August 21, 2025

By Jamie Towey

“Thirty-six? Last year I had thirty-seven!!!”

For those who don’t have the Harry Potter movies memorized, that was Dudley Dursley on his birthday in Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. My family quoted that line a lot when I was a kid – we’d use it any time someone was, well, acting like Dudley – like a spoiled brat.

And so, let me preface my column by acknowledging that I may sound like a bit of a Dudley today. My grievance is by any standard a “First World Problem,” and you would be justified in rolling your eyes at it. But hear me out!

My question today is, if it ain’t broke, why fix it?

My maternal grandmother was married to a West Point grad, class of ’49, who went on to become a three-star general in the Army (I’ve written about him, and her, earlier). They lived a typical tumultuous Army life with moves all around the country, and indeed, the world. My aunt, uncles, and of course, mother, lived in Alaska, Alabama, Virginia, Ohio, and New York, with Grandpa’s combat tour in Vietnam to boot. Once Grandma and Grandpa finally put down roots in Virginia, they joined Langford Swim and Tennis Club, the local pool a couple streets over from their house in sleepy McLean, VA. (I’m using a pseudonym for the club, out of propriety’s sake). This was back in the 1980s. My mom taught tennis lessons there; Uncle Joe tells stories of how their summer days revolved around the pool.

This world was passed to all us grandchildren. Visits with Grandma in the summer meant trips to Langford, and family reunions reached their climax either on the tennis courts or the basketball court.

Langford is a simple, but beautiful place. The pool is nothing to write home about. The baby pool slices up your feet if you spend too long in it. There’s a blacktop basketball court that’s perpetually covered in acorns, a feature you won’t easily forget after hours of pickup while barefoot. The tennis courts are basic, but idyllic, nestled into the eaves of a sprawling wood that stretches all the way to the banks of the Potomac River. There’s no club house, just two open-air bathrooms with showers thrown in almost as an afterthought. There’s a ping-pong table, and the ice cream truck makes its rounds on weekends.

My wife, three boys, and I still go there occasionally. So do other family members. Is our attendance entirely above board? No one asks… All we do is say my grandmother’s name to a zombified high school kid glued to his phone at the front desk and walk in. The other day, I went to play tennis with a friend and the lifeguard simply waved us in from afar. No name, no problem. To be fair, Grandma’s been paying dues for decades, but I admit it – we are moochers, guilty as charged.

Alas, there is trouble in paradise. Change may be coming to Langford.

Why? Well, it’s definitely not “keep[ing] up with the neighbors” according to a statement posted by the club; instead, the pool’s board claims that the facility is “outdated” and lacks modern amenities. Apparently, the pool doesn’t meet Fairfax County code, but is grandfathered into compliance due to its founding date of 1957. This makes it unsafe. How? The board doesn’t say. They frame the possible project as a “binary choice- accept the pool as-is, or engage in a complete renovation all at once, at a cost of millions of dollars.” They proceed to aggressively make the case for digging up every square inch of the place to appease modernity.

Like I said… First World Problems.

But I see so much more than mere nostalgia in this inevitable destructi – remodeling – of Langford. I see banality. Gutting the old for the inferior new in America is blasé. We remake every classic movie series under the sun, we eschew the wisdom of older generations, we steamroll mom and pop shops for the convenience of Amazon and Walmart. Think your charming Northern Virginia colonial’s kitchen is a tad small, wish there was an open-concept finished basement? Easy fix! Knock the whole thing down and replace it with a vinyl monstrosity. (Please read this exceptional article on America’s “ugly houses” to spare yourself from a future Jamie’s Corner where I lament the architectural wasteland of modern suburban America). What’s happening at Langford is happening everywhere.

I wonder what will be torn down next.

Grandma, Grandpa, their kids, my siblings and cousins, my own kids… our memories will live on, but the physical location where those recollections kiss the tangible present, won’t. Change often is good; no one would deny that. But I think we all could benefit from trying contentment for a change, instead of keeping up with the Joneses, or grasping for bigger, better, more, more, more.

No one wants to be a Dudley.

(The views expressed herein are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of Aging with Dignity and/or its Board of Directors.)