1800 Asbury Ave – Evanston, IL.
Before I ever knew the word “preservation,”
I knew how it felt to love a house.
To love a neighborhood.
To love a way of life shaped by streets, seasons, and sidewalks.
I grew up in Evanston, Illinois, where winter blanketed the world in white silence.
I’d sit on the radiator cover in my bedroom watching snow pile up in the branches.
When a branch could no longer hold the weight, the snow would drop in a hush, leaving a perfect hole in the drift below.
The streetlight on the corner of Asbury Avenue would flicker on, casting a golden glow as the sidewalks disappeared under snowfall.
The world slowed.
And I watched it from a place that felt safe, warm, and full of wonder.
I walked to and from Dewey School, just a few blocks from home.
I always came home for lunch.
The tall elm trees arched above the sidewalk, forming a living canopy that shaded my steps.
Even then, I noticed them.
I rode my bike freely, without worry.
To the library.
To the five-and-dime, where the wooden floors creaked and the smell of popcorn filled the air.
That store was a world of treasures.
You could find everything from barrettes to 25 cent small books.
My mother never learned to drive.
She and I walked everywhere.
To the grocer.
To the corner bakery, where a chocolate éclair is still a favorite desert. They don’t make them like they did.
When my mother took me to the Chicago Ballet or the Symphony we rode The El. I remember pressing against her curly lamb’s fur coat on the ride home, safe and drowsy.
I remember my camel polo coat, my black watch Viyella robe, my saddle shoes.
I even remember our phone number: GR-5-4672.
It all lives inside me still.
Now, as I write Mainstreetrockymount.com—about preservation, restoration, and repurposing, I understand something I didn’t back then:
those early experiences were already shaping who I have become.
The architecture I passed each day in Evanston was more than scenery.
It was a living backdrop for the rhythm of childhood.
It formed my sense of place, permanence, and beauty.
And though Rocky Mount is not where I grew up, I write with a full heart, because I know how memories live in buildings.
I know how a street can shape a child.
And I believe, deeply, that the homes and storefronts we preserve today are the memory holders for someone else’s tomorrow.
We don’t realize what shaped us until much later.
A tree-lined street. A mother’s coat. The creak of a wooden floor in a store that smelled of popcorn.
These things linger—not just in memory, but in who we become.
Preservation asks us to remember,
not just what things looked like,
but what they felt like
when life was just beginning to leave its mark.
Main Street Rocky Mount 
I was born and raised in Rocky Mount, but have not lived there since 1969. I’ve lived in Florida since 1977, but still feel like Rocky Mount is home. I visit when I can and enjoy seeing the renovations even when I miss what used to be. The only thing that stays the same is change. I hope the city continues to preserve what it can and develop in a safe and sustainable manner.
Olivia (Pitt) Gallagher
LikeLike
Stepheny, your words touch my heart. Glad to have you in my life!
LikeLike
As a writer, one of the things I am to do is give a language (words) for others experiences. Sounds like I did my job this time, which will make me smile all day. Thanks for leaving this sweet note. PS: You remain Anonymous to me and I always try to guess who you are!
LikeLike
Nicely done! And one of my favorite desserts is also a chocolate éclair😊
DA-8-1143
LikeLike
The ONLY two phone numbers I remember are mine and yours. All the memories of being at the Michigan Avenue house, your Mom and Dad, and of course, Bob. Let’s find the perfect eclair the next time I visit. Love you, dear fellow, your favorite sister-in-law SFH
LikeLike