For safekeeping - High Summer (latest edit of short version)
Sure on this shining night
I weep for wonder
wandering far alone
Of shadows on the stars.
--James Agee, from “Description of Elysium”
When High Summer Comes to South Baltimore
When high summer comes to South Baltimore, the sun lights the sky past eight in the evening. Time was, old mothers would gather on their front stoops, chattering over steaming mugs of decaf coffee until daylight faded quietly into hues of hushed rose high above the soft hills of Riverside Park. Nowadays, those mothers are fading as well, their comforting stoops usurped by slick twentysomethings in suits with starched collars who carve up the aging row homes, selling the shells when they’re through.
Little children don’t run up and down Henry Street much these days. When I was younger, the very moment the temperature rose above fifty-five degrees, the sound of Nikes slapping pavement would rise above the ever-present motor-hum of East Fort Avenue, echoing down cement alleyways. I’d be out the door, a short stack of books underarm, with my brother trailing after, just a tiny wisp of a boy with white white hair plainly ignoring his mother’s call not to ruin his new shoes. I remember wishing that my mother would let us cross the narrow streets so I could see the steeple of Saint Mary’s more closely, to explore the diorama garden of the Passion with my eyes and glimpse the lanky teenagers that lazed on the stairs, flashing their tanned legs as they slowly licked cones from the malt shop across the street. The steeple of Saint Mary’s is a vivid blue, just slightly faded with age and marked by tiny silver grates where the deep tones of the church bell’s Credo could escape and ring out over the city on Sunday mornings. Perched at the top is a bright sapphire star, always the first star in the sky- the star I wished on, my Star Bright.
On humid days, the scent of salt and Old Bay drifts in from the harbor and mixes with the smell of machinery and oil from Locust point. As I grew older, I would go for long walks, stopping at the market on Cross street to buy the stargazer lilies and inky-blue orchids from produce stands where slight Asian men sell the juiciest watermelon you’ve ever tasted- its sweet nectar bursts on your tongue like the fruit of Paradise. I spent those sticky afternoons seeking refuge on the second story of my favorite bookstore, reverently fingering the Bible-thin pages of books of Pandora mythology, or sipping coffee in Mount Vernon, watching as stone fountains splashed crystal water in the shadow of verdigris-spidered cathedrals.
When high summer comes to South Baltimore, the twilight air shimmers with possibility, with anticipation. It reveals all the secrets of the somber alleyways and the bowed oak trees in the parks, showing the intangible magic that hides just beneath the cracking cement. Traversing the labyrinth of familiar streets, my footsteps would mingle with the rustle of the cherry blossoms and the laughter of children playing tag on the corners. I would unwrap the mysteries of the living city like the delicate gold foil of a Perugina chocolate, like a precious gift- petal by petal, avenue by avenue, streetlight by streetlight. Some say that you always return to the city with which you first fall in love. I have no doubt that this is true- I only hope that it is that same city I left behind, the city I loved sure on that shining night.
I weep for wonder
wandering far alone
Of shadows on the stars.
--James Agee, from “Description of Elysium”
When high summer comes to South Baltimore, the sun lights the sky past eight in the evening. Time was, old mothers would gather on their front stoops, chattering over steaming mugs of decaf coffee until daylight faded quietly into hues of hushed rose high above the soft hills of Riverside Park. Nowadays, those mothers are fading as well, their comforting stoops usurped by slick twentysomethings in suits with starched collars who carve up the aging row homes, selling the shells when they’re through.
Little children don’t run up and down Henry Street much these days. When I was younger, the very moment the temperature rose above fifty-five degrees, the sound of Nikes slapping pavement would rise above the ever-present motor-hum of East Fort Avenue, echoing down cement alleyways. I’d be out the door, a short stack of books underarm, with my brother trailing after, just a tiny wisp of a boy with white white hair plainly ignoring his mother’s call not to ruin his new shoes. I remember wishing that my mother would let us cross the narrow streets so I could see the steeple of Saint Mary’s more closely, to explore the diorama garden of the Passion with my eyes and glimpse the lanky teenagers that lazed on the stairs, flashing their tanned legs as they slowly licked cones from the malt shop across the street. The steeple of Saint Mary’s is a vivid blue, just slightly faded with age and marked by tiny silver grates where the deep tones of the church bell’s Credo could escape and ring out over the city on Sunday mornings. Perched at the top is a bright sapphire star, always the first star in the sky- the star I wished on, my Star Bright.
On humid days, the scent of salt and Old Bay drifts in from the harbor and mixes with the smell of machinery and oil from Locust point. As I grew older, I would go for long walks, stopping at the market on Cross street to buy the stargazer lilies and inky-blue orchids from produce stands where slight Asian men sell the juiciest watermelon you’ve ever tasted- its sweet nectar bursts on your tongue like the fruit of Paradise. I spent those sticky afternoons seeking refuge on the second story of my favorite bookstore, reverently fingering the Bible-thin pages of books of Pandora mythology, or sipping coffee in Mount Vernon, watching as stone fountains splashed crystal water in the shadow of verdigris-spidered cathedrals.
When high summer comes to South Baltimore, the twilight air shimmers with possibility, with anticipation. It reveals all the secrets of the somber alleyways and the bowed oak trees in the parks, showing the intangible magic that hides just beneath the cracking cement. Traversing the labyrinth of familiar streets, my footsteps would mingle with the rustle of the cherry blossoms and the laughter of children playing tag on the corners. I would unwrap the mysteries of the living city like the delicate gold foil of a Perugina chocolate, like a precious gift- petal by petal, avenue by avenue, streetlight by streetlight. Some say that you always return to the city with which you first fall in love. I have no doubt that this is true- I only hope that it is that same city I left behind, the city I loved sure on that shining night.