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The report, released in April, estimates there are 85,057 occupied housing units within city limits that have “significant lead hazards.” It’s estimated that every neighborhood in the city has at least some housing units with lead hazards, though the so-called “Black Butterfly”—a term coined by Dr. Lawrence Brown to describe the geography of East and West Baltimore—is estimated to have the highest concentration of dangerous units.

“This report is attempting to put some figures around what is very difficult to measure,” says Luke Scrivener, the report’s author. “And it’s difficult to measure because nobody has ever gone out and measured every single solitary house in the city.”

Because of that, Scrivener says the true number of units with lead paint hazards could be higher or lower, adding that there is “some fuzziness.” 

Using 85,000 or so occupied units as a baseline, though, the report is able to provide an estimated cost for treating the issue: Somewhere between $851 million and $4.2 billion. 

The reason for the range? There are different ways to treat lead paint in a housing unit. Among them are lead hazard control, which is cheaper but requires more upkeep, and lead abatement, which is more expensive but does not require as much follow-up work. 

While neither has a precise definition, lead hazard control is essentially repairing and repainting areas with exposed lead paint. Lead abatement is the removal, replacement, or encapsulation of lead hazards. The report estimates that lead hazard control costs between $10,000-$17,000 per unit, while abatement costs between $30,000-$50,000 per unit—though an exact cost would obviously depend on the scope of work and the size of the unit.

Camille Burke, director of Baltimore’s Childhood Lead Poisoning Prevention Program, calls lead poisoning “completely and totally preventable.”

“It’s one of the few childhood health risks we can entirely prevent,” says Burke, who’s been with Baltimore City Health Department since 2015. 

A lot of the workload for testing for lead paint comes from routine bloodwork. Children who are one and two years old are supposed to be tested under Baltimore City Health Code. Any child who is found to have more than five micrograms per deciliter of lead in their blood has their results shared with Baltimore’s health department and the Maryland Department of the Environment (MDE).

Then, “we have to do an inspection in the house,” Burke explains. “It could be their home, it could be another family member’s house—we do an inspection of the primary residence.”

While a home is being examined and tested for lead paint, someone else from the prevention program will have a conversation with the child’s caregiver, covering topics like food insecurity, utility bill assistance and, importantly, how to prevent lead exposure. 

They also make sure that the homeowner—especially if it is a landlord—is connected with a contractor, approved by MDE, to do the lead paint mitigation work. The Childhood Lead Poisoning Prevention Program has the authority to put a lien on a property if a landlord does not take steps to remove lead risks. 

“Owner occupied is a little different. I can’t force them to do anything,” Burke says. “I can force a landlord to do something—but owner-occupied, 90 percent of the time, they’re willing to do it.”

As outlined by the Abell Foundation report, lead mitigation is expensive, and that cost can be prohibitive to some. Burke says she and her colleagues in the Department of Housing are able to help homeowners through forgivable loan programs. A property is not considered cleared until it is inspected again after the remediation or mitigation work is done, Burke says. 

Like so much in public health, preventing lead poisoning can be long, arduous work. Burke says in a standard year, the program will see 500 or 600 cases. Because of a backlog created by the pandemic, Burke says the program currently has more than 1,000 open cases. She says she has one inspector who’s viewing 5-10 properties per week—a number higher than Burke would like. 

The report does not make specific recommendations, but outlines ways Baltimore can continue to address lead poisoning prevention, including using federal funds through the Department of Housing and Urban Development, and through the Children’s Health Insurance Program. It concludes by saying the cost of mitigating lead hazards in the city will be high, and that the city “will need new resources to tackle the urgent problem of lead paint poisoning.”

Burke’s assessment of the problem is similar—she says there’s always more work to do, but that the program is limited by staff and money. 

“Public funding for health is just woefully underfunded,” Burke says. “We desperately need more people, more funding.”

Despite the limitations, though, Burke says she and her colleagues love their work, and find it important in ensuring that every child in Baltimore has a safe home.

“If we can detect [high lead levels] early, there is so much we can do to change the trajectory of a child’s life,” she says, “and so much more we can teach the parents about lead.”

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Those floating patches of land are working prototypes and the latest iteration of the National Aquarium’s floating wetlands project, which the aquarium has been working on for more than a decade.

“It’s a technology to reintroduce a shallow water habitat [in the city]” and improve the harbor’s ecological health, says Charmaine Dahlenburg, director of field conservation at the National Aquarium. “That’s the simplest, short answer.”

Prototype technology

The aquarium’s first floating wetland, which was put in place in 2010, “faced overuse from Canada geese,” according to the organization, among other issues. A second version, from around the same time, faced similar problems.

A third floating wetland, being used in the harbor today, was installed in 2015 and is still being studied for its effectiveness. The newest floating wetland, at around 400 square feet, was a custom-built prototype installed in 2017. It has four components that were designed based on previous visions of the floating wetlands, according to the National Aquarium: elevation changes to allow for different kinds of shrubs and grasses, a center channel with moving water, an aeration system, and a structure built to withstand the harsh, brackish conditions of the Inner Harbor.

Someone looking at the floating wetland this time of year might think it looks a bit dead, but it’s merely coming out of dormancy.

“It’s going to turn very, very lush and green,” Dahlenburg says. “That’s when the birds start to come in. There are some insects, there might be a snake, and definitely a lot of fish around it.”

What’s the point?

By studying how the prototype floating wetlands function in the harbor—and what effects they have on the water around it—the National Aquarium can prepare for a more ambitious project, Dahlenburg explains.

The current wetlands aren’t big enough to have a “huge” effect on the overall health of the harbor, Dahlenburg says, as it’s just “one small piece” of the harbor. They allow aquarium staff and other researchers to gain an understanding of how different factors, like the presence of marsh grasses, for example, can impact water quality. But, the aquarium does have plans to construct a larger floating wetland that will measure up to 15,000 square feet. Those plans, which would place the wetland in between the same piers as the current prototype, include docks that would allow guests to get a closer look.

Dahlenburg says that could be a big step in reintroducing a shallow water habitat to parts of the harbor.

“Baltimore looked a lot different 200 years ago,” she says. “In an urban setting like Baltimore City, we have a lot of [infrastructure] that will never be removed. The harbor is what it is. We have to find a way to introduce that shallow water habitat to cleanse the water.”

The bigger picture

Matthew Baker, a professor of geography and environmental systems at the University of Maryland, Baltimore County, says the floating wetlands do a great job of introducing visitors—especially young visitors—to concepts around water quality and ecological restoration.

The floating wetlands, and other restoration projects (like Mr. Trash Wheel, for example), help raise awareness on how the general public contributes to pollution and water quality, and demonstrate novel ideas for how to clean the water up, he says.

“Asking me whether it’s effective, I’m not sure what the expectations are,” he says. “[But] if it calls attention to how incredible natural wetlands are, and how great a service they provide, then I think this kind of thing is effective and a success.”

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“Before COVID, we weren’t going to get rich owning this, but I could pay myself and my employees a decent wage,” Whitfill tells us. “We built a bookstore that we thought was good for our community.”

But during the pandemic and after lockdowns, Ukazoo’s sales numbers never improved, he says.  “It’s not coming back, there are too many factors.”

As Whitfill seeks to sell off the store’s existing inventory, Ukazoo is having a progressive sale. As of now, new books are 10 percent off, used books are 30 percent off, and non-book items are 25 percent off. Those percentages will “bump up,” Whitfill says, as the sale continues. 

Nancy Hafford, executive director of the Towson Chamber of Commerce, says Ukazoo has been “a wonderful bookstore in our community.”

“It wasn’t just about people selling books,” she adds. “It was about people giving and recommending books. That’s what was great about that bookstore.”

That feeling of exchange and sharing within the community is part of what Whitfill says he will miss most. A couple of the books he’s read most recently were selections recommended by customers, and they were “brilliant,” he says. He hopes people remember Ukazoo for that atmosphere of discovery.

“We had so many customers referring books to other customers,” he says. “That’s the kind of thing that only happens in an independent bookstore.”

Ukazoo moved to its current location on Loch Raven Boulevard near Joppa Road in 2017. Before that, the store was in Dulaney Plaza, where it opened in June 2007. Whitfill took over full ownership two years ago, and was a partner for several years before that.

In 2014, Whitfill was honored by the Romance Writers of America as “Bookseller of the Year.” The year after, the award went to Powell’s Books in Portland, Oregon, which claims to be the largest independent bookseller in the country. Powell’s, Whitfill says, is his favorite bookstore, so he was honored to be “sitting side-by-side” with them.

Another favorite memory for Whitfill is Ukazoo serving as a location for book signing events for some graduating students from the George Washington Carver Center for Arts and Technology. For a few years, he says, some graduating students would publish books and use the store to celebrate.

“That was just amazing to see these kids who, they’re literally kids, and they’re writing a book,” he says. “They had amazing support behind them.”

Baltimore County Councilman David Marks, who represents the Towson and Loch Raven areas, also laments the loss: “I always liked that building,” he says. “That’s a blow for that corner.”

As the store closing sale ramps up, Whitfill says he’ll also sell off bookshelves and other display features. His goal is to finish up without any debt. He also hopes the area can develop into a more walkable district, like downtown Towson.

“It takes real effort to support a local business, and we need them,” Whitfill says. “In a world full of Applebee’s, we need a Pastore’s Deli. But I understand that it takes a bit more of an effort, because we don’t deliver to your door, and right now Amazon rules the world. But we want a world where we can walk through. This is not a walking neighborhood yet, but I think it can be.” 

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First, the good news: We might not have to spend the next few months shoveling out walkways and putting lawn chairs in parking spaces. The bad news, though: That means there’d be no waking up to see a snow day. 

See, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) has declared the occurrence of La Niña, a semi-regular climate pattern. NOAA’s forecast for the winter extends from December 2021 to February 2022.

“Generally, when we talk about La Niña, what that means is that temperatures in the equatorial Pacific are colder than usual,” says Anand Gnanadesikan, a professor in the Department of Earth & Planetary Sciences at Johns Hopkins University. 

That shift in temperature, he explains, causes a ripple effect across the continent. The cold waters in the Pacific push the jet stream northward, which can cause wetter and colder conditions in the northern part of North America, and warmer and dryer conditions in the south. 

“We will often see mild conditions prevail over much of the southeast and the Mid-Atlantic, and even into coastal New England. So it alters the character of a winter for several months,” says Jeffrey Halverson, a professor in the University of Maryland, Baltimore County’s Department of Geography & Environmental Systems. “[But] it’s not a guarantee, because no La Niña is quite like the one that’s happened before it.”

It doesn’t mean there won’t be any snow at all, Halverson adds. The declaration of a La Niña is a seasonal prediction, not a weather forecast—meaning scientists think it is likely to be a milder-than-average winter, not that we definitely won’t see any snowflakes.  

Despite the La Niña, Baltimore is well-prepared for dealing with possible snowfall, says Steve Sharkey, director of Baltimore’s Department of Transportation.

“Long-term forecasts have no real bearing on our annual preparations, as weather in the Mid-Atlantic states is very unpredictable,” he said in an email, “so we prepare for the worst every winter season.” 

The department has “nearly 300” pieces of equipment for clearing snow, with about that many more contractors that could be called upon if necessary. Baltimore deploys, on average, more than 12,000 tons of salt each winter to treat roads, along with about 48,000 gallons of brine.

And, if a snowy season is your preferred type of winter, don’t fret. It is not uncommon for La Niña years to oscillate into El Niño years. An El Niño means wetter conditions in the southeast—as opposed to the drier conditions of La Niña—which could mean more snow for next year. 

Halverson says it is typical that the transition from La Niña to El Niño would begin in the fall or winter next year, and that scientists could see signs of that as early as the summer.

“The blockbuster winter of 2009-2010, when Baltimore had its record snow, was an El Niño year,” he adds.

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Staples like Villagio Cafe and Mandarin Taste, both on York Road between the Regester Avenue intersection and the Murdock Road intersection, have been around for years—as have the local Ayd Hardware (in its current location since 1994) and Stoneleigh Lanes, a duckpin bowling alley open since the 1940s—giving the area walkable options. 

In the last few years, residents of south Towson neighborhoods like Stoneleigh and Anneslie have only seen that walkability improve. Pure Raw Juice and The Charmery both opened locations there, as did Starbucks, just down the street.

Now, a new restaurant from chef Carlos Raba of Clavel, the beloved Mexican taqueria in Remington, has the neighborhood buzzing. The eatery, called Nana, will occupy a vacant—and historic—building at the southern portion of 6901 York Road. 

“It’s a really exciting moment with possibilities of having this really walkable community with great restaurants,” says Sheingate. “We’re excited.” 

Raba—who, have no fear, will remain involved in Clavel—is hoping to get his new venture open in spring 2022. However, supply chain issues due to the COVID-19 pandemic could complicate that, he says.

“It all depends,” Raba says. “But it’s going to happen.” 

Nana—a name that comes from the term of endearment Raba and his family gave his great-grandmother—is slated to serve breakfast, lunch, and dinner Tuesday through Sunday. Raba envisions offering simple food, like the Mexican diners and taquerias he remembers from his childhood in Sinaloa. 

“I’m Mexican, I cook Mexican food. You’ll see quesadillas, you’ll see tacos. But I’m going to do something different in how we cook and serve them,” Raba says. Rather than the slow-cooked meats famous at Clavel, Nana will involve “butchering [meats] and putting them on the fire.”

News of the restaurant’s opening was first reported by The Towson Flyer, and then by Baltimore Fishbowl. 

Nana, he says, will be about 80 percent kitchen and about 20 percent dining space. You’re meant to grab a quick bite to eat—maybe a breakfast taco and a coffee in the morning, or a quesadilla for lunch—and take a packed rotisserie chicken home with you for dinner with your family, Raba says. Inside, the decor will be “simple, but not boring.” 

And, important for such a walkable neighborhood, someone passing by Nana won’t necessarily have to come into the restaurant to get the experience. Raba plans to re-open windows that have been covered and boarded for years, allowing the sights and smells inside to waft onto the street. 

“In Mexico, a lot of the taquerias are open buildings,” he says. “I want to embrace that.” 

Nancy Hafford, executive director of Towson’s Chamber of Commerce, says Raba coming up York Road shows “the diversity and growth of our community.”

“It’s wonderful to see that chefs and restaurateurs of his caliber are picking Towson as their home now,” she says. “They wouldn’t be doing this even seven years ago.”

David Marks, the county councilman who represents Towson, including the area where Nana will open, concurs. He says he’s seen an “explosion” of young families moving to Anneslie and other south Towson neighborhoods like Stoneleigh and Rodgers Forge. He’s thrilled to see the area catch attention from restaurateurs.

“Downtown Towson gets a lot of attention,” he says. “But we have a lot of local destinations for people in southern Towson.”

For Raba, opening Nana is a chance to try something creative on his own. Clavel, a venture with restaurateur Lane Harlan, opened in 2015. 

“I see it as a new chapter of my career as a business person, and as a chef, to embrace something on my own,” he says.

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A report out this month from The Abell Foundation—which works to solve systemic social, economic, and environmental challenges in Baltimore City—finds that Baltimore does not have worrisome levels of the chemicals in its drinking water, but recommends the city, state, and federal government all begin to take action to keep it that way.

“What we don’t want, and what Abell didn’t want, was for things to reach a crisis before we act,” says Rona Kobell, a longtime environmental journalist and one of the authors of the report. “We have time that we can do something. That’s where we are.”

What are PFAS? And where are they?

They’re strong, useful chemicals, for the same reason they’re a health and environmental hazard—PFAS were designed to be durable so they would not break down or degrade. According to the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency, exposure to PFAS can cause reproductive, developmental, kidney, liver, and immunological problems in laboratory animals, and exposure to PFAS has also caused tumors. The agency also says exposure to PFAS has been linked to increased cholesterol levels, low infant birth rates, cancer, thyroid hormone disruption, and effects on the immune system. 

They are “chemicals that are designed with the specific purpose of being very stable,” says Upal Ghosh, a professor of environmental engineering at the University of Maryland, Baltimore County. “Once they go out in the environment, we have this problem that they don’t break up on their own, because they were designed not to break up.”

Because the chemicals linger in the environment, they can build up. This is especially a problem around military bases and, in some cases, where fire departments practice and train, because of high amounts of fire-extinguishing foam being used, Ghosh explains.

One problem, Ghosh says, is that measuring for PFAS involves measuring “hundreds or thousands” of different related chemicals, not just one chemical, like lead. That can make it difficult and costly to find PFAS in the water.

Are they in the water here? 

Not in huge amounts. The Maryland Department of the Environment (MDE) is in its second phase of measuring for PFAS in drinking water sources around the state. In the first phase of its sampling, MDE found two wells that contained the chemicals at levels at or above the EPA’s Health Advisory Level of just 70 parts per trillion. Those wells were located in Hampstead and Westminster, both in Carroll County.

Those systems were taken offline, the department says, and will remain that way until there’s a treatment plan in place. Despite those findings, MDE did not detect PFAS at high levels in any of the water supply in Baltimore City or Baltimore County.

So, what is the state doing?

But, as the Abell report points out, Baltimore’s drinking water comes from a diffuse network of reservoirs in the region, meaning there are multiple points where PFAS could enter the water supply. Ben Grumbles, secretary of MDE, says the department is taking a three-pronged approach when it comes to monitoring the chemicals.

The first, he says, is measuring for PFAS around the state. MDE is working on a report from its second round of PFAS testing, in which samples were collected earlier this year. The second is communicating with others, including those in Maryland’s General Assembly, about the threats that PFAS pose, so that everyone knows “what the risks are, and how important it is to prevent exposure from these chemicals to the public and to ecosystems,” Grumbles says.

And the third prong is working with other agencies to consider potential programs and actions the state could take to reduce the risk of PFAS from getting into the environment, through regulatory or other actions, he says.

“MDE is committed to proactive, responsible action on PFAS to keep people safe and our waters clean and healthy,” Grumbles says. 

Some states, including North Carolina, Minnesota, Texas, and Delaware, have established nonbinding guidelines for PFAS in groundwater and drinking water. And three states—New Jersey, New Hampshire and Vermont—have established an enforceable threshold for keeping PFAS out of drinking water. While the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency has established guidelines, it has not instituted an enforceable threshold, called a maximum contaminant level (MCL). Maryland has not, either. 

Grumbles says the state is “certainly considering” establishing an MCL for the dangerous chemicals. But, he says, the state is also closely following the work of the Biden administration, which has made work on PFAS a priority. 

The report from the Abell Foundation, though, urges the state to move faster. It also says Baltimore City should regularly test its drinking water supply for PFAS to prepare for enforceable standards and to take immediate action if harmful levels are detected anywhere in the watershed. 

“I think the greatest risk is not knowing,” Kobell says.

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She knows because she’s seen it happen multiple times as part of the city’s work with institutions of higher learning. The program—which was established in February and partners with schools including MICA, Johns Hopkins University, and Morgan State University—was designed to target populations with limited access to the shot and those with hesitancy about getting the vaccine. 

Costa recalls, for example, recently working a clinic targeting pregnant and lactating women. Part of the strategy to attract women to the clinic was to combine vaccines with a free diaper drive. Costa says she saw a woman with a young baby speak with one of the vaccination “ambassadors” hired by the city. After only a few minutes, she got over her hesitation and signed up for the vaccine. 

Costa also saw an older woman with her son—who was maybe in his twenties, she says—stop by. “The woman said something like, ‘Well, I’ve been thinking about it, I’m going to get it,’” Costa says. “And he decided to follow his mother in.”

“I was only [at the clinic] for maybe an hour, but it was really good to see that happen,” she adds. “So I know these conversations are making a difference.”

A growing number of these on-the-ground discussions are now happening as a direct result of the partnership between the city and its colleges. 

For MICA’s part, the school’s Center for Social Design—which uses “human-centered and collaborative processes to understand and define social problems and make tools that support positive change,” according to its website—has co-hosted listening sessions with Morgan State and Hopkins to hear from 10 populations targeted by the city. Among them are residents who are 65 or older, people experiencing homelessness, residents with disabilities, Latinx residents, immigrant and refugee residents, pregnant and lactating women, young men aged 18-24, Orthodox Jewish residents, children, and faith communities. 

Those conversations lead to specific strategies—such as designing creative merchandise for the demographic of young men, or using large-print information sheets for the older populations—that community ambassadors could point to when talking to their peers about the vaccine.

The listening sessions are about “moving ideas into action,” says Becky Slogeris, associate director of MICA’s Center for Social Design. As part of the co-design process, staff from MICA worked with the members to figure out how best to solve issues of vaccine hesitancy or access. In a full-circle process, members of those focus groups became the first community ambassadors.

“To reach population immunity in Baltimore, we have to get creative,” Slogeris says. “This is where social design shines—working interdisciplinarily with partners in public health, digging deep to better understand barriers, and ultimately co-designing solutions that empower Baltimore residents to make their own decisions around vaccination.”

Staff from the center have also been creating brochures, postcards, and other materials that the ambassadors can use in their conversations: “We’re designing tools that then support them in the field,” she says.

Morgan State University, meanwhile, has been leveraging its connections and reputation in Baltimore to train and oversee the peer ambassadors. So far, the ambassadors have logged more than 5,000 conversations with members of the targeted population groups, Costa says. While that number is encouraging for the program, Costa says that, because residents can get the vaccine anywhere—not necessarily at a city clinic—it’s difficult to track just how many of those talks converted to an actual vaccination. 

Currently, the vaccination rate in Baltimore has flattened, especially since early June, according to the city’s COVID-19 dashboard. Both the city and the state of Maryland have seen a slight increase in coronavirus positivity rates since a low in June, according to the state’s COVID page. And on July 21, the state reported 200 new COVID cases for the first time since the end of May. 

Those factors combined make the work of vaccinating the city’s residents increasingly urgent. Dr. Kendra McDow, the health department’s chief medical officer, says every dose is “life saving.” 

In a February press release, the city said it had a goal of reaching 70-80 percent vaccination, and as of late July, Baltimore City has a 61.6 percent vaccination rate. 

“We are now at a point where the individuals who wanted to get vaccinated…they got it,” McDow says. “That’s why the peer ambassador program is so important.”

The program, she says, can not only help answer questions for individuals who are hesitant about the vaccine, but also come up with solutions for individuals who are mobility limited or need to navigate public transportation.

“As a city, I think we’re doing well. We are meeting our benchmarks,” she says. “But, of course, we want to push forward. There is an urgency because of the Delta variant. We’re not letting up.”

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Pamela used to live on a church portico, exposed to the elements and passersby. But since late January, her lack of housing is no longer an emergency concern. She now has four walls, a roof over her head, and a cat named Patience at Red Shed Village on the 2000 block of St. Paul Street in Charles Village.

“This village really means something to me,” said Pamela, whose last name is being withheld for privacy, during a recent winter gathering shared on social media. “It means a place to live, a place to call home.”

Pamela is one of four residents of Red Shed Village, which is located on a long-held community garden. Last April, four tents were added as a way for unhoused and housing-insecure individuals to shelter during the COVID-19 crisis, which has exacerbated the issue nationwide.

In late January, after several weekends and with the help of some 150 volunteers, those tents were replaced with four eight-by-eight-foot, tiny-home-like structures, insulated and fireproofed, and painted green with tin roofs and locking doors and windows.

It is estimated that, on any given night, more than 2,000 people experience homelessness in Baltimore. The majority are African-American and male. As far as its organizers know, Red Shed Village is the first project of its kind in Baltimore, where several organizations work to address the city’s homelessness.

The village was founded by North Ave Mission, a street ministry in Station North that is part of the Delaware-Maryland Synod of the Evangelical Lutheran Church and noticed a need in the neighborhood. The Mission’s founding pastor, Atticus Zavaletta, pictured center, who is transgender and uses he/they pronouns, says the inclusive ministry is faith expansive.

“Of faith, of different faith, of no faith, it doesn’t matter,” says Zavaletta. “We’re all family.”

He credits a local resident, Anneke “PeeWee” Corbitt, who has since passed away, for connecting him to the community and establishing his credibility—an example of the mutual aid work of North Ave Mission, which Corbett helped co-found.

There are dozens of people involved in the ministry’s various efforts, from hosting weekly community gatherings to being a part of a dedicated “care team” that assists with life in the village.

There are also volunteers, like Daphne Green, 61, a North Ave Mission member and neighborhood resident who helped out during one of the ministry’s recent weekly free markets, welcoming folks and forming lines for the distribution of food and clothing.

“It feels good,” Green says. “People still care.”

When City Councilman Zeke Cohen visited Red Shed Village in September, he felt a strong sense of community and purpose, praising the group for its harm-reductionist approach.

“I learned, even in that brief visit, about the resilience of our city, and what happens when people organize and take control of their own situation,” says Cohen, who thinks there could eventually be space for city government to assist Red Shed Village, along with similar projects, be it financially or logistically, such as providing permits.

Zavaletta sees the village as restorative, transformative shelter. Since it was founded, several residents have moved on to more secure housing, transitioned to treatment facilities, and gained both part-time and full-time employment.

Sharonda Nutt is a founder and former resident of Red Shed Village who remains active with North Ave Mission after recently moving into her own home, considering it a place she can always turn to for community.

“This is a place where you can be yourself,” said Nutt during that winter gathering. “It can be a safe haven…I can go somewhere and be comfortable with who I am.”

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And it’s easy to see why. They have been a game changer for keeping trash and litter out of the water. The Healthy Harbor Initiative, which manages the wheels, estimates the Trash Wheel family has removed more than 1,500 tons of debris from Baltimore’s waterways since the first wheel was installed. 

The newest trash wheel, dubbed “Gwynnda the Good Wheel of the West” after an online contest, was unveiled in March. She’ll be the largest wheel yet, collecting more trash each year than the other three existing wheels combined, according to estimates.

Adam Lindquist, director of the Healthy Harbor Initiative, says the organization hopes to have Gwynnda up and running sometime around Earth Day, April 22. Like the already installed trash wheels, the debris that Gwynnda collects will be deposited into a dumpster, which will eventually be transported to the Wheelabrator Baltimore incinerator that’s off I-95 in South Baltimore—next to, as it happens, the Gwynns Falls, where the newest wheel is being installed. 

Unfortunately, however, Gwynnda’s haul, like most waste in the city, will be incinerated in a process that—while saving landfill space and generating electricity—also produces significant toxic emissions as its byproduct.

Particulate matter, precursors to smog and hazardous material like mercury, are among the material that gets put into the atmosphere during the process of trash incineration, says Scot Miller, an assistant professor in the Department of Environmental Health and Engineering at Johns Hopkins University. 

And, specifically in Baltimore, a 2017 study commissioned by the Chesapeake Bay Foundation found that emissions from the Wheelabrator incinerator cost an estimated $55 million in health-related fees annually. The incinerator has been identified as the single largest point source of pollution in the city. 

Wheelabrator rejects both of those premises. Rosanne McTyre, an environmental consultant retained by Wheelabrator, says the 2017 study is faulty due to the way it uses health modeling and because it lacks transparency.

And Jim Connolly, vice president of environmental compliance with Wheelabrator, says the incinerator is only the largest source of single-point pollution because Baltimore doesn’t have any large industry left within its limits. He says other sources—like vehicle traffic—have a much larger impact on ambient air quality in Baltimore than the trash incinerator does.

But Miller, the Hopkins researcher, says “air pollution is not an either-or proposition.”

“There is no scenario in which cars would magically disappear from the streets of Baltimore,” Miller says. “Reducing car emissions is one component [of improving air quality in Baltimore], but reducing emissions from the trash incinerator would be another point of that.”

The city recently renewed its contract with Wheelabrator, which began operating in 1985, locking it in for another 10 years of incinerating up to 2,250 tons of everyday waste to generate electricity. 

Dillon Mahmoudi, an assistant professor in the Department of Geography & Environmental Systems at the University of Maryland, Baltimore County, says that’s “bucking” a national trend of local governments decommissioning waste-to-energy facilities.

“[It’s] shocking for a facility that is that old,” he says. 

As part of the contract with the city, Wheelabrator is required to tighten some of its emissions standards. Connolly, from Wheelabrator, says the company is in the “early stages” of that work, but did not provide a timeline for when it might be complete. 

Carmera Thomas-Wilhite, Baltimore program manager for the Chesapeake Bay Foundation, says the trash wheels are a positive for Baltimore, because they divert pollution from local waterways.

Bigger picture, though, the organization wants to see Baltimore continue with plans toward a “zero waste” future, which would involve investment in recycling, compost, and other methods of diverting waste from landfills and the Wheelabrator incinerator.

“The trash wheels are a good thing for now, until we deal with the larger issues of diverting trash,” Thomas-Wilhite says.

Lindquist, ultimately, says he agrees. The trash wheels are treating a “symptom” he says, so he wants to see more education around ways to reduce waste and keep trash and litter from entering the environment. The Healthy Harbor Initiative supports a zero-waste future for Baltimore, he says. 

“Our long term plan, our goal, is to put the trash wheels out of business,” Lindquist says. 

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