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Stuart Revercomb

Stuart Revercomb is a marketing consultant and joyously married father of four children. He seems to remember someone once telling him he ought to be a writer. "The Unseen Here and Now" -- Thursdays.

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"Thursday's Fare"

My neighbor called me the other day. She needed to borrow something.

It was a chain saw.

Perhaps I was a bit chauvinistic in my response because I likely would not have questioned her husband as to what exactly HE needed it for, but because it was Tuesday afternoon and she's not exactly a Paul Bunyon-just-feel like-laying-some-timber-down-kind of gal, I inquired :

"What are you going to do with a chain saw, Arline?"

"Well ..." she said with the hint of a giggle. "It's these damn boxwoods." There was a pause and then her voice deepened with determination, "They've got to go." She said that last part with enough conviction that I knew those bushes were in some serious trouble.

"Boxwoods?" I asked. "You mean the tall, perfect, beautiful, stately, 78-year-old boxwoods that adorn so nicely the front of your perfect house."

"Oh, no! You're one of them!" she gasped, fearing that I, too, was going to cast her into the mental well reserved for such social outcast who would dare bring an unnatural demise to a "Buxwood."

"Just kidding," I said, trying to picture the boxwoods around their house. "Is something wrong with them -- disease or something -- or are they simply in the way?"

She waffled pretty heavily for a moment, speaking briefly of potential root damage to the foundation of her 80-year-old house, but then she came clean in a moment of exasperation: "They're just too big," she repeated herself, "They're just too big and they've got to go."

Not one to decide too quickly the pulling of a day-old volunteer daisy in the middle of the patio, she could sense my reservation when it came to being an accomplice in the spontaneous obliteration of 70 years of natural growth. I thought for a moment. There is something rather sacred about such a shrub and the boxwoods around her house did look kind of nice. "You SURE you want to chain saw those bushes, Arline?"

"What is the deal with boxwoods around here? she exclaimed. "It's like a religion or something!"

She was on to me.

"Do you have a chain saw or not?"

Lucky for those boxwoods, I didn't. "No," I said, not mentioning that I had a hand saw that would likely do the job. "Thanks anyways," she said. Those boxwoods were history and I knew it.

I was glad those big, beautiful overgrown bushes weren't in front of my house. I probably wouldn't be brave enough to whack 'em. What would all those Boxwoodians say? And what if I stepped back it looked WAY worse than before? Seventy-eight years gone -- whacked down in a moment by Stuart H. Revercomb -- guilty for all time. The open gap and scarred earth would leave no doubt. I was a Boxwood Killer.

My children would have few friends.

Arline and I enjoyed a good laugh over her "boxwood decision" and I knew we would probably enjoy the mirth of the moment for many years to come, but an age-old question had presented itself once again.

When does tradition become an overzealous lust for the past that gets in the way of beneficial and badly needed progress -- the sort of change that brings new and vibrant life in place of that which is old and staid?

And when are we cutting down the irreplaceable beauty and grace of our own history that offers so much more than mere function?

It's often a very hard call.

I've followed with great interest Roanoke City's recent parks proposal that involves the possible demolition of Victory Stadium: a 58-year-old, 26,000 seat outdoor stadium on the banks of the Roanoke River. The committee has recommended we take a chain saw to the stadium and replace it with a much smaller one because the old one is "dilapidated" and "there's no way we will ever need one as big as we presently have." In the coming weeks I hope all those involved will wrestle hard with the possibilities.

The stadium is made of concrete, mortar and brick each with a half life of about 250,000 years. What, pray tell, is so dilapidated? And why will it take an estimated $15 million to "fix it"? Are we just not as satisfied with what once passed as a pretty decent public sports facility? Wouldn't a couple of million for renovated rest rooms and locker rooms do the trick? What's the bid for all new seating? This is the kind of information that voters need to voice an informed opinion.

Why rip down the existing stadium to begin with? Heck, build the new one next door or on some other parcel in the valley. Then we've saved the million dollar-plus demolition costs, we've got our brand new smaller facility and we still have the larger beautiful old brick stadium to boot -- and we're able to fulfill roles we never could otherwise. Rupert Cutler suggested that the new stadium be built next to the Roanoke Civic Center to take advantage of existing parking -- perhaps at the present location of Magic City Ford. This is one of many ideas worth exploring.

If you dig into the archive and read last week's column you will see a section that highlights several "far-sighted comments" by leading public figures, one of which was made by Bill Gates, who in 1981 remarked that "640K ought to be enough for anybody." The statement by a committee member regarding stadium size would have fit right in.

"There's no way we will ever need one as big as we presently have," he said.

And 640K wouldn't hold a tenth of this web site. Who's to say what we'll need five to 15 years from now.

On April 19, 1998, the Dave Mathews Band kicked off their World Concert Tour at Victory Stadium. Some guy named Bruce Hornsby played a song or two as well. It was attended by more than 31,000 people and was highlighted in the media and among many of Roanoke's younger business leaders as the best, most progressive event of its kind in recent Roanoke history. The city estimated that its direct revenues from the concert were over $200,000 and a conservative estimate for local businesses would be in the $750,000 range. In addition an astounding $500,000 was raised for charities. That should speak reasonably well of the future potential of such a facility.

Sometimes honoring the past helps you face the future -- as in the case of Roanoke's old stadium.

Sometimes it gets in the way.

Good job, Arline. The yard looks great.