Winchester Tales

04/02/2025

Michael Brannon took this picture of Val Kilmer in downtown Wi******er at the Apple Blossom Festival of 2010. Val Kilmer died yesterday, he was only 65 years old. He was a part of our town’s history…for a brief moment in time. In his memoirs, he reflected on his life and wrote:

“I have behaved poorly. I have behaved bravely. I have behaved bizarrely to some. I deny none of this and have no regrets because I have lost and found parts of myself that I never knew existed.”

Fly high Iceman….

03/31/2025

Back in the day, this location was the Valley Newstand - next to old Coalie Harry’s…where you could get Bangers & Mash….seems history is repeating itself with The Cider House new menu…Bangers & Mash is back!

Our new menu launches today! We hope you're as excited to try our new dishes as we are to see you!

03/31/2025

If you take a drive about nine miles out Middle Road, you’ll find yourself approaching the bridge over Cedar Creek. Just before you cross, if you glance to your right, you’ll see the remnants of what was once the beating heart of industry in this corner of Frederick County—the Marlboro Iron Works. It was here, around 1763, that Isaac Zane built his iron empire, a formidable operation that thrived until 1795. But beyond its industrious past, this place holds a singular distinction: it is the only known location in Frederick County to have been visited by none other than Thomas Jefferson.

Jefferson and Zane, both men of ingenuity and invention, had formed a friendship in Richmond, drawn together by their shared fascination with science and engineering. While the exact details of Jefferson’s visit to Marlboro remain elusive, a letter he penned to Zane on November 8, 1783, offers a tantalizing glimpse into their collaboration.

Writing from Philadelphia, Jefferson informed Zane of a special thermometer he had acquired—one so rare it was the only of its kind to be found in the city. He sent it south with Col. Bland, accompanied by precise instructions, hinting at a scientific partnership between the two men. “Please take measurements of the cave down by the creek at different points within,” Jefferson wrote, “also please take measurements of your icehouse, spring house, and your well at different depths.” One can almost picture Zane, meticulously recording temperatures in the cool recesses of the cave, fulfilling his friend’s request with the same diligence he applied to his ironworks.

Even more remarkable is the sketch that accompanied the letter—an original "doodle" from Jefferson himself, offering an improved design for Zane’s water wheel. With the clarity of an inventor’s mind, Jefferson described how the wheel’s buckets could be adjusted for greater efficiency. “After leaving your house, I had an idea for a revised construction of your water wheel,” he wrote, explaining how his modification would ensure that each bucket emptied every drop of water into the cistern below. His closing words carried the warmth of friendship and mutual respect: “I am with much esteem, Dr. Sir, your friend & servt.”

Many letters between these two remarkable men survive in archives today, each a testament to their shared curiosity and relentless pursuit of progress. It is a rare and wonderful thing to witness such a meeting of minds, where industry and intellect intertwined in the quiet countryside of Frederick County.

03/26/2025

One of the coolest local relics ever sent to me! Thank you Yvonne Scribner for the wonderful gift, it made my day! This may be the only amenity soap in existence from the old Hotel Jack (also referred to as The Jack Hotel). Built in 1914 along West Piccadilly Street…it was torn down in 1955. And the crazy thing is…the soap still smells great!

03/19/2025

Jesse Curry was a true Wi******er legend—a man whose culinary gifts left an indelible mark on all who had the joy of tasting his creations. His dishes didn’t just satisfy hunger; they were art, crafted with care and love, dancing across our palates and lingering in our memories. At The Rustic Tavern and later at Jesse’s Place on Cameron Street, he welcomed us as family, sharing not just meals, but moments that became part of our community’s story.

Even in his later years, Jesse’s generous spirit never wavered. He gave of his time and talents, quietly nourishing souls at church gatherings and community events. For more than 50 years, he was a fixture at the Kiwanis Pancake Days—always with a warm smile, a kind word, and a steady hand at the griddle.

Jesse Curry was the very embodiment of kindness, compassion, and love. At 96, he left us—though truth be told, we wish we could’ve held on to him a little longer. Still, there’s a comforting thought that perhaps heaven’s kitchen simply needed his touch, and the good Lord knew where to find the very best.

God bless you, Jesse Curry. We will always remember you…

03/18/2025

I’m calling on the Wi******er Tales community to help Wes in this incredible historic endeavor! We have to protect and maintain these sites, and I know we have the power to raise the money to get this done. Thank you Wes Rudolph for your dedication to this worthy cause!

History Destroyed by SVEC Contractor! Some may not know there is a hidden s… Wesley Rudolph needs your support for Help Wes Restore Historic Slave Cemetery

03/18/2025

The Kurtz building and the old Conrad house...oh how the times have changed....

03/14/2025

A warm breeze carried the scent of sawdust and aged oak from the workshop on the northeast corner of Loudoun and Boscawen Streets, a familiar fragrance that had clung to this place for decades. The rhythmic tap of a cane echoed against the brick and dirt road, announcing the arrival of an old man whose presence had long been woven into the town’s daily hum.

John Kerr paused at the door of his woodworking shop, steadying himself before stepping inside. His gnarled hands, once firm and sure as they guided chisels and planes, now trembled slightly as he traced the worn edge of the workbench. This place had been his life’s labor, a sanctuary of creation where raw timber was shaped into fine cabinetry, sturdy tables, and the solemn elegance of caskets.

Born in England in 1797, Kerr had crossed the ocean with dreams of crafting a new life in a country brimming with promise. By the 1850s, he was well known in Wi******er as a skilled cabinetmaker, his reputation built upon patience, precision, and a craftsman’s quiet pride. Yet, for all his successes, there was one dream he and his wife, Emeline, had never realized—children of their own.

But John Kerr had never been a man to dwell on what was missing. Instead, he filled the absence with kindness. Children were drawn to him, as if sensing the warmth that softened the lines of his weathered face. On summer afternoons, when the doors to his shop stood open, they would gather outside, peering in as he shaped curls of wood with effortless grace. He never turned them away. Instead, he’d carve small toys from scraps of lumber—wooden birds that rocked upon their bases, tiny horses that seemed poised to gallop, delicate spinning tops that danced across the shop floor.

“The world should be kind to children,” he would say, pressing a finished toy into a young hand with a gentle smile.

Years had passed, and the laughter of children had faded from his shop, yet his heart had never hardened. After Emeline’s passing in 1870, the solitude of his home at Braddock and Boscawen weighed more heavily on him, but he remained steadfast in his devotion to Wi******er. He had spent his life crafting things that endured, and he saw no reason why his love for the town should not do the same.

And so, he made a decision—one that would shape generations to come. His place of business, this very shop where he now stood reflecting on the years gone by, would serve the children of Wi******er long after his own hands were stilled. He arranged for the funds from its sale to be used for their education, ensuring that those who might otherwise have little would have the gift of knowledge, a foundation stronger than any oak beam he had ever set.

Today, the shop is gone, replaced by a parking lot where the footsteps of hurried shoppers echo where sawdust once settled. On the corner of Cork and Cameron Streets, the school that bears his name still stands—a testament to a man who had no children of his own but left a legacy of care for those who would follow.

John Kerr. The kind carpenter of Wi******er. One of many who left an enduring mark on the town he so deeply loved.

03/07/2025

I was honored with a tour of the Mount Hebron Cemetery Castle Tower, and the view is amazing! Looking west over town, you can see the Smith property and you can see the flat land area where part of Fort Milroy used to sit. You can tell from this vantage point why it was such a prominent and desired site for the fort during the Civil War.

03/05/2025

August 12, 1859

UPDATE: Mr. Kean has yet to get his horse & buggy back....witnesses say the perpetrator is still heading east....😄

03/05/2025

That sweltering summer, Clelia Stiles fell ill while visiting friends in Virginia. The heat and humidity drained her frail body, leaving her slipping in and out of fevered dreams. One evening, she murmured to a maid that she could see her late husband, Benjamin, calling to her from beyond. On August 5, 1887, she answered his call, passing away at just forty-seven.

Twenty-three years earlier, Clelia had been in the parlor of her Savannah home when word arrived—Benjamin had fallen at Guard Hill, Virginia, cut down by Custer’s Michigan cavalry. He was hastily buried between Front Royal and Nineveh, his final promotion to lieutenant colonel arriving too late. Two years later, his remains were moved to the Stonewall Cemetery in Wi******er, where a proper stone marked his place of burial. Clelia visited only once but made a solemn vow—she would rest beside him when her time came.

On August 8, 1887, Clelia passed away. Her remains were carefully placed on a train car -bound for Wi******er. After arriving at the Wi******er station, the Kurtz Funeral Home hearse brought Clelia to Mount Hebron, where she was laid to rest in Benjamin’s grave. Separated by war, reunited in eternity.

Clelia Stiles remains the only woman buried in the Stonewall Cemetery at Mount Hebron.

03/05/2025

In 1860, the livery stable off Cecil and Washington Street bustled with activity. Among the workers was Robert Orrick, a slave with unmatched skill in handling horses—often called the smartest businessman in town. The year before, Robert had approached his owner with a bold proposal: to rent his own time for $65 a year and start a horse boarding business. Though unheard of in pre-Civil War Wi******er, the owner agreed.

Because Virginia law barred slaves from owning businesses, Robert's wife, Amanda—a free woman of color—became the legal proprietor. Their stable thrived, serving both Union and Confederate forces during the war, making it one of the few businesses in Wi******er to survive intact.

Emancipated in 1863, Robert expanded his ventures. In 1865, he became the first African American officially contracted as a U.S. mail carrier, running routes between Wi******er and Leesburg. The Orrick's lived in the home located at 15 South Braddock Street which still stands today. His livery business was in the adjoining lot.

A devoted minister, Robert and Amanda gave back to the community—rebuilding the Methodist Church in Stephens City and donating land for the Orrick Cemetery on Valley Avenue, where they now rest.

Robert Orrick's legacy lives on—a testament to enterprise, faith, and resilience in the face of adversity. To read more about this incredible man and his family, please read "The Life and Times of Robert Orrick" by Brenda Nelson...a must read!

03/05/2025

By 1776, Wi******er was a town alive with the grit and determination of its German and Irish settlers, many of whom had journeyed down the Old Wagon Road from Pennsylvania in search of new opportunities. Jost Hite had first brought these pioneers into Frederick County in the 1730s, but by the latter part of the century, the cultural divide between the two groups had turned from mere rivalry to outright hostility.

It fell upon General John Smith, commissioned Justice of the Peace in 1773, to keep the town from descending into chaos. Fistfights and street brawls were commonplace, fueled by long-standing tensions and an ample supply of frontier tempers. Smith, a man of deep Virginian roots—his lineage tracing back to Captain John Smith of Jamestown and his mother, Mary Jacquelin, of the original 1607 settlers—was no stranger to the demands of law and order. In 1777, he would construct the stately home “Hackwood,” which still stands today, nestled in the northeast fields off Interstate 81.

One of the most infamous disturbances erupted in August of 1776, a riot of such scale that it became a staple of local lore. The Germans had long marked St. Patrick’s Day with a pointed insult: an effigy of the saint, strung with Irish potatoes around his neck, alongside his wife, whose apron overflowed with more of the offending tubers. The Irish, unwilling to suffer such disrespect in silence, met the provocation with fists and fury, turning the town square into a battlefield.

Not to be outdone, the Irish returned the favor on St. Michael’s Day, fashioning a crude likeness of the German patron saint with a rope of sauerkraut draped around his neck. This time, it was the Germans’ turn to charge in, armed with what one historian colorfully described as "p**s and vinegar." The ensuing brawls left black eyes, bloody noses, and cracked heads in their wake, requiring every available magistrate—General Smith chief among them—to break up the mayhem and restore some semblance of order.

The epicenter of these frays was a stretch of dirt road in Wi******er then known as "the pell-mell" for the chaos that so often erupted there. Over time, as the town grew and the fights faded into history, and the name of this little road evolved into "Pall Mall Street."

03/04/2025

As James McCracken placed another log on the fire, his dogs erupted into frantic barking, their gaze fixed on the tree line beyond the western fields. He reached for his musket and peered through the cabin window. Sightings of Shawnee warriors were not uncommon, but they always melted back into the woods before he could step outside. This time, however, the barking did not cease.

Stepping onto his porch, James scanned the horizon. A wave of red slowly emerged from the tree line. British soldiers, their uniforms tattered, their movements slow with exhaustion, trudged toward his log farmhouse. This was no triumphant return. At the front of the column, a familiar figure emerged: Colonel George Washington. But General Braddock was nowhere in sight. James knew, then—this was not an army returning in victory. It was the broken remnant of a disastrous defeat along the Monongahela.

As Washington and his battered men rested at McCracken’s trading post, he must have shared the grim tale—the ambush, the chaos, and Braddock’s mortal wound. The frontier was now exposed, the threat greater than ever. James and his family listened carefully, as the firelight flickered across their faces.

Days later, when Washington departed, he likely urged his old friend to leave. The McCrackens packed what they could and set out for Back Creek, following the path that would later become Route 127. But near Gore, they met their fate. James and his sons fell to an ambush along Timber Ridge, while four of the McCracken women were taken captive, vanishing into the Ohio Valley for four long years.

By autumn, Washington, now burdened with the weight of so many lost settlers, ordered a fort built upon the ruins of McCracken’s post—a desperate stand against further bloodshed. They would call it Fort Ashby, a lone sentinel against the unknown dangers along the Virginia frontier.

03/04/2025

The wooden screen door of Dale’s Grocery let out a familiar creak before slamming shut, rattling the Coca-Cola sign nailed to its frame. Inside, the air carried the scent of oiled floors, fresh bread, and the faintest hint of pipe to***co from old Mr. Carson, who came in every morning for a fresh pack of Prince Albert. A metal fan hummed lazily in the corner, stirring up the smell of sawdust and summer heat.

Dale Clemons stood behind the counter, his crisp white apron tied snugly around his waist, ringing up a sale for Mrs. Jenkins, who was buying a pound of sugar and a fresh quart of milk. He knew everyone by name—knew their kids, their habits, and just how much credit he could float them until payday. His store, perched on North Loudoun Street, was more than just a place to pick up groceries. It was a neighborhood fixture, a gathering place, and for the kids who biked in every afternoon, it was a candy paradise.

Outside, two boys lean against the store’s weathered wooden porch, baseball cards fanned out between them. Tommy Jenkins, gripping a Duke Snider card, squinted at his best friend Bobby Carter. Bobby held out an Al Rosen, tapping it against his palm. It’s a good trade.

Satisfied, Tommy nodded and swapped cards, tucking his new treasure into his back pocket before digging into his bag of penny candy. The boys hopped back onto their Schwinn Excelsiors, tires crunching against the gravel as they coasted down the nearly empty street, past the painted Coca-Cola mural on the side of the store.

Those days are gone now. The bicycles, the baseball card trades, the slow afternoons where Dale swept his porch and chatted with folks about the weather—they’ve faded into memory. But Dale’s Grocery still stands on the north side of town.

A reminder of a time when life was just a little bit simpler, and the days felt just a little bit longer...

03/03/2025

Before dawn, the Union camps near Cedar Creek lay silent, shrouded in thick October fog. Soldiers of the 8th Corps stirred in their tents, some rising early to make coffee, unaware that disaster loomed in the mist.

Charles Riley, 44, and his son Anthony, 18, of the 9th New York Heavy Artillery, awoke to chaos. A torrent of gray-clad figures crashed through the woods—Confederate soldiers, bayonets flashing, their rebel yell splitting the morning stillness. The camp erupted in panic as men fled, weapons forgotten in their desperate flight.

Amid the turmoil, Charles found Anthony. Together, they ran through the ravines toward Belle Grove, bullets slicing the air like tearing cloth. Charles shielded his son as canister shot rained down, the battlefield a blur of smoke and screams. Just as the sun’s first light crested the horizon, Anthony cried out and crumpled to the earth.

Charles knelt, cradling his boy, his tears mingling with the blood on Anthony’s forehead. The rebels were closing in. With a trembling hand, he kissed his son’s cheek, then turned and ran, the battle carrying him away.

By evening, the Union had rallied and won the day at Cedar Creek. Charles returned, stepping carefully among the fallen until he found Anthony, still as he had fallen, his eyes closed in peaceful repose. Gently, Charles lifted his son and carried him to the field hospital, placing a tag on his coat: Anthony Riley, NY. He was laid to rest in the Wi******er National Cemetery.

Charles fought on, but the war took its final toll. In March 1865, just weeks before Appomattox, he succumbed to fever—father and son, together again in eternity.

03/03/2025

At the Seever house on Boscawen Street, General James Shields sits at a desk with his arm in a sling from a wound he received the previous day. Outside a Union signal corps runner dismounts and hurries inside. He hands Shields a message—real-time intelligence relayed by a new innovation in warfare: the U.S. Signal Corps.

The corps, founded by surgeon Albert J. Myer, had never been tested in combat. Using his “Wigwag” flag system, Lieutenant William Rowley established six signal stations from Rose Hill Farm to Bowers Hill, linking the Kernstown battlefield to Shields’ headquarters in Wi******er. From a nearby station, signalmen David Taylor and Oliver Temple watched as Tyler’s Brigade marched toward a fortified stone wall—a doomed formation. Urgent messages flashed and relayed from station to station, allowing Shields to readjust his forces just in time.

As the battle raged, Taylor and Temple dropped their signal flag, grabbed rifles, and joined the fight. Taylor had a button shot off, Temple was lightly wounded, but both survived and received commendations from Major Myer. In recognition of his bravery, Taylor was awarded one of the first Signal Corps flags from the First Battle of Kernstown—marked simply with a single star and the battle’s yet-to-be-named location: Wi******er.

03/03/2025

Sometimes, history hides in plain sight—tucked away in an old menu, a forgotten newspaper clipping, or a story passed down through generations. While researching Wi******er’s past, I stumbled across a dinner menu from the Elks Club, dated October 1921. The meal that night? Fried chicken and waffles, prepared by none other than Susan Tokes and her family.

Now, most food historians will tell you that chicken and waffles became a restaurant staple in 1933, made famous by places like Tillie’s Chicken Shack and Wells Supper Club in Harlem. But here was Sue Tokes, serving up that same now-iconic dish a full twelve years earlier, right here in the Shenandoah Valley. Could it be that the Tokes Inn in Opequon—better known to us locals as Frogeye—was the first restaurant to serve chicken and waffles as a menu item? I can’t prove it, but it sure makes you wonder.

Today, chicken and waffles are a multimillion-dollar industry, with restaurants like Roscoe’s in Los Angeles turning it into a nationwide sensation. But long before it became a culinary craze, Sue Tokes was in her kitchen, cooking up something special for the people of Wi******er. How I wish I could step back in time, just once, to sit at a table in the Tokes Inn, hear the laughter of diners, and taste the very first plate of Wi******er’s own chicken and waffles.