When I was growing up on the streets of west Baltimore — where there are no trees to climb — we crawled through dumpsters for fun. In autumn and winter, when the air was crisp and still, we rolled up our sleeves and pushed forward. My father caught me once. Suspended waist-deep in filth, I hadn’t heard the car engine as I closely examined what looked to be a perfectly good box of Captain Crunch. The sound of “Kenny!” shouted from the driver’s side window, shot through me like a slap. A year later we moved to a tiny house on a tree-lined street in the county. It was a revelation.
Cummings: Learning to find beauty in the changing climate
October 7, 2022