here is a neighborhood in Baltimore City that is as quaint as it is gritty, a mesh of cobblestone streets and tilted buildings with historic landmark signs affixed to the brick fronts, a blend of dark Irish pubs and nautical-themed bars, all with live music most nights of the week. The Fell’s Point musicians are all locals, and on Sundays they gather in the alley behind the local American Legion for a hootenanny, box drums booming under hand taps and guitars swaying against bodies.
Read MoreThe third day of injections, just after seven in the morning, I’m perched on the edge of an uncomfortable chair, tapping my boot against the tile, when suddenly the sterile artificiality of the waiting room becomes stifling. I notice the stiff, plastic orchids on the coffee table, white petals stained with pink bowing demurely as if bending under frost. Indistinct pop music emanates from speakers disguised as tree stumps.
Read MoreAs it turns out, a lot of things stopped working that March. Our oven. Our septic tank. My body.
Meal prep for a family of six shifted to an enormous Crock Pot. A loyal workhorse. But there is no countertop substitute for a backed-up septic tank that supports three and a half baths and a lot of drains in a house occupied by six people who use a lot of water. Five of them toilet trained. A story for another time. And to be fair, only part of my body stopped working. An important part. But they are all important parts.
Read More
