Turning back time

Fifty years ago this school year, 44 rag-tag students, clumped together primarily because of the year they were born and where their parents chose to live, became the latest group of kids to form a community and claim the desks in Room 17 at Mars Estates Elementary School in Essex.

After five years, we were finally at the top of the heap — sixth-graders at last — and to cap it all off, we had the cool teacher that everyone wanted — Ernest C. “Ernie" Nuetzel himself!

Mr. Nuetzel would be the first male classroom teacher for most of us, though there was a group blessed to have him for fifth- and sixth-grades.

That group of kids that moved on to junior high school in 1969 had largely been together since first grade. A few kids transferred in and out of Mars Estates over the years, but the school’s population was relatively stable. And while some kids moved in and out of groups from time to time, most of our sixth-grade class had been together a majority of those six years.

Ernest C. Nuetzel's sixth-grade class at Mars Estates Elementary School, 1968-69. Note the class size of 42 students with  two absent that day, according to Mr. Nuetzel's impeccable class list carefully printed on the back of his copy.

Our parents were mostly blue-collar workers, with many at Bethlehem Steel, General Motors and similar places of employment. We were a down-to-earth bunch, most of whom lived in the nearby brick row home community of Country Ridge or elsewhere along upper Back River Neck Road.

Yesterday, 11 of those kids gathered to celebrate the passing of 50 years since we were those sixth-graders — many of whom, regardless of education later attained, still consider Mr. Nuetzel their all-time favorite teacher.

And again, to cap off the gathering of old friends, we were graced with the attendance of both Ernie and his wife of 57 years, Gail.

Fifty years later, some of those kids gathered to reminisce with teacher Ernie Nuetzel (front row, third from the right) and his wife, Gail (second from right). Photo by Don Wright.

Most of us graduated from Kenwood High School, so we have seen each other over the years at various high school reunions. And connecting on Facebook has really allowed us to keep up day-to-day with both concerns and celebrations. 

But meeting in person with a group of folks with a concentration specifically on our lives as 11-year-olds was special, to say the least. I had not seen several of these folks since high school, and like any group, I was closer to some than others in school.

So to say that it was fun and interesting and fascinating to see those kids after all these years and hear their life stories is an understatement. It was fun to hear stories about life in Mr. Nuetzel’s class that stuck in some folks’ minds but apparently were completely erased from the minds of others.

At one point, later in the afternoon, I sat back and watched folks interact as if they had last seen each other just the previous day. A comfort level settled in and these “kids” laughed, shared stories, hugged, cried, remembered and cared.

Ernie, who retired from Baltimore County Public Schools as an assistant principal, cried or teared up several times as students shared with him the impact he had on their lives. To be certain, and just to provide some balance, he was not perfect in the classroom (find me anyone who is) and most of us have a story about him we’d just as soon forget. But he was a young educator at the time, and the positive anecdotes and life lessons learned in Room 17 far outweigh the negative. 

Many of us have our first memories of Mr. Nuetzel as being the man who, on Nov. 22, 1963 — when we were in first grade — ran around the school yelling the president had been shot.

In the days before universal kindergarten and widespread preschools, we were clean slates with relatively little knowledge of the world outside of our small communities when we started first grade. I remember us as 6-year-olds looking to Mrs. Higgins and asking what a president was. We received out first civics lesson that day.

So on Saturday, Terry, Sharon, Lillie, Debbie E., Tracey, Joann, Debbie W., Carol, Charlie, Mike and I gathered to honor Ernie Nuetzel and reminisce about life in Mars Estates’ Room 17 during the 1968-69 school year. We laughed a lot, remembered a lot, cried a little and learned a lot about the adults we have all become — all while erasing a half-century that somehow has passed since those innocent times.

It was, in a word, magical.

So much for a mental health break

So much for my wished-for mental health break following the conclusion of a too-long, too-acrimonious 2018 election cycle.

Less than 24 hours after the polls closed, the president held a press conference and gloated about his huge victory, because it was all about him. He named all the candidates that won because he campaigned for them (in his mind) and also named all the candidates he believes lost simply because they didn’t embrace his support.

I won’t even go into how he’s clueless as to how his behavior and his policies affect the constituents of those running for reelection and how those constituents vote accordingly, because it’s pretty clear this guy either doesn’t have the intelligence to understand those kinds of nuances, or he’s just so arrogant he doesn’t care.

In any case, what appalled me the most was his behavior at the end of the press conference, when he said he would take questions. This happens so rarely that gasps were audible and practically every arm in the room shot up at the same time.

It’s no secret that 45 hates the press. He claims it’s because of the fake news and lies they spread. In reality, it’s because they are accurately reporting on the fake news he creates and the constant lies he tells. For the first time in this man’s life, he’s being held accountable for his actions by the press — the very bedrock of a free American society — and he doesn’t like it. His solution is to belittle and humiliate journalists, treating them like 5-year-olds as he orders them to sit down, shut up, be quiet and questions their integrity and professionalism.

His treatment yesterday of three reporters in particular should embarrass every citizen of this nation. One reporter asked him about his apparent racism — based on his own behavior and language as well as his production of a fear-mongering political ad that was deemed so racist that several networks refused to air it — and rather than addressing her question like an adult, he turned it back on her and told her what a horrible question to ask, that her very question was racist.

His treatment of CNN’s Jim Acosta, who asked tough questions the president obviously didn’t want to answer, was childish at best and part of his overall diabolical plan to slowly destroy this country at worst. Again, 45 turned it back on the reporter, told him what a rude and terrible person he is, told him to give up the microphone and continued to berate him while a press room aide attempted to physically take back the mic.

With the mic in the hands of NBC’s Peter Alexander, 45 continued to berate Acosta and tell him he treats press secretary Sarah Huckabee Sanders horribly.

When Alexander  attempted to defend Acosta as a well-respected, hard-working reporter, 45 jumped on him as well.

The night ended with the news that the White House had suspended Acosta’s press credentials, effectively shutting him out of WH news briefings and any other events open to the press.

In explaining the suspension of his credential later last night, Sanders falsely accused Acosta of “placing his hands on a young woman.”

Video of the incident shows this just isn’t true. The young woman, who Sanders said was an intern, was the aggressor in trying to retrieve the mic, and at one point reached across Acosta’s body as she tried to grab it. If there was any body contact, she caused it. The reporter even said, “pardon me, ma’am,” as she made aggressive moves to get the microphone.

The unprecedented move of the credential suspension just shows this president has no respect for an open and transparent government and shows once again he is a too-thin-skinned, egotistical bully who has no right sitting at the Resolute Desk.

And get this — this most recent show of a temper tantrum best suited for a petulant toddler came less than 24 hours after he said that perhaps he regretted not being a little softer and more civil in his first two years in office, and that maybe he could do that more in the future.

I guess not.

As my mind churned most of the night and I got little to no sleep, I heard the news at about 3:30 a.m. or so of another mass shooting, this time at a bar in California. Another 12 people, including one law enforcement officer, dead, plus the shooter as well.

I need to emotionally process this latest mass shooting and learn more about it before I can write about it, but I can say this now: I can only hope the timing was coincidental and had nothing to do with our nation’s current political climate.

What a difference a second makes!

Talk about an exciting finish!

The New York City marathon was held today and, for the first time ever, an American man won the wheelchair division.

But I’d like to narrow that down for you. A Maryland man just became the first American to claim that title.

Daniel Romanchuk of Mount Airy gave spectators something to cheer about when he defeated the defending men’s champion, Marcel Hug of Switzerland, by a mere second, according to the New York Times. Romanchuk clocked a winning time of one hour, 36.21 seconds.

Romanchuk has been working his way up the U.S. Paralympic Track and Field Team’s pecking order for several years and was named to the Paralympic team that represented the U.S. in Rio de Janiero in 2016.

Teamusa.org photo

The 20-year-old athlete won his first major marathon less than a month ago when he won the Chicago Marathon’s wheelchair division, edging out Hug again by just a second. Great Britain’s David Weir finished third, eight seconds after Hug.

Romanchuk was born with spina bifida, a condition in which the spinal column doesn't close completely. 

He “has been considered a rising star on the scene for some” and “cemented his place as one of the top racers in the game today with his victory, beating a stacked field,” according to a USOC statement after the Chicago victory.

Romanchuk, a University of Illinois student, finished third at the Boston and London marathons this year, according to a United States Olympic Committee statement.

I had the opportunity to interview and write about Daniel a few years back for the Frederick News-Post when he participated in the 2015 Parapan American Games in Toronto, where he claimed the gold medal in the 5,000-meter race. 

The son of Stephan and Kimberly Romanchuk was homeschooled and first got involved in adaptive sports at the age of 2 with the Bennett Blazers, a program for physically challenged individuals operating out of the Kennedy Krieger Institute in Baltimore. He now helps train young athletes through that program, according to his USOC bio.

Way to go, Daniel!

Where's Big Blue?

And into the dark and depressing abyss of election antics, “fake news,” divisiveness affecting local neighborhoods and global communities alike and other generally negative stuff consuming us on a daily basis, steps the Blue Bear?

Here on our beloved North Point Peninsula, a neighborhood post-Halloween prank has taken on a life of its own and brought smiles to hundreds of faces, if local Facebook conversations are any indication.

"In this world of elections, anger, hostility and gun violence, this silly bear brought me joy," Edgemere resident Nancy Leshko Short wrote in a message to me when I asked her what she knew about this saga. "I know it is ridiculous to think that a huge blue bear can bring joy, but a moment of joy was what it brought."

This story apparently began on Thursday morning, when a large stuffed blue bear was spotted hanging from a beltway mile marker near Cove Road. Comments were made on Facebook about it, with some cryptic, in-the-know comments from folks who implied they knew who did it.

It wasn’t long before photographic proof of the bear hanging out at the mile marker was posted, with several people snapping shots and sharing comments about how the sighting made their day as they made their way to work.

This large stuffed bear was spotted on the Baltimore Beltway late this week. Facebook photo

Then it was reported the bear had made its way to the iconic NPP entrance sign and garden at North Point Road and North Point Boulevard. Some conspiracy theorists claim a different bear camps at the entrance sign, and there do seem to be some differences in the bears when photos are compared.

“No, that’s not the same bear — it’s an imposter,” Rick Rosen said in the social media thread about the travels of the toy.

In any case, it’s good to see community members come together and get a few laughs out of something fun and mindless. 

“Whoever brought the blue bear closer to home, thank you!" Nancy Short wrote on Facebook after spotting the toy at the entrance sign. “I just saw him and it made me laugh! He is directly in the spotlight! Good job!”

A traveling stuffed bear has made its way to the North Point Peninsula entrance sign. Facebook photo

Mike Pecoraro posted that he hopes “nobody touches that sacred bear.”

One resident recommended that someone take the bear to Burnout, a locally famous fall bonfire gathering.

“Is this like Elf on a Shelf?” Darlene Lumpkin asked. “Blue Bear in the Hood?”

Edgemere resident Carolyn Daneker wrote that she saw the folks who put the bear at the community entrance and said “they were laughing and having fun.”

Sharon Faul-Schelhause was appreciative of the prank while also seeming to issue a Where's Waldo-like challenge.

“Whoever this is, you are the greatest!” she wrote. “Thanks for giving this community a smile I wonder where he/she will be next. hmmmmmmm”

I’ll keep you posted with Blue Bear in the Hood spottings.

And I add my heartfelt thanks to those responsible for having the community discussing such a lighthearted topic.

RIP ECT

I didn’t think it would be this difficult.

As a two-year employee of the East County Times, I was the staff rookie. As a hardened journalist, I’m supposed to be able to weather the delivery of bad news, no matter how closely it affects me.

But the news that the paper I’ve worked for since September 2016 would be put to its death with the Nov. 8 issue was a hard pill to swallow. While that news had barely sunk it, we were told yesterday that this Thursday’s issue would be the paper’s swan song.

So today, with every word I typed, every verbal exchange with a cherished colleague, every phone call about one subject that usually ended with an invitation to an event or meeting later in the month ending in a burst of tears, I realized I should be in the tissue business instead of the news business.

We all know journalism is struggling. It has struggled financially since the real rooting of online content delivery and it suffered all the more during the Great Recession, with the financial collapse of the housing, banking and automotive industries — which just so happened to be newspapers’ biggest advertisers.

The news business never fully recovered from the recession, and now we have to look over our shoulders and worry about every stranger who comes through the front door, thanks to a president who has declared us all the collective enemy of the people and encourages violence and spilling blood as accepted ways of handling differences and grievances.

Community newspapers such as the East County Times provide a regular voice to communities that are not routinely covered by bigger news outlets. Sure, camera crews will descend upon the community when a murder-suicide occurs, or when a local wins an Olympic gold medal.

But who’s there to cover the creation of a local after-school sewing club and the life lessons it will provide? The dedicated volunteers who take time away from families and demanding jobs to help clean the local river or creek? The PTA fundraiser, the church food pantry, the high school basketball team, the new proposed apartment complex that residents oppose?

It's rather fitting that my final ECT story is about local efforts to preserve a bit of Bethlehem Steel history. I kept this proof page as my own effort in preserving a little bit of local journalism history.                                                                       Photo by Marge Neal

That’s right — the community weekly. Reporters who toil in obscurity, spending their lives in community meetings, photographing special events, taking a late night call on their personal cell phone because the interview is needed to provide a well-balanced story and in general doing everything they have to to produce work of which they can be proud. All for a paycheck that barely covers basic living costs, rarely stretches from one pay day to the next and hasn’t contained a raise in too many years to count.

And you know what? None of that matters because we love what we do so much and we take pride in providing that voice to our community. Sometimes it’s the community where we grew up; sometimes it’s a community we adopt and come to love as if it were our hometown.

So at about 2 p.m. this afternoon, a small but mighty talented staff from writers to designers, paginators and advertising executives, collectively pushed the button that sent a final issue of the East County Times winging off to the printer. More than 31,000 copies of the paper will hit the streets on Thursday, with news of our demise on the front page, and the inside filled with all the usual features readers have come to depend on, including news about a local bank merger, an effort to preserve some lamp posts that once stood sentry on the Bethlehem Steel Corp.’s Sparrows Point plant and plenty of informative election coverage. There are the usual obituaries honoring the lives of departed locals, the police news page and the calendar of events. And more.

News that everyone looks forward to receiving, and that few people understand how difficult it is to provide that service free of charge. As it turns out, it became impossible.

I sure hope someone notices when the Nov. 8 issue — which my colleague Patrick Taylor and I had been looking forward to for more than a year because of election night coverage — does not hit the streets.

Old Dominion Kindness

I admit to being emotionally battered and bruised while on my way to work this morning.

I spent Thursday first worrying and fretting about the latest mechanical catastrophe involving my aging car, and then getting way too emotionally involved in the U.S. Senate hearing regarding the Supreme Court nominee.

The world was feeling heavy indeed as I attempted to merge onto the Baltimore Beltway at my usual point of entry at North Point Boulevard. The view in my driver’s-side mirror told me an unusual amount of traffic was coming and I was running out of merge area.

I admit to being one of those people who actually yields to oncoming traffic when facing a yield sign, instead of playing chicken with potentially fatal objects hurdling at me at speeds of 60 miles an hour and faster. I also do not subscribe to the “I’m coming over, knowing you’ll either slow down or move over” theory of driving.

I play by the rules, wait my turn and merge and/or change lanes when and only when it’s safe to do so.

Just when I thought I’d have to come to a complete stop or ease onto the shoulder, the 18-wheeler in the right lane changed lanes to allow me over. I waved, knowing he probably didn’t see me, as I merged.

The trucker driving the Old Dominion Freight truck immediately put on his turn signal to return to the lane he had been in, so I flashed my headlights and waved again. He moved over, flashed his lights twice as witnessed by his rear lights blinking on and off twice, in acknowledgment of my gesture, and we both continued our journeys.

A small gesture, but it made my day. In a world that seems to grow angrier and more hateful by the day, the trucker’s act of kindness lifted a bit of the weight of that hateful world from my shoulders.

'Two wild and brawny guys'

Journalism is a tough business these days — with corporate buyouts and layoffs, salaries that barely keep up with basic living expenses and the President of the United States declaring journalists the “enemy of the people” as just a few examples of how the career choice leaves a little to be desired.

But community journalism is often the very heartbeat of small town America, and a source of pride and fun for both reader and writer.

Take “two wild and brawny men,” for example.

I recently wrote an article for the East County Times about a local philanthropic organization that needed to find a new free home — and quickly. A tall order, indeed.

Just a couple of weeks after writing that article, I followed up with the news that lifelong Dundalk resident Irene Spatafore had found a new home for Angels Supporting Your Troops Inc. — a care package project for troops serving in war zones — and she was in need of “some brawn” to help her move the organization’s stuff.

She found brawny volunteers in the form of Bob Runk and Dennis Angst, two members of Wells-McComas VFW Post 2678 in Edgemere. The two guys helped her do some cleaning and preparing at the new place and then helped moved supplies, equipment and furniture from the old place to the new.

On a recent visit to the VFW, Dennis, who I’ve met on several previous occasions, introduced me to fellow brawny man Bob. We were all getting a few chuckles out of the brawny reference, including Bob’s adaptive use of comedian Steve Martin’s famous line of “We are two wild and crazy guys.” Bob substituted brawny for crazy and the laughs started anew.

Two wild and brawny guys: Bob Runk (left) and Dennis Angst. Photo by Marge Neal

Just then, a woman walked by and heard the tail end of the conversation and laughed. She looked at me and said, “Do you know how big his head is because it’s in the paper about him being brawny?” 

I laughed and Cindy — it turns out she’s Bob’s girlfriend — moved on.

Print journalists usually have the luxury of moving around town incognito because our mugs aren’t plastered all over television screens or radio websites. I giggled and said to Dennis and Bob, “She doesn’t know I’m the one who wrote the article, does she?”

The guys eventually told her who I was and she came down to chat with me some more. When I took a picture of the guys and said I might get a blog post out of “two wild and brawny guys,” Cindy said, “Oh, Lord, his head will just get bigger.”

But she asked me the name of my blog and how to find it online, and I know that, in the big picture, she’ll enjoy reading it and will be proud of her brawny man, no matter how loudly she complains about “how big his head will get.”

Community journalism.

There’s nothing like it.

And did I tell you that Brawny Bob bought me a beer?

Yep. Nothing like it.