I grew up in a
stoop world—four square blocks of Baltimore City row houses, bordered on the
south by a steep railroad bank, on the east by the Girls’ Catholic High which
my best neighborhood girlfriend attended, on the west by Clifton Park with its
clay tennis courts, and on the north by a cemetery which would later be dug up,
moved and replaced by a Two Guys parking lot.Twenty-two houses lined the block, from
3400 to 3442, twenty-two on one side that held a visual rhythm of gray wooden
porches, each with five steps leading down to the pavement. It was a safe
world. In summer, the community retreated to the front porches. Covered in a
blanket of humidity, adults sat in metal chairs and gliders, hoping for the
least breeze to offer relief in a time just before air conditioners and Willie
Kool was introduced. They talked lazily over wooden railings about the weather,
the latest sale, children and grandchildren, and the latest comings and goings
of neighbors.