Open Window

A 5-year-old boy was alive and crying after surviving a fall from a ninth-story window at a Baltimore high-rise housing project yesterday afternoon, the impact cushioned by a patch of rain-soaked grass.The boy, identified by police as Calvin Ray, was reported in critical but stable condition at Johns Hopkins University Hospital after his fall from a window at the Lexington Terrace complex in the 700 block of West Mulberry Street."He's conscious and alert," hospital spokeswoman Debbie Bangledorf said a few hours after the boy was brought into the emergency room.

Baltimore County police have identified the man who committed suicide Friday by setting himself on fire in his Middle River home. Kenneth Leon Grubb, 58, of the first block of Clearwater Court in the Bowleys Quarters area, was pronounced dead at the scene at 10:45 a.m. He had informed police in a phone call of his plan to commit suicide. Officers arrived at 10:20 a.m. and tried to control Grubb with a shock from a Taser gun, while he stood at an open window. Grubb quickly retreated deeper into the home.

GENERAL MANAGER Schulz won't be present this opening day, but the Charlie Brown All-Stars are just as ready as they ever are. Linus Van Pelt at second, Snoopy at short, Lucy Van Pelt lolling in center, her other brother Rerun sucking on his milk bottle in left, Schroeder crouched behind the plate. See them tense up as, on the mound, Charlie rears back to fling the first pitch of the new season. And now the enemy's leadoff man hits it high and far enough to reach the warehouse, on the fly. Wait.

Police may have a pretty good idea who broke into the home of a Laurel woman Friday morning, thanks to the handwritten note from the thief apologizing for the mess he left behind."

EVERY NIGHT just before bedtime, I go on a little patrol around the house.First I make sure the front door is locked. Then I check the back door. Then the side door. Then the ground floor windows.Then I check the front door again to make sure some psycho killer hasn't jimmied the lock in the interim and is now wandering the house taking attendance with a machete.Only after checking all the doors and windows can I attempt to sleep, secure in the knowledge that we won't all be murdered in our beds -- at least for the next few minutes.

Andrew Wyeth, who died last week at 91, might be the one contemporary American artist that every American knows. They may not think they know his work, but they do. How about that cute little picture of a yellow lab curled in the middle of a four-poster bed that hangs in your vet's office? Andrew Wyeth. How about that framed poster of an open window - shade half-drawn, lace curtain billowing - that the country-kitchen diner on the corner displays next to a real window, lace curtain billowing in a life-imitates-art tribute?

On October 1, 1991,The bottles of ChampagneWere lined up like bowling pinsI sat in front of my picture window,Watching the leaves on the trees releaseThemselves to the coolness of eveningMelancholia thickening like warm waxDripping from rose-colored tapersThe night was pouring from bottlesOf thick green glass, fizzing andCrashing in crystal like a whimThere was a conspicuous absenceOf someone with whom to sinThe scene was perfectly setCandles everywhere slowly...

This week, five Today writers document signs of spring. Spring Cleaning, a longtime resident of the better households of America, died recently everywhere but a few outposts of civilization. Spring Cleaning never revealed her age, although some reports put it in the three figures.She had suffered from a series of maladies for several decades, including the increasingly chronic slovenliness of Americans. Services are pending, and in lieu of flowers, survivors request a moment of silence as you contemplate the accumulated dust of your life.

The orange glow of my grandfather's cigarette was the only object visible in the room. As your eyes adjusted to the darkness, the dim outlines of his imposing figure would come into view as he sat regally in his armchair with the radio close by his side. The game was in the late innings by then, and each pitch became a matter of critical analysis. My favored position was sprawled across the foot of his bed, in the spot where the humid scents of the summer night air flowed in from the open window.