“I want to talk to [teachers] about power, and why it’s important that our own voices matter in education policies and how schools get funded,” said Lemle who, on Aug. 1, became president of the MSEA. “I want to build that power by recruiting our members into action. Our teachers should have a voice in class size, the school calendar and curriculum — but it’ll take some political muscle to make that happen.”

In short, he said, teachers stumping for change is in, while their suffering in silence is out.

“There’s a shortage of people coming into this profession, and our union members need to [lobby] and tell policymakers why, so that we have a part in addressing that shortage,” Lemle said.

The Blueprint for Maryland’s Future, passed in 2021 by the General Assembly, aims to boost funding for public education by an additional $3.8 billion over a decade. For instance, in the 2025-26 school year, starting salaries for teachers will climb to $60,000. Their pay woes are painfully clear, Lemle said:

“About half of [teachers] leave the job in the first five years. Half of all educators work a second job. On average, teachers make about 85 cents on the dollar, compared to others with a master’s degree.”

Still, the strain on the state’s coffers to fund Blueprint has sparked concern for Maryland’s future. Last month, Gov. Wes Moore made clear that adjustments to the education reform policy may be needed to ward off fiscal woes.

“The Blueprint is a smart investment,” Lemle said. “Of course, I have concerns that the money [to fund it] may not be there. So I’ll make sure that every legislator, county executive and board of education member has teachers telling them, ‘Hey, this is really important for our kids.’ We’ve got to keep the pressure on.”

Lemle, 52, a social studies teacher for 24 years in Howard County, replaced Cheryl Bost, who retired this year as union head. No stranger to labor chores, he spent six years, from 2011 to 2017, as president of the Howard County Education Association during a time rife with clashes with the board of education. Nonplussed, Lemle forged ahead.

“We built an organization [in Howard] powerful enough to knock every incumbent off the board in 2016, folks who had no real interest in the students,” he said.

In an interview with The Sun, Lemle, who is married and the father of three, said the choice of Minnesota Gov. Tim Walz, a former teacher, as the Democratic candidate for vice president could amplify that power.

“He’s an exemplar, a poster boy for teaching and a walking, talking example of why education matters,” Lemle said. “Walz can be a champion of federal funding for special education students. If you’re vice-president of the U.S., you’re going to get the bully pulpit.”

Teaching needs all the positives it can get, the new union head said.

“Last spring, I asked my class [at Reservoir High], ‘How many of you are thinking of education as a profession?’ Of 30 students, not one hand went up. Then I asked, ‘What if you knew your economic needs would be met?’ Then, 10 hands went up.”

On the first day of school in 2023-24, the Maryland State Department of Education reported nearly 2,000 teacher vacancies. The MSDE did not respond to a request for this year’s numbers.

“Who’s accountable for the teaching shortage? We [teachers] are our own best recruiters,” Lemle said. “The job is a grind, but schools are happy and energetic places to work. Our role is to tell people about the job and communicate it.”

To join those ranks, Lemle took the road less traveled. A native of New Orleans, he attended LSU, straying on occasion to play guitar in a punkabilly rock band called Buckshot and the Barnstormers, which performed throughout the Southeast.

“We did as many as 200 gigs a year, from weddings to bars,” he said. “I had talent, but it was a hand-to-mouth lifestyle and pretty marginal at times. It didn’t seem like a viable career.”

In 1999, while lifting an amplifier, he felt pain in his back. It worsened until Lemle, 29, was diagnosed with Hodgkin lymphoma. Eight months of chemotherapy followed.

“By the time I got to chemo, I couldn’t walk — swollen lymph nodes had broken my lumbar vertebrae,” he said. Treatment left him cancer-free. Afterward, Lemle changed course. A teacher, he would be.

“I did my student teaching at a juvenile detention center in Seattle and took my guitar to show those incarcerated kids how to play a couple of chords, to help build their trust,” he said. “I fed off of their energy, that they still wanted to learn.”

The experience, he said, “empowered me as it empowered them. That’s what makes teaching great; both [sides] benefit from it.”

A quarter-century later, Lemle leads a forward-looking union in a progressive state, both of which, he believes, are on the same page.

“I see no red flags [at present],” said Lemle, of Odenton. “We have a governor who clearly cares about public education and a legislature that seems very invested in the success of our kids. Of course, the ground can shift under anyone, but Maryland seems a great place to do union work; it’s a state that has all the tools.”

The current version of “bird flu,” as the virus is known, attacks lactating dairy cows, nearly 20 of which will be out-of-state bovines on exhibit at the three-weekend fair, which opens Thursday. By federal mandate, those milk cows must run a gauntlet of tests, to assure their clean health, seven days before their arrival in Maryland Aug. 29.

Moreover, “[Maryland Department of Agriculture] veterinarians will be here [at the fairgrounds] to inspect the animals as they come in, and to check their papers,” said Andy Cashman, the fair’s general manager.

The virus was first reported in March, in a cow in Texas, and has since spread to livestock in 13 states,  including Ohio and North Carolina, those nearest Maryland. Most animals recover.

As of Aug.16, four people in the United States — farm workers in Texas, Colorado and Michigan — have contracted the illness from cows and recovered, according to the Centers for Disease Control, while another nine have tested positive after contact with poultry, all since April 1. Symptoms are generally flu-like and may include eye redness, runny nose, cough and sore throat. More severe cases are marked by a high fever and shortness of breath.

Bird flu presents little threat to the general public, the CDC has said. However, the agency recommends some people at higher risk of developing serious flu complications should limit contact with animals that could carry influenza viruses.

“Avian Influenza (AI) will not pose any concerns for fairgoers,” Cassie Shirk, assistant secretary for Marketing, Animal Industries and Consumer Sciences for the Maryland Department of Agriculture, wrote in an email to The Sun. “Fairgoers are encouraged to practice safe hygiene, including washing hands regularly. We recommend changing shoes and clothes after visiting the fair, especially if you have farm animals at home.”

In past years, other threads of the virus have sickened chickens and cancelled poultry exhibits at the fair, said Cashman.

“I’ve been here more than 30 years and I’ve never heard of cattle getting the flu, until this happened,” he said. “If the public doesn’t handle the cattle, or drink these cows’ [raw] milk, there shouldn’t be any risk at all. And if you do touch the animals, wash your hands; there are several [sinks] around the barns to do so.”

“I was the class nerd, the girl with brown hair and glasses who always had her homework done,” she said. Who’d have thought the quiet, bookish Etting, valedictorian of the Class of 1977, would wind up as mayor of Harford County’s bustling hub?

“I want to have a say in where Bel Air is going,” said the onetime attorney and current town commissioner. “As it grows and changes, we need to respect and honor our past and keep the town family-friendly.”

Etting, 65, attended The Johns Hopkins University before earning a post-graduate degree at the University of Maryland School of Law. She worked 27 years in the Harford County Law Department before turning to politics in 2021.

Here are three things you may not know about Etting:

She’s an able do-it-yourselfer.

“I am handy. I can install faucets and shower heads, scrape wallpaper and change toilet flappers and the lock on the front door. I put up our mailbox. My husband doesn’t like to do that stuff, but it gives me a nice feeling of accomplishment. I mean, when you cook a great meal, all that’s left are the dirty dishes — but change a shower head, and it’ll be there for years.”

Sewing keeps the mayor humming.

“I like making something out of a flat piece of fabric; it uses another side of my brain. I made my own clothes when I was pregnant, and now, I’m the go-to for our grandchildren whenever a stuffed animal loses an arm. They say, ‘This is broken and needs to go to NaNa’s.’

“The sound of a sewing machine is so relaxing. I made Halloween costumes for our kids, from Batman to a medieval princess. Our son liked his dinosaur costume so much that, at five [years old], he’d come home and put it on and sit there, reading a book.”

Her diplomas did her parents proud.

“I was the first in my family to graduate from college. Neither of my parents had that opportunity — my dad was one of eight Irish kids and had to leave school to work — but they valued education. In eighth grade, my father bought me a Texas instrument calculator for $150, a lot of money then. But he knew I’d need it for high school.

“An uncle said that I’d never finish college, that I’d get my ‘Mrs. degree’ instead; that was the opinion of people in his generation. But I was internally driven, and my parents fed on that.”

More than 125 years after he led Baltimore to three straight baseball championships, and a quarter-century after his induction at Cooperstown, the life of the crafty strategist known as “Foxy Ned” has finally received the attention it has long deserved.

“Hanlon had a huge influence on the transition of the game, from its rough draft in the 1880s into modern baseball. Two of his players, [managers] Connie Mack and John McGraw, took his system and made it standard for baseball tactics,” said Jay Seaborg, who chronicled Hanlon’s life with co-author Tom Delise. Retired now, they met while teaching at Century High in Carroll County. Seaborg taught history; Delise, English.

Armed with an intellectual curiosity and a passion for sports — both men coached high school teams — they honed in on Hanlon, the oft-forgotten mastermind of the 1890s Orioles. The book, “Foxy Ned Hanlon,” was published in April.

On Saturday, the authors will highlight Hanlon’s baseball life at the Babe Ruth Birthplace and Museum from noon to 2 p.m., following a two-hour autograph signing by the Orioles’ current manager, Brandon Hyde.

Like Hyde, Hanlon took a last-place Orioles team and turned it into a winner. His deft trades and use of “scientific” tactics — the squeeze play, bunt and hit-and-run — helped make Baltimore a storied club of yore. The Orioles won three consecutive National League championships, from 1894 through 1896, the last of which went 90-39 (.698) and spawned seven big league managers, including McGraw, Hughie Jennings and Wilbert Robinson.

That it took so long for Hanlon to reach the National Baseball Hall of Fame is puzzling, said Delise, 69, who lives two blocks from Hanlon’s residence on Mount Royal Ave. in Baltimore.

“He ran his team with an iron fist, but he was worshipped by his players,” Delise said. “Hanlon gave his players an idea and then let them institute it; that’s the mark of a good teacher. He empowered them, and players respected him for that.”

Yet Hanlon never got his due, the authors said.

“We could stand outside Camden Yards, before an Orioles game, and randomly ask 1,000 people if they know who Ned Hanlon is, and maybe 10 would know,” said Seaborg, 69, of Mount Airy.

Hanlon would surely pass muster on the 2024 Orioles.

“He’d love the way these guys play, with their aggressiveness and attention to fundamentals,” Seaborg said. “For all of their reputation as rowdy ballplayers, their care for the fundamentals set those old Orioles apart. People came to the ballpark just to watch them warm up.”

Immortalized by a male quartet in the movie “The Music Man,”  the genre breached stereotypes long ago.

“People think of barbershop music and they think of four guys in straw hats. Well, we’re not them,” said Beth Rupert, a founding member of the UCC. “We say that men invented [the barbershop style] and women perfected it.”

The chorus, 32 strong, will perform at the Bel Air Festival for the Arts on Sept. 17. Its eclectic repertoire ranges from pop to patriotic, and from show tunes to standards. In a one-hour concert, the women, ages 21 to 81, might sing everything from “Over The Rainbow” to “Rock Around The Clock.” They’ll harmonize familiar tunes by Doris Day and Bonnie Raitt. One minute, they’ll belt out “The Star-Spangled Banner”; the next, a hit by Fleetwood Mac.

Members include teachers, lawyers, bank tellers and new mothers who arrive, babes in chest slings, for Monday practice (7 p.m. at St. Paul’s Lutheran Church in Aberdeen).

“We’re a sisterhood, on and offstage, with a camaraderie that hooks you from the start,” said Rupert, 73, of Bel Air. Performed in sync, barbershop triggers a natural high, she said:

“When all the voices are in tune, it creates a vibration, and you can feel the harmony.”

How good is the group? Three times, in recent years, the UCC has dispatched regional competition and advanced to the Sweet Adeline Internationals, in 2011, 2012 and 2014.

Twenty times a year, the UCC performs at town functions, senior centers, fund-raisers and nursing homes. Most members are middle-aged, like Carol Klein, 66, of Bel Air.

“Singing barbershop provides a sense of relief, and it keeps your brain sharp,” said Klein, who joined the group in 1982. “I’ll sing until they put me in my grave.”

Tyler Horton directs the chorus. At 30, he is barely half the age of many members, a gap not lost on the group.

“Most of us have shoes that are as old as Tyler,” Rupert said. “But barbershop was made for him; he can hear a bad note from a mile off.”

Klein described Horton’s aural skills in another way.

“Musically, Tyler has the ears of an elephant,” she said.

Director of music and liturgy at St. Margaret Catholic Church in Bel Air, Horton’s roots in the group run deep. His late grandmother sang with the UCC, and Horton’s goal is to rebuild the chorus to its pre-pandemic numbers.

“We’re on the upswing,” he said. “Women who never sang barbershop have joined and fallen in love with the style. The hobby really grabs you. One year, while on a ski trip, Carol [Klein] broke her pelvis and was back at practice within two weeks.

“We have a saying that ‘You come for the music and stay for the people.’ ”

During Prohibition (1919-1933), towns like Bel Air, Havre de Grace and Darlington housed speakeasies, which served parched patrons on the sly — often with a nod from local lawmen.

“Harford County officials didn’t bother to enforce [Prohibition],” said Carol Deibel, 79, a local historian in Bel Air. “There are stories of how when the sheriff of Havre de Grace learned the ‘feds’ were coming to raid, he would notify the taverns so they could put certain objects in their front windows to signal that they weren’t serving that day.”

In Bel Air, a favorite gin joint was Mrs. Dunnigan’s Hotel & Restaurant, at Courtland and Bond streets, opposite the county courthouse. Originally a hotel, the hostelry had a bar in the back that was owned by the town’s court clerk. Rumor has it that, in the 1920s, a tunnel linked the speakeasy to the courthouse.

On Sept. 21, the Bel Air Alliance will pay homage to Dunnigan’s with a flapper-era celebration at the Bel Air Armory featuring food, drinks, jazz and gaming tables. It’s an overt salute to a clandestine time in the town’s 150-year-old history.

Not that the hooch didn’t make headlines. “Flagrant whiskey running,” trumpeted a story in The Sun in November 1920, citing “wild and thrilling tales” of rum runners roaring through Harford and Cecil counties.

The Sun recounted “desperate flights and pursuits in the dead of night, punctuated by pistol shots as the machines dash through villages and open country. Several farmers pointed out that when they go to bed at night, it is not improbable that their families will be awakened before morning by a fusillade of shots.”

“At least one young woman, residents of the region believe, is a full-fledged bootlegger, driving an automobile with an abandon fully equal to that of her competitors and carrying a pistol of heavy caliber that she knows how to use.”

The Sun and Bel Air Aegis were rife with woolly accounts of run-ins between rum runners and the law. In May 1924, a swarm of 15 federal agents descended on Havre de Grace, raided 18 establishments, made 15 arrests and seized two truckloads of liquor. During the raids, the wife of one saloon keeper shoved a pistol in the face of a lawman and pulled the trigger; the gun misfired.

Afterward, The Sun reported, “When the dust from the agents’ autos had subsided, Havre de Grace found itself almost as dry as the dusty roads themselves.”

But not for long.

What made Harford a haven for moonshiners? An influx of rural folk. Two horse racing tracks. And the county’s proximity to the state line.

“The 1920s saw a tremendous amount of migration here, from West Virginia, Kentucky and North Carolina — farmers from the hills of Appalachia, looking for jobs,” Deibel said. They found work at Aberdeen Proving Ground, built in 1917, and at the Conowingo Dam project begun in 1926. Meanwhile, as some had done back home, the rustics built stills and made booze.

At the same time, the bustling racetracks in Bel Air and Havre de Grace attracted mobsters and other rascals out to make a quick buck. Why not hawk alcohol? Bootleggers north of the Mason-Dixon Line found they could steal into Maryland, load up on whiskey and slip back into Pennsylvania, where federal agents couldn’t follow.

“It was certainly the most exciting time to live here,” said Annie McLhinney-Cochran, 66, a resident of Havre de Grace and history buff whose grandfather was once mayor. “People poured into town, during racing season, to gamble and drink. Al Capone stayed at the Hotel Chesapeake. There were pool halls and prostitutes; people called the town ‘Little Chicago.’

“It seemed everyone was bootlegging. There were speakeasies on every corner and distilleries in the woods and in people’s basements. Booze flowed up and down the roads, the railroad and the [Susquehanna] River.”

Gin joints weren’t the lawmen’s only targets. Again, in Havre de Grace, lawmen stormed into the Blue Bird lunchroom in 1925 and confiscated three cases of moonshine stashed in soft drink bottles.

In 1922, Prohibition agents raided the farm of Nelson Pace, near Street, smashed a 100-gallon still, and confiscated 1,600 gallons of mash (crushed grain and water) and 52 gallons of corn whiskey. Five people were arrested; two escaped in the nearby woods. Soon after, a sting in Cardiff yielded another still and 85 gallons of spirits. A 500-gallon still, churning out whiskey near Deer Creek, was seized in 1924. Two years later, a raid near Dublin nailed moonshiners there.

Sometimes, revenuers managed to catch their prey on the fly. One night in 1920, The Aegis reported, eight feds manned a checkpoint on the outskirts of Bel Air between 11 p.m. and daybreak. The search paid off: Four drivers were arrested, each carrying eight to 12 cases of whiskey “for which the owners could not give a good account.”

Also that year, a bootlegger being chased in the wee hours by a motorcycle cop near Kingsville crashed his car into a locust tree, breaking both legs and destroying 30 quarts of whiskey. Another pursuit, in 1923, ended when the culprit, in a curious effort to escape, spun his vehicle around, near Bel Air, and smashed it into that of his pursuers, deliberately destroying 350 gallons of liquor.

One bootlegger, his car filled with 150 gallons of brew, led agents on a cat-and-mouse dash through much of the county in July 1933. At one point, The Sun reported, he sped down a paved road toward Hickory, then turned onto a dirt road where his auto sideswiped a steamroller and turned upside down.

That same month, a bootlegger hauling 40 gallons of whiskey led federal agents on a wild booze chase from Hickory to Bel Air. As they neared town, the moonshiner revved up his Plymouth coupe; the agents, in a dark Ford sedan, followed suit.

“Both automobiles whizzed down Pennsylvania Avenue and entered Churchville Road without stopping, the Plymouth swaying all over the road, while the officers’ car ran up on Mr. Stanley Preston’s lawn,” The Aegis reported.

“At that point, the [bootlegger] turned to the right at Hiser’s service station and into the heavy Main Street traffic. The rum runner attempted another means of escape. Parking his car opposite the post office, he jumped out and fled. After a speedy footrace [in which local residents joined in], the culprit was caught hiding under the porch of Stanley Preston’s residence.”

His efforts were ill-timed. Five months later, the 21st Amendment became law and Prohibition was dead.

The fair, a Maryland mainstay since 1879, features foods, 4-H competition, farm exhibits and entertainment ranging from Ferris wheel rides to pig racing.

Here are five events making their debut this year.

Big Time Rush

The celebrated pop music quartet, known for the Nickelodeon TV show of the same name, performs Saturday, Sept. 7, at 7:15 p.m. Opening for the world-touring boy band is Crash Adams, a fast-rising Canadian rap duo. Tickets are $55 and include admission to the fair.

Puppy Yoga

Practice yoga techniques amid a bevy of squiggly, squirmy rescue pups that are bound to lick the faces and win the hearts of yogis who take part. The cute canines will be on hand Saturdays, Aug. 31 and Sept. 7, from 10 a.m. to 11 a.m. Tickets are $50 and include fair admission. A portion of the ticket sales will be donated to rescue groups.

Mullet Hair Contest

Got a ‘coif that’s short on the sides and long in the back? Enter the Mullet Madness competition for a chance to win a trophy and cash prize. Entrants must preregister, including sending a mugshot of their mullet, by Aug. 15 at marylandstatefair.com/mullet. The $25 entry fee includes admission to the fair for the mullet wearer and a guest. The contest takes place Sunday, Sept. 8.

Wolves of The World

Meet a traveling pack of wolves, up close, and discover their habits, intelligence and agility in the wild in a demonstrative show that shows the other side of an oft-maligned creature of nature. The experience takes place across from the Cow Palace on the first and last weekends of the fair.

Let’s Sing Taylor

Led by a live band, Swifties of all ages can bask in the music and share in the songs in a tribute to pop star Taylor Swift at a 7 p.m. concert Sept. 6 that’s sure to draw some look-a-likes to Queen Taylor. Tickets are $25 and include fair admission.

If you go

The Maryland State Fair runs for three consecutive weekends: Aug. 22 to 25, Aug. 29 to Sept. 2 and Sept. 5 to 8. Admission gate hours will be 5 p.m. to 9 p.m. Thursdays and 9 a.m. to 9 p.m. other days. After 6 p.m., those under 18 must be accompanied by someone at least 21 years old.

As a no-kill shelter, the humane society is required to take in all animals left on its doorstep or seized by the county’s Animal Control division. In February, that unit impounded 34 dogs, including 17 from one residence, exacerbating the already snug conditions at the 66-kennel shelter filled with post-pandemic turn-ins and pets from owners who lacked the funds to care for them.

The intake of animals “put us over the tipping point,” said Bob Citrullo, executive director of the humane society, and forced it to acquire the emergency tent for $18,000 a month. A series of strategies, including the waiver of adoption fees, stepped-up foster care and the transfer of some dogs to single-breed rescue centers helped end the overcrowding; in June, the tent came down. But the crisis response bit into the humane society’s $2.2 million budget, a sobering omen of crises to come.

“The problem remains that, if tomorrow, animal control seizes another 10 or 12 dogs, we’ll be right back to where we were,” said Citrullo, the shelter’s director for two years. To that end, the staff has negotiated with the county to house animals in another building, rent-free, 10 minutes away, should a crunch arise.

Also, construction began this month on an animal training center, adjacent to the existing shelter, a facility already in the works. That venue, which could accommodate dogs in an emergency, will be funded by a $250,000 donation from a late benefactor who gifted it to the humane society in a will.

Finally, Citrullo said, the crisis has spurred talk of building a third structure specifically to care for animals confiscated by the county.

“We’d have to raise money for that,” Citrullo said.

Meanwhile, there’s that $100,000 hole in the budget to be addressed.

“We’re going to have to eat a lot of that,” he said. “We’ve sought restitution from [the biggest hoarder] who was found guilty of nine of 17 counts [of animal abuse]. We’ll learn how much money we can expect later this month, but rarely do we see the full amount.”

Somehow, Citrullo said, the bills get paid:

“Last year, we found homes for 2,610 animals. We’ll find a way around [euthanasia]. We just have to think outside the box.”

A century ago, on a sweltering July day that turned many of the world’s top distance runners into French toast, Johnson placed third in the grueling 10,000-meter cross country event, capturing the bronze medal for the U.S. (as well as a silver in team cross country) to earn acclaim as the greatest American distance runner of the era.

How demanding was that race? Of the 39 athletes who started, only 15 finished.

“Twenty-four fell far back along the route, where many lay as dead men, face down under the blazing sun,” The Philadelphia Inquirer’s Grantland Rice wrote. “The cross-country route looked like the war area, with dead scattered as from machine-gun fire. There has never been, in the history of track athletics, such terrific strain thrown upon the last limit of human endurance.”

One by one, the remaining runners, including Johnson, wobbled toward the finish, the New York Daily News reported:

“Exhausted by their efforts, and with their lungs crying for air, the athletes plunged into the immense bake oven within the steaming walls of [the Olympic] stadium, where the air was stifling and the temperature nearly 100 degrees. One after another, [many of] the runners dropped in their tracks. Some tottered over to the grass; some lay on the cinders where they fell.”

The race was won by the acclaimed Paavo Nurmi, of Finland, one of a record five gold medals the “Flying Finn” captured in the ’24 Games. Fellow countryman Ville Ritola took the silver, and the indefatigable Johnson — at 33, one of the oldest entrants — staggered home third, egged on by the cheering crowd.

It was the high point in the career of the Morgan College (now Morgan State University) grad who, nine years earlier, had run his first race, on a dare from a classmate. A native of Woodstock, Virginia, Johnson starred as a halfback in football and third baseman in baseball for the Bears before entering a local run during the spring of his junior year. The event? The second annual 5-mile Baltimore Afro-American Marathon through Druid Hill Park and surrounding neighborhoods.

“May 15 dawned a beautiful day, but I was suffering with stage fright,” Johnson later recalled.

The jitters didn’t show. Before a crowd of 5,000, he won the race in 33 minutes, 23 seconds, shearing one minute off the previous year’s best time.

His lead was such, the Afro-American newspaper reported, that “he was able to stop for a brief moment [and] take a siesta on the Provident Hospital steps. But as the form of his closest contestant came around the corner, he broke into a swift run and ran across the finishing line a full minute ahead of his nearest competitor, amid the cheers of the great crowd that had assembled.”

Buoyed by victory, Johnson kept running — and winning — local races. In 1916, still wearing his college colors, he defended his title in the Afro race, trimming 55 seconds off his earlier time. As reward for his success, Johnson, the son of a barber, received a free shave, haircut, massage and shampoo at Earnest Hitchens’ Tonsorial Parlor on Druid Hill Avenue.

He began winning bigger races around the country, including several national Amateur Athletic Union championships, all reported by The Afro, which, unabashedly, dubbed Johnson “Our Earl.” In hindsight, the runner said, there was no great secret to his achievement:

“I trained my own way. But when I started [a race], I was gone, that’s all.”

In 1920, he qualified for the Olympic team but failed to make the finals of the 10,000-meter run in Antwerp, Belgium. Undeterred, he stepped up training and, four years later, carved his niche in five-ring history. On his return from the Games, in August 1924, Johnson met with followers at Druid Hill Park where he was “surrounded by admiring youngsters who asked every question imaginable,” The Afro reported.

He settled in Pittsburgh, worked a white-collar job in a steel mill and mentored aspiring young runners. Johnson died in 1965 at age 74, having proved himself no end.

“I have been on two Olympic teams and I have won numerous prizes in national competition. This takes its toll, so I am satisfied,” he told The Afro in 1925. “On the other hand, I enjoy a good race. … Maybe, in 1928, I will come out for the Olympics of that year. Ha! It would be funny to see the old man Johnson licking some [of] the kids that year.”

Also on the market: a jigsaw puzzle gleaned from a photo of the bridge taken in better times, its cut-out pieces allowing players to “rebuild” the span on a table at home. It’s an upbeat exercise, if a fanciful one, to resurrect the bridge whose collapse cost six lives and will require an estimated $1.7 billion to rebuild.

“It probably makes people feel better” to do the puzzle, said Bill Cannon, a photographer from Philadelphia who snapped that tranquil picture of the bridge with his digital Nikon on a crystal-clear day during a day trip to Baltimore in 2015.

“I’d taken my grandsons to Fort McHenry and [while there] noticed the bridge in the distance,” said Cannon, 62. “A lone sailboat was heading toward it, so I waited five minutes, until [the vessel] was in the center of the frame, and got the picture.”

Nine years later, while working at home, he heard the news. The Key Bridge was gone.

“I felt sick when it happened,” he said. “I’d crossed that bridge many times while going to Baltimore. It was a beautiful bridge; I love the symmetry of the picture.”

Before the accident, Cannon had posted both print and puzzle for sale on his website (billcannon.net), one of 15,000 images, mostly landscapes, offered up there. Since, he has sold nearly a dozen puzzles, of from 96 to 1,000 pieces, both to gamers and others who cherish the memory of the bridge — and who enjoy reconstructing it, painstakingly, one piece at a time.

“When the new bridge is built, I’ll photograph that, too,” he said. “But it won’t be the same.”