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Baltimore in 1927
ecular heroes
dominated the news in Baltimore on the second weekend of October, 1927.
On October 8, the city’s children were
delighted by Mayor Broening’s announcement that in 10 days, schools
would close early, to allow all to attend an address at Baltimore Stadium.
The speaker was to be Colonel Charles A. Lindbergh, the great aviator,
whose solo crossing of the Atlantic Ocean five months earlier had thrilled
and inspired not just two continents, but the entire world. Colonel
Lindbergh was to land his plane, the Spirit of St. Louis, at Logan Field,
and use more traditional means of transportation to make his way to the
Stadium, where space was reserved for 35,000 students. Another 45,000
tickets to the event would be made available to the general public.
Three days earlier, on Saturday, October 15, another
large crowd was expected at the Stadium for the annual college football
game between the University of Notre Dame and the United States Naval
Academy. As that week began, however, many Baltimoreans were not enthralled
with football players or the derring-do of Colonel Lindbergh, but with the
achievements of a barrel-chested man from their own hometown. The lead
story on page 1A in the Baltimore Sunday Sun of October 9 told of Babe Ruth
leading the New York Yankees to a four-game sweep of the Pittsburgh Pirates
in the World Series. Ruth’s home run had given the Yankees the early
edge. It was his second homer of the Series, in which no other players had
been able to hit one out of the park, and his feat brightened what had
began as a gloomy weekend in Baltimore.
In Halethorpe, rain had put a damper on the centenary
exhibition of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad. Dignitaries had made their
way south to Baltimore from Philadelphia, which was celebrating the 150th
anniversary of the Continental Congress. They included 23 members of the
Blackfoot Indian tribe, who on the evening of Sunday, October 9, attended a
service at the Cathedral in downtown Baltimore. The congregation included
800 members of the Knights of Columbus, and the mix of sashes, swords and
war bonnets made for a vivid scene, as painted in The Sun:
“Archbishop Curley, in purple robes, on his throne, surrounded by a
large body of priests, acolytes and choirboys, conducted a service which
many described as the most impressive and gorgeous they had ever
attended.”
The recounting of that Sunday’s news did not
include mention of a more humble gathering, the sanctified start of an
enduring Baltimore institution: St. Francis of Assisi Church. Seventy-five
years later, the church and the parish community that it nurtured continue
to thrive, thanks to a spirit of renewed faith that serves as an example
not just to a neighborhood, but to a city and an archdiocese as a concrete
symbol of faith in rapidly changing and often chaotic times.
Today’s parishioners might not recognize
Baltimore in 1927. As President Calvin Coolidge and the First Lady
announced their winter social calendar, Federal prohibition agents raided
several Baltimore saloons. At one on Dillon Street, “twenty-five
gallons of alleged whisky and twenty-five cases of suspected home-brew beer
were seized.” While the production and consumption of alcohol was
illegal, seafood was cheap and plentiful. A department store on Howard
Street advertised a luncheon special, four courses including the seafood or
soft crab platter. The cost was $1. A 10-piece suite of dining room
furniture at Montgomery Wards could be purchased for $89. A new Dodge sedan
could be had for less than $1,500. The suburban real estate listings
included a three-bedroom cottage in the development of Beverly Hills, for
$6,700. Baltimore’s expansion included growth to the northeast, one
reason that the pastor of St. Dominic’s parish in Hamilton hurried
plans to build two missions, St. Ursula to the north and St. Francis to the
south.
“It’s never been a big place,” said
Father William F. Burke, the pastor of St. Francis of Assisi since 1980.
“As the story goes, it wasn’t meant to be. Father Manley, the
pastor of St. Dominic’s, was urged to have Masses for the people who
lived on Herring Run Park and in Mayfield. Archbishop Curley told him that
he didn’t want a parish here, that there was no need for it.
Archbishop Curley sailed to Ireland, and when he returned six months later,
the parish had been established.”