It was my childhood park. I’ve been away a long time, but nostalgia kept pulling me to find photos of the places I remember. Perhaps they’d end up in a story. I love writing about Baltimore. But I have to stop with the Baltimore of my ancestors. Because of what drugs, mostly, and the people who sell them, have done to Leakin Park.
I remember tombstones deep in the woods that fed my imagination, woods with little bridges (complete with trolls, of course), and this big wheel. No, that’s not me posing there. Somewhere in my deceased mother’s attic is a photo of me in front of that water wheel. I wanted to go back and see it again, until my brother told me it wouldn’t be the best idea, and I stumbled upon this image–dead found in Leakin park (all but one since the 60s). Some domestic disputes, one suicide, but mostly gang/drug-related. They weren’t necessarily killed there, but evidently it’s incredibly easy to dump a body there. Astounding, really. This place is NOT the size of Central Park. Amist tombstones from the 1700s and the foundations of Victorian mansions and farms, scattered amongst the trees (many of the same ones that I marveled at as a child)… it’s simply horrifying. I’m afraid I may becoming one of those fringe types who thinks it’s time to legalize heroin and crack.