Downtown Baltimore
Notoriously, I swoop into a place with only an hour or two to enjoy
the scenery, the historic site, or, in the case of downtown Baltimore, the
snippet of literary history. Except on
this occasion, I allowed myself a lengthy twenty minutes to track down an extra
added bonus to the weekend’s Civil War / War of 1812 excursion. After a drive through Harper’s Ferry and
around the Antietam Battlefield, then an entire day combing Gettysburg’s
historic sites, and a full scale tourist assault around Fort McHenry, why not
squeeze in one more site in the whirlwind view of the nineteenth century
mid-Atlantic states? Into the heart of
the city I am ushered.
Edgar Allen Poe, one of the quirkiest and most peculiar American
authors (thus my interest in the site revealed), lies in repose on the grounds
of Westminster Cemetery and in the short span of time between the quarters
clanging in the metal meter and the tow truck hoisting its cables, I scurry
about the grounds in search of the marker, and around the first corner, I
poetically stumble into the author’s sanctum.
The literary fates, as well as the travel fates, shine their eyes upon
my excursion. Within fifteen minutes I
return to my automobile before the regional wreckers have a chance to even
glance in my tell-tale direction.
Notoriously, I swoop into a place with only an hour or two to enjoy
the scenery, the historic site, or, in the case of downtown Baltimore, the
snippet of literary history. Except on
this occasion, I allowed myself a lengthy twenty minutes to track down an extra
added bonus to the weekend’s Civil War / War of 1812 excursion. After a drive through Harper’s Ferry and
around the Antietam Battlefield, then an entire day combing Gettysburg’s
historic sites, and a full scale tourist assault around Fort McHenry, why not
squeeze in one more site in the whirlwind view of the nineteenth century
mid-Atlantic states? Into the heart of
the city I am ushered.
Upon dropping coins into the meter, a well-meaning, yet somewhat
verbally irritated Baltimorean, pointed out to us, repeatedly, that at four
o’clock the tow trucks begin sweeping the one-way corridors of the Charm City
and our little rental would disappear. I
smiled, thanked her, and proceeded on to my destination somewhere in general
vicinity where I had parked. She may not
have realized I possessed a knack for historic fly-bys; what I did not realize
was that my parallel parking prowess on the corner of Fayette Street and Greene
Street placed my exactly where I wanted to be.
She need worry nevermore.
Grave Hunting
Edgar Allen Poe, one of the quirkiest and most peculiar American
authors (thus my interest in the site revealed), lies in repose on the grounds
of Westminster Cemetery and in the short span of time between the quarters
clanging in the metal meter and the tow truck hoisting its cables, I scurry
about the grounds in search of the marker, and around the first corner, I
poetically stumble into the author’s sanctum.
The literary fates, as well as the travel fates, shine their eyes upon
my excursion. Within fifteen minutes I
return to my automobile before the regional wreckers have a chance to even
glance in my tell-tale direction.
While not the first time I have visited a gravesite for the express
opportunity to snap a photo and muse about the cultural curiosity the spot
holds for me (see “Moonlight in Minnesota” from September 2013), the master of
macabre seems appropriately placed here in the center of a city. His contributions to American literature
continue to reach the masses and almost all high school students find his
name on their required reading lists.
Much like A Visit from Saint Nicholas has become a staple on Christmas
Eve, Poe's nearly one-and-three-quarter-century-year-old poem should be worth at
least as much time on an equitable holiday as the brief window I spend descending on
downtown Baltimore in quest of his memorial.
If you’ve never read The Raven,
please do so this Hallow’s Eve for the
love of God, Montresor.
