I had a really cool experience the other day (4.18.10). On my drive back from Charlotte, I decided to stop just outside of Richmond to look for the house we lived in when I was born. We lived there until I was about 2 years old so my memories of the house were vague at best. I figured that I'd seen enough pictures from that era that I could identify it if things hadn't changed radically. I knew what street it was on and how to get there, so I detoured from the highway with hopes of getting a modern picture to chronicle for the kids.
I drove down the Hungary Road focusing on the homes to my right looking for something familiar to jog my memory. None of the houses looked distinctively familiar, but I got a certain "feel" from a couple of them situated next to each other. There was a white house with a carport on the right side of the front door and a bay window and flower bed to the left. Next door was a brick house (slightly larger) with the same bay window/flower bed set up as the other, but this one had another room to the right and the carport behind it. Also, there were 3 steps leading up to the front door. I thought to myself, "One of these is it, but which one?". At that point I called my mother. My sister Shelley answered the phone. I asked Shelley to ask mom what our address had been on Hungary Rd. "Oh Lord, I don't remember. It had a carport and steps leading up to the front door." After some further discussion, we came to the conclusion that the brick house was it. Mom said that the house we lived in was brick and had 3 steps, so we assumed that the carport had been turned into another room at some point. I then told her the address and she confirmed that that was the house. I bid Mom and Shelley adieu and grabbed my camera.
Now, I'm not in the habit of randomly photographing peoples homes. I wouldn't want to see some stranger standing in front of my house snapping photographs anymore than you would, and I'm quite sure that my reaction to such a thing would be less than cordial. Considering that many folks will protect their property by violent means and ask questions later, I decided to go to the door, explain my mission and ask permission. I thought for a second about quickly snapping some pics from the relatively incognito position of my drivers seat, or doing a quick jump out and then speed off, but in the words of Ice Cube, "Shotgun shells are bad for your health", so I decided not to chance it.
As I approached the front door, I took note of what great shape the home was in. I knew that it was at least as old as me and it was obvious that it had been meticulously maintained. Camera in hand, I rang the doorbell. A handsome, fatherly looking gentleman with furrowed brow answered the door. He had slightly weathered, ruddy but well lotioned honey almond skin. A salt & peppered balding head crowning a fit frame suggested that he had some age but was still quite active. His bushy mustache curled down just enough to accent a staged frown. One eyebrow cocked, he had the patented "Who are you/what do you want/don't start no **** or you'll regret it" look that all husbands/fathers conjure when confronting a broad shouldered stranger at their front door (in this case, that would be me). Undeterred, with the storm door separating us, I began to talk through it's glass...
Me: "Good afternoon sir. You don't know me and I realize that this is a little unorthodox, but my name is W.P. Russell Jr. and..."Him: (eyes widening, grinning, interrupting) "You used to live here! You're Flip!"Me: (stunned) " Why...yes!"Him: (shaking my hand vigorously) "Boy, I can see the resemblance to your father, Rev. Russell! I bought this house from him in '69 and he sure was a tough negotiator! Come on in!"
That began a trip down memory lane that was a heart warming revelation. The vaguest of memories came back as I viewed the front room and the opening to the kitchen. The wood paneling on the staircase wall leading to a downstairs room even looked familiar! Could it be the original I wondered?
He introduced himself as Mr. Stevenson. His recall for events impressed me. He went on to tell me that he was a married 23 years old when he went looking for his first house. He said that he had seen the house on the market for awhile, but didn't think he could afford it. He knew that at the time my father was was the pastor of The Westwood Baptist Church in Richmond and up for a new position at Virginia Union University. He said that he also new that he had received an offer to be the asst. to the VP of the American Can Company in New York, making it necessary to sell the house a little more quickly. "Thinking I had some wiggle room now, that's when I made my offer but your father and I couldn't see eye to eye on price." he said. "Rev. Russell wanted a certain amount of money down, and I just didn't have it." He said that over the course of negotiations he learned that my mother didn't want to move in the first place. "She was all settled and acclimated to the house and didn't want to go anywhere. I remember the last words she said to me exactly. 'Mr. Stevenson' she said, 'the New York snow will not settle on me, sir.' "
Mr. Stevenson told me that the house still bore mark of the youngest Russell to live there. "You know what? There are still crayon marks in the upstairs attic that YOU put there son! Since we use it as storage space we never saw a need to erase them. They're purple." He went on to ask about my mother and sisters. I updated him and he told me to tell them that he said hello. I told him about Andrea, Ariel and Philip. He introduced me to his wife, who was in her house clothes and none to please that he had let me in, but cordial. He said that he would show me around but that his wife would kill him if he did so in it's current state, though from where I stood everything with pristine and glove check clean. He invited me to come back another time and he would give me a tour. "Bring your family with you the next time so I can meet them" he said. During conversation I learned that one of his sons lives about 15 miles from me and that his sister lives one street down from my high school in Upper Marlboro, 2 miles from my mother. Isn't it amazing how in many cases we orbit around each other for years, not knowing that we have common links? 6 degrees of separation has validity to it folks.
Feeling a sense of the surreal, I prepared myself to continue on home. I took a few pictures of the house and just stood there for a moment drinking in this monument of my very early nurturing. The first house I'd even known! Just thinking about what a blessing it was to have encountered the people who bought the house after all these years, and to hear the story from the source was overwhelming and humbling.
I thanked The Stevenson's for their openness and the invitation for the future. As I began to leave, Mr. Stevenson shared one last story...
"The last time I saw your father was at an Alumni function at Virginia State University. I had graduated in '66 and was very active as an alumnus. He was the newly elected president at the time and was being introduced to some of the alumni by another college official. Since it had only been a couple of years I thought about the last words I'd heard your mother say, and she was right. There you all were, back in Virginia. My back was to them when they came over to me, so your father couldn't see my face and I didn't know they were behind me. I heard someone say 'President Russell, I want to introduce you to someone...' and I felt a hand on my shoulder. When I turned around, your father looked me dead in the face, smirked, turned around and said to the official, 'This negro robbed me!'. We all had a good laugh as he told the story....smiling."
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