The Earle of Baltimore

 

The Earle Movie Theater

Unassuming red brick makes up the back of that small old building almost directly across the street from our part of the row house. The front was simple with an inviting brightness coming from the angular marquee. Detailed with smooth glazed brick and Art Deco curves more welcoming than the Italianate style church across and up the road, there was an opulence combined with mystery which created excitement for wonders held inside. To this day, I love going to the “movies” by myself. The sense memory of that special place with its sweet smell of butter, popcorn and the cavernous, benevolent darkness fractured by flickering images projected onto silvery white background.

 

Many may remember its unfortunate decline into an adult movie theater during the 1970s’ and 80s’ or its present incarnation as a church. If that is not a metaphor for America than there just isn’t one. But for me it was a new and unexplored continent, it was outer space, a journey to the center of the earth. It was sensual and intimate; it was the Wild West, the freezing tundra, the landscape of dreams, and of my heart.

 

On a Saturday morning, I was allowed to cross Mayfield Avenue, go up to the corner and purchase my ticket. That’s how close I lived to the Earle and the screen, an opening to another dimension embedded therein. To see the whole frame of it I would have to sit in the very front. Otherwise, the seat ahead of me blocked a good portion of the picture. Looking up from the red crush velvet and cast iron seats, I followed the adventures of “Puss In Boots.” A swashbuckling kitty with a snide sense of humor.

 

At some point from my perch in the front row, I became curious about the red and white “EXIT” sign lit over a metal door with a long push bar handle. The cat with a hat, sword, and boots no longer captured my attention. My own feline curiosity took hold and I found myself going through that door. Immediately I was blinded by the bright light of Saturday. The contrast between dark enclosed Movie Theater and wide open parking lot under blue sky was overwhelming.  I took a few paces out into the openness and looked back. The door was ajar, so I decided to return.

 

Once seated and again looking up at the screen the Usher, who was also the ticket vendor, popcorn maker and projectionist, came bounding down the side aisle. He looked at me and then wildly around for some invisible intruder. Yet all he saw was the blonde haired boy he had sold a ticket staring innocently at the matinee. He shook his head and stalked slowly away.

Lucky

 

I remember it was dark. Light above was yellow and muted from the small dome of a cab's interior lamp. I was sitting in the backseat between people, grown up people. We were going. Going on a trip, an epic adventure of which I had no clue. The light in the car went on because a door was open. The door was to my right. Through the door came the crouching figure of my father. I remember his watchband around his right wrist, his white t-shirt and hair slicked back matching the color of night from which he emerged. My focus was on something he was holding. I remember him coming toward me, extending his right hand to give me something. I noticed that what he was about to pass into my lap was moving. It was a puppy. A tan and brown short haired mutt.

Our journey that night took us to the Staten Island Ferry, the Number 1 subway, to Penn Station and onto a train bound for Baltimore. There were no seats, so we had to stand, or sit on the floor for most of the way. My mother was not happy about something. Well, she was not happy about a lot of things. Mostly, I think, she was not happy that my father had given me a puppy just before we were to leave on our long road to Baltimore.

The dog grew quickly, much faster than I did. I remember we kept him in the cellar. This is the cellar where my memories are stacked and constantly falling only to be re-stacked a gain. It was small and dark with a comforting, wholesome, earthy smell. There was a couch down there, and a door that led to a small fenced-in back yard where we would let the dog out. The yard faced a common alley where metal trash cans would be set out for collection. This dog always seemed happy and playful. I would sit on that couch and sing to him. He would wag his tail wildly, sit on my lap, and lick my face. Legend has it that my dad once had a dog named “Lucky.” This was born out by old black and white photos.  So, my puppy got the name of Lucky as well.

I did not get to keep him long however. After a trip we returned home to hear that the garbage men had inadvertently left my grandmother’s back gate open, and Lucky ran away. I was sad that I would not be playing with him anymore. Only somewhat concerned for his safety because I always imagined him happy, free, and running with the trash truck all over the alleys of Baltimore. Forever and always Lucky the puppy.

Thank You Major League Baseball! And my Uncle Carmen too!

Baltimore.

 

Childhood memories are so interesting. Close your eyes and think back. As far as you can go. Is it vivid and in color? Is it hazy and in black and white? How long is it? Snap shot? A movie?

 

How old are you? Can you go back, leaping into your father’s arms when he gets home from work on a summers day? Or even further? To your mother cradling you to her bosom? Looking into your eyes. Making you smile.

 

This is about life in Baltimore from the POV of my six year old self. It’s 1964. and we live on Mayfield Avenue in a row house just off Belair Road. The Earle Movie Theater is at the corner. Little Flower Roman Catholic Church is up and across the busy street. In the opposite direction along Mayfield, up the Avenue and around the corner was my elementary school. I’d say I grew up in Baltimore but it is probably more accurate to say I stopped growing there. The adventures I had are indelible yet it has been a long time coming for me to revisit and reclaim the best of times...and the worst.

 

I expect to shed more than a few tears while composing and compiling these short stories. Tears of joy mostly. And anguish with regret. It was, over all, a wonderful time to be alive. Everything was big, bold, and beautiful. Especially my mother. This was her home town and we went to stay with my grandmother. Me, my sisters, and my little dog Lucky.

 

But I digress. Already. My gold mine of Baltimore memory is like a crowded cellar full of once meaningful things kept with hopes that they will again be useful. Sometimes the pile of cherished possessions gets so tall it tumbles over and in re-stacking, everything gets jumbled. Time lines bend and distort. Events blur around the frayed edges of old photographs.

 

What is nostalgia? A longing to go back? I’ve been back to Mayfield Avenue. I have been past my old school as an adult. Been to the VFW where Uncle Paul volunteered. Been to the cemetery where they brought grandmom and Uncle Joey and ...but those are not the memories of a six year old. So let’s start at the beginning.

 

When I was little, I would have dreams. Dreams of flying. They were always thrilling and a treat. Looking down at me feet, I would just push off the ground and keep going. Up, up, up until all I could see were tiny lights twinkling far below me. And then I would just start moving along as if it was the most natural thing a boy could do.

 

Memorial Stadium.

 

Along the lines of a boy flying high above the earth, the closest I ever came to actual lift-off was my very first baseball game. I can recite seven ninths of the home team Baltimore Orioles, along with their manager, and one famous player on the Cleveland Indians. The minutiae of the game seeped into my pores. To this day, I can remember a ball player more readily than I can remember my cell phone number.

 

On a brilliant afternoon, my uncles Paul and Carmen took several of us little kids to see a game. I had no idea what was about to take place, or how it would impact my entire life. I was born in summer, and I was born to love the game of baseball. I remember walking, and walking, and walking up and up, and up steep, dark concrete ramps. Winding onward up the spine of some dark steel riveted labyrinth of a beast.

 

What is enlightenment? Is it the death of darkness? Is it the birth of light? How often have you experienced it? Or heard it described? We walk along the top most level. To one side the bright sunlit skyline of Baltimore soaks up the heat of a sweltering summer. My uncles have not even broken a sweat. Then you see it. To my right. A bright, almost blinding Biblical light at the end of a dark tunnel. We walk toward the light. And suddenly, I am flying. Hovering over the most dazzling, amazing sight I will ever see. Our seats were right behind home plate, so my first mesmerizing gaze at the green turf outlined with a sandy brown infield, gleaming white lines and bases, all over hung by a blue sky took my breath away. I remember my uncle firmly guiding me by my little shoulder up some stairs to our row of seats. And then the Lords of Baseball took the field.

 

After a while of runs, hits, balls, and strikes; of watching Jim Palmer seemingly stop in mid air with his hand holding the baseball just inches above the pitching mound dirt, before releasing it in a white blur that baffled batters as great and as famous as Frank Robinson, it was time for a bathroom break.

 

On the way back to our seats, I remember holding a cup of ice-cream with both hands. Carefully concentrating on each step, my uncle Paul leading, my uncle Carmen behind, I heard the click of wooden bat making contact, and the crowd just immediately around us reacting. The next thing I knew, my uncle Carmen just emerged from behind me, his long left arm outstretched and the profile of his body framed by the open sky, his heroic hand open and reaching for something. Then I saw it whiz into the palm of his hand with a smack and then plop. Right behind my seat! These were the type of folding wooden bleacher chairs which would pop up when you stood.

 

And then there it was. For a brief, pristine, magical moment. In front of me! On the peanut shell littered concrete under my seat. White cowhide with one hundred and eight red stitches. Perfectly round, still, and just bursting with possibility. A major league baseball!

 

In a flash the next thing I saw were a bunch of hands and forearms reaching down. Instantly that vision of the Holy Grail vanished. From that moment, I understood the value of a baseball. It was also the closest I have ever come to a foul pop in my life.