• Excerpt: Chapter 1

    Growing up in East Baltimore: I was born into a home of financial caution and religious zeal, in an East Baltimore row house one half block from both St. Matthews church and the garish lights of Luby’s Chevrolet.  It seems to me now that those two buildings represent the contradictory tows of my childhood – the good, delineated by an ever present and ponderous religious life versus the temptations of the temporal world so flamboyantly illustrated in that car dealership’s art-deco signage in flashing pink and turquoise.  My parents were devout. From babyhood my brother and I were immersed in Christianity, attending church and Sunday school plus a widening number…

  • Excerpt: Chapter Two

    My grandmother’s house sat on a low rise, it’s narrow lane of sand and oyster shell curving gently past the barn,ending abruptly in the front yard. It was surrounded by a wide green lawn, several outbuildings and a riotous abundance of trees and shrubs. The incessant trip at last at an end, I burst from the car like a racehorse from the gate, rushing to the waiting arms of my grandmother. I knew, and had always known that though I was perfect nowhere else, for this woman I was entirely so. She was perfect for me as well, as was this place. Beyond the cool shade of her porch, draped…

  • Divine Intervention Excerpts

    Growing up in East Baltimore: I was born into a home of financial caution and religious zeal, in an East Baltimore row house one half block from both St. Matthews church and the garish lights of Luby’s Chevrolet.  It seems to me now that those two buildings represent the contradictory tows of my childhood – the good, delineated by an ever present and ponderous religious life versus the temptations of the temporal world so flamboyantly illustrated in that car dealership’s art-deco signage in flashing pink and turquoise.  My parents were devout. From babyhood my brother and I were immersed in Christianity, attending church and Sunday school plus a widening number…

  • Exerpt: Chapter One

    Relegated to the back seat with my torturer brother, I sat brim-filled with anticipation, my feet atop the blue metal cooler containing our lunch. In addition to luggage, the car was packed with foods gleaned from the diverse markets and bakeries of Baltimore—-fat juicy oranges, hands of bananas, rich German buttercakes and delicate star-shaped cookies topped with chocolate or raspberry jam. The back window abounded with breads—-soft rolls, Vienna, pumpernickel and Italian loaves peeked from their paper envelopes, and the cooler held (in addition to lunch) coldcuts, cheeses, thickly sliced bacon and fat sausages securely wrapped in crisp white butcher’s paper. In my youthful perception, the drive was eternal. We…