Dan Rodricks: Mourning the passing of a grand old Baltimorean

April’s arrival marked the first anniversary of the passing of a great Baltimorean — the sprawling elm at the corner of Washington Place and East Mount Vernon Place. 

If you’re not familiar with those names, think of North Charles Street, on its eastern split around the Washington Monument, where it meets Monument Street and the Mount Vernon United Methodist Church.

There’s now a large open space on the East Square where, until April 2, 2024, the elm stood, providing shade through a century of summers. Each fall, it became a volcano of orange, yellow and red leaves. It was one of the few trees in Mount Vernon Place to light up like that in autumn, and one of the most photogenic in the city.

There’s a bus stop along the east sidewalk, and on humid summer days the tree always made the wait for the No. 51 or Purple Circulator more breathable and pleasant. 

I miss the old, regal elm. I regret not noting its demise sooner.  

On Wednesday morning, as I walked through Mount Vernon Place, there was a young man in a red cap and hoodie taking numerous photographs of a young woman. She had long black hair that shimmered in the sun. She wore a satiny party dress with a silvery sequined top and silvery stilettos so shiny they hurt my eyes. It was a fashion shoot under the Washington Monument, amusing to watch as the photographer directed his subject. 

“Be sassy,” he said at one point.

So was I a photographer in Mount Vernon Place, but my subject was often the handsome elm on the East Square. In one photo, taken in summer, you could sense the cool of its shade as it leaned toward the bronze statue of George Peabody.

The lean foretold the tree’s demise.

According to Lance Humphries, executive director of the Mount Vernon Place Conservancy, the elm was one of several planted along both sides of the east park in 1922. In time, they formed a great canopy. But, by the late 1970s, most were in poor condition; they were removed and replaced with zelkovas — with one exception.

The last elm held on for another 40-plus years.

In time, it developed a serious lean and, in a rainstorm last April, its roots finally gave way to its heavy canopy and the beloved tree came down. 

The only trace today is the cutaway of its trunk, flat against the surface of a mulched garden along E. Mount Vernon Place. An epitaph would be appropriate: Last of the MVP elms, provider of shade and splendor for more than a century.

I hope the conservancy launches a fundraiser to replace it.

We grieve the passing of people we knew and loved. We mourn the loss of dogs, cats, horses and goldfish. But I think we owe a special debt to trees; they perform such a critical role to life on Earth — more so than ever, given the changing climate — but they never seem to ask for much. Most of us take them for granted, or only notice when they’re gone.

Mike Tidwell, the founder of Chesapeake Climate Action Network, has written an excellent book, The Lost Trees of Willow Avenue, about his neighborhood in Takoma Park, Montgomery County, hard by the District of Columbia. It was published in March.

Tidwell chronicles how many of the old oaks that provided shade and fresh air have been affected by climate change. A lot of the book is elegiac; Tidwell made me feel the same emotions he and his neighbors felt at the loss of grand trees. But the book also offers a rich, somewhat hopeful examination of geoengineering, a fascinating area of research into how scientists might save our planet — if, of course, we elect political leaders who actually acknowledge climate change.

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A couple of other things about Mount Vernon Place, certainly one of the most beautiful spaces in the city: 

The red tulips in the park on the north side are about to open. They are primed and ready for launch.

If you walk on the south side of the East Square, along the walls of the Peabody Institute, there’s a good chance you’ll hear an opera student singing, or a piano student playing, or a trumpeter trumpeting. Sometimes, the windows are open and you can hear the students clearly; other times, you have to strain a bit to get what’s going on inside. Either way, it’s one of the cheap thrills of city life. 

While you’re there, check the sidewalk kiosk for upcoming Peabody recitals; April is full of music.

Historical fact: Francis Scott Key died at his daughter’s home in 1843. The home was on the site of what became the Mount Vernon Place United Methodist Church, and there’s a historic marker noting Key’s death on the outside of the church.

You might be approached by a panhandler named Charlene; she speaks in a loud, somewhat startling voice when she asks for help, but retreats with a quiet thank-you when you give her a buck. She often sits at the aforementioned bus stop. I’m sure she misses the old elm, too.