Author: Kimberly Kurth Gray

“I have looked down the saddest city lane. I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.”

– Robert Frost

Policemen walk a beat and work shift work, I have known this since birth. After dinner was cleared away, Dad would put on his uniform, strap his gun in its holster, and leave for the station. He worked over in West Baltimore, which has never been the best neighborhood in the city. None of us ever told him to be careful, we only said see you tomorrow. These nights were exciting times for me. I was allowed to stay up all night. How great was that?
I was about four years old. As all my little friends were being bathed and put to bed, I was getting my hair done and watching Fred MacMurray shoot Barbara Stanwyck on television.  Mom and I would drink Cokes, play checkers and watch the late show, the late, late show and finally, the late, late, late show. After The Star Spangled Banner played and the screen hummed with static, Mom would play her Connie Francis records.

Mom would sew and iron while I colored in books or played dolls. The goal each night was to be awake when Dad came home so that I would sleep the same times Dad slept. I never missed one morning, even on the days Mom fell asleep in her chair. I could stay awake longer than anyone. I liked the night, the quietness, the stars, the empty street where the only sound was the whistle of an oncoming train.

This plan worked for us for a few years but, like most things, it came to an end before we were prepared. It was the day before Thanksgiving. I was playing outside with a girl named Diane. We decided it would be fun to have a race. She was on skates and I was pushing a big baby buggy with a few dolls tucked inside. Her brother called out to get ready and get set. By the time he yelled “go” we were gone. Unfortunately for me, one of our neighbors chose that moment to walk outside. I swerved to avoid her, sending my buggy in the gutter and me, head over heels, across the top of it. It resulted in a victory for Diane and a cast for me. Dad had just left for work. He missed my crash.

The weeks of staying awake all night did not serve me well when I had to stay in Children’s Hospital. I stayed there after having a few surgeries on my arm. Dad was still on night shift, and so was I. One by one each nurse came to my bed to coax me to sleep. They brought me warm milk, read me stories, and even threatened to tell the doctor on me. Nothing could convince me to go to sleep. They gave up and wheeled me into the nurse’s station where I watched Robert Mitchum movies until the next shift of nurses arrived. Dad came to the hospital in the morning , and only then was I able to go to sleep. Once I was home, our shift work changed. Dad was promoted to Detective and worked more regular hours. The following fall I went to kindergarten and my sister was born. No more movies or Cokes at three am.

Many years later Dad lived with me. He had been diagnosed with dementia and never really slept through the night anymore. I would go and sit in his room and we would drink Cokes or coffee and watch John Wayne movies. Some nights I  would do my ironing. There were times when Dad would fall asleep in his chair, but I always could stay awake longer. When the sun would begin its climb, Dad would open his eyes and tell me to go to sleep. Our shift was over.

There should have been a  headline that read Sticky Paws Nabs Sticky Fingers. Instead, a small article was written on page four of the Metro section. It was a great story of how an off duty city detective, along with his dog, solved a crime that was believed already solved.

Dad was in the habit of bringing home animals that were some how involved with his cases. People were arrested, or killed, and Dad brought home their pets until Mom found another home for them. He had even agreed to  keep two snapping turtles when their drug dealer owner had been murdered. We were not allowed to play in the yard for months until the vicious turtles were relocated.

The night Barney, a ninety-five pound St. Bernard, came to live with us was the hottest  anyone could remember. Moments before Dad came in the door with the dog, a large glass bottle of King syrup had exploded in the cabinet and was seeping over our kitchen floor. The dog, who seemed as big as a bear, yanked away from Dad, knocked my baby sister over and headed directly for the syrup. It took no time before his ears and paws were sticky. Dad laughed, Mom did not. I thought Barney was wonderful and so did Dad. Of course, neither of us had to give the dog a bath that night.

Dad was getting ready to leave headquarters one night when a young guy turned himself in claiming he had committed the recent rash of robberies in the area. It wasn’t Dad’s case, he worked homicide now, but as he listened to another officer take the statement, he was sure this guy was lying. The guy knew enough details of the crimes, fit the physical description, but witnesses had reported the thief had a tattoo near his wrist. Dad couldn’t ignore there was no tattoo. The officers taking the statement seemed satisfied with the explanation that the tattoo had been removed recently. Those  scars were not new, Dad thought. The paper work was put in and every one was happy, well, almost everyone.

That same night Dad began taking our dog out for walks. Barney was now a part of the family and needed more exercise than our row house yard allowed. Mom was relieved when Dad took a renewed interest in the dog. No one knew that  Barney was helping Dad investigate a case. They started going from bar to bar in the area of the robberies. Every place they went the patrons wanted to pet the dog or give him snacks. Barney was friendly and enjoyed all the extra attention. It was in that relaxed manner Dad caught the true criminal.

Two brothers, who looked enough alike they could have passed for twins, made an agreement. One brother had committed the burglaries, the other brother would serve the time, they both shared the money. When the second brother saw Dad and Barney, he had no idea the man with the dog was a detective. He put his hand out to scratch behind Barney’s ear and Dad spotted the tattoo.

Mom got a call from the headquarters to pick Barney up. Dad would be a while with the paperwork. I rode along with her and brought the leash. Barney was happy to see us, but it took a few treats to convince him to climb in the car. It was the first of several cases Dad and Barney worked together.

With a mother who grew up as a grave digger’s daughter, and a dad who was a homicide detective for over thirty years, is it any wonder I spend copious hours contemplating death? I can’t see an abandoned glove without wondering where the remains of the owner might be. Every discarded trash bag left along the side of the road has the potential for holding together a dismembered body. Even the innocence of a free floating balloon brings my thoughts to mayhem. I can not help myself.

As a child, I didn’t spend a great deal of time with my dad. He worked everyday, after all, this was Baltimore City, a place synonymous with murder. Dad was a busy man. He was also a man of few words. There wasn’t a great deal of conversation during dinner, for my mom was also a quiet person. On the nights Dad brought home a folder of a case he was working on, well that was a treat. On those nights he actually talked with us. There was nothing he loved more than to discuss a case. I hung on every word and they seeped through my skin and into my bloodstream.

On occasion Dad would let me run an errand with him. We’d be driving down a street and he would point out locations where bodies had been found. Later in life I referred to this as Dad’s Homicide Tour. It was interesting and if he were alive today I believe he could have had an enterprising business.

The story I remember most clearly occurred near St. Paul street, in a very posh neighborhood. Dad pointed to a large Victorian house on the corner. “See that third floor window, over to the right? Well, we were called in there for a suspicious death. Parents claimed the boy hung himself. But I could see straight away it was wrong. Everything was wrong. The kid had a bruise around his wrist and the rope just wasn’t right. Found out within an hour the stepfather had a history of domestic abuse. He killed the kid, said it was accidental.”

So many stories were similar to that one. Hardly a street was passed without a story of some poor person and their final moments in Baltimore. As hard as I tried to pay attention, listen to every syllable he uttered, I wish I had written it all down. At the time it didn’t matter what he said,or what story he told. I only cared that he was talking, sharing a story and some time with me.

On a summer night a few years ago I was sitting at a red light in a very posh neighborhood of the city. My own children were very young and my dad had been dead three months.  Looming ahead of me was a Victorian-style mansion. “Hey guys, see that house?” I asked my kids. They were busy looking at books in the back seat. “Well, years and years ago Grandpa Charlie was the lead detective on a case there.”

And so the tour continues to this day, with me passing the torch to the next generation of homicide hunters.

One of my favorite Christmas movies, my all-time favorite movie, is It’s a Wonderful Life. I’m sure I’m not alone here on this one. I see it mentioned over and over again on Facebook. I remember one Christmas the movie played continuously all night on Christmas Eve. I came home from midnight mass and stayed up until dawn wrapping presents and watching Mary Hatch and George Bailey fall in love.

Through the years I’ve collected all sorts of Wonderful Life related items. I have picture books, a board game, trivia books, and a few copies of the film. My most prized possession is my Bedford Falls Christmas Village complete with Mary, George, Clarence and Ernie’s taxi. Every year I set it up on the work table in my office.

This year I feel as though I’m living in the Old Granville House. Hopefully no one will throw a rock at my window! My house was built in 1932 and, like all older homes, requires a big maintenance job from time to time. This year it’s the roof. Remember when George goes to the house on his wedding night and the rain is pouring through the ceiling? I’m beginning to understand how he must have felt.

Today I’ve waited for hours for roofers who were to be here in the morning, but have yet to show. It’s dinner time now. I was fuming by the afternoon and had the phone in my hand when I decided to take a step back. What would my idol Mary Bailey do? Instead of being a George, which I admit I usually am, and going off the deep end, I conjured up the Mary inside me. I turned on the lights of Bedford Falls, made a cup of hot chocolate complete with whipped cream and chocolate chips, and watched a few minutes of the movie.

Life’s hard, 2020 has left us battered and bruised, but it’s also an amazing miracle. I may have a leak in the roof, but I have a home to live in and a family to share it with me. All time passes quickly, good and bad. Take a moment to breathe and remember this life is wonderful.

It will come as no surprise to anyone when I say here that I love Christmas. I enjoy everything about it, the shopping, the baking, the decorating, and even writing out cards to people I haven’t seen – or sometimes even heard from – in years.

One of my most favorite things about the season is arranging and displaying my nativity scenes. I have one for every room in my house which is a total of nine. Last year I actually gave two of them away to my daughter who now lives in her own apartment. I still have enough that I can set up one in every room, this includes bathroom!

I put all the animals in the stable along with the shepherds and the angels. Mary and Joseph are set off to the side until Christmas Eve when they will make their appearance. Baby Jesus, all nine of them, are tucked away in a drawer in my breakfast nook cabinet until Christmas morning.

When my children were very young I would hide all the Baby Jesus’ much like I did eggs at Easter and have the children find them and place them in the manger before we opened gifts. And, just like the hard-boiled colored eggs of spring, there were a few times where one or two Jesus’ were hidden so well even I couldn’t remember where they were. Now I keep them snugged together so it’s easy for me to put them in their places. No more empty managers!

What decorations do you take the most joy in displaying? Let me know in the comments below and don’t forget to follow me here and on my Facebook page at Kimberly Kurth Gray – Author.

Usually by this time of the holiday season I’d be in a complete frenzy. I’d have numerous lists for cookies to bake, presents to buy, cards to send, meals to prepare, groceries to buy, and a list to keep track of all my lists. You’d think I was in charge of organizing a royal wedding!

It would begin pretty much the day after Halloween. The lists themselves took at least a week to prepare. Then throw in that both of my children have birthdays during the holidays and, well, the amount of things to do just grows to a staggering height.

This morning I’m sitting here at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee unsure what to do with myself. Last year I was diagnosed with Celiac Disease. The cookie list gets ripped up. My family has been staying at home and social distancing since March. There was no family gathering at Thanksgiving, nor will there be one on Christmas or New Year’s day. The list of meals to prepare and groceries to buy has dwindled greatly.

Even present buying has taken a hit. Fortunately my favorite shops (Found Studio and Red Canoe) offer online ordering so I’m still able to shop local and support my friends and neighbors without leaving the comfort and safety of my home.

Without the “hustle and bustle” I’ve more time to reflect on why all these seasonal chores and rituals have been so important in my life. I’ve discovered, as I’m sure you have over these past long months, that it’s never been about the amount of cookies I baked or presents I bought, but about the people who enjoyed them.

This year the time I would have spent in my car, or writing lists, or standing in line, I’ve spent writing to friends and family. I found I had quite a collection of postcards and I’ve sent them to the people I care about just to say I was thinking of them. It’s been rather pleasant to not hurry, or sit down thinking I’ve thirty minutes to write out forty cards before I have to pick-up something from the store and get another batch of cookies in the oven.

I’m also taking my time to decorate, getting rid of items we no longer use or need, and placing objects in new areas instead of putting them up because that’s where they always go. This year, for the first time in twelve years, we have a real tree instead of the artificial one we’ve been using. I ventured out – a rarity these days – to Walther Gardens and bought a little Charlie Brown tree. It’s adorable and uses a third of the ornaments we normally haul out. More time is now spent on admiring the tree instead of adorning it.

I hope this season you find time to relax and enjoy the holiday. Leave the cookies to your local bakery, I’m sure they’d appreciate the business. Call your loved ones, send them notes and cards. Most importantly, stay safe, be well, and wear your mask so we can all be together for all the holidays to come.