“I’m from Dundalk, Hon.”

Accepted

Folks say ever’body’s got two homes.

One’s where yer born.

The other’s where yer soul finally catches up with ya.

Now down in Dundalk, Maryland, folks got a way o’ talkin’ that’s all their own.

“How ya doin’, Hon?”

“Jeet yet?”

“Goin’ downy ocean?”

It’s the kinda place where the smell o’ Sparrows Point steel once mixed with Old Bay and the salt breeze blowin’ off the Patapsco. Front porches stayed full till after dark, and if somebody needed help fixin’ a roof, movin’ a couch, or gettin’ a car runnin’, neighbors just showed up. Didn’t matter if ya asked.

One feller born an’ raised there was named Clay.

Ever’body called him “Hon.”

Not ’cause that was his name.

Just ’cause in Dundalk, everybody’s “Hon.”

One autumn, after hearin’ stories from old-timers fer years, Clay pointed his truck west.

Past Frederick.

Past Hagerstown.

Crossed over the ridges till the highways got narrow.

Then narrower.