Baltimore Nevermore

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.

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.

The Ice Machine In The River

Preparing for the Storms

Natural disasters come in three categories: fast and furious, drawn out and excruciating, and well-planned.  Earthquakes and tornadoes both qualify in the first category while floods, blizzards and brushfires fit into the second category.  Hurricanes, while equally threatening, at least offer the element of no surprise.  I have watched storms on satellites developing over weeks (I see you out there Ivan) and have prepared for storms that swerved and headed north (Yes, I’m talking about you Floyd) and storms that slowly hovered overhead for days (Really, Frances?  The entire Labor Day weekend?).

The storms that head northward smack into Cape Hatteras or Charleston, sometimes swirling out to sea like a drive-by mooning by Mother Nature. 

Forecasters make these storms more manageable and my sons and I have even enjoyed a round of mini-golf between feeder bands as a last opportunity to get out of the house before the real threat arrives (take that Jeanne).  During the trifecta of storms in 2004, we purchased a medley of disaster films and watched the Poseidon Adventure and Twister during our confinement.

In the Aftermath

Isabel hung around in the late summer, practically autumn, of 2003 plodding across the Atlantic for nearly two weeks and then storming in the front door near the Carolina and Virginia border, but the storm surge to the north forced the waters of Chesapeake Bay much farther inland.  As one of the biggies for the year, her acclaim remains in the mind of the region’s population more than the nation’s because the following year’s hurricane season packed a wallop blowing through the entire alphabet of names.  And the next year Katrina swallowed up New Orleans and most of the central Gulf Coast.

But I remember Isabel.  On my trip to Annapolis, I cross the Bay Bridge and visit southeastern Maryland.  Once I find the outdated hotel, I scavenge for a local restaurant in search of fresh crab because that’s what one does in Maryland.  The waterfront establishment appears surprisingly empty for a Friday night.  My server shares that the entire lower level of the restaurant spent the week prior submerged in the tides of the Chesapeake.  She reappears with photos documenting the high-water mark, the clean-up efforts of the past week, and the ice machine previously chained to the downstairs porch stuck under one of the wooden bridges along the Chesapeake.  Even with advance notice, you cannot plan for everything, including ice machines floating upstream.