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.

Meet Baltimore's Other Elite Swimmers

The Baltimore metropolitan area has long been known for being a hotbed of swimming. More than a few Olympic medalists have trained in Maryland pools — Beth Botsford, Anita Nall, Theresa Andrews and some guy named Michael Phelps come immediately to mind — and the Free State is also known for being home to world class swim coaches (Murray Stephens, Bob Bowman) who have been largely responsible for nurturing and training those athletes.

But there’s another, even more impressive group of swimmers from the Baltimore area competing in pools across the globe, although they tend to get much less attention.

The United States Olympic Committee this week named its Paralympic National Team. Of 14 swimmers named to the A Team, four are from the Baltimore area: Jessica Long, Rebecca Meyers, Ian Silverman and Brad Snyder.

If you do the math, 28 percent of the team is from Baltimore. Impressive, to say the least.

I’ve been following Jessica Long since she was 11, when she was a member of the Dundalk-Eastfield Swim Club, which called the CCBC-Dundalk campus pool home. As a reporter for the Dundalk Eagle, I got a tip about this young athlete from Bruce Mills, who was at the time the president of the Dundalk-Eastfield Recreation Council. I made arrangements to meet her at a Saturday morning club practice and I became one of her earliest and most enthusiastic fans.

Jessica, who is a double, below-the-knee amputee, never beat any of her able-bodied teammates while swimming for the DESC. Her main competitor was the race clock, and she consistently lowered her race times while honing her technique and learning different strokes.

It didn’t take long for the young swimmer to come to the attention of Paralympic swimming organizers. As a 12-year-old, she was named to the U.S Paralympic swim team that competed in the Paralympics in Athens, Greece, in 2004. She was the only one not surprised when she came home with three gold medals.

Since that debut on the world stage — er, pool — she has collected more medals and world records than she can track and has won just about every major award there is, including the James E. Sullivan Award (presented to the nation’s top amateur athlete), the 2006 Disabled Swimmer of the Year (presented by Swimming World magazine), the 2006 U.S. Olympic Committee Paralympian of the Year Award, the 2011-12 Paralympic Sports Woman of the Year award (named by the USOC) and a couple of ESPY awards.

Winning the Sullivan award puts Jessica in good company. Recent winners have included Michael Phelps, J.J. Riddick, Tim Tebow, Michelle Kwan, Peyton Manning and Dan Jansen. Since its 1930 inception, the award has been given to athletes who were the household names of their day, including tennis player Don Budge, decathlete Bob Mathias, figure skater Dick Button, divers Sammy Lee and Patricia McCormick and runners Rafer Johnson and Wilma Rudolph.

Jessica, who grew up in Middle River, is the most decorated female athlete with 17 Paralympic medals (including 12 golds), according to a statement from the USOC. She has competed in the Paralympics in Athens, Beijing and London, and now has her eye on the 2016 games in Rio de Janeiro.

Rebecca Meyers, a resident of Timonium, won two medals (one silver and one bronze) at the London Paralympics, and  finished fifth in the 50m freestyle. She also holds two world records, according to the Team USA website.

Brad Snyder, who lost his sight to an IED while serving in Afghanistan, won three medals at the London Paralympics. The U.S. Naval Academy graduate competes in six events, including the 100m and 400m freestyle, 100m butterfly and the 200m individual medley.

In London, he won gold medals in the 100m and 400m freestyle races and silver in the 50m freestyle.

Ian Silverman won a gold medal in the 400m freestyle in London and has an impressive collection of medals from national and world championships, according to the Team USA website. He holds Paralympic world and American records in 15 events. 

He was named the 2013 Tricia L. Zorn Disability Swimmer of the Year; received Scholastic All-American recognition for high school swimming  for the 2013-14 season; was a member of the All-Maryland team from 2010-2014; and was the Maryland Swimming Swimmer of the Year in 2006 and 2009 through 2013, according to the website.

Paralympians compete in disability classifications that ensure the athletes compete against others with similar disabilities.

While these athletes train as long and hard as their able-bodied counterparts, they mostly  perform in obscurity. The Paralympics get just a fraction of the airtime that the Olympics get, though NBC is working to provide more coverage of the Paralympics.

The national swim team competes in many national meets and well as international meets and world championships, and top Paralympians have the opportunity to live and train at USOC training complexes. 

To keep an eye on the accomplishments of this stellar group of Baltimore area athletes, check out the Paralympics website.

Let’s do our part to bring attention to these athletes and do some bragging about Baltimore's other hotbed of swimming.

Jessica Long competes in the Women’s 100m Breaststroke - SB7 Heat on London Games 2012 © • Getty Images