How family holiday traditions get their start

http://www.limaohio.com/articles/displays_32449___article.html/display_one.html

David Trinko: How family holiday traditions get their start

It started like any great family holiday tradition should. No one wanted to do it but Mom, and everyone was going to go. Most of all, we were going to enjoy it, whether we liked it or not.

With that in mind, the family packed into the minivan, or "The Weekender" as I like to call it, for a tour of the various Christmas lights displays near our home.

It reminded me of trips we took as kids, as Mom and Dad packed the seven of us into the ugly green van. We'd drive around nicer neighborhoods in nearby places, pointing out the fabulous and not-so-fabulous displays people placed in their yards.

No one seemed particularly excited about those trips at first. By the end of the trip, everyone felt a little more connected as a family. Some of us even dared to consider it fun.

We ran into those same issues with our own clan. If it weren't for the draw of "Bee Movie" on DVD, I'm not sure anyone would've piled into the back of The Weekender. And I convinced myself it was a worthy journalistic experience, snapping pictures and writing down addresses for our Christmas lights map on LimaOhio.com.

There's something special about seeing the elaborate displays some people put out in their yards to signify their fondness for this time of year.

Everyone has a favorite type. My wife loves the grand but simple displays, which honor the belief that less is more without actually using less. Our 7-year-old likes over-the-top displays with plenty of motion. And our 1-year-old and newborn girls like anything that won't wake them up.

As for me, I like tacky. I like over-the-top, spent-10-hours-setting-it-up, running-a-$1,000-electricity-bill displays.

It's probably personal envy. I don't have the patience or the creativity to really put up an impressive display. That, and the influence of Mrs. Trinko, explains our simple garland with white lights on our porch roof.

The 7-year-old really fought having fun on this trip, though. We wiggled along country roads with only kilowatt-fueled stars to guide us. When we found a nifty spot, we looked back at her and asked what she thought. She'd look down from her movie and tell us each display was "OK."

But the longer we drove around, the more enthusiastic that "OK" sounded. She even looked excited when we found one country display that certainly must double as a landing strip during December. By the time we headed home, she pointed out cool displays before we noticed them.

As we pulled into our driveway, I heard her shrill voice pop up from the back of the van.

"I think I like this one the best," she said.

Looking at our home and its modest display, I couldn't help but smile. Truly, our display was the best she saw. After all, it was ours, and it was home.

Then I realized she was talking about our neighbor's multicolored spectacle.

And so starts another holiday tradition: Dad assuming we're having a sentimental moment then realizing he misunderstood.

Oh my goodness! A blog entry that isn't a column

It's shocking, I know, but I'm actually writing a blog entry that didn't first appear in The Lima News as my once-a-month column.
I'm finding myself with a couple days away from work, and I'm finding life at home by myself to be peaceful... for the first three hours. Then it turns boring.
It's hard to put too much effort into anything online right now, as the real-life crises of home are a distraction. It's like watching the "next week" reel at the end of an old Batman cartoon:
- Will Lissie do her math homework without a major meltdown?
- Will Jill get through the night without punching someone? [KAPOW!]
- Can Anna possibly remain happy for more than 45 minutes at a time?
Find out this and more next week...

Web site captures war memories

Web site captures war memories

http://www.limaohio.com/articles/war_30673___article.html/site_web.html

Travis Buettner lost his grandfather, Ernest Wolke, in April. But on a Web site, Wolke's stories from World War II and the Korean War live on forever.

And it's all because he took the time to ask his grandfather about his military service. Now the Delphos native helps others share their war stories on a Web site, MyWarHistory.com, before they're lost forever.

"A few years ago, my grandfather had a heart attack and a few other things happened to him. He eventually got a lot better," said Buettner, a 30-year-old computer programmer living near Columbus. "I thought, ‘Now is the time for me to save his story for future generations.' Especially for younger kids in our family, there was no appreciation of what he did for this country."

On the Web site, there's a video of Wolke flipping through a scrapbook, telling a story of a daring sprint across an open field.

"You could hear them shooting at us, but you kept right on running. You couldn't stop," Wolke says in the video. "There was no place to hide. You ran until you got to the edge of town."

It's a piece of first-person history that easily could've been lost.

The sad truth is World War II veterans from the United States are dying rapidly, with more than 1,000 passing away each day, according to Department of Veterans Affairs estimates. Fewer than 2.5 million veterans remain of the 16 million who came home alive after the war ended. One prediction shows all World War II veterans gone by 2020.

That made telling the story of Wolke, who was drafted into the U.S. Army out of Kalida in 1944 and later enlisted in the U.S. Navy in 1950, that much more important to tell. Buettner took great pride in showing his grandfather the finished project before Wolke's death.

"There was nothing more rewarding than completing that project before he couldn't share his information," Buettner said. "After a while, he told stories his own sons had never heard. They'd never bothered to ask."

I'm envious of Buettner, who had the foresight to write things down and capture them on video for his own memories. I vaguely recall the stories of my grandfather, Ed Trinko, with the Navy's Seabees in World War II. They're limited to stories of ripping apart cigarette butts to leave no trace and his regrets of that anchor tattoo on his arm, though. Because he's been gone for more than a decade now, I'll never have the chance to ask him for more details.

Buettner's project really started back in college at Bowling Green State University. For a class, he completed a 30-minute interview with Wolke. It was several years later before Buettner realized he could combine his two loves - history and computer programming - into one place, the Web site.

Buettner authored all 20 profiles currently on MyWarHistory.com. More than detailing military service, they show a slice of life for these brave men and women not often seen or heard. A profile of Buettner's other grandfather, Thomas Buettner, includes tales of crawling under sniper fire to get two bottles of wine each. Another one of the stories of Thomas Buettner, who still lives near Delphos, talks of looking out Hitler's huge picture window at the Eagle's Nest.

Perhaps more interesting than these stories is watching the men, now mostly in their 80s, telling the stories themselves in videos on the site.

Buettner hopes the Web site will get more participation with soldiers of all generations.

Everyone has a story to tell, even if he must be prodded to tell it. He said he noticed a reluctance to tell the stories at first.

"I remember my one grandfather saying, ‘I've spent most of the last 60 years trying to forget about all of it,'" Buettner said. "Here I am trying to get him to talk about it."

The alternative is losing those stories forever.

"Ultimately my goal would be to inspire a few people to write about their service heroes, as I term them, so their stories won't be lost forever," Buettner said.

Where’s the beef? Campaign ads tell us nothing

Where’s the beef? Campaign ads tell us nothing

http://www.limaohio.com/articles/ads_29388___article.html/based_policies.html

Candidates hate it when you say you vote for them because they're the lesser of two evils.

But based on what we've seen on TV lately, it's hard to think you have any choice but evil.

One side flings a little mud about the celebrity of the other candidate. The other side rakes some muck about how the other guy will maintain the status quo. And it devolves from there.

After more than 225 years of democracy in this country, is this really the best we can do?

It's implausible that anyone could really make an informed decision based on what the candidates put forth. While there are a few ads out there spelling out beliefs and policies, those seem to find air time very late at night, when most people are dreaming more than thinking.

What's wrong with explaining your stance on Iraq? What's the trouble in helping us understand your health care policies? Is it so wrong to tell us how you'd lead us out of the present economic upheaval?

No, instead we get to hear name-calling and far-fetched efforts to link people together.
If we're to trust the ads, Barack Obama and William Ayers, one of the "Weather Underground" bombers from the 1970s, must dine together regularly to talk about how much they hate America.

If we believe everything we see on TV, John McCain and President Bush must sit around talking about policies that will help businesses and punish the little guy.

Anytime the ads bring up a vote on a particular issue, you know there must have been some pork barrel project or some extralegal language thrown in to make it objectionable.

Both campaigns will blame the media for shifting the focus away from their issues. The reality is the campaigns pay for these advertisements, which they've carefully crafted to the point they don't say anything useful at all.

It's daunting to imagine a world in which we make all of our decisions based on negative advertising.

The cola wars would definitely change if things went negative:

Pepsi: "Do you really want to gulp a soft drink that once had cocaine in it? How can you be so sure they won't put it in there again?"

Coca-Cola: "The government of India banned the import of Pepsi from 1970 to 1988. Do the folks in New Delhi know something you don't?"

It would alter the quest for the best paper towels:

Brawny: "Do you want to leave the job to Bounty's so-called ‘quicker picker-upper,' or do you want it done right?"

Bounty: "Come on. Does the Brawny guy really look like he's done any housework?"

We would roll our eyes. It's callous. It's tasteless. And it has no place in our world (except in this column to make my point).

We're intelligent beings, and we like being treated intelligently. Give us the facts, and we'll figure out what we think.

It's time the campaigns start giving us the credit we're due and the facts we need. Tell us about what you stand for, not what you stand against. Tell us what makes you the right man for the job, not what makes him the wrong one. Tell us what matters to you and how you'll do it.

I'm David Trinko, and I approved this message.

Buckeyes vs. Bobcats

I took a break from our personal traumas Saturday to go to Columbus for the Ohio State vs. Ohio University football game. My wife and I got tickets to the game long before any of our Anna issues came about.
Jessica wasn't up for making the trip so far away from the hospital, so I brought Lissie instead. She had a blast. My proudest moment as a football father and a well-known cheapskate was suggesting after the halftime show that we walk around the stadium and look at the store. She said she wanted to stay in her seat and watch the game, but it was all right if I went. Obviously with a 7-year-old, I passed on that.
As for the game, I was in the awkward position of being an Ohio alum and an Ohio State fan. I tried to express that with a red and white Ohio State T-shirt and a black and green Ohio ballcap. One guy sitting next to me asked about it when he mentioned he couldn't boo OU when the Bobcats came on the field.
My answer was this: I got a degree from Ohio University, but I got a national championship in football from Ohio State.
I ended up cheering for both teams. And while I enjoyed OU holding the lead into the fourth quarter and giving the Buckeyes a good scare, I'm happy Ohio State won. I can't imagine the Buckeyes would've remained in the national championship race with a loss to a MAC team, and I don't think that one win would've propelled the Bobcats into the national title hunt, especially with the week 1 loss to Wyoming.

Hand of God touches us

Column in Tuesday's The Lima News

A miracle happened last week, right here in Lima. I witnessed this miracle, and yet for some reason I'm reluctant to share it.
Perhaps it's the fear of being labeled as a fanatic. It could be the worry of exposing one of the inner truths that makes me tick. But sometimes you see something so incredible that, no matter what other people think, you have to tell them about it.
I saw the hand of God touch my newborn daughter and change her life immediately.
My loving wife delivered Anna last Wednesday night, about three weeks earlier than we'd expected. Anna immediately began having respiratory problems, which we later learned were from a disease called Persistent Pulmonary Hypertension of the Newborn. It's a disease that hits about 3 percent of premature babies, where the child essentially wants to live as if she were still in the womb instead of adapting to the outside world.
She spent most of Thursday in a stable condition as the staff at the hospital figured out what was wrong. Then Friday came, and she slowly took a turn for the worse. She began rejecting help from the ventilator.
A priest from our church visited with my wife as I grabbed lunch with some visitors. During the time I was out of the room, things went downhill quickly for Anna, and most of the staff at the special care nursery seemed focused on keeping our little bundle of joy alive. A frantic call from my wife brought me back to the nursery.
Someone suggested baptizing Anna on the spot. We agreed, and our parish priest performed the baptism in that nursery. He then gave her another sacrament, the anointing of the sick.
I didn't know it at the time, but that must have been when the miracle happened. After two days of consistently bad news, things turned. Anna began to accept the help of the ventilator. Over the next several days, most of the news has been good.
She still needs some more little miracles before we'll bring her home. She's still very sick, the doctors tell us. But I carry the words of the priest with me like a life preserver: “You have to have hope and courage.” God brings me both of them, and I'm proud Anna and the rest of the family accept the Lord's help too.
The doctor handling Anna's case noticed the rosary beads my wife carries and confided in us that it truly helped Anna's cause. Hearing him say that reaffirmed my faith during a difficult time for our family.
I wasn't planning on writing about Anna's miracle in a column. I intended to only share this story with family and close friends. Then I heard a reading during Sunday Mass from Jeremiah: “I say to myself, I will not mention him, I will speak in his name no more. But then it becomes like fire burning in my heart, imprisoned in my bones; I grow weary holding it in, I cannot endure it.”
I have to tell people about this wondrous miracle. I can't hold it in anymore. It's too incredible not to share.

Our latest efforts

Jessica gave birth to our newest daughter, Anna Marie Trinko, at 8:10 p.m. Wednesday, Aug. 27, 2008. She's about three weeks premature, and she's requiring some extra special attention at the hospital until she masters the art of breathing.

If you'd like updates on her condition, my wife and I have taken advantage of the hospital's free Wi Fi, our laptop and endless amounts of free time between our visits to the Special Care Nursery to create a blog updating her progress. Help yourself, and please keep us in your prayers: http://annamarietrinko.blogspot.com/

Column: Anonymous letter raises issues about credibility

http://www.limaohio.com/news/crish_27411___article.html/story_anonymous.html

There wasn't a story in The Lima News on Tuesday about someone questioning whether sheriff candidate Sam Crish should be eligible to run.
You're not likely to see one in this newspaper, either. We looked into it, and we didn't find anything wrong. From looking at personnel records and talking to people involved, Crish was a resident at the Bellefontaine Road address he claimed as his home on election paperwork.
You might wonder why I'm telling you about a complete and total non-story in The Lima News. Based on some of the calls I handled Tuesday, we'd dropped the most important story in Lima's history.
It all comes down to an anonymous call, an anonymous letter and a little but extremely important thing called credibility.
The people who called Tuesday heard about an anonymous four-page letter our newspaper and several other media outlets received Monday. The letter questioned if Crish really lived at the home address he used on his candidacy form, citing an Ohio law that requires a sheriff candidate live in the county for at least one year prior to the qualification date.
The story really started for us nearly a month ago, when an anonymous caller asked a similar question. So we did what we do with any accusation like this: We looked into it.
Reporter Greg Sowinski looked over the sheriff's personnel files of Crish and some other officers who allegedly lived in the house last January. He spent more than three hours looking through them, comparing dates and residences.
He found nothing to suggest Crish didn't live there last January. Then he talked to the people involved. Those stories all clicked, too. Crish used to live near Indian Lake, then he moved to a house on Bellefontaine Avenue.
We talked about it and decided it was a non-story, a journalism cliché for something that's just not that interesting. A guy living where he says he does is about as exciting a story as a guy who pours milk on his cereal every morning.
We take our credibility extremely seriously. Each of our reporters does his or her best to be certain everything they print is true, to the best of their knowledge. Given that we'd already looked into the incident and found no merit, even repeating accusations in that anonymous letter would do nothing to serve the common good.
It's the anonymous nature of the letter that concerns me. I read several anonymous letters each month and receive a handful of anonymous calls each week, asking us to look into things.
After nearly 15 years as a professional journalist, I've noticed something: Anonymous sources aren't as reliable as people willing to put their names by their words.
Quite simply, most of these accusations end up being unfounded hearsay. It's often the result of rumors and innuendo, where no one bothered to check the authenticity of the information they've repeated.
You'll notice my name and picture is on this column. I stand by it. The stories we publish from our local reporters include their names. They stand by their work. Even our editorial page has the names of the men who helped craft that opinion.
Perhaps you don't believe anything you see with my name on it. That's your right, but at least you know who wrote it.
It's a cornerstone of good journalism. You can not only evaluate whether you believe something based on your experiences with that reporter, you can also judge whether you believe it based on who they quoted.
This Crish issue came from an anonymous letter that had incorrect statements in it. I don't know the motivation of the writer, nor can I ask since I have no name, phone number or even e-mail address. I do know the goal can't be to get Crish removed from the ballot, as the deadline to protest an independent candidate's petition was May 30.
As a reporter, I never used a source unless I felt confident in their knowledge about the story. Now as an editor, I won't allow our reporters to do so.
You should expect that much out of a news-gathering organization. You should be able to trust us.

Peace of mind from inside a bathroom stall

http://www.limaohio.com/articles/people_25777___article.html/restroom_time.html

Don't tell anyone, but I started writing this column from my bathroom.
I spend a lot of time in the restroom these days, and it's probably not why you think.
Lest anyone worry about my colon's health, it's just fine. The waterworks are just fine too. But I've found something while using the facilities I never noticed before.
Silence.
I find that as much as I like being a husband, a dad and a boss, sometimes you just miss that golden quiet that constantly surrounds you when you're younger.
It's harder and harder to take a deep breath and relax without some kind of interruption. At my desk at work or on the couch at home, there's always that threat of someone needing me to drop everything and come running for the crisis of the day.
That's the beauty of the bathroom. It's my fortress of solitude. No one would dare bother me in here.
The Fonz from "Happy Days" liked to ask people to step into his office, the men's restroom at Al's Diner. I, on the other hand, like people to step away from mine. I can't make a jukebox go by bumping it with my fist, either.
I always feel uncomfortable when people want to chat when they see me in the restroom at work. I've adopted this sanitary code: I try not to talk to anyone until we're both washing our hands.
Perhaps my joy at hiding in a silent stall is an indictment of how accessible people are nowadays.
If I'm within 10 feet of my desk, the ring of my phone or ding of my e-mail draw me back, no matter why I walk away.
If I'm within two floors of our children, the scream of a baby or pout of a first-grader push me into action, no matter how inconsequential her request seems.
That's the draw of the commode. It's out of hearing range from most other distractions. Most of the time, I wouldn't dare answer my cell phone from a seated position in that room.
And, most wonderfully, people feel uncomfortable interrupting your time inside a restroom. Apparently most assume you're doing more than taking a breather.
I hadn't realized how much time I spent in the downstairs bathroom of our home until our 6-year-old asked my wife if she could use "Daddy's bathroom." Apparently those five-minute visits made it mine. Perhaps she chalks it up to squatter's rights.
I love the people in my life dearly, but sometimes you just need a couple of minutes to yourself. Sometimes I'll pad out a visit to finish reading an interesting article. Sometimes I'll start writing something. Or perhaps it's just for a relaxing game of solitaire on the cell phone.
Some people solve their problems over a night's rest. I solve mine over five minutes in a restroom.
I'm not sure whoever decided the restroom was for the bladder and intestines only, anyway. I'll take my rest anyway I can get it - even if it seems like I'm flushing my free time down the toilet.

I’m not sorry, it’s going to be a girl

http://www.limaohio.com/articles/little_25122___article.html/someone_girl.html
July 7, 2008 - 6:44PM
David Trinko

They look back at you as if you'd just delivered awful news. Still, they don't want to acknowledge they think it's bad news.

"Oh, well, sorry to hear that," they'll say. "You can always try again. It'll happen for you someday."

What makes it such an awkward conversation is there's no bad news. It's good news. This is what I hear when I tell people my wife's expecting another little girl.

If you're keeping score at home, the expected delivery in September will make it three little girls, no little boys at the Trinko home. And that "no little boys" part is what leaves well-intentioned family, friends and occasional strangers stammering.

To listen to them, you'd think someone was diagnosed with something heart-wrenching ... perhaps cancer, emphysema or Alzheimer's. Instead, someone's been diagnosed with two X chromosomes.

There's a stigma in the world that you can't be a happy father unless you play catch with your boy. It's impossible to be a proud papa unless someone with your name on the back of his jersey throws the winning touchdown pass. Your family's not complete unless there's someone to pass on the family name for another generation.

That stigma is ridiculous. It's also incredibly sexist to assume that having another girl in your family is some type of letdown in life.

Don't get me wrong; I'm not opposed to having boys. I wouldn't mind someone else to blame if there's a misfire on a toilet seat. I wouldn't mind saddling him for life with a last name that everyone will ask him to spell, only to hear, "Oh, just like it sounds."

I wouldn't mind a little more testosterone in our home. It's difficult being the only guy in the house, aside from our dog, who was fixed and thus only counts as half a male. A little more cheering at the TV and a little less crying wouldn't hurt my feelings.

But that's not what drives you as a father. When the woman at the obstetrician's office told us our next child was a girl, my first question said everything: "Is she healthy?"

And, yes, she is so far, which forecasts another 18 years of dance performances and playing Barbies for me.

But it doesn't mean I won't be able to enjoy watching her play in sporting events or dominating a science fair. It doesn't mean she won't be able to read, write, joke or play just the same as any boy would.

I also chuckle to myself when I hear people ask my wife if she's going to "try again to give him a boy."

It's hard not to imagine reviving a scene from "Lion King," lifting baby Simba high above Pride Rock to present him to the adoring masses. Perhaps in my case, I'd lift a baby boy high above my head in the newsroom, proclaiming him the Junior Senior Content Editor.

I also don't believe my wife and I ever discussed plans to "give her a girl." Near as I can tell, we share our children.

Besides, it's my own "fault," if you must assign fault, that it'll be a girl. Last I checked, the guy provides the X or Y chromosome. Apparently my Y's are just too wild and free to hit their targets.

I don't know that we'll be aiming for any more children in our future. We have three lovely bedrooms in the house for the children. As someone who shared a room with an older sibling until I was 15, I'd rather not put my children through that kind of torture.

I'll be the first to admit I'm seriously outnumbered and always will be. As far as I'm concerned, it's great news just knowing they'll all be healthy and happy.

Three girls will be just fine, thank you.

It’s time to mow down the real problems

http://www.limaohio.com/articles/grass_24583___article.html/jail_glenn.html

It’s time to mow down the real problems
June 23, 2008 - 4:28PM
David Trinko
The hardened criminal looks over at the new guy at the Allen County Jail.
"What're you in here for?" the career crook asks.
The new guy, serving his first term in the slammer, replies simply, "Grass."
"Oh yeah? How much?" responds the long-timer.
"Six inches," answers Mr. I Didn't Mow My Lawn.
This conversation could be coming to a jail cell near you, courtesy of Lima's 6th Ward councilor, Derry Glenn. Glenn announced Friday he wants Lima to adopt a law similar to one passed in Canton.
The Canton version makes a second violation of the city's high-grass ordinance a fourth-degree misdemeanor, carrying a $250 fine and up to 30 days in jail.
It's already a no-no to blow off cutting your lawn. After getting an initial warning, offenders get a fine from $50 to $350, plus the costs of inspection. That makes a grand total of about $500, not including the city paying someone to cut your grass.
Still, Glenn seems to be playing in the high grass here. If money isn't enough incentive to get property owners to whack their weeds, is jail time going to make that much of a difference? Or, to whip out bigger words, how does criminalizing a problem solve it when monetizing doesn't?
Glenn's idea is full of shortcomings. As Amy Odum, Lima's community development director, said, the hard part is finding absent homeowners to make them responsible.
The problem gets worse as there are more and more foreclosures. Odum estimated 65 percent of the homes where she's heard complaints were vacant or abandoned.
It's also nice to see a councilor focused on an issue when there's already a law addressing it. And, oh yeah, the law can send someone to jail if necessary.
Then there's the issue of putting extra burden on an already sluggish legal system. We don't really need to fill the Allen County Jail up with people who skipped a mowing. We ought to spend our efforts on people who sell grass, as in marijuana, than the ones who're sloppy about mowing schedules.
It's also hard to get behind Glenn in deciding what the standard should be. If a home is a man's castle, he should have some voice in how high the moat is.
I know I agitate my neighbors by cutting my grass with nearly the lowest setting on the lawnmower. My grass never looks as green or as full as theirs, but I can get away with a week and a half between mowings if I must.
Quite simply, we shouldn't trample over a property owner's right.
We keep dancing around the same problems over and over. Everyone wants to live in a utopia except for the people keeping it from being one.
We want fewer drugs on the street. We want safer neighborhoods. We want the grass mowed and a picket fence on every block.
By going after the people who poorly maintain their properties, Glenn's going after the symptom, not the disease.
To accomplish these things, we simply need to be better neighbors to one another.
We had some pretty bad neighbors for a few years as I grew up. At one point, they had nearly a foot of grass in their yard.
My dad's solution to this eyesore was simple: He told me to mow down our neighbor's yard, first with a weed-whacker and then the mower. Then he told me to stick a note on their front door: "If your mower's broke, feel free to borrow ours. Or we can mow it for you."
That grass never got higher than 4 inches again. We never had to get the authorities involved. We invoked something more powerful: Community pride.
When crimes occur in Lima, police ask the community to speak up to bring people to justice.
When people are in need here, friends and neighbors come together to help, be it financially or emotionally. On any given weekend you can find a benefit dinner or auction for someone going through a tough time.
There is no power greater here than the power of the community.

Finding a reason for freakishly long arms

http://www.limaohio.com/articles/arms_24063___article.html/long_freakishly.html

Finding a reason for freakishly long arms
June 9, 2008 - 6:43PM
David Trinko
My arms are freakishly long.
I can touch my knees without bending over. Long-sleeve shirts never fit right. I can't hold my wife's hand without bending my elbow.
Generally accepted knowledge says your wingspan - that distance from the tip of one middle finger to the tip of that same finger on the other outstretched arm - is roughly the same as your height.
My wingspan is 72 inches, or 6 feet. My height is 69 inches, or 5 feet 9 inches. I could never understand where those extra three inches came from.
A girl at school used to call me "Daddy Longlegs" because my arms and legs were so long and unwieldy.
Most of my woes come with clothes. At 5-9, I'm the average height of a man in the United States. Needing a 37-inch arm, however, makes finding clothes very difficult. Even when I do find them, my arms are long, not my torso. Countless shirts have pockets resting on my gut.
In high school, my older brother and I could generally wear the same long-sleeved shirts. That's awkward, since he's nearly 6 inches taller than I am.
I have a closet full of gifts from well-meaning girlfriends and family who tried to get large shirts, knowing they'd be big enough around the waist but not realizing they'd be several inches too short in the arms.
And girlfriends could be troublesome. When your arms are several inches longer than someone you're dating, it's hard to hold a hand in a movie or while you're walking.
I'm self-conscious enough about my freakishly long arms that I bend my elbows when I walk, so people can't see them dangle. When I once told a co-worker at a past job I could touch my knees without bending over, the whole office spent a week gawking at my arms as I walked by.
I could never understand why my arms were so freakishly long. It always seemed to be such a bother.
Now I think I've figured out why.
I'm rolling toward my third Father's Day as an honoree instead an adoring kid. And maybe those freakishly long arms were there for a reason all along.
While my arms are too long to hold hands with my wife without bending the elbow, they're the perfect length for taking our 6-year-old daughter for a walk through a crowded room.
They're also ideal for pulling a Crock-Pot out of the cupboard above the refrigerator when my wife requests my "monkey arms."
I can pull our baby daughter in and out of her crib without ever pushing down the crib's railing. And those same freakishly long arms can lift her near the ceiling, enjoying her giggles of delight throughout the arch upward.
Yes, my arms are freakishly long. It took a long time to figure out why. Now that I know, I wouldn't have them any other way.

It’s a dog’s life at their house

http://www.limaohio.com/articles/dog_22801___article.html/name_amigo.html

Every column topic I envisioned this month would be offensive to someone.
If I wrote about my daughter's dance recital again, the evil eyes of other parents would return during next year's event. My experiences in the Cincinnati Reds' all-you-can-eat section with my father-in-law would get me killed at the next family gathering. Babbling about my frustrations at the number of graduation parties would only get me in trouble at the first one I have to attend.
So I'm playing it safe. I'm letting our 2-year-old golden retriever, Amigo, write my column for me. This should answer the critics who say any old mutt could write this stuff.
---
Woof! Bark! Grr!
I know. That's predictable. That's what you'd expect from a dog, what with my ability to chase my tail for minutes on end and patting my tail when you scratch my ears. But really, I'm an insightful pup.
Sure, I have my dog days (and afternoons). But for the most part, I have to admit the Trinkos are pretty good to me. They feed me well. They're not abusive or anything ... aside from the name.
My biggest gripe in life is being a 65-pound golden retriever with reddish hair named "Amigo."
When I hear them out yelling my name when I escape the wood fence and the electric fence, I see the neighbors looking around for a little Chihuahua. Then along I come, with my magnificent shiny coat and the energy of that Energizer bunny.
They've explained the name to enough people: They used to have a dog named Buddy who was, by all accounts, everyone's buddy. I lived with Buddy for almost a year. I liked Buddy, even if he thought I was an annoying puppy.
So when they got a second dog, the Trinkos thought it'd be cool to name their second dog Amigo. My name when I came from the litter was Frank, and now I'm Amigo. Ugh. I don't know what they'll call the next one. Comrade? Compadre? Pal? Paison? Please.
You might've noticed I mentioned escaping the wood fence and the electric fence. Their efforts to keep me confined into that quarter acre in the backyard are cute. They just don't seem to understand; a dog has to roam.
That area behind the house really confounds me. The first time I went out there, they made it clear it was my bathroom. It's great. I can find different spots in the yard to claim as my own.
So all winter long, this frozen tundra was mine. It's room to run around, chase a bird or two and dig a hole.
Now that it's nice outside, they keep sending those adorable kids out there to play. I'm learning how to share, even if those kids don't like digging holes.
It's that hole thing that seems to irritate them most. For some reason, they keep decorating my bathroom with new plants. They tried some flowers once. They even planted some tomatoes last year.
I loved the plants, particularly the way they tasted. And for some reason David yelled at me about that.
It's pretty confusing. If someone gives you a new decoration for a room in your home, you'd use it as you please. Right?
Now they've planted some kind of bush in the backyard, next to the door. It's really prickly. I don't know how I'm supposed to eat that.
I gave up on trying and started working on another hole. Then they filled that hole with another prickly plant. It's not fair. I'm not a digging machine, no matter what they call me.
So I'm going to stop digging, for now. I'll resume as soon as I think they'll stop finding those prickly plants.

My cute kid making people laugh

This is one of those awful things you do to a child that they never know you've done until the damage is already done.
We made a video a few weeks ago of Jill eating. It was really just an exercise for work, so I could show the reporters how to edit interviews into a video with Moviemaker. My wife loved the finished product so much, she suggested we share it online.
So here's the link to the video, labeled simply enough "Big eating baby." And I'm sorry, Jill.
http://link.brightcove.com/services/link/bcpid992329340/bclid1044486924/bctid1519727087

Nothing wrong with taking the time to play

http://www.limaohio.com/story.php?IDnum=51557
Nothing wrong with taking the time to play
David Trinko - Apr. 7th, 2008
You probably rolled your eyes the first time you saw the commercial for the newfangled gaming system.
Two Japanese men roll up to the house and get out. They ring the doorbell, and when the person answers, one says, “Wii would like to play.”
Play? What a ridiculous concept.
There is money to make. There are bills to pay. There are principles to uphold.
That was my reaction — at least until I remembered how much fun play could be.
I ought to scribble somewhere (this column, perhaps) that I learned how to play again in December. It was a big month, as Santa Claus brought our family a Nintendo Wii, and our wireless provider brought me a pretty cool personal digital assistant phone. (In both cases, several hundred dollars changed hands first.)
Our 6-year-old’s face lit up when she saw the Wii the first time. If you’re not familiar with the Wii, imagine a cordless controller. Instead of pressing up and down buttons, though, you simply lift the control up and down.
The theory is it’s as if you’re operating something in the real world. When you play a baseball game, you hold the controller up just like you would an aluminum bat and swing for the fences (or a third-base dribbler, as I often hit in the real world).
Our 6-year-old daughter doesn’t like to play by herself, which is quite unfortunate because her 8-month-old sister puts the toddle in toddler. So I agreed to play with her as she tried the variety of sports games, including bowling, golf and tennis.
A strange sensation built up in my stomach as we played. No, it wasn’t indigestion. But it left my stomach jumbled like that. It kind of tickled. It made me feel younger and lighter. Then I realized what it was.
It was fun.
All too often as adults, we’re told that fun is childish. We have to put those joyous days behind us and plod onward.
Then I think about how well children work together. They resolve their differences quicker than adults. They find commonality. And, more so than not, they don’t let their judgments get in the way of a good time.
It makes you wonder why we wouldn’t endeavor to be more childlike.
I’m playing a lot these days. On that PDA, I became addicted to “Bubble Breaker,” a fun but challenging game where you try to line as many bubbles of the same color together before popping them. I’ll sneak away for a couple of minutes of silence in the restroom to see if I can top my best score in it.
Unlike most of my mental challenges, there’s a score shown on each effort. I can tell when I’m doing my best, my worst or simply my average. Fortunately or unfortunately, there’s no scoreboard overtop my desk rating my efforts in the work world.
Or perhaps I’ll try a game of “Solitaire,” which sounds much worse to say I play in the bathroom than Bubble Breaker. Come to think of it, Bubble Breaker sounds bad too.
Or maybe it’s time to play tag outside with my kids. Sometimes the giggling in the yard is mine, not the preteens’ laughter.
We threw a Frisbee around the yard over the weekend. Before long, a childhood contest of counting consecutive catches returned to my memory.
I have no actual proof, but I’m convinced playing makes you younger. It hasn’t done anything to the rapidly growing number of gray hairs on the sides (or the dwindling number of dark hairs on the top, if you’re a pessimist). But one thing’s for sure: You feel better when you take the opportunity to play.
I’m often reminded of my grandfather, who was one of the youngest old guys you’d ever meet. He offered this sage advice: You have to grow old, but you never have to grow up.

Horrible streak of illnesses leads to realizations

http://www.limaohio.com/story.php?IDnum=50385
Horrible streak of illnesses leads to realizations
David Trinko - Mar. 10th, 2008
The last place in the world I want to be is the hospital — unless one of my children is there. Then it’s the only place I want to be.
For five days in the past two weeks, our 7-month old spent time hooked up to IVs and monitors at one of the local hospitals.
For five days in the past two weeks, I spent time reflecting on how completely and totally unimportant everything else was.
The good news for the youngster is she appears to be mostly healed from her brush with a nasty strain of influenza. I’m not faring so well. These are the times you realize being a father is really the most important thing you do all day long.
I don’t mean to minimize my job and chosen career (which, by the way, includes a tad more than writing this column once or twice a month). But I learned an important lesson years ago, when I was younger and cared more about my living. Even if you love your job, she cheats on you with your co-workers on the weekends.
I don’t know what it was about the job description for fatherhood that appealed to me:
“HELP WANTED: Caring man sought to provide a male role model to children. Must have capacity to love existing and future children. Fun and humor encouraged. Other duties and requirements as assigned.”
It sounded kind of easy, to be honest.
I wasn’t a father for more than a few months before I realized there’s nothing easy about it. Things that sound easy, such as getting dressed, making dinner or even getting in the car, can be an ordeal making the production of a daily newspaper seem like child’s play.
It’s that “other duties and requirements as assigned” that will tear you down. I should have read more about the benefits first:
“You must be available to work as a parent every hour of every day. While there is vacation time, it actually requires more time with your children, for them to argue and fight and make you crazy.”
Trust me, driving me crazy is a very, very short trip.
Then there’s the section on sick time.
“Sick time is available, assuming all the needs of everyone else in the house are met first.”
Two days before the baby went to the hospital, a doctor diagnosed my wife with pneumonia. Our 6-year-old had strep throat.
They required a fair amount of care as they stayed home together for most of the week. I picked up a second job that week, becoming the primary caregiver for food, care and compassion, in addition to the nine or 10 hours a day I spend at work. I’ll admit, I was better at the food part than the other two.
While running errands for them one morning, I ran into someone I knew. She kept asking if I was all right, since an infection in my throat left me barely audible and an infection in my ears left me barely able to hear.
The answer was simple, also hidden in the small print of the job description of a dad:
“There will be plenty of time for me to be sick when everyone else is healthy.”
Fortunately, everyone is healthy now. We can laugh as we tell stories of the miserable previous two weeks and wonder aloud how we made it through with everyone in the house ailing at the same time.
Now I can answer why I accepted this dad job in the first place. The wage for this job is incredible:
“The pay is all you’ll ever need. It’s a hug on a rough day. It’s a peck on the cheek when you’re feeling down. Even a simple ‘I love you Daddy’ or a grin on a baby’s face is all the compensation you’ll ever want.”

There’s nothing mini about choosing the minivan

My family purchased its first minivan recently.
The sentence, as it read right there, doesn’t look nearly as daunting as the decision to buy one was. When you’re young, a car is more than a way to get around. It’s a reflection of you. And the reflection I get when I imagine driving a minivan around is more like a funhouse mirror to my still-young soul.
Reality finally set in on us, though. When I drove my wife’s car in the last six months, my knees stuck into my chest as the baby seat pushed the driver’s seat so far forward. Our dreams of driving a Mustang with the top down to the beach will have to remain dreams until the kids are grown. We needed space, and we needed it soon.
So we went to a local dealer and bought the minivan. It’s a necessary evil. Even though we have a 6-month-old now, a new sibling will join her in September.
I can hear the question already: Was it an “oopsie”? Of course not. We knew what we were doing when we drove to the dealer. We bought that minivan on purpose, even if it was against our will.
I felt the shame of a father when we started walking through the lot. An eager salesman asked what feature we most wanted in our next vehicle.
I would’ve liked to say a V-6 engine. Or maybe fuel economy. Or perhaps a cool front panel that made it look like I was piloting the space shuttle.
I didn’t get a chance. My wife blurted out the top priority first: A DVD player for the kids.
And that’s how we picked our tricked-out rectangular box on wheels. It has everything I never thought I’d need in a vehicle, such as an electronic key, powered sliding doors on each side and a side window that goes up and down.
I guess as a nonminivan driver, I’d taken windows that open and close for granted. It’s apparently not a standard feature in most minivans. Apparently, we’re quite lucky that ours do.
Unfortunately, one option we couldn’t find was our youth. For both my wife and I, the minivan was the last in the collector’s series of a Norman Rockwellesque life. We already have the four-bedroom house on the edge of town, the big backyard and those 2.2 children. Now we have the minivan.
Don’t get me wrong; we want those things that go with the “good life.” We just cherished our youth and independence so much, it’s sad when your life becomes the cliché for a family.
Each of the cars I’ve owned said something about my personality at the time. My 1978 Toyota Corolla said high school and college student struggling to get by, much less around. The 1994 Chevrolet Beretta said recent grad coming into his own but still using someone else’s cast-offs. And that 2002 Dodge Neon, my first new car, said confident man with the flash and stability of a decent and exciting job.
Now there are two cars in my name, the minivan and a middleaged man’s sedan. Neither of them says anything I predicted a car would ever say about me. They both say stable, comfortable family man doing all right for himself — and for his family.
The built-in DVD player entertains our 6-year-old daughter. The sliding doors make it easier to get our 6-month-old girl in and out, and it’ll have that same benefit when Baby No. 3 comes along. The heated seats are for my loving wife, who always feels a chill.
And it’s OK that there isn’t anything in there for me in particular. One realization I’ve had as I get older is I’m not the most important person in my life anymore. These days, I rank somewhere around No. 5. That’s a good thing. I’ve grown up enough to care about my family more than myself.
That’s not to say I’m not still a little vain about things, even the new minivan.
As I drove the minivan that first day, I told my wife how cool the front of the vehicle looked, with all its lighted gauges and touch screens. We’re talking about satellite radio, a hard drive for music and videos, everything. I’m convinced they put those gizmos in there to keep the guys feeling like they’re operating a lean, mean, high-tech driving machine.
I can feel completely cool in it, as long as I never look back.

Living life ‘on the record’ can be strange

Living life ‘on the record’ can be strange

David Trinko dtrinko@limanews.com - 01.07.2008

Our relationship seemed destined for strangeness the first time she asked me, “Is this on the record?”
Most people don’t have to answer that question on a date. It goes with the territory when you’re in the exciting and somewhat stressful world of journalism.
“On the record” is journalism talk for “it’s OK to tell everyone.” When you speak to a reporter or an editor, you run the risk of telling the whole world, if that person merely deems it important enough to tell the world.
This “on the record” question becomes more complicated each day I’m married to my wife.
I only covered one story involving Jessica when I was a reporter, and that was long before our first date. We’ve both grown to have a bit of sway in our workplaces, despite the other’s career.
Now I’m a mid-level editor at the local daily newspaper. She’s the nursing home administrator and county administrator in Putnam County, one of the nine counties we cover.
To some people, this might make us a power couple. From where I sit, it only makes a powerful headache.
There’s a perception that any time the newspaper hears about anything that happened in the county where she works, she must have leaked it to me. There’s no credit offered for the sources I developed in nearly two years working that same beat. There’s also little credit given that I still live in that county and see people daily.
There’s a sense that she tells me the county’s deepest, darkest secrets every day, and I cover them up so they’re not stressful for her. There’s no recognition that much of what we print about her bosses, the county commissioners, is less than positive about them.
I’m reminded of a question someone asked her before she received her current job: “Do you ever talk in your sleep?”
I’m also reminded of a snide remark I’ve heard both ways in the village where we live, that she works for The Lima News or that I work for the county.
This relationship makes for interesting conversations, no doubt. What most folks fail to realize is these conversations aren’t so different from the ones you have with your spouse.
We talk about the people we work with and what they’ve done to stress us out. We talk about funny things occurring in the workplace. We giggle about people who should know better when they say something out of line. It’s more gossip-driven and personality-driven than anything, just like the conversations you have with your spouse.
There are occasions when the “on the record” part comes into play. She’ll playfully ask if she’s talking to husband David or newspaper David. Occasionally I’ll jokingly query, “Can I quote you on that?”
There are times she plants an idea for a story. I’d lie if I said that never happened. It’s handy to hear how things work from the other side. It helps me direct a reporter on how or where to gather a piece of information vital to the public’s right to know how its government represents it.
I’ve never found myself hyping or silencing a story simply because she is involved. In fact, to the chagrin of my bosses, I refuse to read stories that include my wife’s name before they appear in the newspaper. I won’t say where I think a story affecting her or her bosses should appear in the newspaper.
It’s a simple thing called ethics. Ethics isn’t just my unwillingness to accept a lunch for something I cover if the public can’t get that same thing. It’s living a life that, hopefully, people will laugh if someone ever suggests I’m dishonest or unfair.
It’s accepting that I live a life that’s always on the record, even if everyone else doesn’t.