We didn’t intend to live in Canton. We considered ourselves “Fells people” after living there for a decade, relishing the live music at every corner in Fells Point, the quirky venues, and the charming cobblestone streets, but our realtor had convinced us to take a look at this house on Elliott Street (“It’s different,” he said, “It’s special”), so we did, and then suddenly we were Canton people. We grew to see the neighborhood for more than just “The Square” which we had only thought of for St. Patty’s Day pub crawls, post-kickball game beers at Looney’s, oysters and crushes at Mama’s on the Half Shell on Sundays. 

We discovered the incredible variety of off-the-beaten-path restaurants, dive bars, and top secret neighbor-organized events, and I even accidentally agreed to co-host one of those events while my husband was out of town that had me and ten of my best friends cooking dozens of pans of french toast casseroles for hundreds of neighbors strolling through our doors. We joined stoop nights with neighbors and quickly discovered that the people who lived in the very house next door to us were basically the best friends we could have ever asked for. We had a built-in Uber ride share for our outings to Fells on weekends, and even knocked down the railing between our roof decks to connect them. We took turns grabbing packages for each other, enjoyed wine spritzes in our adult-sized roof deck pool in the summer, and on many a Saturday, we’d get a text from our BFF neighbs saying, “Hey! Crabs were running good today, steaming up a few dozen now!” and we’d meet them up on the deck with our crab knives and newspaper for an impromptu meal. 

And my goodness, did we throw some epic parties together! Our little “Deck Fest” events evolved from a few friends and a live band to all-out charity fundraisers with three or four bands all day and night, and guest performances from friends and neighbors. There were hula hoopers and jump-splits and fresh-shucked oysters and our friend’s drone taking video footage from above. Neighbors up and down Elliott Street would park themselves on their sidewalks in folding chairs with a cold beverage to enjoy the tunes. And the tunes – man, oh man, something about Katie Bowers’ voice crooning through the open Canton air from the top of the roof deck overlooking the Natty Boh tower – it was something special. 

And aside from the parties, we had some other pretty unforgettable moments in our Elliott Street home. Our friends always popped in for a quick Boh on their way to WTMD First Thursday concerts at the waterfront, we hosted annual chili cookoffs, we all sat on the stoop together in costume to hand out candy to local trick-or-treaters on Halloween nights. 

And we’ll never forget the snowy February morning we brought our baby girl home from the hospital, laid her in her bassinet and napped beside her in what was now our home for a family of three. I learned how to be a mother in this house. I tried – and failed – at so many things as I tried to figure out what I was doing, overwhelmed by too many different books and opinions and philosophies on feeding schedules and pacifier usage and fancy baby gadgets. And then I saw a social media post from some other new mother who was feeling alone and overwhelmed and lived in Canton – asking if anyone else was on maternity leave and wanted to meet up. I think over twenty women showed up that first time. A steady group of about ten of us kept coming week after week, and thus was born our Mom Squad – the women I would grow into motherhood with, through tears and fears and laughter and reassurance. I can’t imagine new motherhood without them.

This house has also been both our safe room and our panic room during the pandemic this year. We have sheltered in place with these red brick walls serving as the barrier between our breathable air and the terrifying disease that lived outside them, and as the charming background for Zoom calls. The bones of this house are different after this year spent inside: our daughter took her first steps on these wide-plank wood floors, there is a new shelf where we hang our masks and store spare hand sanitizer. We all grew up a little inside this house this year; we all changed.

It wasn’t all idyllic on Elliott Street, that’s for sure. City living has its challenges. 

There is the man whose home is on the sidewalk in front of the soccer arena two blocks away; we think he has tourette’s syndrome; as he screams out expletives on his daily morning walks passing by our living room windows, I shield my daughter’s ears when I hear his voice coming near (he seems harmless, unless you have a toddler who repeats everything she hears).

There was that kid who threw a brick through the back windshield of my car, shattered it into tiny puddles of crystals around our parking pad, the same pad where I once discovered a dead rat, legs and teeth splayed out on the concrete, the apparent victim of someone’s backyard poison canister. 

And ohhhh, the Canton Neighbors Facebook group – how I will miss and not miss you all the same. Will I become one of those “outsiders” who moved long ago but still peeks in on the drama-filled Karens and the righteous trolls who put them in their places, who still reads the 200+ comment threads and imagines what drama the admins must be dealing with?

There will be no more city police helicopters hovering so close that it seems they could land on our roof deck; no more hums and whirs of poorly maintained city buses zipping too fast through the four-way-stop intersection out front. And alas, if we are not home when a package is delivered to our front step, it might actually stick around for a few hours.

We won’t have the entertainment of checking our doorbell camera alerts to discover the antics of our neighbors – the drunken 2am frat bro strolling home from the bar, stopping to relieve himself when he feels the urge; the girls dressed as Disney princesses touring the neighborhood to wave to eager young kids; the Amazon delivery guy or girl dropping a package without so much as a knock. 

But we aren’t fleeing the city because we don’t want to raise our daughter here – on the contrary; I am so worried that county life will not offer nearly as much culture and opportunity as our home on Elliott Street did. Together, my daughter and I walked to moms’ support groups, exercise classes, music classes, play dates, and infinite numbers of parks and playgrounds. The lure of having our own yard is definitely appealing, but we will miss our backyard being a collage of eclectic places to play. 

And we are not running away because we don’t feel safe. Yes, there is crime, and yes, we take precautions here we probably wouldn’t take if we lived in the suburbs – keyless entry doors, ensuring our cars’ back seats are always empty, lots of security cameras. But I am a hopelessly optimistic Charm City enthusiast. I believe in the city and I will still come to the city often, support our favorite local businesses and artists, volunteer at the neighborhood center, visit all the wonderful friends we have made.

It is just time for a change for our little family of three; we found a lot that we fell in love with; we needed a little more space now that we’re all working and learning from home and our daughter is tearing through our eighteen foot-wide living space on her speedy little toddler tippy-toes. Through the pandemic and the quarantine we are some of those fortunate souls who have learned that we actually really love just being together, at home, and that is enough for us. It will now just be in a new home, a fresh start, a new kind of “together.”