how bad a day might be progressing, I always smile as I pass their yard.

Basement Apartment No Longer a Lifelong Benefit

Now that Gov. Larry Hogan has been inaugurated and has hunkered down into the job of running Maryland, new delegates and state senators are seated in the Maryland General Assembly and a new councilman leads Baltimore County’s seventh district for the first time in 16 years, I thought I’d take the time to reflect on a comment made on Facebook by a friend of mine shortly after the election.

The election set many people on their ears — especially political types who didn’t care enough to really get a handle on just how upset many Marylanders are at the state of the state and its local jurisdictions. 

In the sixth legislative district, which covers Dundalk, Edgemere, Fort Howard and parts of Essex, three Republicans won seats that have been occupied by Democrats (no matter how conservative some of those “Democrats” were) for as long as most can remember.

When State Senator Norman Stone (D) announced his retirement after a 50-year career in government, Del. John Olszewski Jr. gave up his seat in the House of Delegates to pursue Stone’s senatorial seat. He received Stone’s endorsement and was touted as the heir apparent to the senate seat.

Olszewski, in what many consider the biggest shocker and upset in local election results, lost in November to the unknown Republican Johnny Salling. If there was collateral damage done by the voters, Olszewski, an intelligent, capable and passionate leader, was certainly one of its victims.

And Todd Crandell, a Republican, defeated Democratic challenger Joe DiCara, who defeated four other candidates in the primary election. Four-term Councilman John Olszewski Sr. chose not to run for a fifth term.

In a sign that the Olszewski name had lost its influence, Councilman Olszewski’s choice to succeed him, Ron Yeatman, finished last among the five primary candidates.

Republican Hogan soundly defeated Lt. Gov. Anthony Brown in what many perceive as a thumbs-down thumping of Gov. Martin O’Malley’s policies.

Which brings me to the comment I’ve been reflecting on since early November.

After the election dust had settled, I posted the following on Facebook: “A new day in Maryland ... time for others to have a chance to right a sinking ship, whether our current officials want to admit it's sinking or not. And those are the thoughts of a lifelong Democrat who voted for a whole bunch of folks with the letter R behind their names.”

My friend Geff responded with “Maryland moved back in with its parents yesterday. It's cheaper that way, and it's a great way to delay taking responsibility.”

Now, I’m not sure what he meant by that, and I admitted to myself that I didn’t get the analogy. But like I said, I got to thinking about his comment and formed my own interpretation.

Maryland (the government) didn’t just move back home with the parents (taxpayers). The mad-as-hell parents tossed the current group of freeloaders out of the free basement apartment and told them to get their own jobs and see what it’s like to try to survive on a real paycheck in this tax-and-spend state.

Government (freeloaders) has been living at home with the parents, so to speak, since elected governing began. Think about it … government earns no honest money of its own; it depends on an allowance from the parents (taxpayers) to pay its way.

The freeloaders user their allowance to wine and dine themselves and their friends on exotic foods and beverages, have smart phones, company cars, drivers, body guards, travel the world on the taxpayer's money and have extremely generous pension plans. With their overly generous paychecks—again provided by taxpayer dollars—they buy season football and baseball tickets, have vacation homes, trade their personal cars in every couple of years and generally live high off the hog, so to speak.

Meanwhile, the parents have to budget every last penny of their ever-decreasing paychecks, If they’re lucky enough to still have one. They’re buying orange-stickered meats at the market (many of us know what that means), driving their 10-year-old cars, wearing their three-year-old (or older) clothing and eating out at the local bar and grill on Tuesday nights for half-price burger night.

When the freeloading kids have blown through their allowance, instead of cutting back, making tough decisions and doing without, they go to their parents and demand —not ask—for more money. These “kids” raise every tax and fee they can think of and keep spending at a rate that is unsustainable.

Metaphorically speaking, the basement dwellers are out on their boats every weekend, vacationing at mountain and beach resorts several times a year and spending like there’s no tomorrow while their parents are using their vacation days to go to the doctor, get the 10-year-old car’s oil changed and taking care of sick grandchildren that they’re raising because the adult children refuse to take responsibility for the children they gave birth to.

While the basement dwellers are burning through their allowance, the parents have been laid off, furloughed and asked to take permanent pay cuts. The parents are unemployed, underemployed and/or haven’t had pay raises in upward of eight years. And while their gross paychecks haven’t changed (unless the amount has gone done) the power of the net result continues to shrink because of increasing taxes, health issuance premiums, fees and other costs. 

As parents are paying more for health insurance, they’re taking a double and triple hit, because the quality of the insurance coverage decreases with the increasing premiums, so it costs more per doctor’s visit, per specialist’s appointment and per prescription.

If these basement dwellers were our biological children, we would laugh in their faces when they ask for their allowance to be increased. But the freeloading government members legislate their allowance, and we have no choice but to pay up.

So here’s what I think about the basement apartment analogy of election results.

Because we have no choice, we will always have freeloaders living off of us. But here’s what happened in November. The mad-as-hell parents said enough is enough and booted out the current occupants. Many Democrats finally turned their backs on the party that has turned its back on the working class and voted for Republican challengers, hoping new faces would bring new ideas and tough budget decisions to the governing process.

I’m hoping the election results are a sign of voters becoming more involved, more informed and more willing to get off the sofa to actually vote. The message was sent to career politicians that they need to remember they were elected to represent a constituency, and were not sent to office to take care of personal priorities and wheel and deal their votes with their buddies.

And Democrats should get the message that they don't have our votes simply because they're Democrats. They need to show some substance, they need to tell us what they will do if elected (as opposed to throwing mud at their opponent) and they need to talk to us more often than once every four years.

Just as good leaders are willing to "go across the aisle" to accomplish what's best for the jurisdiction, so too are voters willing to cross over on election day. Don't take our vote for granted; try earning it.

So the newly elected group of elected leaders need to know this: We’re watching. We’re keeping an extra close eye on you basement dwellers and come four years from now, if you didn’t follow through on your promises and you forget who we were the day after the election, you're out of here. You'll get the boot and the basement apartment will be turned over to the next group.

We can’t eliminate the free ride for our government but we can limit the amount of time the freeloaders spend on our dime.