On this day three years ago, doctors pronounced Freddie Gray dead at University of Maryland Shock Trauma, a week after Baltimore police officers dragged him into a van for a fateful ride leading to his death. Tonight, local poets, writers, musicians and others will honor the 25-year-old whose death at the hands of police set off an uprising.
Two days after Christmas, six years ago, my daughters and I traveled home to Vermont, to ring in the New Year with my parents. We settled into the cabin up the hill from their house and went down to say hello before bed. Dad was stretched out in a recliner in front of the fireplace. He’d been diagnosed with bone cancer about a year before, but he was doing well. He wasn’t in real pain, any more than the usual pains of a man who’d lived hard all his life, a man with lousy knees and stents in his heart, who’d tracked mountain lions in the Great West, split thousands of cords of wood, worked as a farmer and a firefighter, among other things, and had finally written, on a scrap of paper I found after he died, “My time is the only capital contribution I can make.”
Baltimore police this morning recovered a body floating in the Inner Harbor, the second one discovered there in the last week.
A woman who suddenly collapsed and fell severely ill after she was arrested by Baltimore police officers last week passed away today.
A 21-year-old Middle River man’s September death following a scuffle with Baltimore County police was an accident rather than a homicide, according to the state medical examiner’s office.
The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention recently parsed some macabre–but fascinating–data. Using state death data, they determined which causes of death were most “distinctive” on a state-by-state basis. To break this down a bit: All over the country, the leading causes of death (heart attack, accident, suicide, etc.) are the same. This particular data-crunching was looking for something else– causes of death that might not represent huge populations, but were significantly higher, statistically speaking, than in other states.
This New Year’s Eve, writer Lindsay Fleming remembers her father-in-law’s wit and wisdom, his whiskey sours and his elegant exit.
My father-in-law was famous for his whiskey sours. When your drink ran dry, he’d be quick to notice and urge a refill. If you hesitated, he’d settle it with the reminder, “No bird ever flew on one wing.” When he died, copies of his recipe were posted by magnet on the refrigerator at the family beach house. A backup was filed underneath the highball glasses in the art deco bar on the screened-in porch.