Sweet, Sweet Neighborhood

Facebook saved me after I slept late.

There it was, reminding me that there was a lecture I wanted to go to today. One that started in half an hour.

Throwing back my breakfast, I realized there was no time for my walk beforehand. Oh, well.

When I got to the Virginia Historical Society, I was about to take my seat when I heard my name called.

It was the new stay-at-home Dad who'd brought Peabody Crustbottom, his baby, to the lecture rather than miss it.

So I wasn't the only one eager to hear about "The Carillon: The Story of a Richmond Community."

I left him to the care and feeding of Peabody and took my seat next to an older woman who began chatting me up.

When I asked where she lived, she responded, "Between the two saints, St. Christopher's and St. Michael's."

Leaning in conspiratorially, she said, "When I moved there, my friend said at least you're between two Episcopalians! Well, one of them is, I told her." And she laughed at her own irreverent humor.

Elizabeth O'Leary, former curator of American art at the VMFA and a resident of the Carillon neighborhood, spent the next hour talking about the fish-shaped area that began as a colonial frontier, became farmland during the antebellum period and eventually became a streetcar neighborhood before becoming an exemplary integrated one.

She showed the eagle-topped arches that face the Carillon at the entrance to the neighborhood and I realized I'd never seen them.

It was right about then that I decided that after the talk, I'd be taking my walk in this neighborhood she was explaining.

One thing I hadn't known was that the early conception for the neighborhood was much like that of Windsor Farms, to be an upscale, fashionable neighborhood and there were several houses like that built by the 1930s.

She talked a little about the Carillon itself, the monument to the WWI soldiers with 66 bronze bells and a war museum on the ground floor.

There was a fabulous picture of the opening of it in 1932, with dignitaries in chairs and the cadets of VMI and VA Tech marching from the State Capital to the Carillon for the ceremony.

One thing I hadn't known was that originally there was supposed to be a reflecting pool in front of it, hence the lowered grassy lawn which, she said, fills up with water during hurricanes, sort of a natural reflecting pool.

Then the Great Depression hit and mansion-building in the neighborhood came to a screeching halt, eventually replaced with post-WWII housing - 250 brick houses, many of them Cape Cods - for all those returning troops.

But teh reality was that the neighborhood, like the nearby park, was whites-only until the first black family moved in in 1967.

By 1968, it was 40% black and the Carillon civic association was created to, among other things, encourage further integration.

Their slogan was, "Since we're neighbors, let's be friends" and they worked tirelessly to get real estate agents to show houses for sale to blacks and whites and change the segregated way house sales were listed in the classified ads.

An early Carillon neighborhood booklet described the place as "Where people care, not just for their yards, but for others."

Governor Holton called the neighborhood "a model for racial integration," and considering it was the days of segregated Richmond, it's pretty impressive how neighbors banded together to affect positive change.

By the time she finished her talk, I couldn't wait to get over there and see this model neighborhood.

It was illuminating, especially considering I've been in Richmond since the '80s, as I walked the streets over there, seeing both grand and simple houses.

Not all blocks had sidewalks and even some that did had those very narrow ones that don't exactly encourage strolling, but the very mature trees had left cascades of soft, bright yellow leaves to plow through, a distinct autumn pleasure.

And I did see the diversity.

At one beautiful, big stone house, a woman was walking three maids to their car, thanking them for their hard work.

Behind a rancher no bigger than a single-wide trailer, I saw a clothes line and a truck up on cinder blocks.

Many streets dead-ended, ensuring a minimum of random traffic.

O'Leary had mentioned how the streetcars came down South Belmont to this neighborhood and I hadn't been able to visualize it, but coming across it on my walk, I was able to link it up to N. Belmont in my head finally.

It was every bit as charming as O'Leary had made it sound and, as one neighbor getting out of his car said to me, "Perfect day for a walk, isn't it?"

And the perfect place for it today, too.

I finished up with a couple of laps around Fountain lake as, no doubt, scores of Carillon residents have for years.

The lake was full of geese and ducks enjoying the sunny day, dunking themselves and being photographed by a visitor.

I passed one guy sitting on a bench with a small, silver transistor radio tied to the handlebars and turned on.

Honestly, I didn't know people even used those little transistor radios anymore.

Even better was an old black guy on a bench playing his guitar with a music stand set up in front of him as he played and sang.

It was the sheet music for Elvis' "Sweet, Sweet Spirit" and I stopped to listen on both my loops around, applauding after the second time.

He smiled and tipped his head at me, never missing a beat of the song.

For all I know, he's exactly the kind of friendly person who lives in the Carillon neighborhood.