When I moved into my Baltimore rowhome over 10 years ago, I was the new kid on the block. All of the other houses in the bank of seven homes to which mine belonged had been occupied by the same people for many years.
Both Matt on my left, and Becky and Jim on my right, had been in their houses for over a decade. At the far end, Chuck the plumber and his wife had been in theirs for nearly 20 years. And the three between Matt and Chuck housed the real old timers: Lou, Mrs. Dolan, and the Moxleys, all of whom had been in their homes for longer than I’d been alive.
And I’m no spring chicken.
What all of these homeowners had in common, beyond their longevity, was their working class roots. And none of them were going to roll out a red carpet when I showed up, yet another Johnny Come Lately in the only rental among the bunch.
But that’s okay. I’m not much for fanfare. Instead, I just stuck around, buying the house from my asshole landlord a couple of years later, and then beginning the long (and as yet unfinished) project of rehabbing my little piece of Baltimore.
People began warming up to me not long after I bought the house, perhaps appreciative that I was bringing some stability to the wayward little rowhome in their midst.
Old man Moxley turned noticeably nicer after he saw me tearing down the tan vinyl siding that hid the beautiful stucco underneath, perhaps finally assured that I wasn’t just some white collar pansy after all. Chuck the plumber was forever grouchy, but such was his nature, and he was quick to help me get a deal on a new a sink after the one I was going to have installed got stolen off my front porch, probably by junkies to sell for scrap metal.
Truth be told, I enjoyed working my way into my neighbors’ good graces. It felt like I’d actually earned something instead of simply having it handed to me, and consequently, it felt more real.
But there was one neighbor who, despite paying me little mind, nevertheless had a smile on her face from day one: Mrs. Dolan two doors down.
Mrs. Dolan’s house was painted bright yellow with green trim, and flower beds lined the front porch. I didn’t see her much unless she was sitting on her porch smoking a cigarette, when she would nod to me and smile.
As the years went by, she seemed to be the neighbor with by far the most visitors. It turned out she was the matriarch of a very large family that loved visiting her during various occasions, and particularly on Sundays when the Baltimore Ravens played. So far as I could tell, whenever the Dolan clan got together, it was a joyous affair.
That was, until the death of her grandson Patrick. Only 19 years old, he was stabbed by a mugger while walking to a bus stop.
Patrick Dolan’s favorite Raven had been an undersized, scrappy fighter just like himself, a little known special teams maven named Lardarius Webb. Instead of burying Patrick in a suit, his parents graced the casket with a #21 Webb jersey.
When the team found out, they sent over a football signed by Webb and the teams biggest stars, and told the Dolans they were playing for Patrick that week. The Ravens beat Tampa Bay, and Webb eventually emerged as the star cornerback on the Baltimore team that won the Super Bowl last February.
When I later learned that Patrick’s dad Bill had founded an annual memorial basketball tournament in his son’s name, with proceeds going to a park that Patrick loved, I went over to Mrs. Dolan’s house to find out how I could make a contribution. Not wanting to open the wounds, I was timid in asking.
Silly me. Mrs. Dolan was radiant. She was pleased that I’d contribute, and with a glimmer in her eye, gave me the form right off of her fridge. The little old lady with the infectious smile was made of stronger stuff than most, and any doubts I’d ever had about it evaporated that day.
Mrs. Dolan passed away last week after a brief bout with cancer. Having recently celebrated her 81st birthday, she raised six children, boasted over 20 grandchildren, and had 13 great-grandchildren (with three more on the way), the oldest of whom is now 14 years old.
She’d lived at 825 W. 34th street for over 60 years.
Yesterday I put on a gray coat and dark red tie, and walked up the block to the Burgee-Henss-Seitz Funeral Home for the first of the four viewings to be held over two days. I thought the first one might not be too crowded since it took place on a Monday afternoon before 5 PM.
Again, silly me. The place was packed.
I talked to one of Mrs. Dolan’s sons and one of her daughters briefly, who insisted I come by the house over the next few days for food. Afterwards, I paid my respects, and then left.
I walked down the street to Bella Roma pizzeria, another neighborhood institution that seems like it’s been there forever, but of course hasn’t been there for even half as long as Peggy Dolan. I ate a slice and stared out their big, plate glass window.
All things must pass. We should be so lucky that when we do, we are as beloved as the red and yellow leaves of autumn. Like the bright smile of Peggy Dolan.