It’s taken me over three and a half months to sit down and write a thank you letter to Richmond, a city that has given so much to my family and to me.
Even though I’m a New Yorker through and through, Richmond was a place that, for 19 years, served as both a weekend getaway when I lived in Washington, DC, and New York City, and then a COVID-19 escape for close to two years. It was also the place where the genesis of We Took the Risk took place, with countless hours spent over Zoom and Teams in calls with the original “OGs” of the US renewable energy industry. I still remember it like it was yesterday – up there in the third-floor office of my townhouse, at a desk placed by a window with a Tiffany’s lamp next to me, typing away all I heard – every word laid out with the precision of a colonial Virginian brick walkway, intentional and filled with gratitude.
Virginia, to my parents, was more than a place of retirement – it was a true home. From neighbors like the Godbey’s and Nina Nolley, to the McCarty’s and the Church Community at St. Bridget’s, where my Dad ushered for several years, Richmond was a true home for my folks, who had labored for so many years to bring up my sisters and me the best way they could. Upon landing in Richmond, also known as “RVA” to locals, my mom began volunteering as a seamstress at the Little Sisters of the Poor Retirement Home, where she helped sew and mend clothing and bed sheets for elderly residents. She would come home filled with joy from helping others, all the while enjoying the RVA gossip and stories that other volunteers would share. She’d also come home with a chocolate croissant or two that local bakeries would donate to the retirement home and to the volunteers working there.
They became parishioners at St. Bridget’s Catholic Church. They were able to integrate into the community there, meeting amazing people – most notably the McCartys – along with the Praughts and John & Sue Van Tassel. For my Dad, who was in his 70s, and my mom, entering her 60s, RVA welcomed them with open arms – something that I’m thankful for to this day.
So, pausing for a second, you may ask, why RVA?
Welcome to RVA
We had family friends named the Kovars, with whom we’d share our Thanksgivings and Easters for decades. My mom and Mr. Kovar knew each other from when she fled Czechoslovakia to neighboring Austria, settling in Vienna, where Mr. Kovar and his family had escaped to and settled several years prior. After moving a few times globally, Mr. Kovar and his wife, along with their two kids, settled in Richmond, VA, where his baking manufacturing facility was located. We spent several years visiting them in RVA, and vice versa; they would come up to visit us at our family house in Goshen, NY. It was during those years that the family friendship grew stronger and that “Streda Honza” and “Teta Lidka” became a true Uncle and Aunt to me. When my parents were looking to relocate to a warmer climate with low taxes, all four seasons, and family nearby, the decision to move to RVA was a no-brainer.
At that time, my sister Barbara and I were living in Washington, DC. I was working at the American Council On Renewable Energy (ACORE) and she was working as a speech pathologist at a retirement home up by the Van Ness area in upper Columbia Heights. We didn’t have a car back then, so once the folks moved down to RVA, a very kind friend of the Kovars, Ms. Todor, who had been studying for her law degree in Northern VA, offered to drive us on the weekends to see the folks. This started a weekend ritual that made RVA feel like a real home.
Over the years, as Barbara moved to Florida and then to Pennsylvania and I moved to New York City and then to Houston, Richmond was a place where I could come “home” – knowing the streets by heart, coming to garden on the weekends and poke my head into Nina’s garden next door to say hello, and to catch up with the Godbey’s next door. Towards the later years, I’d come home from NYC or Houston and find Mr. McCarty or Streda Honza visiting the house to help the folks out with some chores. They were (and are) both saints for all they did. I cannot tell you how thankful we are to both Streda Honza and Mr. McCarty for their hours of help. At times, I’d feel helpless being hundreds of miles away and not able to help my parents, but knowing they were both there gave me ease and a sense that Mom and Dad would be OK.
It was challenging when I had to decide in 2021 to move away from my parents after accepting my job at EDP Renewables in Houston. Having left NYC amidst the COVID-19 pandemic and Rubicon in 2020, the 1.5 years I spent in Richmond were destined to happen. During my “downtime” down there, I took on a contract with SunTribe, a local distributed generation (DG) developer. During that short time, which, like the rest of us, felt like eternity, I had the opportunity to meet amazing people in Charlottesville who impacted my career and life. I also received the gift of taking care of my family, who were sheltering during that time due to my Dad’s health issues. I got to meet friends like Andrea Parisi, Jerry Miller, Robert Kelly, Wade & Derrick Williams-Diggs, catch up with fellow Hoyas, including Amanda McGuire as well as prior Washingtonians like John Reid & Alonzo Mable, and dive into (and be welcomed by!) the fitness cult community we all loved at Orangetheory – Short Pump.
As mentioned, it was also during those years that I wrote my book – an opportunity – and truly a gift! – to pause on my career, looking back at cherished memories – and get on the “phone” to say “thank you” to so many mentors and others who left an impact on me. During those dark times of uncertainty and isolation, I found a way to express my gratitude to those whom I never knew if I’d see again in person or cross paths with again. As we know, some people stay with you alongside your entire life, while others come into your life – not by fate – to enrich it, provide invaluable lessons, and guide you to the best person you can be.
Right after COVID ended, my Dad started to exhibit dementia. It first began with forgetting what happened a few weeks back. Then it advanced to slowing down in cognitive abilities, physical disability, and finally, forgetting that he had ever lived in Richmond. After pleading with my Mom for over three years, she finally listened to my sisters and me, and decided it was time to make the move to Western New York to be closer to both my sisters.
The Move
The move was very tough, both emotionally and physically. I flew up on August 1st to spend a week alongside my brother-in-law, Ryan, and my sister, Barbara, along with their kids, to sort through things, pack my folks’ belongings in a pod, and sell items that wouldn’t fit in the new bungalow in New York. Meanwhile, my sister Helen and her husband, Andy, prepared the way for my folks to stay with them while the bungalow was made ready, dealing with all the insurance and utility paperwork that comes with a move.
That week brought a rush of memories. Looking back, I remembered the times my Dad and I had in his 70s, building a two-car garage and the guest suite upstairs. My Dad was truly incredible – not only did he design the garage, but he also built the majority of it, utilizing an Egyptian “A-frame” structure to hoist a couple of hundred-pound beams into place, among other things. It was the second place I ever learned to put down flooring, and the first place I had learned how to put down tile. The garden, which my mom and I tended to, was designed by me 19 years ago. We loved that garden, giving it attention, mulching it for hours in the Spring, and raking colorful leaves every Fall.
The hardest part of leaving that house was that garden, where I spent countless hours planting generations of hydrangeas and getting nourishment for my soul at the same time. About five years back, the last “project” I did was to plant a “Brown Turkey” fig tree. It had grown like a monster the last few years, and ironically, started to produce a harvest only two years ago. It was those figs that I’ll remember eating with my nephews and niece before departing for the airport one last time and saying goodbye to that house. I’ll also very much miss my trips “around the corner” to a local nursery named “Strange’s” whose team I got to know as friends and where I derived a lot of my gardening inspiration and “know-how” from.
Home is Where the Heart Is
Houses are material, and home is where the heart is with family. However, that home, along with Richmond, played such a pivotal part in my and my parents’ lives. My parents’ move from the house also marked the realization that time is short with my Dad, a reminder that every day we have in life is a gift, and we don’t know what is ahead of us. This realization of mortality is both sobering and sad, but I’m trying hard to find the beauty in this stage of life with my Dad. As one chapter closes, another one is yet to be written.
In those last days of packing up the house in RVA, so many people helped. I would be remiss in not saying “thank you” to the Ralph & Kathy McCarty, Honza and Lidka Kovar, Tim & Carolyn Godbey, Nina Nowley, the community of St. Bridget, and the volunteers at the Little Sisters of the Poor. From bringing food to mowing the grass to fixing odds and ends around the house, it truly took a village to help my folks move.
Final Thoughts
It’s taken me all these months to sit down and write all these words without emotions taking over, alongside bouts of sadness over all that we left behind with this move. I didn’t get the time to say goodbye to so many friends in Richmond, but as I told Tim & Carolyn before I headed to the airport, “it’s not goodbye, but till next time.” I hope to return to RVA this Spring to say goodbye properly and to deliver this “Thank you letter to Richmond” in person.
Thank you for taking a moment to join me in remembering these memories.
Richmond, thank you for being like an old friend. Till next time.
