![]() Lined up like soldiers along the counter were big glass jars filled with beet pickled eggs and big onions. Far counter side sat a plate of warm coddies with a handwritten sign: 25 cents each. I playfully spun the stools around in circles with my small hands. My nose couldn’t reach the top of the red vinyl covered bar stools. Bentz’s had it all-a checkered black and white tile floor, an old-fashioned soda fountain that sold floats and malts and floor to ceiling pine wall paneling. Oriole Park was once located directly across the street in the early-20th Century. One day Lou took me to one of his favorite hangouts, a small grocery store called Bentz’s on the corner of Barclay and 29th Sts. Lou’s set of wheels, a 1950s Buick Roadmaster sparkled with shiny chrome side treatments, some toothy smiling grillwork and three-hole body stamping on both sides. And what’s more American than that?Īfter a hard night of burning rubber, mornings found the young men busy on the streets. After all, putting in a little extra time and effort into polishing spiffy-looking vehicles was a labor of love. The sign of personal accomplishment for these guys was simple: they had cars. Lou forged lifetime friendships with his Blackjack throwing down card buddies, Snooki, Danny, Ardie, Nicky and Paul. In his case, he was never in trouble or anything shocking or rowdy. My father, “Big Daddy Lou,” would’ve been considered a drape. In the golden era of leather jackets, bobby socks and peg leg pants, Baltimore’s guys and dolls really did know how to shake, rattle and roll. One was a greaser-type of juveniles called the “drapes.” They clashed with their preppy counterparts the “squares.” Those nostalgic times are depicted in a couple of movies, Barry Levinson’s Liberty Heights and John Waters’ joyful tribute Cry Baby. Back then there were two rival street groups. In the 1950s Baltimore, if you saw a bunch of teens hanging out, smoking cigarettes, you’d might think they were up to something. This was farm-to-table, the old-fashioned way. The tomatoes were so delicious one can never forget the sublime taste.Ī spirit of prosperity thrived among Waverly’s happy customers as they walked away with huge bags of groceries for a five-spot. Have a taste,” the peddler said. Grandmother is offered a slice of a ripe Maryland tomato. “Yep, just picked this morning, early this year. “Good morning are they sweet?” asks grandmother. When in season, you’d see straw-filled boxes on the carts full of gurgling, soft shell crabs from the Chesapeake Bay. Dressed in bells with feathered plumes, a gotta-go pony took advantage of the opportunity to relieve itself with a three that’s a number one and two. Small crowds gathered for first dibs at fresh fruits and vegetables. The women made their way down wooden back porch steps avoiding clotheslines full of laundry. Parked in the alleys, the hand-painted carts were ready to do business. They grabbed their coin purses and ran out the door. Upon hearing the cries, grandmothers and moms dropped everything. Here come the arabbers, street peddlers who hawked produce directly to the neighborhood from horse-drawn carts. ![]() “Strawberries, blueberries, chair-air-air-ries.” Dogs in the neighborhood went insane at this point when they heard the familiar loud, sing-song chant. A house sparrow’s chirp goes silent. Clip-clops grow louder as jingle bells jingled. The sycamore tree-lined streets stood as a testament to a quiet neighborhood’s balance with nature.Įvery week, a little before 11 on Saturday mornings, an almost extinct, mostly African-American Baltimore folk tradition occurred. ![]() ![]() Morning glories covered in dew nestled themselves along the alley’s fences. Tall sunflowers planted behind snapdragons provided a backdrop for the long, narrow backyard gardens. The marble steps were from Cockeysville’s Beaver Dam Quarry, cut by hand and hauled by oxen to the rails. Some two-story homes had a gathering spot for neighbors the iconic white marble stoops. Canvas-striped awnings introduced the properties’ porch front entrances. The sound of kids on metal roller skates echoed over the blocks of modest, Victorian-influenced rowhouses. I spent my early childhood on Whitridge Ave. Located in Johns Hopkins University’s backyard, next to Charles Village, Waverly was a Johnny Unitas-loving, eat them steamed crabs type of community full of pride. In the early-1960s several generations of Baltimore families lived in the working-class neighborhood of Waverly. ![]()
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