News-Letter

Media Credit: Conor Kevit

Manicured lawns and Prius-filled garages make a Sunday afternoon stroll through Guilford more like Desperate Housewives déja-vu.

Heading north on St. Paul Street., the urban college town beat of Charles Village transforms into a suburban oasis. Ornate row houses evolve into brick palaces surrounded by vast yards, making the neighborhood look like an out-of-season Christmas decoration.

The tranquility of the area comes unexpectedly, given its proximity to industrial Baltimore. The gardens, with tulips wavering in the breeze as though Georgia O'Keefe had painted them herself, seem too stunning to be neglected. Only the crackle of leaves under the occasional jogger's sneakers or the distant ferreting of a squirrel claim noticeable presence in the vicinity.

Jane Reep, a Guilford resident of 45 years, was walking (now scolding) her deceivingly large puppy, Isabelle. An elderly woman with pepper-speckled hair, Reep said that Guilford has been a great place to live, commute to work, raise a family and now retire.

"My one daughter has a family of her own now, and they live in the next town over, so I get to see her and my grandchildren often, which is the most important thing to me," Reep said.

"When raising a family, though, there is a distinct lack of closeness within the neighborhood; most people keep to themselves, despite the few fraternity houses on the corner," Reep pointed to the end of the street.

"But the good news is that the crime has never been too bad, give or take a petty larceny from time to time, but nothing irregular."

Reep noted that it is rare for Guilford residents to venture into Charles Village, since the crime there is comparatively worse.

"Even with the universities in the area, crime in those areas is not good, so I really only go to Charles if I need to pick something up at Eddie's Market, or if we're going out to eat."

A police siren cut the calm ambiance, and Reep and Isabelle continued their walk. Ahead, near the blaring vehicle, one half-expected some form of grand theft auto, which turned out to be a mere speeding ticket.

Across the intersection, a congregation piled into the Second Presbyterian Church. The paint-chipped wooden door of the church opened to a group of boys ranging from third graders to college students sitting together in a circle.

A young man absently fastened the buttons of his patch-covered vest as he walked through the doors, "Scout meeting," he said with a hint of embarrassment.

Continued...

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