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.

Stuck in the middle

Here we are, two years removed from the 2016 Rio Olympics and two years away from the Games in Tokyo. For archival purposes, I'm republishing a column about the quirky side of the Olympics I wrote six years ago — gasp — for Dundalk Patch during the London Olympiad. Enjoy!

The Olympics: Off-the-Beaten-Path Coverage

In addition to traditional coverage provided by NBC, many news outlets are offering quirky stories and coverage of the Olympics' underbelly.

By Marge Neal, Patch Staff | Aug 7, 2012 1:40 pm ET | Updated Aug 7, 2012 8:25 pm ET

I have to admit I've been pretty much glued to the television coverage of the London Summer Olympics.

I've been buying print copies of newspapers— something I admit to have basically stopped doing, as embarrassing as that is, given my profession— and I've been surfing the Internet in search of the quirky, the obtuse, the fun, the satirical and the funky of Olympic coverage.

And there's plenty of it out there.

Want to see a gallery of the tattoos of Olympians? Here you go.

Pundits have offered up their casting choices should the life of Michael Phelps ever make it to the big screen (though I think Ellen Burstyn is way too old to play Debbie Phelps and I can't see Ed Harris in the role of Bob Bowman, as suggested).

Speaking of swimming, have you ever wondered if Olympic swimmers pee in the pool? Well, apparently they do' and it seems to be quite a common practice—even Ryan Lochte admits to doing it.

I've learned that the IRS expects a slice of the pie from U.S. Olympic medalists on two different levels.

The United States Olympic Committee gives cash bonuses to medalists — $25,000 for gold, $15,000 for silver and $10,000 for bronze.

The IRS expects Olympians to declare those bonuses as income and pay the appropriate taxes.

Based on a 35-percent tax bracket, a gold medalist could expect an IRS bill of about $8,750 for each top prize earned, according to Americans for Tax Reform. American Olympians would owe about $5,250 on each silver medal won and $3,500 for each bronze.

According to those figures, Phelps will owe $45,500 for the bonuses on his four gold and two silver medals.

I can understand the government expecting taxes to be paid on the cash bonuses, though I also think one could argue the token amounts are just small efforts to reimburse the out-of-pocket expenses families have paid over the years to procure top-notch coaching, to travel to competitions and to feed world-class athletes (have you ever thought of what Phelps' grocery bill is?).

Since the bonuses aren't salary for hours worked, and the athletes don't ask for the payment, one could also argue the payments are unsolicited gifts, all or some of which would be tax-exempt, depending on the amount given.

But here's the IRS demand I don't get. The tax-collecting agency has apparently placed a monetary value on the medals themselves, and expects those to be declared as well.

A gold medal is worth $650, according to CNN, and could cost an athlete about $236 in taxes. Bronze medalists will be happy to learn that they will owe only $2 in taxes on the prizes valued at just $5.

Who knew bronze medalists would be the real winners?

In my Internet travels, I've also learned that live pigeon shooting was a sport in the 1900 Paris Games.

Three hundred pigeons were harmed in that Olympiad, according to the WBAL-TV report, and clay pigeons were used in all subsequent Olympics.

Croquet was also a sport in the Paris Games, although only one paying spectator showed up to watch the "competition."

Over the years, sports have come and gone. Recently, baseball and softball were removed from the roster and golf , which was last featured in the Olympics in 1904, will return to the 2016 Olympiad in Rio de Janiero.

Bowlers are lobbying to get their sport added to the Olympic lineup.

I say if curling can be an Olympic sport, so can bowling.

But here's hoping the shooting of live creatures never makes a comeback!

It's just a flesh wound

Even though I knew it wasn't a good idea, I hit a golf driving range this past weekend. 

I’ve never been a great golfer but what I lack in talent I more than make up for with passion for the game. The true, sweet-spot hits of the ball are few and far between for a golfer of my ability, but they came often enough to keep me returning to the links.

But because of some physical restrictions — minor details like having shoulders that snap, crackle and pop as I walk, hips that don’t pivot and knees that mouth off more than an angry adolescent who has had his electronic devices taken away — it’s been several years since I visited a driving range, let alone actually shot a round.

But it’s that time of year, and I’ve had to listen to many friends as they regaled me with stories of their outings to the links and the subsequent fun and fellowship at the 19th hole. In spite of being barely able to walk, I convinced myself that I could stand at a tee, hit a few balls without falling down and hopefully hit more of them than I missed, all while catching some rays and manufacturing some much-needed vitamin D while I was at it.

It was a stupid move.

On about the fourth ball I hit, which was about the 77th swing I took, my right arm ripped from the shoulder socket and landed farther down the field than the ball I had just hit. Undeterred by a mere flesh wound, I continued my quest — my holy grail, as it were — of finishing the bucket of balls. Waste not, want not, blah, blah, blah.

Somewhere between balls eight and nine, I lost my right leg. I would like to say it landed a good hundred yards away but it just gave up the ghost — dropped from the hip socket and landed on the tee pad with a thud. 

Now with a scratch and a flesh wound, balancing on one leg and swinging the club with one arm became more of a challenge but I persisted. When my left leg followed the example of the right, I conceded I had a problem by choking up a bit on the club as I teetered on my torso.

It ended up being impossible to choke up on the driver enough to prevent pounding the club into the ground. After a very nice Taylor Made driver was but a mangled mess of scrap metal, I allowed as how I might have to call it quits and seek medical attention. After all, I needed the one remaining arm to drive the car.

I’m convinced I will heal in time to give it another go next weekend.

After all, it’s just a flesh wound — or two or three.

Ibuprofen, anyone?

The community is whole again

I’ll cut right to the chase: his name is Chris.

And he’s fine, and so is his dog, Badger.

I recently wrote about an area waterfront park and my penchant for hanging out there fairly often. I wrote of the anonymous community we build with other people who happen to frequent the same places as each other, at roughly the same times on the same days.

These “communities” can exist during our commute times, in local stores and other establishments and, as in this case, my favorite county park.

I shared with you that I hadn’t really defined my park group of peeps as a community until I realized a regular — and his dog — were missing in action.

The man and his beloved cocker spaniel walked the park just about every day between 4 and 5 p.m., so I found it alarming when I realized I hadn’t seen them in a couple of days. And when those couple of days stretched in to a couple of weeks, I was genuinely saddened.

So I am happy to report that Chris and Badger are back in their park routine. Out of respect for the anonymity for the community, I didn’t pry but Chris offered that he is simply walking Badger later in the day than usual. Maybe his work hours changed, maybe it’s simply a summer routine. In any case, it was a great relief to spot them.

As promised, I introduced myself and let him know I was happy to see the duo again and was glad everything was ok with both human and canine. I was worried and let him know that.

Also as promised, here’s the rest of the story. And thanks for caring about the guys as much as I did.

Key Buoy marks the Star-Spangled spot

This past Friday, June 8, the crew of the USCG Cutter Rankin again performed what may be its favorite duty of the year — the dropping of the commemorative Francis Scott Key Buoy at the approximate spot where Key, during the War of 1812, penned what was to become the national anthem.

I was honored to be a guest aboard the Rankin in 2012 when the buoy was taken to the spot near the Francis Scott Key Bridge it occupies from early June through November each year.

The following is the resulting story that was originally published on Dundalk Patch on June 11, 2012:

Francis Scott Key Buoy Marks the Spot

The commemorative buoy on Friday was placed in the approximate spot where Francis Scott Key penned the words to "The Star-Spangled Banner."

By Marge Neal Patch Staff

The Francis Scott Key Memorial Buoy may not aid boaters in a navigational sense.

But the red, white and blue buoy, now firmly anchored near the Francis Scott Key Bridge, does serve to remind boaters of the historical significance of the spot marked by the floating monument—it gently bobs in the approximate spot where Key penned the words to "The Star-Spangled Banner" during the War of 1812.

Traveling across the Key bridge from Dundalk toward Glen Burnie, the buoy is visible over the right side of the span.

Each year, the crew of the U.S. Coast Guard Cutter James Rankin—a buoy tender also known as the Keeper of the Chesapeake Bay—sets the buoy in a ceremony witnessed by guests invited for the occasion.

USCG Cutter Rankin crew members prepare to drop the Francis Scott Key Buoy near the bridge of the same name on June 8, 2012. Photo by Marge Neal

Placing such a buoy was the idea of the late Ben Womer, the longtime president of the Dundalk-Patapsco Neck Historical Society.

The hard work and dedication of Womer and the society were recognized during the ceremony.

The one-of-a-kind marker was taken to its seasonal home on June 8, where it will remain through November, according to the ship's crew.

Weighing about 3,000 pounds, the marker is anchored to an 8,500-pound block of cement that is attached to the buoy with a chain weighing another 3,500 pounds, crew members said.

The portion visible above water is painted to resemble an American flag, with red and white stripes topped with a field of blue with white stars.

The Francis Scott Key Buoy gets its first visitor after being set in place June 8, 2012. Photo by Marge Neal

The buoy is cleaned and gets a fresh coat of paint each spring, according to ship commander Lt. Russell Zuckerman.

Zuckerman's pride in his crew and the mission of the Coast Guard was palpable as he talked about setting the buoy, the customs and courtesies of life on a ship and the camaraderie of "Coasties."

When a bell clanged and an announcement proclaimed the arrival of a retired admiral on board the ship, Zuckerman explained that it is tradition to "ring aboard" visiting and high-ranking Coast Guard officials.

"It's a cool thing to do—it reminds us of our heritage," Zuckerman said. "And it's the right thing to do, it shows respect and gives those people their due."

Also on board the ship for the ceremony were Genna White, Tyler Mink and Tim Ertel, National Park Service rangers assigned to Fort McHenry.

Mink and Ertel, dressed in military uniforms representative of the War of 1812, provided historical interpretation throughout the three-hour cruise of the events of the war and Key's role.

After the colorful buoy was placed in its spot, Mink and Ertel joined a line of crew members that saluted the marker while "Taps" and "The Star-Spangled Banner" were played over the ship's loudspeakers.

The rangers each then volleyed a shot to honor the spot where, by the dawn's early light in September 1814, Key could see that, after a night of battle, Baltimore had been successfully defended and "our flag was still there."

Missing a community member — and his dog

Without quite realizing it, we build peripheral communities in many different slices of our lives. 

Perhaps we begin to recognize certain cars each morning as we commute to work. We are happenstance "time buddies" with people whose names we will never know.

Or perhaps we smile and say hi to people we see routinely at the grocery store because we all happen to shop at 11 on Wednesday mornings.

I have a favorite little waterfront park that I visit many times a week. Some days, I go after work to chill and hang out before I go home. Other days, when I don't work, I go earlier in the day to force myself out of the house.

This park has been a regular destination for me for three or four years. And here, I have developed yet another closed community of anonymous regulars. I don't know any of their names but recognize them by vehicle and park deeds.

There are lovers who meet for lunchtime trysts; freelance renovators who fill the park's Dumpsters with their construction debris; daycare moms who pull up in minivans that dispense clown-car-like amounts of screaming children who all rush to the playground; the mechanics who work on car engines, replace brakes and change oil; the school bus drivers who cool their heels between runs; the delivery drivers who stop to use the portable toilets; and, perhaps most importantly, the regular dog walkers.

I hadn't really given any formal thought to this little community until I realized something was off; someone was missing.

No matter the month, no matter the weather, there is a man who walked an older, buff-colored cocker spaniel every day of the week between 4 and 5 in the afternoon. I'm assuming this was his routine every day; I can attest to him being there the four to five days a week I'm there. The dog was a gentle, slow, lumbering senior who took his sweet time checking out what seemed to be every square inch of the park. His owner patiently walked along behind him, never rushing the pup and allowing him to pursue all those enticing sights and smells, no matter how long it took.

I once told the human he was the most patient dog walker I had ever seen.

And then all of a sudden, I realized I hadn't seen them in a couple of days. Weather never keeps them away so I instantly worried about the man and his canine companion.

I'm even more worried now because I haven't seen them in a couple of weeks. I assume something happened to the dog and pray nothing happened to the man.

We exchanged a few comments over the many months we were park visitors but I don't know his name (though I would recognize his car). It breaks my heart I may never know what happened.

I can only hope that perhaps he's been on vacation and I soon see him and his dog back on their rounds. Worst case scenario, I hope I see him, when he's ready, walking a new pup.

And if I'm lucky enough to see him again, I'm going to formally introduce myself and let him know how worried I was about him.

I sure hope I get that chance. Because whether he realizes it, we're community.