Kent Island: Chapter 1 Excerpt

When I was a child, the island was Eden. In my mind’s eye I can repossess at any moment the tang smell of salt marsh, the swooping flight of seabirds, the grit in the oyster shell lane; a richly detailed remembrance of places and people much loved and not forgotten.We would travel from Baltimore in our ’48 Chevy, my parents in the front seat, my father driving with one arm on the window ledge, a Lucky Strike dangling from his fingertips, his sheaf of dark hair blown in the wind. In later years, when I first read Fitzgerald at school, my mind flashed up this image of my father, a Great Gatsby turned family man, tooling down Old Maryland Highway 50.

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 drove a labyrinth of streets, passing neat brick houses, corner stores and row upon row of the marble front steps for which Baltimore is famous. We passed the shabby storefronts and tenements west of Johns Hopkins Hospital where women sat on front stoops, their children scampering on the cracked concrete pavements. The asphalt streets wound through the downtown canyons of government buildings and offices of decorous dark stone; past large department stores with luxurious display windows, past markets and wharves that smelled of fish, steel, bananas and spices.

Slowly disentangling from the clamor and traffic, we crossed Baltimore’s harbor at the Hanover Street Bridge, leaving behind the foundries and factories, the gray docks and oil-slicked marshes of the city. The little Chevy picked up speed, it’s wheels click-clicking on the seams of the concrete roadway as we passed through the expanding suburb of Brooklyn, past Ferndale, and onward to Glen Burnie. I watched with pleasure as development slowly gave way to small towns and then to open fields and farmland, the sky growing bigger and bluer and wider. Scenery flew by the window as the car pressed onward past Annapolis, the land growing sandier and steadily flatter, until, at last, we reached the ferry embankment at Sandy Point. Joining the line of cars, we devoured our sandwiches while waiting our turn to enter the clanking cavern of the ferry that would carry us across the Chesapeake. Through choppy dank green waves, the air crisp with salt and mingled with the smell of gasoline, we traveled to the island landing at Matapeake.

Kent Island: Chapter 2 Excerpt

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 in the white light of a blinding summer sun, the farm, the woods, the marsh and creek shore beckoned in shimmering splendor.

Parents, being practical creatures, who somehow remain curiously untouched by the magic in their surroundings, insist that the car be unloaded immediately. I am assigned the smaller bags and packages and am soon trekking from the car to the house with my little bundles. No matter. I would have made a room-by-room pilgrimage anyway, delighting in the familiar, assuring myself that there had been no drastic changes in my absence. The house was like a favored, multi-patterned quilt, each detail known, yet every nuance a new found delight. I knew the look of it, the feel of it, the sounds and smells of it; it belonged as much to me as it had ever belonged to anyone.

The house was of frame construction and built linearly in three sections, the first being a deep porch entered by a screened side door. The porch itself is solidly walled to hip height and screened upward to the eaves; and because it boasts an almost constant breeze and a pleasant view, it serves as both parlor and dining room for most of the year, abandoned only when winter’s chill finally drove us indoors. The floor was covered in several linoleum patterns, the predominant one of dark blue scattered with a pattern of gaudy peach cabbage roses. In the center of the house wall, a door led to the kitchen and was flanked on one side by a large white icebox and a wringer washer draped in oilcloth; on the other by a medicine cabinet, a mirror and a porcelain sink set in a wooden frame.

In the center of the room was a claw-footed dining table (for which my grandmother seemed to possess an endless supply of extension leaves), and lining the walls were various benches and oaken chairs to be drawn up to the table at mealtime. And what meals that table held! The generosity of sea, orchard and garden arrived at that oilcloth covered expanse, each one in its season…platters of fish and eel, briny oysters; crab cakes, abundant with lump backfin, spicy and fried golden brown; fat ripe tomatoes fragrantly warm from the garden, steaming ears of sweet corn, paper thin cucumber slices in a tangy onion-studded vinaigrette, peas with dumplings, biscuits and blackberry rolls, strawberry cakes and lemon meringue pies. I remember it as well, covered in layers of newspaper and piled high with steaming blue crabs, turned bright orange from the cooking, crusted with pepper and fragrant with spices, the best of the Chesapeake’s feasts.

The kitchen was bright and cheerful with wainscoting and chair rail, and a table and chairs enameled a rich Dutch blue. A built-in corner cupboard lined with flowered shelf paper displayed dishes and platters of varying color and design, including many in the blue willow pattern. It was a sunny room owing to two large windows and was equipped with a large woodstove, a gas range, a small refrigerator, a sink with a hand-pump, a treadle sewing machine and several freestanding cupboards. A small closet tucked under the attic stairs held pots and pans and a wooden caddy crafted by my grandfather for the storage of silverware.

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 in the white light of a blinding summer sun, the farm, the woods, the marsh and creek shore beckoned in shimmering splendor.

Parents, being practical creatures, who somehow remain curiously untouched by the magic in their surroundings, insist that the car be unloaded immediately. I am assigned the smaller bags and packages and am soon trekking from the car to the house with my little bundles. No matter. I would have made a room-by-room pilgrimage anyway, delighting in the familiar, assuring myself that there had been no drastic changes in my absence. The house was like a favored, multi-patterned quilt, each detail known, yet every nuance a new found delight. I knew the look of it, the feel of it, the sounds and smells of it; it belonged as much to me as it had ever belonged to anyone.

The house was of frame construction and built linearly in three sections, the first being a deep porch entered by a screened side door. The porch itself is solidly walled to hip height and screened upward to the eaves; and because it boasts an almost constant breeze and a pleasant view, it serves as both parlor and dining room for most of the year, abandoned only when winter’s chill finally drove us indoors. The floor was covered in several linoleum patterns, the predominant one of dark blue scattered with a pattern of gaudy peach cabbage roses. In the center of the house wall, a door led to the kitchen and was flanked on one side by a large white icebox and a wringer washer draped in oilcloth; on the other by a medicine cabinet, a mirror and a porcelain sink set in a wooden frame.

In the center of the room was a claw-footed dining table (for which my grandmother seemed to possess an endless supply of extension leaves), and lining the walls were various benches and oaken chairs to be drawn up to the table at mealtime. And what meals that table held! The generosity of sea, orchard and garden arrived at that oilcloth covered expanse, each one in its season…platters of fish and eel, briny oysters; crab cakes, abundant with lump backfin, spicy and fried golden brown; fat ripe tomatoes fragrantly warm from the garden, steaming ears of sweet corn, paper thin cucumber slices in a tangy onion-studded vinaigrette, peas with dumplings, biscuits and blackberry rolls, strawberry cakes and lemon meringue pies. I remember it as well, covered in layers of newspaper and piled high with steaming blue crabs, turned bright orange from the cooking, crusted with pepper and fragrant with spices, the best of the Chesapeake’s feasts.

My parents met at church.  St. Matthew’s was only three short city blocks from her brother’s apartment, and she began attending services at the invitation of another young woman in the neighborhood.  My dad’s family were established members of the church where he participated in a variety of activities. He was a sharp dresser, gregarious, friendly, generous, liked by everyone, he stepped more lightly through life than she.  My mother was a beautiful woman, though she never truly knew it, always thinking her younger sister was the beauty because of some chance remark their mother made long in the past that still felt like a wound.

My dad, like the fathers of most everyone I knew, worked in one of the many factories of blue-collar Baltimore.  It seemed to me that we should not have been less prosperous than those with occupations no better and some worse, though they seemed to have more, perhaps, I thought resentfully as I grew older, by putting less in the collection plate.  

Our furnishings were over large, most of them purchased when my parents married in 1937 and were now out of style – fat upholstered pieces with squat ornate legs lavished with corded fringe, their arms and backs covered with crocheted antimacassars. A mahogany suite overwhelmed the dining room where the table more often functioned as an office for the church, its surface heaped with files, Sunday school projects and mimeographed newsletters.    In the front hall a reproduction of Sallman’s “Head of Christ” was displayed in a three-way lighted frame draped with palm fronds. The space abounded with East Baltimore kitsch, crocheted crosses and towel holders, and plastic placemats worthy of a John Waters movie set.  My mother’s propensity to hold onto old and unused objects rendered our space perpetually overly full and our basement became the catchall space for the endless things being saved “just in case”. The terror of the Depression never left her.

My mother’s frugality and capacity for work was remarkable. She canned much of our winter food supply, sewed and patched our clothing, made dish towels out of flour sacking, and produced unappealing soap from rendered animal fat and lye.  A small crocheted turtle in our bathtub held barbed splinters of soap, allowing every bit to be used before starting a fresh bar. Leftovers from meals, no matter how small the portions, were saved.  If not eaten promptly, I was charged with carrying them to Mrs. Otto, a widow who lived on our street – two meatballs, a portion of stew, a withered chicken leg.  Although Mrs. Otto seemed pleased to receive them, I was embarrassed, even at a tender age, to be bearing such poor gifts. 

Mrs. Otto collected newspapers and cardboard for resale and did sewing and laundry for many of our neighbors.   Her small cemented backyard sprouted rows of pronged wooden frames on which she stretched lace curtains and tablecloths to bleach and dry in the sun.  Everyone was shocked when upon Mrs. Otto’s death, her son and sister found so much money in her house that they had to carry it to the bank in shopping bags. She had the same disease as my mother. 

I expect that my mother’s frugality brought her a sense of safety. I think that her behaviors also rose from a desire to do things as right as she knew how to do them, to achieve some level of envisioned perfection, to build a life arranged to fit some rigid standard. I think it made her serious and harder than she meant to be.  But the messages I absorbed were clear:  Disaster looms. Be cautious. Follow the rules. The world is not safe.  And there will never be enough.

Read Excerpt: Divine Intervention