Winchester Tales

Winchester Tales Winchester Virginia History
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Just before Handley High School on Valley Avenue stands a concrete arch, a forgotten marker of a man with an extraordina...
02/13/2025

Just before Handley High School on Valley Avenue stands a concrete arch, a forgotten marker of a man with an extraordinary life.

Born in 1849 near Capon Bridge, William J. Whitlock fought at Gettysburg at just fifteen, serving under General John D. Imboden. But war was only the beginning. At twenty, he set off for Indian Territory, where he apprenticed under an Arapaho or Cheyenne medicine man for three years, mastering the art of herbal remedies.

By 1895, Whitlock had returned to Wi******er, setting up shop on Valley Avenue. He was a savvy marketer, selling his tonics in beautifully designed bottles and cabinets. The grand archway that still stands once bore his name: “W. J. WHITLOCK / HERB DOCTOR”, with a portrait keystone now lost to time.

Though traditional doctors challenged him in court, Whitlock continued treating rich and poor alike, often giving medicine freely to those in need. His legacy was not just in remedies but in kindness.

Dr. Whitlock passed in 1921 and rests in Mt. Hebron Cemetery. But the arch remains—a quiet tribute to the healer who once defied convention to help his community.

The wind cut through the streets of Cumberland, Maryland, rattling the bare branches and sending dry leaves dancing acro...
02/13/2025

The wind cut through the streets of Cumberland, Maryland, rattling the bare branches and sending dry leaves dancing across worn brick sidewalks. Once a city of industry and ambition, the “Queen City” was fading, its grand buildings growing tired, its promise dimming under a sky the color of slate. It was late November of 1967. The war in Vietnam was escalating, and across the country, young men weighed their futures with an anxious heart.

In a second-story classroom of the old Allegany High School, a boy with dusty red hair leaned against the windowpane, his breath fogging the glass as he gazed down at the quiet streets below. William H. Macy had always known he was meant for something beyond this place. The thought of staying—of slipping into the comfortable monotony of his father’s insurance business—filled him with a kind of dread. That was where passions withered, where dreams curled up and died. He was a folk singer, but music wasn’t a career, not here.

Somewhere beyond the hills, a train whistle cried—a long, lonesome note drifting in from the old Baltimore & Ohio line. It stirred something deep inside him. The world was moving, calling, and he had to find his place in it.

Cumberland had raised him, but it could not hold William H. Macy…

In the great hall of Leeds Castle, 16-year-old Thomas, Sixth Lord Fairfax, stood beneath the portrait of his ancestor, S...
02/13/2025

In the great hall of Leeds Castle, 16-year-old Thomas, Sixth Lord Fairfax, stood beneath the portrait of his ancestor, Sir Cheney Culpeper. His grandmother had died, leaving him a 5/6 share of five million acres in Virginia. But to the young baron, Leeds Castle was home—the vast wilderness across the ocean meant little.

His mother, Catherine Culpeper Fairfax, managed the land wisely, restricting Thomas’s ability to sell or mortgage it. Even after coming of age, he ignored his inheritance for nearly twenty years. But by 1719, after his mother’s death, Fairfax became the sole owner of the Northern Neck proprietary. Williamsburg fought his claim, hoping to control its land rents, but Fairfax turned to London, knowing the English courts would side with him.

Meanwhile, his family’s Virginia agent, Robert “King” Carter, had amassed a fortune managing the estate. When Carter died in 1732, Fairfax realized how much wealth had slipped from his hands. In 1735, he made a bold choice—he left England to take control himself, handing Leeds Castle to his brother Robert, who would soon drive it into debt.

Settling first at Belvoir, Fairfax eventually built Greenway Court in Clarke County, where he lived out his days, managing his vast land and mentoring a young George Washington. When he died in 1781, his wealth saved Leeds Castle, which remained in Fairfax hands until 1793.

At the southeast corner of Valley Avenue and Jubal Early Drive stands Montague Hall, a quiet sentinel of Wi******er’s pa...
02/13/2025

At the southeast corner of Valley Avenue and Jubal Early Drive stands Montague Hall, a quiet sentinel of Wi******er’s past. Built in the 1880s by Festus Hahn, a mill owner, this brick home sits on land that traces back to the 1730s, once farmed by the Hollingsworth and Parkins families. Long before roads bustled with cars, this was a countryside crossroads, where a Quaker meeting house once welcomed travelers, and water-powered mills reshaped the region.

Festus Hahn’s time in his beloved home was brief—he passed in 1894, and by 1904, Robert Montague, a merchant and horse trainer, made it his own. Behind the house (now The Lofts at Jubal Square), he built fine stables and a racetrack, where the sound of galloping hooves once echoed. Back then, Valley Avenue —ran farther east, leaving this home tucked in peace, far from the dust and noise of travel.

Time always moves forward, replacing green pastures with pavement, and history with so called progress. Yet, Montague Hall remains—a piece of history standing defiant in the face of change…

At the bustling crossroads of Valley Avenue and Cedar Creek Grade once stood Hillman’s Tollgate, a modest yet formidable...
02/13/2025

At the bustling crossroads of Valley Avenue and Cedar Creek Grade once stood Hillman’s Tollgate, a modest yet formidable checkpoint that played an unlikely role in the whirlwind of the Civil War. In the wake of the Battle of Third Wi******er, Union General Philip Sheridan thundered down the Valley Pike, hot on the heels of the retreating Confederate forces under General Jubal Early. His army, dust-covered and battle-worn, pushed toward the outskirts of Wi******er—only to be halted, not by cannon fire or rebel resistance, but by the unwavering determination of one woman.

Charlotte Hillman, the keeper of the tollgate, stood firm at her post. As Sheridan and his men approached, she refused to raise ‘the pike’ without proper payment. Regulations were regulations, war or no war. The general, surely exasperated by the delay, assured her that he and his officers would settle the toll later, though he couldn’t vouch for all his men. With a sharp eye for business, Mrs. Hillman relented—but not without record-keeping. Her young daughter, Mary, carefully notched a stick for every ten soldiers who passed through, ensuring that not a single toll was forgotten.

In the war’s aftermath, true to his word, Sheridan’s toll was accounted for. A bill was sent to Washington, and the United States government paid its dues, just as many Wi******er citizens—staunchly Unionist in sentiment—were later compensated for their wartime losses and services.

For nearly a century beyond the war, Hillman’s Tollgate remained, a silent sentinel to an era when even the might of an army could be paused by the steadfast resolve of a tollkeeper. By the early 1960s, the tollhouse had disappeared into history, but its legacy endures in stories of grit, commerce, and a mother’s firm insistence that in Wi******er, not even a general rode for free!

Born in a small stone house in Wi******er, Virginia, on August 15, 1817, George Washington entered the world at a crossr...
02/12/2025

Born in a small stone house in Wi******er, Virginia, on August 15, 1817, George Washington entered the world at a crossroads of race and circumstance. His father, an enslaved man, was torn from him at birth; his mother, a white woman, left him in the care of James and Anna Cochran, a white family who would raise him as their own.

The Cochrans moved to Ohio when George was four, where he taught himself to read, became a skilled rifleman, and set his sights on the West. As a young man, he brought his adoptive parents with him, ensuring they would never be left behind. In 1853, they settled in the Oregon Territory. When the land was divided into Oregon and Washington, the Cochrans sold their claim—600 acres—to the son they had raised.

With his wife, Mary Jane, George envisioned something greater: a town. When the Northern Pacific Railroad arrived in 1872, they laid the foundations for what they first called Centerville, later renamed Centralia. The town flourished, drawing fortune seekers during the Klondike Gold Rush and growing into a vibrant community.

By the time George passed away in 1905 at the age of 88, Centralia had become a thriving town of 5,000. Thousands turned out to honor the man who built it—not just from land, but from love, determination, and an unshakable belief in community. Today, Centralia stands as a living testament to that vision, with a statue, a museum, and a yearly Founder’s Day parade celebrating George and Mary Jane’s enduring legacy.

From its humble beginnings to a bustling town of nearly 19,000, Centralia, Washington is more than a place on a map. It is a place to dream, to grow, and to belong—just as George and Mary Jane Washington always imagined...

Bringing History Home: The Legacy of John FawcettIn the quiet fields of Frederick County, Virginia, where the land gentl...
02/12/2025

Bringing History Home:
The Legacy of John Fawcett
In the quiet fields of Frederick County, Virginia, where the land gently rises and falls in a rhythm as old as time, a story nearly three centuries in the making has come full circle. It begins in 1716, across the Atlantic in Ireland, with the birth of John Fawcett. His parents, Thomas Fawcett and Lydia Boyce, saw in the New World a promise of freedom and opportunity, and in 1736, they left their homeland behind, settling first in Philadelphia before journeying further into the frontier.

John married Rebecca Ireson, and together they built a life rooted in faith, family, and the steady work of shaping a homestead from the wilderness. By 1742, they had moved to Frederick County, where John’s name would one day be etched into the very fabric of the land. The Fawcetts flourished, raising a family—Lydia, Sarah, John Jr., Rachel, and Thomas—each carrying forward the legacy of perseverance that had brought their father across an ocean.

By 1759, John Fawcett’s name appeared on the county’s rent rolls, and in 1765, his standing in the community was affirmed when Lord Fairfax himself granted him 287 acres. But John was not simply a landowner; he was a man of deep conviction and service. That same year, he opened his home for the first Quaker meetings in the area, it would be called the Mount Pleasant meeting house.

Fast forward to today—260 years after John first received his grant—and history has found its way home. While researching the history for the current landowners, Ivan and Danielle Snapp, I discovered that the original Lord Fairfax land grant was not only still in existence, but it was for sale. To hold that document, to feel the weight of its parchment and the ink that sealed John Fawcett’s place in history, was to bridge the centuries in an instant.

With reverence and gratitude, Ivan and Danielle bought it and are bringing it back to the land where it all began. For the first time since John Fawcett himself took possession of these 287 acres, the grant is coming home—a tangible link to a man who carved out a future here with faith and determination. It is a rare and beautiful thing when history finds its way back, and today, in the heart of Frederick County, it has done just that.

On a warm evening in 1860, six West Point cadets moved like shadows through the barracks, tucking dummies into their cot...
02/10/2025

On a warm evening in 1860, six West Point cadets moved like shadows through the barracks, tucking dummies into their cots before slipping into the night. Their destination was Benny Havens’ tavern, the legendary haunt of young officers-to-be, where they would raise one last glass to their friend Stephen Dodson Ramseur. George Armstrong Custer, Tom Rosser, Adelbert Ames, Henry DuPont, and Wesley Merritt joined him in laughter and toasts, their futures still unwritten. War loomed on the horizon, but that night, they were simply cadets, bound by friendship, unburdened by the sides they would soon be forced to choose.

Four years later, on October 19, 1864, Ramseur led his men at Cedar Creek, fighting with the same fire that had defined him since his days at West Point. The gray line surged, faltered, then fell back under a relentless Union counterattack. Amid the chaos, Ramseur remained on horseback, a conspicuous target in the storm of lead. Bullets found him again and again—one grazing his arm, another killing his horse, then another felling the mount he barely had time to replace. As he swung into the saddle a third time, a bullet tore through his chest, crushing his lungs. His men carried him from the battlefield, only for his ambulance to be captured. Recognizing their former classmate, Union officers diverted him to Belle Grove, where a bed was prepared for the dying general.

That night, the same men who had stolen away to Benny Havens’ years before came to his bedside. Custer, DuPont, and the others who had once been his brothers-in-arms now wore Union blue. Ramseur, slipping in and out of consciousness, spoke of his wife, his unborn child, and the life that was slipping away. Through the haze of laudanum, he recognized DuPont, his old friend from West Point, who sat beside him and talked softly into the night. By morning, the last of their brotherhood’s bond was broken. Ramseur had slipped away…and was gone.

In 1780, an old soldier gazed out the upper window of a large house on North Loudoun Street, lost in memory. Colonel Hen...
02/10/2025

In 1780, an old soldier gazed out the upper window of a large house on North Loudoun Street, lost in memory. Colonel Henry Peyton, once a close friend of young George Washington, had seen Wi******er grow from a frontier outpost to a bustling town. Now, as he looked toward the ruins of Fort Loudoun, he recalled the days when Washington had given him his first orders within its walls.

Decades earlier, during the French and Indian War, Peyton had led troops to reinforce remote garrisons and secure vital mountain passes. A man of principle, he had once unseated Henry Lee in an election, exposing his opponent’s attempt to buy votes. By 1755, Peyton had moved his family to Wi******er, where his son John was born. That same son, now grown, had built this home so his new wife and ailing father could live in comfort.

The Revolution had taken its toll on Peyton’s health. By 1780, he was selling off his land in Prince William County and settling into his son’s home—just a hundred yards from the very office where Washington had once entrusted him with command. The following year, while visiting his old home, he passed away at just 56 years old.

The house itself bore witness to history. Once the Edmonson Tavern, its sign bearing an old clipper ship, it later became a billet for Union officers during the Civil War. In the great room, portraits of Congressman Robert Rutherford and his wife Mary—John Peyton’s in-laws—hung proudly above the fireplace. But war does not spare sentiment. Union soldiers slashed the paintings with their sabers and burned them in the yard, erasing faces that had once watched over the home.

In the 1950s, this was the home of Tom Baldridge, a very important part of the Apple Blossom Festivals. Mr. Baldridge, a member of MGM’s publicity department, played a key role in shaping the careers of rising stars. Through his position, he arranged for celebrities to attend the early Festivals, adding a touch of Hollywood glamour to the celebration.

In the summer of 1754, James Wood, Esq., sat at his small desk in his small stone clerk’s office at Glen Burnie, quill i...
02/10/2025

In the summer of 1754, James Wood, Esq., sat at his small desk in his small stone clerk’s office at Glen Burnie, quill in hand, poring over legal documents. The sweltering July heat made his horsehair wig itch, and he paused as a rare breeze drifted through the open doors. Satisfied with the document before him, he signed his name—a mark of authority and legacy.

Nearly 255 years later, during renovations at Glen Burnie, members of the Museum of the Shenandoah Valley made a remarkable discovery: a colonial-era wig in a forgotten box. Upon closer examination, curators found a label inside—J.K. Metherell of London—with James Wood, Esq. handwritten beneath it. Sent to Williamsburg for evaluation, the wig was confirmed to be that of James Wood Sr., a rare barrister’s wig from the mid-18th century, one of only two known to exist in the U.S.

Crafted from horsehair, with human hair at the nape for comfort, such a wig cost around three pounds, two shillings—enough in those days to buy half an acre of land or a pair of oxen. Unlike the pristine white wigs of today’s imagination, colonial barristers preferred their wigs dingy gray, a mark of experience and status. Wealthy men and lawyers, like Wood, wore them even as the fashion faded—while figures like Washington and Jefferson simply powdered their own hair.

James Wood Sr. kept meticulous records, documenting the purchase of three wigs between 1747 and 1751. It is likely this one was passed down to his son and remained at Glen Burnie for over two centuries. Now, the original is preserved in a climate-controlled setting, while an exact replica is on display at the MSV—a tangible link to Wi******er’s colonial past, ensuring Wood’s legacy endures for generations to come.

When young James Pierson Beckwith walked into Wi******er with his slaveholding father, the townspeople called him “mulat...
02/10/2025

When young James Pierson Beckwith walked into Wi******er with his slaveholding father, the townspeople called him “mulatto”—a name he despised. Born in Frederick County to a Black mother and a white father, he belonged fully to neither world. Whites saw him as inferior, and Blacks saw only his white features, leaving him caught between two identities.

By 1810, Sir Jennings Beckwith moved James’ mother and their 13 children to Missouri. Though he raised them as his own, the law still deemed them slaves. Historians debate whether James’ parents shared a loving relationship or if his mother’s circumstances were forced, but Missouri’s harsh slave codes left little room for freedom. When James completed an apprenticeship in blacksmithing, his father emancipated him.

Determined to carve his own path, James pursued education and altered his name to Beckwourth, perhaps to shed his past. In 1824, he joined the Rocky Mountain Fur Company as a trapper and guide. Fellow trappers spread tales that he was a Native American child taken from the Crow, a myth that later became reality. Captured by Crow warriors in 1825, he was mistaken for the long-lost son of a chief and welcomed into their tribe. He lived among them for nine years, rising to the status of chief.

By 1848, Beckwourth left the Crow and journeyed west, blazing a route through the Sierra Nevada that would become Beckwourth Pass, still traveled today. He later ran a trading post in Colorado and guided settlers through the frontier. In 1860, hired by the U.S. Army, he led expeditions into Montana, but illness soon overtook him.

Knowing his time was short, Beckwourth returned to the Crow, where he was honored as a chief—one place where his identity was a mark of distinction, not division. He died among them at 67 and was given a chief’s burial, laid to rest upon a high platform in the traditional way of the Crow.

The terrain was flat, but the surrounding hills would have offered a great wind break for the Confederate army. As a you...
02/10/2025

The terrain was flat, but the surrounding hills would have offered a great wind break for the Confederate army. As a young man swung his metal detector in a large field in Clearbrook, VA, he noticed a rock outcropping in the middle of the field. He started detecting around it. As he swung over the rock spines, the detector went crazy. He knelt down and removed his headphones. There, wedged between two rocks, was something emerald green. He carefully pulled it out and lightly brushed off the dirt. It was a beautiful belt buckle and across the face it said... “6th Inf. NC State.”

In this field in late summer of 1861, the 6th North Carolina was camped. A diary entry from a soldier in the 6th states that the man who formed the company, Colonel Charles Fisher, cared deeply for his men. And on one particular morning in Clearbrook, he was busy making breakfast for his boys.

Prior to the war, Charles Fisher was president of the North Carolina railroad. When the 6th NC was formed early in 1861, he took his men to a place called Company Shops, NC. As they camped by the railroad depot, Fisher paid the local foundry to cast special belt buckles for his company. Only a few hundred buckles were made, and they had a black background so the brass text would pop.

On July 21st, the men of the 6th NC would depart for Manassas. Colonel Charles Fisher died two days later leading a charge on a Union battery at the First Battle of Bull Run. The 6th was supporting North Carolina General Thomas Lanier Clingman as well as Fisher's cousin, Jubal Early, who would become a General later in the war.
The 6th was prominent in many campaigns...from Seven Pines to Mine Run, they were active in the battles of Plymouth and Cold Harbor. It fought with Early in the Shenandoah Valley and later in the Appomattox operations.

In the sweltering August of 1861, Wi******er braced for war. From the rooftop of Oliver Brown’s home on North Cameron St...
02/08/2025

In the sweltering August of 1861, Wi******er braced for war. From the rooftop of Oliver Brown’s home on North Cameron Street, Mrs. Lee and others watched as soldiers atop the town’s main fort methodically tested the range of their twelve great guns. Every ten minutes, a thunderous boom shattered the uneasy silence.

Before dawn on August 19th, a sudden blast jolted Mrs. Lee awake. A cannonball, whistling through the darkness, struck Patrick Conner’s home at 229 South Loudoun Street. It tore through brick and hallways, narrowly missing the bedroom, before ricocheting onto Clifford Street—white-hot from its violent journey. When a neighbor attempted to claim it as a relic, he burned his hands on the searing iron. Patrick Conner, undeterred, used a shovel to carry it inside.

For three dollars, local builder George Anderson embedded the cannonball into the repaired wall, a silent testament to the war’s reach. Though the house was lost to time in the 1950s, history endures. A replacement cannonball now marks the spot, ensuring that Wi******er never forgets the night war came knocking.

An old man sits in a camp chair outside his canvas tent on the Berryville Avenue Fairgrounds, once a grand expanse of op...
02/07/2025

An old man sits in a camp chair outside his canvas tent on the Berryville Avenue Fairgrounds, once a grand expanse of open land, now covered with homes. His fringed leather jacket hangs loose on his frame, his white beard stirring in the crisp October breeze. From where he sits, he can see the marble cannonballs resting atop the 6th Army Corps Monument in the National Cemetery, their silent vigil stirring memories of days long past. His tired eyes linger there, lost in the echoes of another time. This is William Frederick “Buffalo Bill” Cody—once the most famous frontiersman in the world, now a man nearing his final act.

The day before, on October 3, 1916, the show’s train had pulled into the old B&O station at Piccadilly and Kent Streets, its arrival heralded by the rhythmic clang of steel against steel. One by one, the members of the Miller Brothers 101 Ranch Wild West show spilled from the cars—cowboys, Native Americans, trick riders, sharp-shooters, horses, buffalo, and props—all in perfect, practiced chaos. The air was thick with the scent of hay, sweat, and anticipation. Then, in the midst of the bustle, the legend himself emerged.

Buffalo Bill, ever the showman despite the years weighing on him, adjusted his broad-brimmed hat, fastened his beadwork gauntlets, and stepped onto the platform. A small crowd had gathered to catch a glimpse of the man whose name was once synonymous with the untamed West. He raised a gloved hand in a sweeping wave, his smile as practiced as his pistol twirls had once been. Then, the parade began, winding its way up National Avenue to the fairgrounds, where the spectacle would unfold one more time.

But by 1916, time had caught up with Buffalo Bill. His body was failing, his fortune lost to ill-fated business ventures, and the golden era of the Wild West was fading into history. The grand spectacles that once captivated presidents and royalty were now sideshow attractions in smaller towns. The names that once stood beside his—Annie Oakley, Calamity Jane, Sitting Bull—were either retired or long gone. And so, he found himself here, not as the star of the show, but as a relic of a bygone age, a living legend now reduced to a supporting role.

As he sits in his folding chair, he closes his eyes and breathes deeply, letting the autumn air fill his lungs. For a moment, he is young again—racing across the plains, scouting for the Army, leading his great Wild West extravaganza to roaring crowds in New York, London, Paris. But the illusion is brief. A voice cuts through the haze— “Bill, It’s time.”

Two men help Buffalo Bill into the saddle, his aging frame no longer able to mount with ease. The horse shifts beneath him, sensing the stiffness in its rider. With a gentle nudge, they move forward. Buffalo Bill raises a hand, waves to the crowd—an echo of a thousand performances before. The cheers are polite, admiring, but tinged with something softer. Nostalgia, perhaps. Pity, even. He rides a short loop, then returns to the wagons quietly, retreating once more to his chair, awaiting the next train ride to another town, another stage, another fleeting moment in the spotlight….

As the sun began to set over Wi******er on September 19, 1864, the town was gripped by terror. The once-bustling Main St...
02/07/2025

As the sun began to set over Wi******er on September 19, 1864, the town was gripped by terror. The once-bustling Main Street—now Loudoun Street—became a river of chaos, flooded by the retreating Confederate army, desperate and bloodied from the brutal clash just beyond the city limits. In front of the grand columns of the Taylor Hotel—now Macado’s Restaurant—wounded soldiers poured in, their uniforms torn, their faces hollow with pain and fear. Some carried their fallen comrades up the steps, whispering desperate promises to stay with them—to not let them be left to the mercy of strangers, buried in a nameless grave in unfamiliar soil.

Through the hotel’s entrance, both Blue and Gray streamed in, their groans and prayers mingling with the familiar scent of blood. In the front room, death took his place among them, his work unrelenting. Surgeons, their sleeves rolled and stained red, moved swiftly, their instruments gleaming in the dim lantern light. Confederate General Robert Rodes, mortally wounded by a Union shell, was brought here, but by the time his ambulance reached the hotel, there was nothing to be done. A weary surgeon glanced at the wound in Rodes’ skull, sighed, and simply ordered the driver to move on.

Long after the gunfire faded and the bodies carried away, the people of Wi******er would tell stories of that dreadful day. Some spoke of Confederate soldiers hiding in their cellars and attics, uniforms and weapons hastily stashed away, never to be retrieved. Even now, in the oldest homes of Wi******er, a hidden relic may still lie undisturbed—a rusted saber tucked between wooden beams, a forgotten pistol behind false walls, a butternut coat folded away in the shadows of a dusty basement. Silent witnesses to the day when terror ruled the streets…

On a crisp October day in 1864, the autumn leaves danced and spun in the Shenandoah breeze. Two men on horseback left Wi...
02/07/2025

On a crisp October day in 1864, the autumn leaves danced and spun in the Shenandoah breeze. Two men on horseback left Wi******er and approached the quiet hamlet of Kernstown. They had come to chronicle and sketch the echoes of war that still lingered in the fields and roads of the valley. One of them, James E. Taylor, an artist with an eye for history, carried his sketchbook, eager to capture the landscape where the Second Battle of Kernstown had raged just months before.

As they neared the small wooden bridge over Hoge Run—today a modest crossing just south of Creekside — they met an African American man named Thomas. Taylor and his companion asked if Thomas might guide them to the battlefield. Thomas, his gaze steady and knowing, responded with words weighted by memory: "I was there, but like everyone else, I was underground.”

A slave at the time of the battle, Thomas recalled how, when the cannon’s roar and musket fire had finally ceased, he emerged from the basement of the Beemer Hotel, where he and others had sought refuge. Stepping into the fields behind the building, he found the land littered with Confederate dead. “We slaves buried them where they fell,” he said, his voice carrying the burden of duty performed in the wake of violence.

As the burial detail made its way toward the lane leading to Mr. Pritchard’s house, Thomas recalled, the scene grew even grimmer. There, in the sunken road, the fallen Union soldiers lay in a tangled mass, heaped one upon another. A long, shallow pit was dug, and their bodies were laid to rest in the earth. At Hoge Run, too, the dead had found their final place—not by choice, but by fate. “We fished many Yankee and Reb dead out of the water,” Thomas remembered. “Some lay side by side.” He paused, then added, “Dying soldiers don’t care about sides when thirst calls in your final moments.”

Moved by the gravity of Thomas’s words, James E. Taylor opened his sketchbook and began to draw. He captured the Pritchard Farm Lane, where Union Colonel James Mulligan had been mortally wounded, then turned his attention to the Valley Pike, sketching the road as it leads into Kernstown. In 1864, the town was a lively crossroads, home to a hotel, a cooperage, a blacksmith, and a wheelwright shop. At its heart stood the Beemer Hotel, a place that had borne witness to both the routine bustle of travelers and the chaos of war.

Today, amid the hum of passing cars and a 7-Eleven store, the old Beemer Hotel still stands—a solitary sentinel of a time when Kernstown was more than a stop along the highway. It was a place where history unfolded in blood and sacrifice, where the echoes of battle settled into the soil, and where memory lingers for those who pause to look...

The Marines advanced cautiously through the wood line, each step deliberate as they moved toward the distant sound of gu...
02/07/2025

The Marines advanced cautiously through the wood line, each step deliberate as they moved toward the distant sound of gunfire, thick smoke, and a yellow haze that hung heavy in the air. Captain Lloyd W. Williams, a proud son of Berryville, crept forward, his eyes sharp and his movements careful. Kneeling beside a fallen tree, he wiped his mustache with the sleeve of his woolen coat. A bitter taste lingered on his lips—the unmistakable sting of mustard gas. He knew the Germans had released it into the air, but with swift movement, he believed their exposure would be minimal. As the rest of the 5th Marine Division followed into the heart of Belleau Wood, there was no illusion: it would be a battle of unimaginable ferocity.

On June 2nd, Williams and his men began to dig in, carving out a defensive position amidst the dense fog and uncertainty. It was then, through the mist, that demoralized French troops began to emerge, retreating with weary steps. One French officer, barely holding it together, stumbled past the Marine lines, advising them to join in the retreat. Without missing a beat, Captain Williams turned to him and replied, his voice resolute, “Retreat, hell! We just got here!” With that, the French officer and his men continued their retreat, leaving the Marines to face the battle alone. And so, they stood their ground.

By noon on June 4th, the Marines had successfully captured the hill. It was a hard-won victory, but it came at a staggering cost. Williams’ battalion suffered 410 casualties out of the 600 men who had entered the fray. More Marines had fallen in those days of fierce combat than in the entire 143-year history of the Corps. Amidst the smoke and chaos, Captain Williams himself was struck by the effects of gas exposure and a shrapnel wound. As medics rushed to his side, he waved them off, his voice steady despite the pain: “Don’t bother with me, take care of my good men.”

As Williams was being carried out of Belleau Wood, a German shell exploded nearby, ending his life in an instant. The loss was devastating, not only to his fellow Marines but to all who knew him. He was initially buried at Flanders Field, but his family, determined to bring him home, had his remains returned to the United States. When Captain Williams’ body arrived at the train station in Berryville, more than a thousand people gathered to pay their respects to this local hero. The town stood in solemn silence, honoring the life of the man who had given everything for his country. Captain Williams was laid to rest in Green Hill Cemetery, his legacy etched forever in the hearts of those who knew him and in the history of the United States Marine Corps.

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Experimenting with another facet for the page..."A Day in the Life" series of short videos. I'm no Ken Burns, but I'll get the hang of it! :)

DID YOU KNOW? . . In a scene from the 1985 Patsy Cline movie called “Sweet Dreams”, Jessica Lange and Ed Harris are sitting in a car when Sam Cooke’s soulful “You Send Me,” starts to play. The radio DJ was portrayed by our own Joe Pasquali…and he was no stranger to the Wi******er airwaves. He had long been a familiar voice on WINC-AM 1400, the very station where Patsy Cline herself was first heard. It was a full-circle moment, bringing the film even closer to the heart of Wi******er’s legacy. Originally, Pasquali’s character was supposed to introduce the song with the words, "Welcome to Nighttime on Radio 1400, W-I-N-C in Wi******er." This would have connected the past and present in a seamless nod to the city’s cultural roots. But life, with its unpredictable twists, altered the course. Shortly before filming, Pasquali was let go from WINC and soon found a new home on WVAI-AM 610, another local station that would itself fade into the quiet annals of time. The decision was made—radio call letters wouldn’t be used at all. WVAI hadn’t even existed during Patsy’s lifetime, so it wouldn't fit within the film's historical context. WINC, though rich with significance, was no longer an option either. It was a delicate adjustment, but in a way, it added an unintended layer of poignancy. The omission of the station’s name mirrored the fading echoes of once-vibrant stations and voices, the same way memories blur around the edges with time. What remained was the song—the warm, lilting melody of Sam Cooke, carrying with it the ache of love and time, as Lange and Harris kissed, wrapped in nostalgia. Joe Pasquali’s presence in the scene held its own meaning: a quiet tribute to Wi******er's rich radio history, a legacy kept alive through moments like these, where music, memory, and emotion blend seamlessly. Here’s the moment….

You asked for it and I answered! :)

CAPON BRIDGE MUSIC FESTIVAL - PART 2 COLDSTREAM CAMPGROUND SEPTEMBER OF 1974 . I call this one...Bongs, Bourbon, and Bluegrass. God Bless West Virginia!

Ghostly Tales book is a hit!
Ghostly Tales book is a hit!

The “Ghostly Tales” book is out! 👻

1974 Capon Bridge Music Festival
1974 Capon Bridge Music Festival

50 YEARS AGO! . In 1974, Capon Bridge had its own mini Woodstock. At the Coldstream Campground, John Prine, Arlo Guthrie, Earl Scruggs, The Dillards, and John Hartford performed. Play with the sound on! Video Credit: Jerelyn Botkin Music Credit: John Denver

Happy National Bicycle Day! Here are some rare shots of Wi******er citizens enjoying their Velocipedes in style back in the day. Enjoy!

A FUTURE APPLE BLOSSOM GUEST? The Arquette family spent a lot of time in the Front Royal and Wi******er area back in the day. Patricia, Alexis and Roseanna Arquette attended Warren County schools. The Arquette's loved The Melting Pot in Front Royal and were personal friends with the owners. David Arquette still visits Front Royal from time to time. I had asked David Arquette to clear up some rumors that he was born on the commune outside Front Royal, or if he was born in the hospital in Wi******er....here's what he had to say.

The Conoco gas station on North Loudoun Street in the 1940s…and the wonderful and delicious Pizzoco today. If you haven’t tried their pizza, you are missing out!

Members of the Sarah Zane Fire Company help clean the streets in the early 1900s….and the intersection of Piccadilly and Loudoun Streets today…

I wish this gas station still looked like this at the corner of Braddock and Handley Blvd…. The now image is a little dated as it’s a German restaurant today.

This massive brick building sits on what was the southwestern bastion of George Washington’s Fort Loudoun. Sitting proudly atop North Loudoun Street, it was once the Fort Loudoun Seminary for girls.

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