And The Loss of A Way Of Life That Followed

The air feels colder now. Now that the Michaels rest in peace. Cary Street is a mere shadow of the wondrous place it used to be. Then—before—everything was bright, everything was happy. Cary Street offered a sense of belonging and happiness. The Saturday shopper—he’s worked all week in a high-rise downtown and, needed to get away from the humdrum of everyday life—walked down the graying grungy sidewalks, in and out of each shop with a smile on his face. The street vendors would flag him down and ask if he wanted to buy a shirt or a poster, likely with Bob Marley on it—and if he was fresh out of cash, there was always the ATM in the 7-Eleven between Belmont and Auburn. He’d smile and walk into River City Wines or Penzey’s Spices, something a little more “his class.” The hippie, long hair and thrift store clothes, would rush to PLAN 9 when they had their sidewalk record sales—just to make sure she was there in time to snag the last original Dylan record she didn’t already have—or to Mongrel when they got a fresh batch of tie-dyed attire homemade by the owner, Brad. Beads and Bangles would make custom dog collars for Dogma’s bi-annual “Families and Friends” pet adoption. If the Saturday shopper were bad at parallel parking, he’d pray that there would be a space in Cary Court since that’s the only place where there were normal parking spaces. Mr. Farouk would stand outside his restaurant and say hello and ask “You want to try my curry? Come in and try my curry!” and sometimes he’d even have samples. After the movie—perhaps it was Some Like It Hot or Breakfast at Tiffany’s—let out at the Byrd, people would walk across the street and stand in line out the door at Bev’s—she had the best ice cream in all of Richmond. If someone was a “first-timer” the first place anyone would take them was to For The Love Of Chocolate—just walking in was a heavenly experience, not to mention the chocolate itself was to die for. The favorite of the shops was World of Mirth—not your average toy store, but one of near epic proportions, containing everything from Halloween costumes to Giant Doll houses; from every variety of funky sunglasses to large electronic robots. It was fun for the family, an escape for the Saturday shopper, a haven for the hippie. It was owned and operated by the Michaels, who knew everyone. Who knew… everyone.

The Watermelon festival was the most important part of everyone’s summer. Vendors would pull clothes and shoes and books and toys outside and set up shop. The Saturday shopper’s favorite stand was the used books stand—and the hippie, her favorite was the “make-your-own” tie-dye tent. The family might visit the sand art or the basket making booths. Hairdressers would cut hair in the open air, while someone else was getting the free ten-minute massage offered by Spa L’Amor. The Byrd had movie showings every two hours—mostly kids’ movies. Restaurants would sell concessions on the street—the Galaxy offering homemade moonpies; Can-Can serving a large variety of crepes; Bev with her ice cream; and of course, there was watermelon—everywhere. It became an open-air market and everyone became part of something larger than themselves. Everyone’s favorite part of the day was around nine o’clock. People would gather in Cary Court for the famous Michael’s Fireworks Extravaganza—the best fireworks show around. People oohed and ahhed, and everyone was one with the crowd. The hippie was one with the Saturday shopper—a greater soul.

Now—now, there are no street vendors selling earrings that are too large for anyone. The 7-Eleven is run down—and not somewhere that someone would want to go alone. The hippie and her friends have shifted their Mecca to Shokoe Bottom. The Saturday shopper goes to Short Pump with other yuppies and there are always free parking spaces in Cary Court. The Byrd theatre officially closed last month—no more old movies on a Saturday night. And there is no watermelon festival. No shop owners telling passersby not to walk too closely with their watermelon, no restaurants showing off their exotic and tasty delights, coming together of the masses, and there are no fireworks. Cary Street is now just a street like any other street in Richmond—one that is simply passed by to get to another place. The sidewalks are still grey and grungy and there are still a few shops that stay open out of hope—most have moved elsewhere, out of economic necessity, to somewhere like Shokoe Bottom or Stony Point. It seems dark and bare, even during the day. Almost like a ghost town. Occasionally, one lone soul—to whom Cary Street meant more that shops and restaurants—will walk down the street in hopes that a glimmer of what the street used to be, what it used to represent will magically appear and time will forget itself. Everything will be as it was. PLAN 9 will have their annual poster sale and the street vendors will have to compete for the first time all year. Penzey’s will have their annual chili cook-off. People will gather around the corner on Saturday nights for the Wurlitzer concert at the Byrd—while Bev hands out free samples of Ice Cream. And there will be fireworks on a hot night that brings people together in one heart to celebrate the summer. Perhaps one day—but for now, the lone soul will continue her walk in the cold air, in the sadness of lives lost in a great tragedy, and the loss of a way of life that followed.