Illustration by Victoria Borges
My first home that was all mine and mine alone was an apartment in a building formerly known as the Lexington Tower, on Franklin Street across from The Jefferson Hotel. I was 23 when I moved in.
I can still remember the feeling I had when the rental agent showed me the apartment. Number 1508. Facing east, there was an expansive view of downtown Richmond. It had parquet floors and a black-and-white tiled bathroom. Even the description appealed to me: junior executive suite. That was a fancy term for not really having a bedroom, but rather a “bedroom area” separated from the living area by a heavy, folding plastic “wall.” There was a sun deck and a pool on the roof. And a restaurant on the top floor. I loved it. And it was mine.
When some people move from their parents’ house, they leave behind their childhood bedroom and other remnants of their growing-up years. They still go “home” to see Mom and Dad. When I moved, I moved lock, stock and barrel. My new home was just that — home.
Having my own home helped me make good choices. I opted to park in the back lot as opposed to the underground deck because my rent was $295 a month and that extra $25 for covered parking seemed like an extravagance. I got a lifetime membership to the Video Fan because it was a much better deal than paying year by year. I bought toilet paper in bulk because it made economic sense, even though storage in my apartment was scarce and it would take one person a long time to use all of that toilet paper.
Who knew I could be so mature at 23?
Having my own home also meant responsibility. I was the one who had to pay the bills. On time. I was the one who had to make sure my car got inspected. On time. I was the one who had to get myself to work every day. On time.
Who knew I could be so scared at 23?
And having my own home gave me independence. Because I answered to no one but myself, I could eat popcorn for dinner if that’s what I had a taste for. I could stay out as late as I wanted to. I could arrange and rearrange my furniture as the mood struck.
Who knew I could be so happy at 23?
Since my days at Lexington Tower, I have lived in two more apartments and three houses. Each has been special in its own way, and each has made its mark on my life during the time I called it home. My apartment in Virginia Beach marked leaving behind the familiar of Richmond and branching out both personally and professionally. The house my husband and I bought in Lynchburg marked the start of our happy life as a couple. And our current house, 100 years old, is where we, too, will grow old. Together.
As I look around my home now, I appreciate all that I have gained over the years: a lot more square footage, a washer and dryer that don’t require quarters to operate, and photos and other tangible reminders of a life happily lived.
But to get here, I had to start there — that small apartment in Lexington Tower that I think of as the first defining home for me in a large way. All these years later it still has a draw on my heart. Nostalgia? Sure. But also knowing that it was the period in my life that set me on my path toward adulthood. And in many ways, that small space played a large role in defining the person I am today.
In defining home, home defined me. Thank you, No. 1508.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Liz Bryant is an essayist who writes about her observations on the good, bad, happy, sad, and in-between moments of life. She is director of development at the Visual Arts Center and has both a bachelor’s and a master’s degree in mass communications from Virginia Commonwealth University.
