Moving to Virginia (the first time)

It may surprise some that I had lived in Virginia once before. I spent my first three years of school in Petersburg, Virginia. Between the third and fourth grade, I moved with my family to Wilmington, North Carolina, where I would live until I was 24. This memoir piece draws on my recollection of that first move. Most of these pictures I found last fall as my sister and I cleaned out my parent’s house.

The phone of the kitchen wall in the house on Doubs Chapel rang. Mom answered. She sounded excited. 

“We’re moving to Virginia,” she said with her hand over the mouthpiece. “Do you want to talk to your dad?“

It may have been my first long distant phone call. In my five years, I hadn’t met anyone outside the local calling district. I placed the receiver to my ear and asked Dad if Virginia was another country.

Dad had started a new job that summer. He spent six months in Baltimore, wherever that was, in training. He occasionally came home for a weekend. We picked him up at the train station in Southern Pines. When he returned, he took an overnight sleeper on Sunday evening, arriving back in Baltimore early on Monday morning. 

Once, when Mom wrote him a letter, which she often did, I decided to write one, too. The only words I knew how to write were the names of gas stations. We called them “filling stations,” back then. On a piece of paper, I wrote Esso, Shell, Sinclair, Gulf and Texaco. I even drew a dinosaur beside Sinclair. As the time to move got closer, Mom went up to Virginia with Dad and the three of us “youngins,” as we were called, stayed with my grandparents. I turned six then and my grandma threw a party for me and my older cousin Marie, who shared my birthday. Her dining room was cramped with cousins and friends from church.

We moved to Petersburg in late January 1963, just a week after my sixth birthday. I don’t remember much about the move, except for a long drive. Uncle Frank helped and all our stuff was loaded onto one of his farm trucks. I assume, since Dad had just started to work for the company for whom he’d work for the next 45 years, they didn’t provide expenses for the first move. When we’d move to Wilmington, North Carolina in 1966, we’d use professional movers.

It was after dark when we arrived at the rented cracker-box house on Montibello Street, overlooking toll booths along the Petersburg-Richmond Turnpike. A row of houses on the south side of the street, with our backyards dropping down to a small creek. Across the street was a chain-link fence which kept us from running out into all the traffic the moved between the Northeast and Southeast. Just south of town, I-85 and I-95 (although neither one was completed at this time) merged. If you headed north from New Orleans, Atlanta or Miami, you drove right by our house.

Being close to the freeway didn’t seem such a problem that January night as we moved in. But come spring, when we opened the windows, as there was no air conditioning, we heard a constant roar of trucks and cars. Those heading north braked for the toll booth while heading south accelerated as they continued their journeys into the night. That night, as we moved in, we heard the sound of music coming down the street. It was the ice cream man who also sold milk. We didn’t get any ice cream night, but would, in warmer months, look forward to his visits.

I have only snippets of memory about the house on Montibello Street. A gas floor heater in the hallway warmed the house. When heating, you could stand on the grate and watch the fire through a small window in the metal heater below. Shortly after moving in, it snowed. My sister placed her wet shoes on the heater and turned it up. When my mother discovered this, her shoes were well-done and curled. 

Out back, the yard slopped down and there, my father taught me how to ride a bike. He had installed training wheels on the bike and blocks of wood on the paddles so my feet could reach them. After I got to where I could keep it upright, he took the training wheels off and I’d ride it down the hill and then turn and try to make it back up but generally gave up and walked the steep hill back to the house.

My grandma gave me some seeds. Corn and peas if I remember correctly. That spring before I started school, I planted a small garden on the hillside. I was proud of the handful of peas that I harvested. I don’t remember if we got any corn.

Our next-door neighbors, to the west, were the O’Neils. Mom was always telling us to be quiet when we were outside and they were home. I didn’t understand. They seemed stuck-up as they never talked or waved. I assumed that was because they were Yankees from New York. I knew they had a boy a few years older than me, but I only saw him in the backyard once, laying in a lounge chair, sunning. Mom wouldn’t let us go out and meet him. 

Then, to my surprise, he died. We had to be especially quiet. Mom made pecan pies and took them over and afterwards they became good friends. About a year later, after we moved to Bishop Street, my brother and I was surprised to have a second Christmas several months after the holiday. There were all kinds of army stuff and an electric train in the living room one morning. The O’Neils had cleaned out his toys and given them to us. Years later, I learned he died of cancer.

On the other side of the O’Neil’s, at the last house on the street, lived a kid my age. His name was Robert and we became friends. His dad was in the Army and worked at Fort Lee. About the time school started, his family had a big party and Robert invited me, but my mother wouldn’t let me go because the adults were going to be drinking beer.

I should say something about church in Petersburg. Coming from Scottish Presbyterian stock, albeit over two hundred years since leaving the motherland, we first attended Second Presbyterian Church. Maybe we tried First Presbyterian, but I only remember the second one. There, in the sanctuary, someone took pleasure in showing us where a Yankee cannon ball crashed through the roof a mere 98 years earlier. The church had a big bell tower, but no steeple, the story being that the Yankees shot off the steeple during the Civil War. Afterwards, they rebuilt it only to be blown off by a tornado. They again rebuilt the steeple, but nine years earlier, in 1954, the winds of Hurricane Hazel once again removed it. I’ve always thought the church played by baseball rules and decided three strikes must mean God didn’t intend them to have a steeple. 

It surprised me in 2004, when I was in a meeting in Richmond and drove down for an afternoon to see the church had a steeple,. Looking up the church history, it appears they added the steeple in 1984. And the only part I remembered correctly of the steeple story was that Hazel blew one off. The first steeple fell during construction which was early in the Civil War, a few years before the siege of Petersburg.   

That September, I entered the first grade at Walnut Hill’s Elementary School. As there was a shortage of teachers and classrooms, so I was told, first graders only attended school half day. I pulled the morning shift and came home at lunch, passing by those going for the afternoon shift. Mostly, my parents took me to school and picked me up when it was time to come home. Once, I rode the city bus with Ellen. Mom had given me what she thought was the correct change, but I was a nickel short. I volunteered the nickel I had for milk, but the bus driver said I could pay him later. I never rode a bus again while we were in Petersburg. Well into adulthood I carried guilt with me for having cheated the bus company out of a nickel. I was in my 20s, when I told my mother about it and she assured me that she sent Ellen with the money I owed the next day. I’m not so sure, but it was a nice attempt to alleviate my guilt.

Once we moved to Bishop Street, we began attending St. Mark’s United Methodist Church. While my parents didn’t join, they did help out teaching Sunday School. The next church they joined was a Presbyterian one but that was after we moved. I assumed they knew we would not be longterm residents of Petersburg. The Methodist Church also had a Cub Scout program which I joined when I turned eight. I would earn my wolf and bear badges while being in a den where the den mother was a former Miss Virginia.

We and the O’Neils moved about the same time. The next summer, when I was between the first and second grade, Ellen invited me to go with her to the city pool. She introduced me as her “boyfriend,” which made me a pretty proud kid having a girlfriend twice my age.