It’s a warm fall day –Indian Summer- and the breeze follows me as I swing open the creaky door and ascend the staircase. I hear Billy Idol on the radio. “It’s a nice day for a white wedding…It’s a nice day to…start again…” As I pass through the oddly fragrant kitchen I pause to see just what exactly is in the bubbling pot on the stove. Lifting the hot lid reveals the skull of a small animal, soft bits of it dancing in the froth. “Hmmmm…,” I think as I peer through the steam, replace the lid, and continue on my way. I could say that such situations are unusual here, but that’s not the case. It’s not at all strange –well yes it is- to find small game in various states of dress in our kitchen. Doug, our resident hunter, makes sure of that.
This is urban Richmond, in the Church Hill part of town, circa 1982. My two roommates and I are renting the upstairs of an old house on East Grace St. It’s not the swankiest neighborhood, that’s for sure, but it is close to the dental school –we can walk or ride our bikes- and the price is right. The skinny row house is on a corner, on the edge of Church Hill, and from the windows on the north side we have a pretty good view of downtown across Shockoe Bottom.
We moved in at the end of August, and we settled into the thick Richmond heat. Of course there is no air conditioning, but we have electric fans, and we’re fine.
This part of Church Hill is but a shadow of its former respectable self. There are boarded-up buildings in various stages of decay, and dilapidated houses which appear condemned but in reality are home to an undetermined number of residents. Unsavory-looking characters ply the streets. Nights, especially hot summer ones, are colorful with the sounds of voices arguing or celebrating, gun shots, and the screeching of tires. “Wholesome and safe” is not how I’d describe the neighborhood.
We have grand dinner parties at the Church Hill place. Well, not really, but one evening I do create a somewhat lavish feast for my future wife. This dinner features the pairing of some kind of canned, off-brand chili with spinach egg noodles, along with day-old chocolate cupcakes from the thrift store down Broad Street. Amazingly, 27 years later my first wife happens to be my current one.
Getting to the dental school every morning is a high point of my day. We usually go on foot, and most of the mile-and-a-half-long walk follows Broad Street. That part of Broad is lined by businesses in various states of “going concern” and there are always interesting sights, sounds, and smells to experience. My favorite mode of transportation to school, however, is to ride our junker bicycles through the back streets of Church Hill and then across the majestic Lee bridge. Along the way we pass by sizable knots of kids as they wait for the school bus. We exchange waves and they always yell “ice cream” when we pass. We finally figure out that this is because our white lab coats –flowing in the breeze- suggest our roles as sellers of butter brickle and chocolate ripple. In reality we’re going to learn how to repair the damage wrought by such things.
Life is strange that way.
Winter comes, and being cheapskate college students we don’t turn on the heat; we pirate it from the kind lady who lives downstairs. Enough warmth seeps through the floor that our level remains “tolerable”, and every morning we burn the previous day’s trash in the shallow fireplace in the kitchen. The short-lived blaze imparts cheeriness if not much real heat. We wear rather thick sweaters.
The hunter among us obtains a cute Brittany Spaniel puppy halfway through the school year, so we have an additional roommate in our Church Hill abode. Tess will make a fine bird dog, but for now she is in training, and this consists, for one thing, of chewing up everything into which she can sink her teeth. During the day, Tess stays in Doug’s room and we’re always curious to see what she has “gotten into” upon our return in the evening. One thing I particularly remember is that all of Doug’s shoes are modified into slip-ons, since Tess has a penchant for chewing off the heels.
The convent across the street –that’s right, a nunnery- adds another dimension to our life on Church Hill. Sometimes the nuns get our mail or packages, and when I go to retrieve them I get a glimpse into another world behind the high walls and the tiny barred windows in the double doors; a glimpse beyond the all-too-worldly Church Hill. The nuns always have a kind word and a smile for me, and for my part I am compelled to stand up straight and attempt to convey goodness.
Nowadays – 28 years later – the Church Hill part of town is a highly desirable residence in Richmond, and old houses have been lovingly restored. The cobblestone streets make sense again, matching the historical elegance of the neighborhood. The gas streetlights have been returned to service, and tourists tingle hearing about Patrick Henry’s speech in old St. John’s Church.
I’ll never forget my taste of life on Church Hill in its rough-and-tumble nitty-gritty days. The tone of the place matched my own work-in-progress lack of sophistication – a stage which, I must point out, I have yet to transcend.
And I learned some great recipes while I was there too.
By John Robinson [email protected]