The Death of Nostalgia

Every time I've visited St. Louis over the past two years, I've felt irresistibly drawn to revisit scenes from my youth.

I've gone back to the Science Center, to see the same animatronic dinosaurs that used to terrify me as a child repeat the same five-second loop of movement unto eternity. I've retraced the steps of my solitary walks in Malcolm Terrace Park, where I'd retreat to the woods during my high school days, lost in high-flung thoughts.

So as I was trying to find a place to exercise for the next few weeks, magnetic currents of memory predictably pulled me back to the Jewish Community Center in Creve Couer.

That's the place where my Grandpa Bernie would take me weekday afternoons in a noble but futile attempt to mold his pudgy grandson into something passably fit. We'd go swimming in the Olympic-sized pools, jog along the donut-shaped indoor track, and he'd watch as I romped over some of the center's padded gymnastics equipment.

He was a respected doctor around town, and he always seemed to run into ex-patients or synagogue comrades at "The J." He'd present me as a sort of personal mascot: "My grandson, Jeremy." And I'd bashfully nod before shaking the hand of Bernie's old friend.

In the end, my inherent laziness won out. I never became the spindly young athlete that my grandfather had been, before arthritis of the spine stiffened his entire figure from the waist up. But over those years, I developed a great fondness for the man, and the quirky old facility that he'd drag me to every week.

To this day, even 10 years after I stopped visiting, I could walk you through a detailed mental map of the J as it once was. But it wouldn't matter. That version of the Jewish Community Center is no more.

I discovered this unsettling truth yesterday, when I visited the J to rejoin as a member. Trying to walk in through the old main entrance, I found the former lobby refurbished beyond recognition. Fresh walls and new furniture had boxed in the space. A coating of displaced paint chips seemed to cover everything. "Under construction."

So I walked along the sidewalk, down a hill to the hulking new addition that had sprung up at some point during my decade-long absence. I had hoped to ignore the shiny expansion area (the "Staenberg Family Complex"), but it looked like I had no choice.

Once inside, I saw the new face of the J. Where there were once hospital-ward linoleum floors, there was now splashy carpeting to distract the eye. Claustrophobically low ceilings were replaced with a towering, two-story atrium. No more dust, no more creaky hinges. Everything slick, powerful, new.

As I filled out my membership paperwork, I described it to one of the J's staff members as feeling like Rip Van Winkle. The quaint old world that my grandfather and I knew had been swept away in the name of something terrifyingly modern and convenient.

A kindly young staffer named Anna led me on a tour, humoring my disbelief as she showed off the workout equipment and pool. The new building had come to life over the past two years, she said, paid for by an ongoing $40 million fundraising drive. The old campus, the seat of all my cherished childhood memories, will reemerge as a "cultural arts center" later this year to compliment the new athletics complex.

At least they aren't tearing it down.

For the last stop on our tour, Anna insisted that I check out the men's locker room. Inside there were wood-paneled lockers with electronic locks, personal hygiene stations that dispensed complimentary aftershave and a built-in sauna. There was also a sizable herd of hairy, half-naked old men lumbering about the room.

And would you believe it: that was a comforting sight for me. One thing about the J, at least, conformed to my old memories. Maybe one of those guys even knew Bernie from way back when.

So I exited the building on a gust of fresh confidence. Things change. Time to let go of the safety blanket of nostalgia. Time to get to work.