Something in the air tonight made me think of the city in springtime.
It was cold still, but fresh, moist, free of the bitter stagnations of winter. I breathed deep. I remembered running up and down Henry Street the moment the weather rose above 40 degrees. Most of the time with my brother, Matt, then a stringy little boy with white white hair, chasing after me because the baby of the family was screeching (many years later, this has not changed.)
I remember wishing that my mother would let us cross streets so I could see the Catholic church steeple a block away more closely, to explore the diorama garden with my eyes, to glimpse the teenagers who sat on the steps, licking cones from the malt shop across the street. The steeple of Saint Mary's is a vivid blue, with little grates where the deep tones of the church bell would ring out over the city. On top there is a bright blue star, and when I was young, it was always the first star in the sky, the star I wished on.
I miss the city so much, the smell of salt and Old Bay that drifts in from the Inner Harbor, the stargazer lilies and the inky-blue orchids from the market. The hot days spent seeking refuge on the third floor of Barnes and Noble fingering pages of books that I always planned to buy, but never quite had the money for. I'd seek out the side streets, get purposefully lost. I loved the rich red-brick coffee shops that would make mocha mints just for me, the libraries where I would lose myself in a book of eighteenth-century ghost stories.
The sun stays out until nearly eight in the evening in high summer, and the old mothers of South Baltimore would sit on the front steps of their houses, chattering as the sunlight faded quietly into hues of hushed rose and stunning blue high above the soft hills of Riverside Park. Those mothers are now the ones fading, their comforting stoops usurped by young professionals in business suits who hack up the houses and re-sell them when they're done. No little children run up and down Henry Street any more.
I miss walking the city at night, humming Barber's Sure on this Shining Night, my quiet footsteeps mingling with the rustle of the cherry blossoms, the laughter of the tourists and the pre-teens on the corners. It was a melange that spoke of hushed anticipation, of magic intangible, of the living city telling me all of its secrets, showing me its quiet beauties.
They say that you always return to the first city you fall in love with. I know I'll return to Baltimore-- I just hope it's the same city I left on that shining night.
High summer holds the earth.
Hearts all whole.
Sure on this shining night
I weep for wonder
wandering far alone
Of shadows on the stars.
- From "Description of Elysium," by James Agee (1909-1955)
It was cold still, but fresh, moist, free of the bitter stagnations of winter. I breathed deep. I remembered running up and down Henry Street the moment the weather rose above 40 degrees. Most of the time with my brother, Matt, then a stringy little boy with white white hair, chasing after me because the baby of the family was screeching (many years later, this has not changed.)
I remember wishing that my mother would let us cross streets so I could see the Catholic church steeple a block away more closely, to explore the diorama garden with my eyes, to glimpse the teenagers who sat on the steps, licking cones from the malt shop across the street. The steeple of Saint Mary's is a vivid blue, with little grates where the deep tones of the church bell would ring out over the city. On top there is a bright blue star, and when I was young, it was always the first star in the sky, the star I wished on.
I miss the city so much, the smell of salt and Old Bay that drifts in from the Inner Harbor, the stargazer lilies and the inky-blue orchids from the market. The hot days spent seeking refuge on the third floor of Barnes and Noble fingering pages of books that I always planned to buy, but never quite had the money for. I'd seek out the side streets, get purposefully lost. I loved the rich red-brick coffee shops that would make mocha mints just for me, the libraries where I would lose myself in a book of eighteenth-century ghost stories.
The sun stays out until nearly eight in the evening in high summer, and the old mothers of South Baltimore would sit on the front steps of their houses, chattering as the sunlight faded quietly into hues of hushed rose and stunning blue high above the soft hills of Riverside Park. Those mothers are now the ones fading, their comforting stoops usurped by young professionals in business suits who hack up the houses and re-sell them when they're done. No little children run up and down Henry Street any more.
I miss walking the city at night, humming Barber's Sure on this Shining Night, my quiet footsteeps mingling with the rustle of the cherry blossoms, the laughter of the tourists and the pre-teens on the corners. It was a melange that spoke of hushed anticipation, of magic intangible, of the living city telling me all of its secrets, showing me its quiet beauties.
They say that you always return to the first city you fall in love with. I know I'll return to Baltimore-- I just hope it's the same city I left on that shining night.
High summer holds the earth.
Hearts all whole.
Sure on this shining night
I weep for wonder
wandering far alone
Of shadows on the stars.
- From "Description of Elysium," by James Agee (1909-1955)