The last twenty-eight years really have flown. And the perception of various points along that road has gotten strange: I remember some events of 1996 as vividly as something that happened an hour ago; but things that happened last year can be vague and don't seem entirely real.
On May 19, 1991, I graduated from college. The very next day I moved into an apartment in The Jackson, on Richmond's Monument Avenue. Monument Avenue was every bit as stylish as it always had been, but the Jackson Apartments of 1991 (built in 1919) could probably be best described as "genteel decrepitude." It had once been very fashionable but had roaches that would politely try to bum cigarettes. Once, when I told the landlord the light switch in the pantry didn't work, he asked if I'd tried changing the light bulb. Since the light was stuck on, this was not the problem. And the heat was controlled by a thermostat that couldn't be--well, controlled. We had to resort to putting an ice pack on top of it to fool the furnace into believing that Richmond was Antarctica.
We had a great time in those first few months out of college. We were all perpetually broke; the lucrative futures that William and Mary promised us held out resolutely just out of reach. Somehow we managed to find money for hooch; we also figured out which bars had free food at happy hour. Conveniently, one of these was the Hotel Jefferson; if we could scrape together enough money for a couple of gin and tonics (they were $2.50 back then, during happy hour) we could scrounge dinner from the buffet.
It seems like there was always a party going on in the Jackson. In retrospect, it's a miracle that we all survived. Some of the things we did would be frowned on by the more sanctimonious recent generation. Too, I wonder if our potential for public service has been ruined by something we did (with photographic evidence) in 1991 or '92 that wasn't considered evil or offensive then, may not be now, but very well might be in ten more years.
Photographs, of course, existed only in the form of actual film. I took one from behind the windshield of my '85 Buick, looking down Broad street toward downtown. The big art-deco Central National Bank features prominently. I labeled the photo "I live in the Holy City now!" When I returned to Richmond in 2013, after an almost-twenty year sojourn in Baltimore, I took a picture from exactly the same place--and used the same caption--but this time, I posted it on Facebook. Which, by 2033, will probably be just as passe as film is now.
Driving down Broad street always brings back memories for me, but it's shocking to look at that (and other) photos from 1991, to see how many things are nothing but memories. The shuttered car dealerships of the '90s (they'd all moved to the burbs by then) have been replaced with the thundering crash of VCU buildings that just keep springing up. The sketchy McDonalds is just plain gone; so are the antique shops and of course, the department stores.
There's one other thing that I don't seem to notice anymore. When we lived in the Jackson, not only the apartment, but the whole city, seemed to have a certain scent to it. Maybe it was that genteel decrepitude; it seemed to be some combination of honeysuckle, curing tobacco, whiskey and old, unairconditioned buildings. Twenty-eight years later, it seems to be gone. Of course, there's less tobacco actually cured in Richmond than there used to be. The city is a little bit more manicured these days so I suppose there isn't as much honeysuckle, and even the most poverty-stricken apartment houses have air-conditioning now. And the younger generation doesn't seem to consume whiskey with quite the abandon that we did. So, there's probably a logical reason that I can't smell that smell anymore. Or maybe it was just a heady scent that went with youth, good times and a hopeful future, unnoticeable to the resigned nose of middle age.
On May 19, 1991, I graduated from college. The very next day I moved into an apartment in The Jackson, on Richmond's Monument Avenue. Monument Avenue was every bit as stylish as it always had been, but the Jackson Apartments of 1991 (built in 1919) could probably be best described as "genteel decrepitude." It had once been very fashionable but had roaches that would politely try to bum cigarettes. Once, when I told the landlord the light switch in the pantry didn't work, he asked if I'd tried changing the light bulb. Since the light was stuck on, this was not the problem. And the heat was controlled by a thermostat that couldn't be--well, controlled. We had to resort to putting an ice pack on top of it to fool the furnace into believing that Richmond was Antarctica.
We had a great time in those first few months out of college. We were all perpetually broke; the lucrative futures that William and Mary promised us held out resolutely just out of reach. Somehow we managed to find money for hooch; we also figured out which bars had free food at happy hour. Conveniently, one of these was the Hotel Jefferson; if we could scrape together enough money for a couple of gin and tonics (they were $2.50 back then, during happy hour) we could scrounge dinner from the buffet.
It seems like there was always a party going on in the Jackson. In retrospect, it's a miracle that we all survived. Some of the things we did would be frowned on by the more sanctimonious recent generation. Too, I wonder if our potential for public service has been ruined by something we did (with photographic evidence) in 1991 or '92 that wasn't considered evil or offensive then, may not be now, but very well might be in ten more years.
Photographs, of course, existed only in the form of actual film. I took one from behind the windshield of my '85 Buick, looking down Broad street toward downtown. The big art-deco Central National Bank features prominently. I labeled the photo "I live in the Holy City now!" When I returned to Richmond in 2013, after an almost-twenty year sojourn in Baltimore, I took a picture from exactly the same place--and used the same caption--but this time, I posted it on Facebook. Which, by 2033, will probably be just as passe as film is now.
Driving down Broad street always brings back memories for me, but it's shocking to look at that (and other) photos from 1991, to see how many things are nothing but memories. The shuttered car dealerships of the '90s (they'd all moved to the burbs by then) have been replaced with the thundering crash of VCU buildings that just keep springing up. The sketchy McDonalds is just plain gone; so are the antique shops and of course, the department stores.
There's one other thing that I don't seem to notice anymore. When we lived in the Jackson, not only the apartment, but the whole city, seemed to have a certain scent to it. Maybe it was that genteel decrepitude; it seemed to be some combination of honeysuckle, curing tobacco, whiskey and old, unairconditioned buildings. Twenty-eight years later, it seems to be gone. Of course, there's less tobacco actually cured in Richmond than there used to be. The city is a little bit more manicured these days so I suppose there isn't as much honeysuckle, and even the most poverty-stricken apartment houses have air-conditioning now. And the younger generation doesn't seem to consume whiskey with quite the abandon that we did. So, there's probably a logical reason that I can't smell that smell anymore. Or maybe it was just a heady scent that went with youth, good times and a hopeful future, unnoticeable to the resigned nose of middle age.
