To Grandmother's House We Go

Door with peeling paint
Her first name was Ivy. She was the grandmother of my friend Morris, and she moved into this house in Mineral in the mid-1940's. Although the house was probably a single-family home originally, by the time Ivy moved in, it had been divided into two flats. She lived in the lower half of the house. Aunt Dot lived upstairs; she was the sister of one of Ivy's daughters-in-law. Not really an aunt, in other words, but that's how we say things here in The South.

Morris remembers visiting his grandmother, and staying overnight on weekends frequently. He & his brother would also spend at least one week each summer with her. The house is in Mineral, originally known as Tolersville. Morris recalls hearing the train wail in the quiet hours of deepest night, for the house is situated just a couple of streets over from the train tracks that run through town.

The town was known as Mineral at least as far back as 1902, when it was incorporated as such because of the many nearby mines. Fool's Gold (pyrite), as well as real gold, copper, sulphur, and iron ore were mined by various companies, and hauled out of Mineral over the railroad. At one time there were fifteen gold mines within two miles of town.

The picture above shows the current view of the guest room where Morris slept when he stayed with his grandmother. Like my own grandmother, Ivy was poor but feisty, and she enjoyed having her family in to visit. Although the home was small, with two bedrooms, a living room, and an eat-in kitchen, places were found for everyone to sleep. Privacy wasn't a priority when it came to family get-togethers. There were two double beds in the guest room, and the overflow would sleep on sofas or with Ivy.

All the women would pitch in to cook the family meals. Ivy had a "modern" stove in a corner, and a wood stove along the center of one wall. The kitchen was large, but there was no dining room, so meals were served in three sittings at the kitchen table. Ivy ate with the men at the first seating, since it was her house. Her presence probably discouraged food fights, also. The rest of the women took the second seating, and the kids ate last.

The women cleaned up after the meal, except for Aunt Kat who disappeared upstairs to her siser's flat with a promise to be back to help in a minute. The other women exchanged looks, because they knew they wouldn't see Kat & her manicured nails until the last pot was washed & dried. The men & children ran off to play.

Morris and I were on one of our explorations, this time through the countryside northwest of Richmond. We visited his mother's grave in Hanover County, and then continued into Louisa County, stopping in Mineral to see his grandmother's old place.

Both of our grandmothers lived through hard times in the Great Depression, and both spent most of their lives in rented homes. My grandmother bought her first home in the 1960's when she herself was in her 60's. Morris's grandmother lived at her home in Mineral until she died at the hospital in the 1980's. Both of our grandmothers were widowed in their 60's, and lived into their 90's. Both used wringer washers, and enjoyed their stories (soap operas) on afternoon television. You could hear the trains pass by from both houses; one in Mineral, the other in Morrison, Iowa. For their grandchildren, both created lasting memories of home-cooked meals and the fellowship of family.

Ivy never locked her doors. In fact, when new tenants moved in following her death, the landlord had to install locks on the doors. Now, the house has been vacant for many years. It was the first time that Morris had been inside since the estate sale. It was good to see him walking through the rooms, and hear him share his memories. Mineral is today a sleepy town with many of its businesses gone and old buildings demolished. Coleman Hotel, Mineral Hotel, Noel's Store, and the Mineral Tea Room exist only in photographs. The town has a population of a little over 400 souls, quite a drop since the 1910 census tallying 3,200.

Morris remembers when staying in Mineral meant excitement. We both grew up in suburban neighborhoods; you got in the car to go places. At his grandmother's, he was right in town, with trains chugging by, stores a short stroll away, and the fire station down the block. It was heaven for a child from suburban Richmond.

As we drove away for more adventures, we both reflected silently on our childhood memories. I would walk to the post office to fetch Grandma's mail, and return to her house for a glass of cold milk & a handful of homemade cookies. The postmistress, Jessie, would put a notice of our visit in the social column of the Grundy County Register, and it was always exciting to see our names in the newspaper. Grandma knew who lived in every house in town. Times sure have changed.

Two Richmonders Against the Odds

Good grief! Planet Bill's first post of 2011, and we're treated to a cemetery shot? Am I in a dark mood? No, not at all; I've just been roaming Richmond with my camera, and Morris & I found ourselves sticking our noses in a couple of places that were new to us. Let's take a look.

The picture at the top was taken in Holy Cross Cemetery, located at the southwestern edge of Chestnut Hill. This district was one of Richmond's original streetcar neighborhoods, and contains many examples of Queen Anne, American Foursquare, Greek Revival, Bungalow, and Colonial Revival homes. The sky was gray, and the wind was cold & brisk on the day that Morris & I rode through the graveyard. We came across a curious plot with multiple iron crosses with no names, simply the abbreviation for Rest In Peace.

Cemeteries have never terrified me. Even as a child, when I found some of them pleasantly creepy, they were assurances of the order of life. I remember visiting the graves of relatives, some known and others gone prior to my birth, and hearing remembrances of these people from my grandmother. Like the books I loved to read, there was a beginning and end, but the stories between the similar covers were colorful, fascinating, and unique. Death is part of the natural order of life. Ashes to ashes, and all that. What is important is what we write on our pages.

After a Saturday breakfast at a place called Yesterday's (appropriately named, since we were fueling up for a day of local history), we drove toward downtown. At the edge of the city limits, we took a detour up a rutted road in search of Woodland Cemetery. It was a forlorn place, barely kept, and made meaner by winter's harsh light. Groundskeeping seemed limited to common areas, for many gravesites were wild with dead weeds & brambles. The cemetery was bordered by untamed thickets on two sides, and industrial buildings on another. The two pictures, above & below, give an idea of the unwelcoming atmosphere.

What better place to bury a local hero! Yessiree, here's where you will find Arthur Ashe, champion of Wimbledon, the Australian Open, and the US Open. After a lifetime of battling racial discrimination, he rests in a place for Richmond's deceased black citizens - desolate Woodland Cemetery.

Arthur Ashe grew up in Richmond. His athletic grace was matched by his intelligence. He had to fight to play tennis, growing up in a time when he was not allowed on most courts. Ashe was a fighter on & off the tennis courts, breaking into a traditionally "white only" sport, and then becoming an AIDS activist. Ashe contracted HIV through an unscreened blood transfusion in 1983. Although he wished to keep this information private, when he learned that USA Today was nosing around his business, he pre-empted their news coup by calling a press conference to make his own disclosure of his disease. He established the Arthur Ashe Foundation for the Defeat of AIDS, and became a champion of humanitarian causes.

Arthur Ashe attended Maggie Walker High School in Richmond, a school for black students during segregation named for another determined underdog, where teachers urged their pupils to excellence. Our destination, although Morris & I got sidetracked by cemeteries, was the Maggie Walker House in the Jackson Ward District. I highly recommend the tour of Maggie Walker's home, which is now a National Park Service property.

Maggie Walker was the first female president of an American bank, an accomplishment all the more noteworthy because she was African-American during a time of unabashed racial discrimination. Her mother was a former slave who took in laundry to support the family after Maggie's father was murdered. Maggie attended the Armstrong School, and became a teacher there after graduating. At that time, only single women were allowed to teach, so she left her job upon her marriage. She rose to a prominent position in the Independent Order of St. Luke, a benevolent organization that assisted African-Americans with health care & burial services. She chartered the St. Luke Penny Savings Bank and became its first president in 1903. Keep in mind that this was even before the Nineteenth Amendment gave women the right to vote in elections. Her bank gave many black citizens an opportunity to have a savings account and buy a house.

The picture above shows one of the double parlors in Maggie Walker House. When touring most historic homes, the tour guide (when pressed) will say something like "These pieces are reproductions. We've furnished the house the way we sorta kinda figure it might have looked originally." Not so with Maggie's house. The house passed directly from the Walker family to the National Park Service in 1979, and still contains most of the original furnishings, including the pictures on the walls. Recently, the Walker descendents donated fifty additional original items to the house. You really get the feeling that you are walking through Maggie's home, and that her boisterous grandchildren may run through the room at any moment.

Another wonderful aspect of the tour is that you get to see nearly the entire house. Parlors, dining rooms, and bedrooms are part of touring most historic homes, but I always want to see how people really lived. What were the back rooms like? Above you see the kitchen, and below is the laundry room. Can you imagine cooking a meal for a large family plus guests in a kitchen with no countertops? Today we have Viking ranges, granite counters, motorized gizmos, and most Americans haven't got a clue about cooking from scratch. If the box doesn't say add water & stir it's time to make restaurant reservations.

A small bedroom for a granddaughter has her collection of dolls on the bed.

Now, I can pretty much assure you that you're not going to take a tour of a gilded-age mansion and hear a tour guide say "Mrs. Vanderbilt repaired to this chamber when she needed to take a slash." Next we see Maggie Walker's bathroom, complete with clean-but-stained toilet, bidet & bedpan. There are no pretenses here; the tour guide will even point out the upstairs window where Maggie's son shot & killed his father, mistaking him for a midnight intruder.

In the next photo we see why there was a bedpan in Maggie's bathroom. She spent her later life as an invalid. She had diabetes, and her cause of death in 1934 was listed as "diabetes gangrene." Her two sons and their families lived with her, and there were up to ten people living in the 28-room house at one point. Upstairs, Maggie had her own little oasis: a large bedroom, her own spacious bathroom, and a kitchenette that had been fashioned from an upper enclosed side porch. The kitchenette had a wall of windows that faced east, and I imagine that she enjoyed this cheerful, sunny room in the mornings.

She also enclosed a porch off her bedroom at the front of the house, which you can see in the first photo of the Maggie Walker House. Here, she liked to sit in her wheelchair to watch the traffic go by, looking down at the Jackson Ward neighborhood that she helped make the "Harlem of the South" and the "Black Wall Street of America."

Alcoholism took its toll on her family. It is said that her husband and both of her sons were alcoholics, and that her husband came home drunk and was trying to sneak into the house via an upper rear porch when his son fatally shot him. There had been a series of neighborhood robberies, but the family had to endure a murder trial before the son was aquitted. He never recovered emotionally from the tragedy, sank deeper into the drink, and died a few years later.

Ending your tour today, we have a few more photographs. These were taken in the very old section known as Union Hill, a district which dates back to around 1805. Thanks for dropping by, and I hope your year has started out smoothly.

So Long, 2010!

Let me apologize in advance. I had dreams of crafting a poignant and deeply meaningful post about personal growth and the transition of the years with such simple eloquence that you would be left dabbing your eyes and whispering "Bravo. Well done."

But, here it is New Year's Eve already and I'm dressed for a party, and my French cuffs make typing an annoyance. You're stuck with another dashed off bit of fluff and a few recent photos. Who was I trying to fool, anyway? Deep & meaningful? You can't get blood from a turnip.

The picture at the top was taken at Homemades by Suzanne, a fine cafe & bakery in a small town just north of Richmond. Morris & I were eating lunch in the front dining area when I noticed the warmth of the old wood of the tables & chairs. It was a cold, windy day and the cafe was cozy.

We rode up the Old Washington Highway to Ashland. The narrow road was still icy from our Christmas weekend snowstorm. Along the way, we passed through the former whistle stop known as Elmont which is surrounded by large stretches of farmland. The wind raised snow wraiths from the fields, and we were happy for the warmth of the car.

Ashland is a charming town with the railway running right down the middle of the main street, Railroad Avenue. Many beautiful old homes and buildings line the split street, and an Amtrak train rumbled by as we drove along.



The picture below was taken at an old church on England Street.

Next we have the train station, built in the 1920's when some Ashland residents would take the local train into Richmond each day for work. Behind the station is the Henry Clay Inn, still in operation.



Ah! Lunchtime! The fare at Homemades by Suzanne is mouthwatering comfort food, especially on a cold, wintery day. I had a deviled egg, succotash salad, and macaroni salad. Perfect.


Later that day, back in Richmond, we had dinner at Garnett's. After Morris & I parted, I walked for a bit along Park Avenue and took a picture of one of my favorite churches at the corner of Park Avenue and Meadow Street.



During my workday, one of my duties is answering the local Alcoholics Anonymous hotline. By now I know that the call volume ramps up during and after the holidays. At the end of the day, I transfer the calls to a volunteer for the night. While I was at home one evening, I got a few text messages from that night's volunteer.

Lyssa: (9:12pm) Lord...was I this pathetic and wallowing?

Lyssa: (9:18pm) Clearly, I was. Don't want to sound callous.

Lyssa: (9:20pm) I must have been a real bite in the ass to be around...

Me: (9:23pm) Are you on the phone with the still-suffering or just randomly musing?

Lyssa: (9:25pm) Just hung up but was held captive by former (still, occasionally?) self for twenty minutes.

Me: (9:27pm) I know the feeling. I talked to me this afternoon for about the same amount of time.

And that's how it can be when we answer the phone. Sometimes the caller is ready for help. Sometimes they just want a sympathetic ear. Some callers get hooked on the sympathy, and still keep on drinking until they lose everything.

I always keep in mind something a man with 30-plus years of sobriety shared in a meeting:
"Sympathy will kill an alcoholic."

I remember that, and dole out sympathy sparingly, but I can go long with empathy & encouragement. I'm incredibly grateful for the opportunity to answer those calls. Those of us who do agree that it goes a long way in helping us stay sober. It's a marvelous mirror of our former selves. When I hear the misery, self-delusion & self-absorption, the bewilderment & madness, it reminds me that that's how I was, too. I do not want to ever return to the life I led before I found recovery.

Happy New Year, everyone! I'm off to a big ol' party. See you next year.

Cadillac Walk

There are only a few days until Christmas, and I know you're pressed for time. So, for those of you who took a moment to stop by Planet Bill, I've arranged a special Yuletide treat for you. You are invited to take a stroll along Monument Avenue to see the Christmas decorations on the mansions. I've done all the legwork for you, so you can just sit back, relax, and enjoy the sights.

Sunday night Robespierre, Ember, Morris & I met at Robin Inn for dinner before we took a walking tour of Richmond's famous street of early 20th century mansions. It was really cold, so we fortified ourselves with Italian food. Our walk was long, considering the temperature; we went down the north side of the avenue from the 2400 block to Stuart Circle where the street begins, which is at the 1600 block. We returned up the south side of the avenue, and my ears were numb long before we got back to our cars. We had to watch our step, too, because patches of ice & snow still lingered.

Monument Avenue is a noted example of the City Beautiful movement, and it truly did look beautiful on Sunday night. A couple of tour buses glided by, but there weren't many others out on foot. There are two good reasons for taking a pedestrian tour. First & most important is that you miss most of the splendid architectural details unless you are walking. Secondly, an evening stroll allows you to peer inside these homes from the sidewalks to catch glimpses of the graciously proportioned rooms with their high ceilings and rich furnishings. These blocks suffered a decline with the mid-century flight to the suburbs. Many of the houses became multi-use buildings, with professional offices on the lower floors while the upper storeys were chopped into apartments. The nadir was probably in the 1960's, before the banner of historic preservation was raised. Now, most of these houses are once again single-family homes.

Sit back and enjoy your tour from the warmth of your home.



Ah, you've found the Christmas Cadillac!

Robespierre, Ember & Morris pose in front of Santa's big white Sedan de Ville.

Every year this car is stuffed full of toys & presents, and Santa sits behind the wheel.










RAWR!









I wish each of you an exceptionally nice Christmas this year!