When I was little, my grandmother, Pete, and I headed downtown from our home in Malvern Gardens to go shopping: school shoes or Easter bonnets. A dress to wear in my class picture. White Shoulders perfume for her. I carried a black patent leather purse that matched my shoes.
We rode the East/West bus line that connected the near West End to Richmond’s downtown. The bus driver received us like guests, and our nickels and dimes jingled when we fed them to the meter. He smiled, made eye contact, patted me on the head, and said to Pete, “Is this your grandbaby?”
The houses grew closer together as we plunged deeper into the city, and I watched the bus’ reflection in their windows. At just the right moment between stops, Pete gave me a nod, a secret signal between the two of us that it was time for me to jump on my knees, reach up, and pull the cord that rang the bell. We wanted to be sure the driver stopped for us between Richmond’s two department stores, Thalhimers and Miller & Rhoads.
I would have been pleased enough to ride the escalators up and down those cavernous first floors, but instead, I skipped around the toy departments. The same sales ladies wearing cat eye glasses hanging from decorative chains helped us from year to year.
Before getting back on the bus to head home, we visited the Miller & Rhoads Tea Room, where glamorous ladies with tags dangling from their sleeves strutted like peacocks from table to table as they told us which departments carried their outfits. And Christmas? Pure magic in Santaland, with St. Nick on his giant red throne and his beautiful Snow Queen nearby. Although the centralized downtown glamour of 1960s Richmond has faded, my memories endure.
Over the ensuing decades, as anyone who enjoys Christmas Eve more than Christmas Day will tell you, I’ve come to realize that the best memories happen when you can wrangle yourself into the present moment and enjoy a high state of anticipation.
When my daughters were little, most Thanksgivings we visited Richmond from our home in South Carolina. One year, I got up after midnight and went into my parents’ backyard to see if I could catch the Leonid meteor shower. I immediately saw three shooting stars and woke the family. We grabbed blankets and lawn chairs, and in sleepy excitement drove away from the city and found a viewing spot on a church lawn far from the city’s glow.
We sprawled on our backs watching our breath curl in the cold night air in silent, fully awake expectation. In that next hour, we saw hundreds of shooting stars. I felt tingly and glad, small but significant. By the time a fog rolled in, and we drove back to my parents’ house, I felt as if everything made sense—for a few minutes, anyway.
In most recent history, my husband and I moved to Nelson County, far from any city lights, to a place with big skies and sublime Blue Ridge views. We’ve embraced the clichés of this stage of life with our bird-watching, mountain identification, and astronomy apps. Throughout both day and night for the first few months of living here, we called to one another, “You’ve got to come look at this!” That’s the energy I want to hold onto.
These days, there will always be a news alert or a text attempting to throw us off balance. Now more than ever, try relearning how to be a child on the bus, looking out the window, and hearing the coins jingle .… finding the extraordinary in the familiar and simple. Pursue perfect moments, and take anyone you love along for the ride. Search for places real, or maybe just in hearts and minds, where feelings can be stirred, and we can still be taken in by wonder.
Featured illustration by Lennart Andresen. This article originally appeared in the December 2025 issue.
