Dear Diary

It would have been so easy just to stay inside the whole day and grumble about the arctic vortex freezing us out.

But where's the fun in that?

Instead I invited a fellow film-lover to meet me at VMFA for "Mary Shelley's Frankenstein," a 1994 horror film I'd never seen.

Not being any more of a fan of the genre now than I was then, I went because of the literary reference, assuming that the author's name in the title ensured a somewhat more faithful rather than Hollywood-esque adaptation.

The museum educator who introduced the film (and had a Frankenstein finger puppet on) dispelled that notion right off the bat.

"This is really "Kenneth Branagh's Frankenstein," she warned us. I presumed since he was directing that that meant it was his take on the classic tale, but no, she meant he was in practically every scene, more often than not with his shirt off.

Don't get me wrong, I'm a Branagh fan at least when it comes to his Shakespearean roles, but during a lot of this movie he looked like '90s-era Bono, swaggering around full of testosterone and righteousness.

Then there was De Niro as the creature, not a bad choice since if anyone could pull off the role of a reanimated man sewn from parts, he could.

Except when he's talking to very British Dr. Frankenstein and his New York-ese dogs every word he says.

If the creature could read and talk and play a musical instrument because of the bodies from which he was created, It's tough to see where he got his accent, seeing as how they all came from that side of the pond.

But I quibble.

The movie was an interesting adaptation in that it tried to incorporate every film version since Edison's, along with some fidelity to Shelley's book, making for a jam-packed two hours.

I have to say, it was far gorier than I expected and even the man sitting next to me winced and put his hands over his eyes a few times when things got graphic.

Me, I just close my eyes when things get unpleasant.

After the film, I came home to do some clean-up work on a writing assignment before getting cleaned up myself to go engage in some community conversation.

The Valentine Richmond History Center (you know, the ones with 1.6 million objects pertaining to the city's history) was hosting the conversation at Arcadia and by the time I got there, they were just about full.

I managed to secure a seat in the back row next to a favorite film geek and beside a former teacher who lives in Church Hill, right in front of a window that faced Main Street Station.

The evening began with the Valentine's Bill Martin saying that 50 or 100 years from now, the only record we'll have of what people thought about this time we're living in will be publications because no one writes diaries or letters anymore.

I beg to differ. A blog is as good as a diary to future generations and I, for one, have been faithfully writing in mine for over five years now. And it's not even locked or hidden away.

But it's not about me.

According to Bill, it was about the roomful of 60-some people (30-some had been turned away because the room was full) having a conversation about the future of Shockoe Slip without any politicians or others with agendas in the room.

Our first assignment was to tell a stranger about our earliest memory of Shockoe Bottom. Ginny, the former teacher on my left, heard mine.

I'd only been in Richmond a year or so when someone recommended a club they thought I'd like called Bird in Hand, down in the Bottom.

I went with friends, the music was great, I danced and talked to people, but when I mentioned the place to some neighbors afterwards they were appalled.

Don't go down there, they warned. That's a dangerous place. No one goes to the Bottom.

Pshaw.

Ginny's first memory was of shopping with her parents at the farmer's market. Every week.

After the room buzzed with so many strangers talking at once, we were told that the decibel level had reached 98 - equivalent to a motorcycle or subway. There was a lot of positive energy in the room.

Then we reconvened the group and heard from people we hadn't talked to.

James, on the other side of me, recalled the particular pleasures of Main Street Grill and its wildly different day and night crowds. A woman remembered a fish market on the canal. Harry recalled his parents bringing him in from the county to see the aftereffects of Hurricane Agnes. Someone mentioned a boat restaurant with the best fried oysters.

One woman spoke of her great-grandfather, a Buffalo soldier who helped free slaves from Lumpkin's Jail.

It was fascinating hearing the memories of others.

Then Bill showed us photographs from the Valentine's collection, beginning with an 1855 image (the oldest one they have) looking across the Bottom up to the State Capital.

There was surprise at how dense the area was populated then.

We saw photos of the Exchange and Ballard Hotels where the rich slave traders stayed. One of Main Street in 1866, completely flooded.

When he showed one of the City Jail, a man in the front row shared that it was standard practice to paint the first floor of jails white so that it'd be easier to spot escapees against it.

A 1950s photo showed construction beginning on I-95, cutting an ugly swath between MCV and the Bottom.

Keypads were distributed and we answered questions on them to determine the demographics of the room, so different than the demographics of the city.

The only shared quality was a higher percentage of women in attendance.

We went back to small groups to discuss our current perceptions of the Bottom versus our hope for what we'd like it to be and more high decibel conversation ensued.

Then we had our experts talk, each for ten minutes.

Anna, part of the group espousing an alternative to the ballpark plan for Shockoe Bottom, explained her hopes of encouraging walkability and density for an area where "every step represents a history of some kind."

Jack, representing the mayor who was on southside pitching his ballpark idea, laid out the mayor's plan to incorporate a ballpark, a Hyatt, a Kroger, a glass-facade on the shed of Main Street station and two apartment buildings.

Lest it sound like he was ignoring the slave trade history of the area, he showed drawings for Lumpkin's Pavilion, a contemporary, glass museum situated over an archaeological dig.

Not surprisingly, when he finished a dozen hands shot in the air to comment or question his presentation.

But as one savvy attendee pointed out, we weren't there to crucify the messenger. The point of tonight's gathering was to share thoughts about the history and future of Shockoe Bottom with other people who care about that area and our city.

To meet other people willing to come out on a 17-degree night to hear about history and talk about how to make things happen.

To have a community conversation at 98 db.