Promise of Change

Sometimes the big questions rear their heads and the right answer isn't immediately obvious.

Or, it is perfectly clear, but no one's quite brave enough to deal with it yet, a situation better suited to a procrastinator than the efficient sort. For the record, I'm not a procrastinator.

Without hesitation, I did go to the second installment of Battery Park Stories to hear reminiscing from long-time residents about the neighborhood. One recalled his childhood in Battery Park as akin to "The Wizard of Oz" after Dorothy got to Oz and everything was technicolor. Apparently the birds were chirping and the sky was sunny every day in Battery Park in the '60s.

Another recalled how back in the '80s, he couldn't get a pizza, much less a sub, delivered to his house, a sorry fact that is no longer the case.

Connections were made. A man on the panel spotted a woman in the audience and said, "When did you grow up? I haven't seen you in 40 years!" It was kind of charming.

One woman told a fascinating tale of her siblings and their vastly different school experiences. The oldest two went from kindergarten to graduation with the same  bunch of neighborhood kids.

One of her sisters wound up being bussed, a circumstance that required her friend's grandfather to walk them across Brookland Park Parkway for safety. The woman on the panel had yet another experience. She'd been bussed to an integrated school where she found the shock to be not kids of another race, but kids of another (shocking!) neighborhood.

The most poignant moment came when discussing changes in the 'hood. One man said intellectually he loved the diversity, the additional businesses, the feeling of living in a TV show, but emotionally, he had to acknowledge that it was no longer the neighborhood where he spent his childhood.

He's still trying to adjust to the joggers and free libraries. "In ten years, will I even recognize it?" he mused aloud. "Will I be a minority in my own neighborhood, the place where I grew up?"

Another woman pointed to the post-Gaston period when neighbors pulled together and race was of no importance. She got choked up talking about it and people in the audience nodded their heads in agreement.

Everyone seemed to agree that we can all get along.

Rather than stay for the potluck, I moved on to dinner at Rancho T, which was so low key as to be almost dead tonight.

That said, we had a lovely meal of short rib pupasas, roasted beet salad, tacos (both rockfish and beef tongue) and chocolate ancho cake, with a bottle of Gruet Brut and the most fabulous '70s soundtrack of the likes of Chic, Earth, Wind & Fire and Jean Knight to accompany it.

I love how great music adds so much to the dining experience. Just as cool is that space, where I once spent so many nights watching bands when it was Sprout, and now still echoing with music I want to hear.

Leaving my date's wheels at Rancho T, we walked in the chilly night air to Balliceaux for music to finish out the evening. Luray was playing and all I'd ever heard live of them had been a few minutes as their set ended. Unacceptable.

Lots of familiar faces crowded the room, including Luray's bassist, just back from a mini-tour and singing the praises of the Philly audience, as respectful as a Listening Room setting, he said, while NYC's crowd had cut out after the opener. Their loss.

First up tonight was Andy C. Jenkins and the New Blood, the blood consisting of Cameron Ralston on bass, Pinson Chanselle on drums and Alan Parker on guitar (and, oh, that lap steel!), with Andy singing lead. Things got very earnest with a solid rhythm section behind and Alan producing terrific noodling or what my date referred to as "tasty licks."

For the next-to-last song, Andy invited local star Matt White to join him onstage for a song they co-wrote, a real treat for the crowd, especially those of us who'd missed his Friday show at the Broadberry.

And speaking of treats, finally seeing and hearing Luray's full set was rewarding on several levels because lead singer Shannon's voice was gorgeous and the trio behind her - Scott Burton's cinematic stylings on guitar, Brian Cruse's steady bass lines and CJ's interesting drums and percussion - took her banjo playing firmly into indie territory while her beautiful voice beckoned us along for the ride.

As a friend so succinctly put it, "Least BS I have heard from  a young band with a banjo in forever." We should know given all the young band banjo we've heard together over the past six years.

Practically every song started out sounding like the scene was being set for a movie, before seguing into a definitive shape, her appealing vocals weaving a sonic tapestry with the three talented musicians around her.

It took me far too long to see these guys and not because I'm a procrastinator. I do, however, think long and hard about the big questions.

I'm not getting any younger, you know?

Azaleas in Battery Park

Much as I like to talk, I also love to listen, trying to tease out more than someone intends to share.

That makes me think I'd have loved being part of the WPA's Federal Writer's Project back in the '30s gathering people's stories from all over the country. But it's 2015 and sometimes the best I can hope for is an afternoon spent listening to people reminisce.

"Battery Park Stories" promised an afternoon of long-time Battery Park residents sharing memories of a neighborhood I know far too little about, other than once attending a performance of "As You Like It" back in August 2010. First surprise: it's only a mile from my house, albeit across I-95.

I knew the couple who'd conceived of the project but didn't expect to know anyone else when in walked a familiar face, her husband and young daughter. "What are you doing here?" she asked, smiling. "Aren't you still in Jackson Ward?"

Well, yes, but fortunately, they weren't checking IDs at the door so maybe no one knew I was an interloper.

I'd already met another Karen at the door (we'd agreed you have to be of a certain age to be named Karen) as well as a woman named Laurie who overheard our discussion and joked that she'd never met another black Laurie in her life. "Just doesn't happen!" she'd laughed. Names do tell a story.

Once I found a seat, another Karen sat down next to me. What are the chances?

Assembled was a panel of five long-time residents with great memories who spent the next couple hours sharing stories and opinions (as cameras rolled) with the roomful of people who ranged from young families to decades-long residents. It was impressively diverse.

One mentioned how the neighborhood had been considered "new territory" for black folks back in the '40s and '50s (a home went for $9,000 in 1959) once white flight took hold. Another recalled people moving out because they moved in.

A shining example of how Richmond thinks of its neighborhoods was evident when one woman mentioned moving from the west end - she lived on Texas Avenue near Maymont - to northside. You can tell a Richmond old-timer when they refer to anything east of the downtown expressway as the west end.

The panel was unanimous abut Battery Park having been an ideal place to raise kids, a place where people were comfortable sitting on their porch after dark. "We had no reservations about the safety of the neighborhood," one said, explaining that it was a neighborhood of professionals who expected their children to go to college.

What was extraordinary to me was the casual way this panel referenced Richmonders who'd gone on to become names you see on buildings and streets, names such as Oliver Hill and Binford. One of the panelists was Lucille Brown, a name I knew only from the schools named after her.

Some of the stories were civil rights history lessons. A mother spoke of her children having to go to 7 different schools because the city kept redrawing school districts. Her son had to take a bus to downtown and then transfer to a bus that would take him to Thomas Jefferson High School.  Another said his father took him to school with explicit instructions to only drink out of the water fountain marked "colored."

Almost everyone agreed that it was Hurricane Isabel in 2003 and Tropical Storm Gaston in 2006 that really helped the revitalized neighborhood gel as people shared resources and had communal meals in the streets. We heard about the city's first black firefighter and how he wasn't allowed to go in first to fight fires in a white home.

Probably the most shocking tale came from a woman who had Oliver Hill for a neighbor. Her mother, whose bedroom was at the front of the house, had woken up one night to a blinding light in the window. It was during the Brown versus Board of Education case and the KKK was burning a cross on Hill's lawn.

The program concluded with the panelists expressing their hopes for Battery Park going forward. Several wished for the glory days of Brookland Park Boulevard - which once was home to a haberdashery, fancy grocery with a butcher on premises, movie theater, ice cream parlor and more- and North Avenue to return. "It was a nice shopping district," one said.

But the overriding consensus among the panelists was for Battery Park to again become the neighborhood it once was. "I want it to again be a neighborhood where we care for each other and care about each other."

Judging by the communal energy in the air this afternoon, I'd say they're well on their way. Even though I may live in Jackson Ward, I wouldn't have missed hearing those stories of Battery Park.

Thankfully, a wise couple is seeing that they're recorded to be shared with generations to come. This interloper was just lucky enough to get to listen to those who lived it.