It’s seldom that I will re-blog another’s post. But, this particular post requires as much attention as possible. The behavior described is merely a microcosm of what is happening in far too many US public (and, no doubt, some private) schools.
The time for re-sets and “fixes” has long past. Our education system is broken and has been for some time. It is time to rethink what type of educational system we want and need and then start over.
There are numerous private schools being started throughout the country. Many are faith-based since, without a deep and sincere knowledge of who and what we are – children of God – there can be no real learning. If you have such schools near you, please get to know them and, if possible, support them in any way you can.
In our little corner of Virginia, we have begun just such a project – a true labor of love – for God, our children and our Country. You may follow our work at: http://www.stmarysschoolva.com
Have you ever thought that something has gone terribly wrong…but you can’t quite put your finger on it?
Have you ever wondered how an entire generation has come to think genders are “fluid” and the previous generation is encouraging that thinking?
Have you ever wondered why the “Leaders” in the education industry refer to parents (regardless of which ethnicity or race they are) as racists when they only want a decent education for their children?
Have you ever figured out why so many businesses can’t find people to work?
Have you ever wondered why a “barista”, working 40 hours per week pouring coffee, earns more income and benefits than a small farmer working over 70 per week?
Have you ever wondered why the learning levels of our school children are going down, yet many schools have stopped giving homework – because it’s not “equitable”?
Many colleges are no longer requiring SAT or other learning proficiency scores for admission. Why?
Have ever wondered how electric power is generated?
Have you ever thought what is going to happen to all the electric car batteries 10 or so years from now?
Have you ever wondered why so many people have stopped wondering? Who would have thought!
If you’ve ever wondered how we all have gotten to this place in time, a time in which nothing much makes sense and everything seems turned upside down, you might have an idea of what’s been churning in my noggin’ for the past several months.
We have stopped watching “news” on television. Our once, mostly reliable, favorite station and their News website have descended into a similarly tawdry version of their British tabloid cousin. It has also proven the broadcaster, Megyn Kelly, correct in stating that, no matter what source you rely on for news or what slant you prefer, the “News” has one job: Scare you and keep you scared. They just keep talking. Click link:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2IgjUYrDbWI
But, there is something more happening. Something that started out as disliking ourselves and descended into a near hatred of mostly everything else: the inability to see ourselves and others as creations of God. Nothing else can account for what is happening now.
It’s enough to make one throw their hands up and say, “I give up, there’s nothing that I can do.” But, maybe there is another way. A friend recently said, “We’re all here just to help each other walk home.” If we believe that, then we must ask: where is home, who told us we must do this and, finally, how do I do this?
One doesn’t need to be a Biblical scholar to appreciate the profound message in John 13, 34-35: “I give you a new commandment: Love one another. Just as I have loved you, so also must you love one another. By this, all shall recognize that you are my disciples: if you will have love for one another.” If we recognize the Author of that quote for who and what He is, then we have the answer to the first two questions. But, going about doing it … now, that is the question! Some, volunteer their time at various charities. Others go about doing “random acts of kindness”. Still others donate money to worthy causes that help the less fortunate. All that is good. But, for some, there must be another way. Which brings me to this.
There are six of us. We are not crusaders or “do gooders.” Our backgrounds and experiences are very different. Yet, we do have in common several things: Our belief in the words of Jesus, as quoted in John 13, 34-35, that we must love one another. We also believe, quite unexpectedly, in the truth of Vladimir Lenin’s words: “Give me just one generation of youth, and I’ll transform the whole world” and “Give me four years to teach the children and the seed I have sown will never be uprooted.” We each also believe that the time for hand-wringing and wishful thinking is long gone. We believe that we must do something to help in the reversal of the moral and spiritual decline and lack of knowledge that has plagued our nation for too many years. Lenin asked that he be given four years or one generation of our children. It seems he was given that several times over. We pledge to give Jesus even more.
We are starting a school. A school based on love of God, love of one another, teaching and learning the Truth and helping, with God’s Blessing, generations of children on their walk Home.
One of the things that first attracted us to Staunton, and still does, is the history of the town and surrounding Counties. For centuries, wave after wave of various peoples roamed and settled within the Shenandoah Valley and encompassing Blue Ridge and Allegheny mountains. Starting with Native American tribes and later by the British, Scotch/Irish, German, African, Irish and Jews each group arrived here in the valley with their own stories and under different circumstances.
Learning the history of this town has been an adventure onto itself. Staunton has played a major role in the development of not only the Shenandoah Valley but of much of Western Virginia and other areas of the South. In researching this blog so many interesting facts came to light: That Staunton was the home base of Barnas Sears; Baptist minister and former president of Brown College who took the position of Administrator of a philanthropic fund to establish a free public school system throughout the South. The fund’s patron was George Peabody of Massachusetts. Sound familiar? Think, Yale’s Peabody Museum. Sears Hill, honoring Rev. Sears and overlooking downtown Staunton, offers one of the most impressive views of the city.
Sears Cottage
On a more personal note, I just discovered that the home we built here is located on what was considered somewhat wilderness and is also very near where had been the encampment of Confederate soldiers under General Jubal Early as his army prepared for what would be the last Civil War battle for the Shenandoah. Early himself set up his headquarters in a home just down the road on West Beverly Street, close to the vital train depot. (1)
Discovering the rich history of our town and region has been fascinating. So, imagine our enthusiasm to attend a recent talk focusing on the Presidents of Virginia, specifically their homes. The slides or photos of the Presidential homes were accompanied by brief snippets of the Presidents’ lives. Some were very brief, but Jefferson and Washington were given more attention and deservedly so. Jefferson’s Monticello was discussed and specific tours were recommended to see the home and property properly. Jefferson’s relationship with Sally Hemmings was also spoken of, but without any great detail.
Next discussed was George Washington. Some time was spent on Mount Vernon and again suggestions were given for visiting the home and grounds. Then considerable time was spent discussing the myths of Washington (the cherry tree) and his reputation of being very brutal toward native tribes while fighting them as a member of the British Colonial Army. Hmm, I thought. Life was certainly harsh on the frontier and warfare is seldom pleasant. But, it seemed the speaker was intent on singling out Washington for particular scrutiny. Then the talk proceeded to Washington being a slave owner. It was not mentioned that Washington did, in fact, own slaves obtained from both inheritance and purchase, but that he also, as he became older (and wiser), grew to detest slavery and hoped for its abolition. (2)
But, the highlight for me was a discussion of Washington’s poor old teeth. No, they were not made of wood. They truly more resembled medieval torture instruments rather than dentures (see top photo). And then there was more. We were told that Washington, in his quest to having dentures made, “yanked” the teeth from his slaves in order to have them fitted into his dental appliances. Yikes!!! Now, that is harsh. If true…
Trinity Church, Staunton, VA
After leaving the lecture and heading home we passed by Trinity Episcopal Church. I mentioned to The Redhead that that evening’s lecture in some way reminded me of a tour of Staunton we had been given last summer by a local tour guide. The tour, by car, had been interesting and many little tidbits of the city’s history were given. It was when we arrived at the Trinity Episcopal Church in the heart of downtown that one particular historical anecdote was offered. It was that Flora Stuart, widow of Civil War Confederate General J.E.B. Stuart, became enraged when the pastor of Trinity moved the remains of Black slaves from one side of the graveyard into the White section during an expansion project of the church. Flora, we were told, was so angry with the mingling of White and Black bones that she quit Trinity and founded another Episcopal Church, Emmanuel, a few blocks away. The story at the time seemed odd. After that night’s lecture, however, I determined to seek out the truth about both George Washington’s teeth and Flora Stuart’s “bones”.
Washington’s teeth were fairly easy to research. Mount Vernon has wonderful records and also the only known complete set of George’s choppers. Washington, himself, was a meticulous record keeper, including his expenses. It seems that Washington did buy and obtain teeth for his dentures. Things of beauty they were, because each set included various teeth: animal, metal and even some of his own that had fallen out. No wood, though. And, it seems, that Washington did, in fact, buy several teeth from his slaves. Now, according to the records at George Washington Presidential Library at Mount Vernon, the fact that Washington made note of the purchase of teeth from particular slaves indicates that perhaps the teeth weren’t for his own use but perhaps for someone else – Martha or maybe a friend. Another fact is that the selling of teeth for use in dentures for another person was, while not common, at least unremarkable. It was a way for poorer folks, both free and slave to obtain money. Today we might consider the selling of blood, sperm, eggs or some other body parts or becoming a surrogate mother for compensation as being a similar practice. But, it appears certain that Washington did not “yank” teeth from his slaves in order to make them into his own dentures. (1)
Flora, (Mrs. General) Stuart
General J.E.B. Stuart
Flora Stuart, or Mrs. General Stuart as she preferred to be addressed following the death of her very famous husband, Civil War General J.E.B. Stuart was a bit harder to research, especially the facts surrounding the graveyard story. Flora’s family, like so many others during the war, had been torn apart by the conflict. Her father was a career Army officer and remained a soldier on the side of the Union during the war. At the start of the war J.E.B. Stuart chose to defend his State and joined the Confederate Army. This familial split lasted until after the war ended. J.E.B Stuart was killed in the Battle of Yellow Tavern in 1864. By age 28 Flora had already lost a child at birth, another child to sickness and then found herself a widow. it was an emotional blow that put her into mourning the rest of her life. Following the death of her husband and the ravages of war and close to being destitute, Flora Stuart accepted some financial help from her husband’s brother. She also began a career in education, teaching schools in South West Virginia and culminating in becoming Principal at the prestigious Virginia Female Institute, an Episcopal school for girls. Years later this still very highly regarded school would be renamed in Flora’s honor, Stuart Hall. Incidentally, Robert E. Lee had previously been on the Board of the Institute and his daughters attended there as students. (2)
While in Staunton, Flora was a member of the nearby Trinity Episcopal church. The pastor was the Rev. Quarrier Hullihen.
Prior to becoming an Episcopal minister, Hullihen was a member of J.E.B. Stuart’s Confederate cavalry. Sometime during an 1888 renovation of the church, workers unearthed several graves and Rev. Hullihen ordered that the remains of the graves be disposed of quickly. No record of how or where these remains were disposed of can be found nor are there any records of who the deceased were. Hullihen was criticized by a number of congregants about this incident and also about his spending of funds on new church pews during the renovations. In 1891 the church Treasurer resigned his position over disagreements with Hullihen regarding finances and Hullihen’s authoritarian manner. The problems at Trinity continued until 1892 when eighty four (84) members of the congregation petitioned the pastor to leave Trinity. He refused, but encouraged those that were dissatisfied with his service to leave the parish. In the Spring of 1893 those members did leave Trinity to start their own parish after having secured permission from the Episcopal Bishop. Flora Stuart was one of those at least 84 members that did leave. By 1899 the congregation had raised enough money to commission the erection of a new church building, Trinity Emmanuel Episcopal Church which today still stands across the street from Stuart Hall on Frederick Street.
Emmanuel Episcopal Church
The architect was T J Collins. Emmanuel Episcopal Church was his second architectural commission in Staunton, His first was St. Francis Catholic Church.
St. Francis Church, interior
Following the death of her daughter, Virginia, Flora Stuart moved to Norfolk, Virginia in 1898 in order to raise her grandchildren. She retired from the Virginia Female Institute (now Stuart Hall) shortly afterwards in 1899.
Flora Stuart was a woman held in high regard by nearly everyone that met her. She accomplished much and suffered more throughout her life. Flora was never a wealthy woman and certainly never had the means to fund the building of a church. And, there are no records of any sort regarding Mrs. Stuart ever leaving Trinity Church because the bones of Blacks were mingled with those of Whites. As a matter of fact, J.E.B. and Flora Stuart did own 2 slaves. They had been given to them through the estate of J.E.B.’s father, a lawyer and Democratic politician, as a wedding present. These slaves had been given their freedom in 1859, before the Civil War, while J.E.B. was still in the Union Army. Both he and Flora were decidedly against slavery. (3)
We live in odd times. History is distorted. People of honor, courage and grace are maligned. Is it because of sloppy research or the need to embellish or twist the past to make a point or forward an agenda? I don’t know. But we all, professional and amateur historians, teachers, parents – and all good citizens, have an obligation to know and tell of our past – truthfully and not chop it up.
(1) MountVernon.org
2) Staunton, Virginia: A Pictorial History, David J. Brown, SHF 1985
(3)News Leader, (Staunton, VA 3/2014
” History of Trinity Church 1746-1996 Comformable to the Doctrine and Discipline” Staunton Public Library archives
News Leader, (Staunton, VA) 4/24/2000
Encyclopedia Virginia, Flora Cooke Stuart (1836-1923
That sentence, the tag line of famous broadcaster, Paul Harvey, would end his mini-biographies and histories about obscure facts of history or little known details of famous – or infamous – people familiar to the American public. It would not be uncommon for a listener to utter, Wow, after each episode, having just learned of some detail of an event or character trait of someone that often would utterly change his or her understanding of that event or person.
And yet, today, we seem to forget that there is always a “rest of the story”, lurking behind the headlines or latest utterances of TV or radio pundits. And the result is that we are being duped – day in and day out almost unceasingly. In our current desert of despair there appear very few oases of candor, honesty and integrity.
Recently, I’ve taken to listening to a number of Podcasts by Mike Rowe of the television show, Dirty Jobs, fame. Judging from his range of topics and assortment of guest conversationalists, Rowe seems to be curious and fascinated by a range of subjects, ideas and people. One recent podcast ( Click Here) featured Megyn Kelly, formerly of Fox Cable and now doing her own podcasts and speaking tours. Her conversation with Rowe was entertaining and enlightening. One particular comment, by Ms Kelly, in response to Rowe asking what did listeners and viewers really need to know about the news – how to be critical thinkers and listeners – caught my attention. Kelly’s response was that viewers probably didn’t know how much the news programs and talk shows desperately wanted to scare you and outrage you and to keep you that way.
In days gone by, many television news programs would feature blood and fire to hook viewers – “If it bleeds, it leads” was the motto. Now, it seems, it is fear and loathing…of one another. No, it is more a fear and loathing of nearly everyone and everything. How did this become so? How have so many become Howard Beales, screaming, “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore” in the film, Network? Click Here. Is it because, since the dawn of the 24 hour news cycle, our outrages and fears and hatreds have been created and fed? Have we become so trusting or reliant on News Personalities that we have lost all ability to think critically – to think for ourselves?
Are bad things happening? Absolutely. Is everyone out to hurt us? No. Can we change things? Maybe. But, the only way to find out is to try.
Think. Seriously, just think. And ask yourself why things are the way they are. If you see things have gone wrong, think how you can do something about it, rather than just complain.
Learn. Read, research, compare, verify. Don’t rely on one source. Learn the history.
See the humanity in one another. Here’s a challenge – and NOT a “tic-tock” one: No matter where you live – small town, country, large city; whether you live in a single home, HOA, an apartment building…whatever, invite 5- 8 people to get together for a meal. Everyone takes a turn hosting a dinner. It doesn’t have to be fancy. As a matter of fact, simple is better. At the end of the cycle of everyone getting together it is almost certain that you will have made several new friends. You will also have been exposed to different points of view (avoid the taboos: politics and religion!) and discovered some really interesting people. Keep these get-togethers going and you may be surprised at how differently your world begins to look.
Make it a point to be sincerely polite to people you come into contact with on a day to day basis.
And, most importantly, pray. Pray that God helps you to be a better person. If enough prayers are answered what a better world this can be.
Christmas can awake many memories. Of wished for toys magically appearing under the tree. Of family dinners and relatives and friends stopping by to wish all a Merry Christmas. Sometimes it was different. Those memories are of Christmas trees thrown through front windows or of waiting on Christmas Eve for the headlights of a father’s car to appear coming down the street. Before six pm and all might be OK. Much later and Christmas was over before it started. There is, however, one particular Christmas, or rather Christmas Eve, that stands out from all the rest. It was when a not so little boy named Jimi learned there truly was a Santa Claus.
So, I need you to play Santa Claus for me on Christmas Eve.
I’d love to, Tom, but I’m working 4 to 12. Otherwise, I would. (fingers crossed).
Oh, come on. I’ve got a really good outfit all ready and besides, you’re the supervisor and you can take off a few minutes to make a lot of kids happy. Really happy.
Why don’t you do it?
I can’t do it. All the kids will recognize me. They won’t recognize you.
Nah, I can’t. It will be busy and we may be short handed. Seriously.
Come on. You know it won’t get busy until late and just think of the kids. Some of them don’t have fathers around and this will really be special.
How many kids? (I could already feel myself caving in to big brother’s logical persuasion)
Only a few. Mostly Nikki’s family. And the girls will be there to help. (Nikki was Tommy’s Ex, but a very compatible Ex and the “girls” were Tommy’s daughters, and I loved them)
OK. But, only for no more than 15 minutes or so.
Yeah, yeah. Great. And, oh, I’m making a list of all the kids and what they did good and bad this past year. You know, Santa’s List. And come down the street carrying the gift sack and ringing a bell.
How many kids are there going to be? What sack and what bell?
Don’t worry, I’ll get you everything.
And so, shortly before 6:00 pm on Christmas Eve I retrieved from my personal car my outfit, a sea-bag sized sack weighing at least 50 pounds and a harness strap with brass bells. And a sheet of paper… with about 30 names on it! Ah, brother Tom. What a conniver! After telling those that needed to know that I’d be on “special assignment” for a short time I drove, fully costumed over my “work clothes”, to my brother’s house. Luckily, it was only 5 minutes away.
Parking around the corner, hefting my sack and ring-jingling the bells for all they were worth, I clomped to my brother’s front door. The door opened and what seemed like an invasion of Lilliputians swarmed Ol’ Santa.
45 minutes later Santa was finished with picture taking, handing out presents, urging the kiddies to be nicer to their siblings the coming year and congratulating them on the little life victories of childhood. Oh, how they were amazed that Santa really knew what was up – no fooling him!
Good bye, children. See you next year! Ho, ho, ho.
Off I went, dragging the now empty sack and giving the bells a few jingles and shouting, ho, ho, ho – just in case. Rounding the corner, there he was. Jimi.
Now, everyone knows, Christmas is the time for giving. And Jimi, true to the spirit, was giving. Or at least trying to. Giving to himself, that is. For, just a few feet in front of Santa, in the warm glow of street lamps, Jimi was busy jamming a metal shim into a car door in an attempt open it… without a key. And that car just happened to be piled high with wrapped presents.
Hey, what are you doing?
Hi, Santa! Merry !%#@&)# Christmas!
Poor Jimi. High and busted.
You’re under arrest.
Whaat? And with that Jimi started his getaway, only to run into another street light.
Fishing through my outfit, I was finally able to retrieve the cuffs and snap them onto Jimi before he could utter another, “What the @&$*”? As a matter of fact, that was all Jimi could manage to say, over and over, as we drove to the station and up the ramp to the sally-port doors.
Joe, the booking officer, opened the doors and gave out a hearty, Hello Santa! What do we have here?
Oh, a very naughty boy, I’m afraid.
Well, come in, Santa. We’ll give him a nice warm bed for the night.
Ho, ho, ho. In you go, lad.
What the @$#&?
Ugh, ugh. No more bad words. It’s Christmas, said, Joe.
A few minutes later, after Jimi was told what he had done wrong, he was told he could make a phone call. He then made his second mistake that night. He called his mother.
Ma, it’s Jimi. I‘m in jail, Ma. Nothing bad, Ma. I just… Ma, I got arrested by @!$%*#@ Santa Claus.
Click.
And so, Jimi went to bed that night no doubt dreaming of Sugar Plum Fairies, shiny shims and Santa with handcuffs.
He was my friend, not my father. But, a long time ago, when I was adrift, he had wanted to be.
We first met in 1967 at my mother’s funeral. He and his wife, Bonnie, along with their eldest daughter and their son, my classmate, were among the people that attended whom I still now recall. Neither of us could have imagined that this first meeting during a time of what is still my greatest sorrow would have begun a relationship lasting 55 years.
It began with Sunday dinners. Now, Sunday dinner in an Italian household is an event. It took me a while to realize that what I thought was the main course was, as a matter of fact, only the pre-dinner starter, the “warm up”, so to speak. It ended with desert(s) – sometimes at the dinner table, sometimes in front of the TV. But, at various times throughout those Sunday afternoons, appearances would be made by Grandpa and Grandma and Uncle Mike. They all lived on the first floor of the house and would trek up and down the back staircase whenever I or anyone one else was upstairs. They had all come from Naples and brought with them the simple, infectious joy only the truly happy can share.
Bonnie was as close to being a Lucy Ricardo double as anyone could be. Her antics, facial contortions and talent for getting into “trouble” would make a Sphinx laugh. He was a marvelous combination of Archie Bunker and The Godfather. Despite untold numbers of hours spent together it would take many years for me to learn the depth of his and Bonnie’s feelings for me and mine for them.
Years passed and my visits became less frequent. Swing shifts, undercover work and the shame of a failed marriage were excuses. I should have known better.
Occasionally, I would drive past the old house letting memories flood over me. To burst out laughing was not uncommon. And then one day there he was, unloading groceries from his car parked at the curb. And then there I was – back. Just like that.
Bonnie had passed and he was living, still, on the second floor. His youngest daughter and family had taken over the first floor when the Grandparents were gone. Everything was nearly the same upstairs. The furniture had a few newer pieces added to the collection and the dining room table seemed to have become his office with papers, books and photos laid out in neat piles. We had coffee.
After a few more visits he said he was thinking about moving to Florida to be closer to his eldest daughter and the youngest of the girls was moving there, too. He asked me what I thought.
Great idea, I said. The neighborhood was changing and being with family was most important, I told him. And so firm plans were made to sell the house and move. We continued to talk.
Billy, sit down, he said. I have something to tell you. You know, Bonnie and I really cared about you.
I know.
I don’t think you know how much.
Really?
Yeah. We wanted to adopt you.
What?
Yeah, we met with an attorney and were going to ask you what you thought. But one of your half-sisters, I wont tell you which one, learned what we were thinking and put the kibosh on it. We wanted to help you but didn’t want to make any trouble in the family. You already had enough. So we dropped it.
I don’t know what to say.
I know, he said. I just wanted to let you know how much we loved you.
And so a new bond was forged at that dinner table. Stories of relatives and of his work over the years were told. How he had worked with Freddie Trump putting up buildings in NYC. And of meeting the young Donald. And of Donald being taught the value of labor and the dignity of the laborers. He was still a pain in the ass, though, he said. Tales of horses and racing and meeting Goldie Hawn in Vegas (she sometimes acts whacky but she’s really a nice lady and plenty smart). But, the most frequent conversations, other than family, were about music.
He had hit the road just after high school playing in a few area big-bands. After a while he joined The Ray Anthony Band and toured the country. Xavier Cougat, Louie Prima and Keely Smith were but a few of the characters he met while “on the road” in the early and mid-1940’s. He loved music and his stories of being part of a famous “Big Band” were always interesting and sometimes hilarious. It all ended when he met the true love of his life, Bonnie.
When he returned home with his new bride he obtained a degree in Mechanical Engineering and helped build many iconic buildings in New York and in Connecticut. His stories of the ins and outs of the building trades in NYC were…interesting. Mostly, though, he built a family and a life.
I think of him more often than I would have imagined. While he had spent the last few years in an assisted living facility we enjoyed many, many phone conversations. He would complain about not being able to get any decent Italian food. I would tease him about never “passing up dessert”. He would belly laugh and tell me I had a one-track mind. I’d just say, I don’t know what you mean.
Our conversation on January 12 was one of our longest and most meaningful. We spoke about everything: music, politics, construction, sports, family and, of course, food. And God. He spoke, too, for a while to The Redhead. How she loved talking with him and how special he made her feel. At the end of our conversation we said something we didn’t often say, but both understood:
I love you, Pete.
I love you, too, Billy.
My friend, my confidant, Peter Mercurio fell into a coma shortly after that call and passed 17 days later. How grateful I am for speaking those last few words. And for his.
Is it best, at times, to say nothing? It seems that for the past two – plus months I’d say, yes.
Winter is a welcomed season, bringing a long-sought break from summer’s heat. Yet, winter is a two-edged sword. With it’s beauty and snow wrought silences and the arrival of The Baby Jesus, winter also brings, “The Holidays”, that caroling, bright tree, scented wreath, manger scene, family time of year that is a stab to the heart for so many.
It’s tough to hold on. Maybe only the tough do. Or at least those with a strong survival instinct. Or the eternal optimists. Yet, none of these “walking wounded of the heart” remain unscathed from this yearly onslaught. At times the most they can hope for is that their affliction is not contagious.
The season of What If’s, If Only’s, How Come’s, and Why’s will soon come to a close and with that, for tough, survivalist optimists, a return to normalcy. See them.
For those with a Redhead in their lives, thank God.
Two recent day-trips that the Redhead and I took are less than 1.5 hours drive from Staunton, VA and both were to small towns – one actually more like a hamlet.
Broadway, VA is North of Staunton in Rockingham County, VA, about 12 miles north of Harrisonburg, along Route 42. With a population of less than 4,000, it has been ranked as one of the safest places to live in VA. Slow down as you approach, Broadway is filled with lots of surprises.
WW Motor cars was an unexpected surprise in this tiny town. Located within an old Feed Mill, WW provides superb restorations of antique cars. Several of their works in progress can be viewed through display windows facing the main street or tours of the facility can easily be arranged with the owners. WW Motors: http://www.wwmotorcars.com/index.html
If you’re looking for a tasty bite, The Gobbler restaurant is nearby as is the unique Hummingbird Bistro – a gourmet, family run, food truck: http://www.thehummingbirdbistro.com/index.html.
Like many small, rural towns Broadway might be overlooked – certainly as a tourist destination. But, for those looking to find those hidden gems where the people are the story – Broadway, Virginia is certainly worth a visit.
Next stop, heading South from Staunton…the place that made Al Roker cry – with pleasure!
For some time now, we’d been hearing from our friends and neighbors about “The best pies ever”. When we asked where these pies were all they could tell us was, “someplace out in the country”. Being country folk, when James and Ann say, “Country”, they mean COUNTRY. Like the middle of nowhere! Or so it seemed. So, finally getting an address and relying on Garmin and Google Maps and luck, we set out to find “Woodruff’’s Pies”.
Woodruff’s Pies and Cafe
Actually, while a bit remote, Woodruff’s Pies are fairly easy to find. Monroe, VA is a small, hamlet type of area that is located somewhat between Lexington and Lynchburg and very close to the city of Buena Vista and the Blue Ridge Parkway. Starting in the early 1950’s, James and Fannie Mary Woodruff ran a small grocery store and gas pump from a building they had built themselves and which also contained their second floor living area. For 30 years they ran their shop and then in 1998 daughter, Angela, and her two sisters reopened as a small sandwich cafe. It didn’t take long until Angela’s passion for baking took over and Woodruff’s Pies were born. Being an out of the way location Woodruff’s Pies struggled along until February, 2020 when NBC Today host, Al Roker, paid the Woodruff family a visit (https://www.today.com/video/103-year-old-still-helps-run-pie-shop-she-opened-nearly-70-years-ago-79076933543). Two months later Covid struck and the nation-wide lock-downs ruined many businesses. But, thanks to Roker and the Today Show segment, lines of customers clamoring for the now famous pies formed outside the shop. Today. customers can enjoy their pie and a tasty sandwich at one of the small tables inside the shop or out in the yard at a picnic table. On our visit we enjoyed the Apple and the Almond Delight pies and the chicken salad sandwiches. Fantastic!
The Woodruff family and their pies are truly an American Story – in every sense. Woodruff’s Pies.
The Woodruff sisters
One of the many things we enjoy while day-tripping is the ability to truly get to know an area. Guide books, Best Places, Trip Advisor, etc. all have their purpose. But, nothing can replace just getting in the car, exploring, talking to everyone you can along the way and and taking time to …taste the pie!
It will be a year next month that the Redhead gave me the key to discovering where I’m now at. Until this past week, I have not had the courage to see what it would unlock.
Perhaps, it is age more than mere curiosity that makes me now wonder how I came to be here in this particular place at this particular time. I am a city boy through and through, feeling more at ease surrounded by concrete, asphalt and steel than deep woods. Red says I’m a baby by refusing to take a hike in a forest. No, I say, I’ve just been “Deliverenced”. Darn Burt Reynolds and Jon Voight, that movie would have dissuaded even Thoreau from spending the briefest of afternoons at Walden! Squeal, Baby!
The movie that kept me in the city
So, City Boy I was born and stayed…until now. Don’t get me wrong, Staunton, Virginia is not the Wilderness – at least not for the past 300 years or so. But, to put it into perspective, it is about 1/5 the size of our former hometown in Connecticut or about the population of ½ square mile of Manhattan! Yet, The Redhead and I still chose to live outside the City limits into the County and thus we have far more livestock than people as neighbors. True to my nature, however, I still crave civilization, now, especially, that of the past. Tumbled barns, remnants of stone foundations, depressions in a field’s landscape now surrounded by trees and occasionally overgrown, wild ornamental plantings give evidence that somebody was here before us. Why they came and what made them leave or disappear may answer my question: Why am I here? Is there something more than the natural beauty – so reminiscent of my family’s home place in Ireland’s West – and the gentleness of the people that drew us, after a few false starts, like a magnet to this land of both Peace and Rebellion?
Read all you want about a place, nothing gives more clues about its true nature than the artifacts, the tangibles of those that came before. Study Pompeii ‘til blue in the face and nothing will give you a clearer sense of that place or those people than actually seeing the chariot ruts and street-side “cafes” or the menus inscribed onto the walls of the “guest houses”. View the bleak stone slopes of western Ireland and one can instantly comprehend Cromwell’s curse of those refusing to submit. Thus it is with every place, past or present: it must be touched to be known.
And so, this past Thursday, I finally made my journey into the past that now surrounds me, using the key that The Redhead gifted me last Christmas. I unpacked and charged up my long-desired but intimidating metal detector. A few Readers of this blog are actually quite astute in the use of these machines and have experienced both the joys and frustrations of combing through fields, parks, beaches and, well, just about anywhere they can get permission to search for the past. Some seek “treasure” in the form of jewelry or coinage – both ancient and not so much so. Others, while never turning their nose up at things of value, mostly enjoy “the hunt” for the past. I’ve read their blogs, watched their YouTube videos and enjoyed and even became hooked on the wonderful British television series, Detectorists. I was ready. Or so I thought!
The Detectorists
My machine, (just saying it makes me feel, “part of the club”, lol) a Nokta Makro Simplex+ is designed to be just that: Simple, yet “advanced”. Perhaps it is. Cradling it under my arm and carrying a canvas ditty bag containing gloves, “pointer”, sharp-edged mini-trowel and a zip-lock enclosed instruction manual (just in case) I walked down to the property of our neighbor whom had given me the all-important permission to “hunt”.
The Simplex Machine
He said to wear old clothes since his land was a bit rough. Unlike the fields and pasture lands of the videos I had watched over and over, Old Kevin’s land was a mire of brambles, saplings, old growth trees, ruts, abandoned “privies” and cesspools, a tumbled down shack and enough blackberry bushes to feed several bears for a season and enough thorns to keep everything else away. Except for Moi, the newbie “detector”. And all of it was, it seemed, located on a 30 degree slope!
By the time we reached the back of the property, the site I would begin searching in, I looked, thanks to the blackberry thorns, to be auditioning for the lead role in a Passion Play. Oi! Selecting a relatively clear area, I turned on the machine and began the search.
What the…? Not using headphones (why bother) the air was filled with static, crackles, pops, screeches and toots of every sort. Selecting a spot that emitted a steady screech I knelt down and began digging with the trowel. Rocks. More rocks. This can’t be, I thought. I held the machine up to a few and yep, the signal was louder than ever. There was a ton of iron in those rocks. Hmmm. Maybe that’s why I had read of there being so many pre- Civil War small iron smelters in the area . Well, I thought, let me move to another likely spot, with a different tune playing, so to speak. Ah, for the love of Pete. I can’t get up. My knees have locked! Trying to look just inquisitive rather than flummoxed, I root around a bit more until I spy a nearby sturdy looking branch and knee-waddle over to it to hoist myself upright. Jaysus!! The fookin’ thorns pierce my leather palmed gloves. Bugger me! This is rough work, I’m thinkin’. But, I’m up.
Eeee, eeeee, Eeeet. Now, That’s a signal, I’m sure. Down I go, much faster than I had just gotten up, I assure you. Scratch, dig. Retry the signal. Eeee, Eeee, EEEEEE. Ah, you’re onto something now, boy. Dig a few more inches. Aha! I can feel something. Coins? Old musket balls? Oh… Well, a pile of old nails is something, at least. Not wanting to grab another palm full of pain, I decide to use the trowel for a bit of leverage to get up. It sinks into the only soft dirt for probably several yards around. I look at the detector and hope it will not bend or break if I use it as a bit of a crutch. It holds and I’m up again, even if a bit slower than before.
Navigating more ruts and brambles, we come to a bit of a clearing and then it happens…a new signal, different than those of before. Oink, oinnk, ahoink. This has got to be gold. Or silver. Or an old Civil War relic. Kevin is nearby rooting around with a stick and unearths a skull. Animal, for sure. But, what else could be lurking nearby? We are, after all, only a few hundred yards from a compound of “Odd Ones”, as the locals call them, who find it rather amusing to hang deer butts from posts in their front yards. Nothing like a little “local color”, I suppose. But, the oinkking doesn’t quit and neither will I. The trowel hits something a few inches below the surface. An iron fence-wire guide emerges. I keep digging . Good thing, too. Something big is struck. What the heck! An old hinge of some sort is pried out. Maybe part of a buggy. Maybe an old piece of some machinery. Beats me. But, wait, there’s more, as the old TV commercial used to taunt. Is it wood? No. It’s a bit soft. Ah, an old leather satchel lost in the heat of battle? Hmm. No, not that either.
Heavy work, Detectoring!
As I said at the beginning of this piece, to know a place or a people or a particular thing you must touch it to know it for what it is.
After only one afternoon of being a “relic hunter” (as painful as it was) I found something – quite by chance – that generations of historians, archaeologists and scientists have devoted their careers to either proving or disproving. I held in my hands proof that the believers were right. I did it.
Unearthed in this Valley of the Shenandoah, on the outskirts of Staunton, was irrefutable proof that not only does The Mighty Sasquatch, The Yiddi, The Bigfoot exist, but that he, too, like us, has a life cycle. And a not yet considered intelligence.
For the first time in known history here is the proof:
Sole of Bigfoot shoe, probably adolescent. Note wear hole and rudimentary stitching!
Believe! And keep hunting.
Here are just a few of the blogs on metal detecting that I follow and you may find interesting as well:
southern redeux 