I’ve always felt a special connection to the Chesapeake & Ohio Canal, which stretches from Washington, D.C., to Cumberland, Maryland, taking in some of the most beautiful and historical sights of this part of the country en route. I live only 4 miles away from…Read More

I’ve always felt a special connection to the Chesapeake & Ohio Canal, which stretches from Washington, D.C., to Cumberland, Maryland, taking in some of the most beautiful and historical sights of this part of the country en route. I live only 4 miles away from the canal, near Edward's Ferry, and have spent countless hours hiking, biking, and horseback riding along its towpath.

The year I was born – 1954 – was the year that Supreme Court Justice William O. Douglas (no relation, much as I’d like to claim him) penned a famous letter challenging the editor of the Washington Post to walk the length of the 184.5-mile-long canal with him. Douglas was championing the preservation of canal, which had been slated for conversion into a roadway. In Douglas’ letter, he presented a lyrical case for the preservation of the canal and towpath:

"It is a place for boys and girls, men and women. One can hike 15 or 20 miles on a Sunday afternoon, or sleep on high dry ground in the quiet of a forest, or just go and sit with no sound except water lapping at one's feet. It is a sanctuary for everyone who loves woods, a sanctuary that would be utterly destroyed by a fine two-lane highway…

One who walked the canal its full length could plead that cause with the eloquence of a John Muir. He would get to know muskrats, badgers, and fox; he would hear the roar of wind in thickets; he would see strange islands and promontories through the fantasy of fog; he would discover the glory there is in the first flower of spring, the glory there is even in a blade of grass; the whistling wings of ducks would make silence have new values for him. Certain it is that he could never acquire that understanding going 60, or even 25, miles an hour." When his letter was printed in the Post, the walk that Douglas proposed became something of a cause célèbre, with dozens of people, including noted conservationists, participating. Douglas went on to chair the C&O Canal Association, which worked to preserve and adapt the canal for recreational use. In 1971, the C&O Canal was made a National Historic Park, with its headquarters established in Sharpsburg, only a few miles from Harpers Ferry.

The C&O has a fascinating history, beginning with George Washington’s proposal to create a "Potowmack Canal," up through the long digging of the Canal from 1828 to 1850 – 22 arduous years of back-breaking hand labor by as many as 4,000 men at the peak years of construction. The inherent challenges of the project were compounded by difficult terrain, labor disputes, disease, and legal battles over land rights. Worse, by the time the canal barges were up and running, they proved no match for a newer form of transportation – the railroads. The canal was finally closed in 1924, when it was severely damaged by a flood, but it was competition from the B&O Railway that truly brought about its end.

Today, walking along the canal with no sounds other than the rustle of squirrels among the leaves, the what cheer! what cheer! call of cardinals, and the murmur of the nearby Potomac river, it’s easy to imagine what the canal was like in the mid-19th century. Many of the canal’s 74 locks and lock houses are still standing. I like to imagine the lives of the men, women, and children who worked on the canal during its heyday, towing coal on narrow barges pulled by mules, sleeping in cramped quarters on their barges, and making the 7-day trip from one end of the canal to the other, usually working 18 hours or more a day.

Being, for the most, part level and straight, the canal is an easy place to bike or hike, but it’s also a great place for bird-watchers and nature lovers of every stripe. One of our favorite times to walk is after dark on the night of a full moon. We almost always hear owls hooting as we share the trail with nocturnal creatures such as possums and deer. (Alas, in recent years, the Park Service has put up signs indicating the canal is closed after dark, though there’s no practicable way they can "close" the 184.5-mile-long towpath.)

Some sections of the canal are dry, while others contain water, and the latter sections are popular with canoeists and kayakers. Sometimes, too, when the Potomac floods, it carries water, and countless hapless fish, over into the canal. One memorable afternoon, we found dozens of huge carp thrashing about in the canal, in water only inches deep. They’d gotten trapped there after the Potomac overflowed its banks and then receded.

On that occasion, my husband Jack, a friend, and I spent several hours catching slimy carp by hand and then lugging them across the stretch of woods, separating the canal and the river. A number of fish expired, however, which led to a frenzied round of fish-gutting, cleaning, and filleting that evening, an operation I insisted take place outdoors. Curious passers-by stopped to gawk at the monstrous fish laid out like battle fatalities on our front lawn. With more fish than we knew what to do with, we began giving them away, though not one of the recipients – or ourselves, for that matter - had any real notion of how to best cook the beasts.

I have a favorite stretch of the canal not far from where the Potomac joins the Monocacy River. I make a special effort to go there early each spring to view the wildflowers. The best time for this is in late March or early April, when jack-in-the-pulpit, Dutchman’s breeches, trout lilies, trillium, spring beauties, Virginia bluebells, and a host of other flowers carpet the forest floor.

At Harpers Ferry, the canal’s Civil War history comes to the fore, and Civil War buffs are richly rewarded by walking along the canal here. One of John Brown’s men, John Cook, posed as a lock tender as he worked as a spy, gathering information prior to Brown’s abolitionist uprising. When the rebellion failed, Cook and three other conspirators were hung for treason.

Since the Potomac River constituted a physical barrier between the north and south and the C&O Canal and B&O Railroad were the major supply arteries to the capitol, the entire region became the target of Confederate raids. John Singleton Mosby, Elijah V. White, Jubal Early, Jesse McNeill, and others waged guerilla warfare along this border region. You can’t travel far on the C&O without running into a reminder of these times, whether it be at White’s Ferry just outside Poolesville, where I live, or at Sharpsburg, which saw the bloodiest day of the Civil War on September 17, 1862, at the Battle of Antietam.

There are thousands of stories and hundreds of historical events associated with the canal and nearby Potomac River. But the beauty of the canal’s towpath is what draws most modern visitors. The Park Service does an admirable job of keeping the towpath free of obstruction and in good repair, while the surrounding green corridor of parkland assures plentiful wildlife to observe. Near Harpers Ferry, the Appalachian Trail crosses the C&O towpath, the two much-beloved long-distance walking routes briefly bisecting.

There are dozens of places to access the C&O Canal, but the Park Headquarters in Sharpsburg is as good a starting point as any, perhaps better, as you can get a good historical overview. All you need are sturdy shoes and perhaps some bug spray to enjoy one of the best walking/biking trails this side of the Continental Divide.

"I never saw so much expression in an inanimate thing before, and we all know how much expression they have!" - Charlotte Perkins Gilman, "The Yellow Wallpaper" On a recent visit to Harpers Ferry, we passed by the flea market held each weekend at the junction of Rt.…Read More

"I never saw so much expression in an inanimate thing before,
and we all know how much expression they have!"
- Charlotte Perkins Gilman, "The Yellow Wallpaper"

On a recent visit to Harpers Ferry, we passed by the flea market held each weekend at the junction of Rt. 340 and Bloomery Road. Naturally, we were lured in by the prospect of finding some overlooked treasure, some West Virginian relic that we cannily would snag at a fraction of its true value.

Spread out over what used to be a drive-in movie lot, the flea market sprawled higgledy-piggledy over several acres. The range of merchandise was almost daunting: piles of stuffed animals, broken alarm clocks, farm implements, crossbows and bowie knives, Confederate and American flags, eight-track tapes, wrought iron trellises, old pieces of stained glass, bead curtains, paper parasols, electronic toys, artificial flowers, pellet guns, velvet paintings (alas, no Elvis), Betty Crocker cookbooks, cut glass tumblers, baby clothes…on and on it stretched, the seemingly endless detritus of small-town America.

We found ourselves more drawn to the nostalgic than the genuinely useful. Alas, I had to acknowledge that I had no real place for a pair of brass bookends in the shape of mallard ducks or a large troll doll very much like one that I had when I was twelve. I picked up item after item, in wonderment. Surely my grandmother had had one of these. And my mother still has one of those. Oh, for heaven’s sake… here was something I hadn’t seen in years!

However, somewhat depressingly, our purchases were mostly utilitarian: some AA batteries, a set of small screwdrivers, a 12-pack of travel-sized Kleenex. Our son cajoled us into buying an unopened Battlebot toy construction kit, and my husband pondered long and hard before plunking down $4 for a new snorkel tube.

I surreptitiously eyed my fellow bargain hunters, speculating upon their decorating schemes based on the items they clutched. Away they trundled, toting brass lamps, quilted pillows, bamboo plant stands, and, yes, a few of those velvet paintings.

For some reason, it all brought back memories of the house of a high-school friend whose parents had decorated their tiny suburban house in a grand, almost Baroque manner. Entering the front door, the eye was assaulted by a glittering silver and turquoise color scheme. A black baby grand piano vied with a crystal chandelier for pride of place, while mirrored wall tiles floor to ceiling reflected tasseled cushions, brocaded chairs, oriental vases, and exotic knickknacks. It was unquestionably one of the more unique – and unapologetically flamboyant – houses I’d ever been in.

Years later, I revisited my friend’s house. Much to my chagrin, the entire silver and turquoise extravaganza had been ruthlessly eradicated and in its place was an entertainment area decorated in a soulless casual style. Gone were the mirrors and chandelier; in their place was no end of cunning track lighting, gleaming Scandinavian wood surfaces, suspended wine glass racks, and ingenious hidden cupboards that swung out from unexpected places. And what, I wondered, had become of the crystal lamps, the Chinese ceramic dogs, and the bejeweled cushions? Were they sent packing to the Land of Yard Sales, the great Flea Market in the sky?

A stroll through the Harpers Ferry Flea Market testified to the fact that one can simply never predict which objects will become prematurely outmoded, an absolute embarrassment to have in the house. Will my tower-shaped CD-storage unit become a humorous relic to my grandchildren? Already my LP’s are a source of wonderment for my thirteen-year-old son, who has difficulty believing that I grew up without a VCR or personal computer. What an odd thing style is. Even the defiantly retro or style resistant are drawn into its vortex, each item purchased seemingly date-stamped for planned obsolescence.

And then, one day, the outmoded suddenly becomes a valued find, a treasure. It becomes new again. Bellbottoms reappear on slump-shouldered teenagers, hair hangs lank and long once again, and even avocado green makes a reappearance.

A pity, though, that no gloriously impractical object of desire beckoned that day at the flea market. I did look, long and hard, as I’ve been planning on redoing the living room. Let’s see… I’d like lots of silk brocade. Turkish vases. Tinkling glass pendants. Mirrored wall tiles; that’s the ticket. Turquoise and silver . . .

They are two distinct feelings, Main Street and mountain, but they call me to Buckhannon as the Lorelei call sailors to shore. Both are all about family and community and comfort and resistance to change. Anyone who visits small towns or mountains without the…Read More

They are two distinct feelings, Main Street and mountain, but they call me to Buckhannon as the Lorelei call sailors to shore. Both are all about family and community and comfort and resistance to change. Anyone who visits small towns or mountains without the proper longing misses some of the refreshing, renewing medicine these destinations offer.

In her autobiography, writer Eudora Welty captures the romance of the mountains that she experienced annually at family reunions. She describes her youthful sense of well-being as she lay on the ground on a West Virginia mountaintop listening to her grandparents playing music late at night under the stars. In my family, it was a quilting bee or a neighborhood gathering on our wide in-town porch, but the feeling was the same. The older generation were masters of time, making it stand still for us all. We paid it no heed. Was it youth or community that shielded us from this concern?

Today when we travel and tour, time doesn’t behave that way, so that we savor the moment. The world community has limits too broad, too unfamiliar for comfort and too insecure for continuity, and living in it engenders a longing for a more manageable frame of reference. Main Street isn’t my frame of reference anymore, but I can revisit it. I watch as a postal driver enters the courthouse (1899) with only one package.

My, he is in there a long time! He must know everyone who works for Upshur County. I wait for him to move his delivery truck so that I can get a better photo, but I must give up and visit my stores first. After shopping, I finally get the shot.

I can imagine my mother’s and grandmother’s experiences walking to their shopping, nodding to their neighbors as they show off their new hats with feathers bobbing or veils that make them look like very demure ladies. Grandpa might call the hardware store owner by name, remind him of how loyal he’s been, and try to charm him into a good deal on a new wooden ice cream freezer--that would bring the neighbors over! (Then he could show them his new Victrola.)

On Sundays, he would have driven over the mountains with the family in that car I see in my brown-and-white photo of him with his foot resting oh-so-sportingly on the running board. That spit-shined auto reflects his image well. Grinning from ear to ear, he has tossed back his head, making him look very congenial and happy-go-lucky, and he has topped it off with a straw hat with band that looks like white silk. He appears very elegant and so coordinated and suave that one might expect him to break into a tap dance.

As I gander at the buildings along the two short blocks of the business district, I map out the historic community in my mind. Those were apartments above the stores.

Somebody’s grandpa’s mother lived in one of them, I imagine, after she had no need for a big house just a block or two away. They were nice apartments then in these brick buildings, nice enough for grandmas. Some newlyweds might have lived on the same floor while they saved for their first home. Grandma’s parents would have lived with her and her family just a block from the central area in one of those big Queen Annes with the wrap-around porches. Yes, those are homes for three generations.

My grandparents didn’t live in Buckhannon, but in a similar small town. In truth, Grandpa drank a little, I’ve been told, but it wasn’t a big problem. He certainly didn’t drink and drive, because the bars the townspeople visited were within a block or two of the courthouse. Only the country folk went to those on the former outskirts of town. There is the Pour House in the same block with some stately homes. Perhaps he would have drunk there.

I know for certain that grandma went into a bar like this at least once--to return something grandpa had bought from a traveling salesman. She’d have no silly purchases made with their money, even though grandpa earned it as a cabinetmaker in a lumberyard’s woodshop. He made good money from the 1920’s to the 1950’s, so they would have "nice things as long as he didn’t waste much." Women ruled--at least in town.

The mountains have another story to tell. Grandma couldn’t have returned a purchase in the mountains. (What business had she?) A man’s money had to be spent on things he needed for hard work and not much of it for household decoration or fine clothing, but for manly things, such as rifles to protect them from mountain lions, trucks for hauling, saws to cut wood from the land, or moonshine for the boys who came visiting and to lend a hand. Women in the mountains had to be more tolerant, for the men loved the freedom there. It was their kingdom, far from government or complaining neighbors, and two things they were free to do were to play foot-stompin’ music at night and to make and drink moonshine.

Two different worlds had the same effect: to consolidate a community and to isolate it from that other community, urban or rural. Main Street or Mountain, front-porch socials or raucous musical jams, grandma’s order and finery or grandpa’s freedom and hard work--we had two societies, feminine and masculine, that seem to be coming together now. How fortunate that we can visit both heritage links as tourists!

Finished with Main Street, David and I hop into the truck and head over the mountains (not the big ones yet) to Elkins. This region of lumberjacks produces a great deal of lumber, and craftsmen in towns make fine woodwork from it so that the woodshops of the area are well-known all over this state.

When we see our wainscotting, we are impressed with the craftsmanship. It looks just like that my grandpa made for a hotel in my hometown. The thirty-ish fellow who has made this decorative wall is debonair and teases me with surprisingly subtle wit. He reminds me of my grandpa--only without the suspenders!--and I like him immensely. He walks me to the curb to point out a mansion situated high atop a hill, and he tells me, "You should see the woodwork in that place." I will, since one can tour this former home of a senator. And I will because craftsmanship seems to link all the generations in towns all over the world, just as music links those in the mountains. (The centuries-old hammered dulcimer played in Moravia is a familiar sound here, too, as well as that of the Appalachian dulcimer, a newer instrument. Mostly Irish and Scottish ballads are preserved.) On our way home, I notice a trailhead (Allegheny Highlands Trail) on the outskirts of Elkins and resolve to return for a hike.

The human frame of reference has evolved from rural to town to world community. We have seen lasting links to at least two of these stages in one place on the same day! Right at the city line, I see a gigantic Confederate flag spread out on fully half of a one-gabled roof, so out-of-place in town that I think "the mountains are closing in." I’ll be content to watch MSNBC and check my email when I get home, but this has been a refreshing break from the seemingly larger world I live in--and from my ambiguous self.

Blaker’s Mill is no run-of-the-mill gift, even to a large university, so when WVU was given the now 209-year-old mill-to-beat-all-mills, the institution was determined to take good care of it. It’s a story that is just about as perfect as a mill seems perfect--doesn’t it?…Read More

Blaker’s Mill is no run-of-the-mill gift, even to a large university, so when WVU was given the now 209-year-old mill-to-beat-all-mills, the institution was determined to take good care of it. It’s a story that is just about as perfect as a mill seems perfect--doesn’t it? Isn’t a mill just a perfect thing? I’d be willing to admit that we may have idealized mills too much at some point in the past--perhaps sometime around the barbershop quartet era--if I hadn’t seen Blaker’s Mill. It is ideal.

Robert Hockman Blaker of Wilmington, Delaware gave it to West Virginia University so that they would preserve it for future generations. His ancestors had built it in Greenbrier County in 1794, and his family had run it for several generations. He must have known that WVU already owned a mill (Cummins Jackson’s second mill) that couldn’t be made operative because of structural weakness in the building. Engineers performed tests and determined that vibrations from the huge stones necessary to grind grain would weaken the building further, so it was made the Jackson family and milling industry museum. WVU still didn’t have an operative mill, and they were hoping to acquire one, because they already had the perfect historic property for it, the state conference center at Jackson’s Mill.

In the 1940s, the university had bought another mill, the Johnson family’s, which they moved from Barbour County, but it was 3.5 stories high, with a 2.5-story wheel and a water race 300 to 400 feet long, too large to be used for replacement parts for other mills. Its parts are now on display in Cummins Jackson’s mill (the mill-working museum). I don’t know how many mills there are still in West Virginia, but I’m beginning to think that WVU may end up with all of them at Jackson’s Mill. I wouldn’t mind at all having a mill village just 30 miles down the road.

Volunteers dismantled Blaker’s Mill, numbered and diagrammed every piece, and reconstructed and restored it, along with all its yellow poplar machinery, wooden nails, and stone foundation walls. I’m thinking that this feat of restoration is as fantastic as that of Philippi’s covered bridge! (Bear in mind that this thing runs--on water yet!) Our guide tells us that he can grind more grain in an hour than Jackson’s Mill Visitors Center can sell in a year. Since grain is perishable, they can’t run it but for special occasions. My, how I’d like to see it in operation!

I don’t know why mills thrill me like they do. Perhaps I long to return to a simpler time. Maybe a fragment of a classic English novel has lodged in my brain where digital appreciation is now supposed to be. Did I play too much with Tinkertoys? The Ferris wheel I made? The elevator? Whatever, I think that mills are just too perfect for words. Yes, they belong in pictures.

I want to see those tiny wooden cogs set huge stones whirling, just as they did 200 years ago. Several different levels of machinery with their whittled wooden parts, all moving in succession--wheels on three levels whirring . . . and it comes out here! Simple. Childhood simple.

I step down a half-flight of stairs to a sunken plank walkway between mechanisms, now at shoulder level, and I feel as though I’m in Santa’s workshop--maybe a Scandinavian version in yellow poplar, well-oiled with linseed and beeswax. A few steps back up here and another level there—elves would have to be nimble to feed it there and catch it here (when it comes out here!). To add to our contentment with this folk industry, water would be flying, foaming from the whirring wheel beneath us. I must go down and see.

"There’s a certain slant of light," explained Emily Dickinson, and I think I hear her "cathedral tunes"!

The stonework is so satisfying that I comment on its beauty, and our guide tells us that a Russian immigrant reconstructed the foundation walls from the same stones that supported Blaker’s Mill when it was originally built in 1794 in Greenbrier County. The place still looks like Santa’s workshop to me.

But we have yet to find the outside connection. It is a little disappointing--no big wheel that I can see, no spraying brume dancing in sunlight. I fail to understand just where the water comes in, but this mill is somehow different.

I’m not sure that a complete understanding of the mechanism is essential to enjoying a day at the mill, but seeing it working with water swooshing and "elves" scampering all around would certainly add to my appreciation of this folk trade. I live nearby, so I’ll return for one of those special occasions when it’s running. Today, at least I’ve had a glimpse into the folk industry that characterized the prenatal "state born of the Civil War."

On October 13, 1863, Confederate forces moved north on Weston-Gauley Turnpike under cover of early morning darkness. We start our walk on the turnpike (now a trail), where Major Kessler and his men approached Cunningham Farm. Commanded by Stonewall Jackson’s first cousin, Colonel William L. Jackson, two detachments…Read More

On October 13, 1863, Confederate forces moved north on Weston-Gauley Turnpike under cover of early morning darkness. We start our walk on the turnpike (now a trail), where Major Kessler and his men approached Cunningham Farm.

Commanded by Stonewall Jackson’s first cousin, Colonel William L. Jackson, two detachments intended to take this fort and march on to the Ohio River, destroying or controlling railroads along the way and eventually taking Wheeling, the new capital on the Ohio in the northern panhandle. Jackson’s plan was to somewhat copy the Jones-Imboden raid in the spring of the year, which did little to disrupt the northern railroad, anyway, though Imboden did blow up a rail bridge in my hometown of Fairmont and occupied Morgantown, near the Pennsylvania border.

The detachment on this side of the Little Kanawha River (led by Major Kessler) started up this hill to the Union fort built on Cunningham’s knoll. This hill that you can see through the trees is one of two that may have given this Jackson the nickname "Mudwall."

Dirt flung over from the digging of two levels of trenches 3 feet deep and 10 feet wide must have made footing difficult. Slipping in the mire at 4:30 in the morning, Confederate soldiers had seven men killed before Jackson called for a temporary truce to bury the dead. On the opposite side of the fort on another hill across the Little Kanawha River, a second detachment of rebels with Jackson also found wet conditions along the water in October--some slid into the river.

An almost magical occurrence changed the temper of the battle. During the truce, soldiers began shouting back and forth to one another. At this point, they realized that they knew each other, had fought together before on the same side in county militias, were in some cases even related, and this recognition dampened the spirit of the fight. Most of the soldiers here were from this county of Braxton or neighboring Lewis County, and all were West Virginians. Even though the battle raged for 12 hours, not another soldier was killed on either side. Imagining the area as a farm without trees, I surmise that Union men must have tried to miss 700 soldiers surrounding their hill!

Union commander, Captain Mattingly, was injured, and so was Moses Cunningham. Both recovered. (Simpson took over command for Mattingly.) Confederates even left the Federalist men they had captured with families who would care for them. A wounded soldier was left with Moses Cunningham to be nursed back to health at Cunningham Farm. One wounded Confederate died later.

All this slippin’ and slidin’ and shootin’ and shoutin’ actually constituted a significant battle for West Virginia in the Civil War. Never again did Southern soldiers venture north across the Gauley River or attempt to take Federalist positions in West Virginia! From this time forward, the Union retained control of the railroad and all points in the state. Even though the new northern state was officially almost 4 months old now, it was decided here in Bulltown that the Yankee spirit would prevail. The thirty-fifth state was still a backdoor to the South, but never again a pathway to the north or to the Ohio River. Just 3 weeks later (November 6, 1863) at Droop Mountain, northern forces overcame the last southern resistance in the state, and significant battles were over in West Virginia.

We learn all this from Judy before we begin our walk of the battlefield. As we head up the hill to the site of the fort, we pass the log structure, St. Michael’s Church, moved here by the Corps. Just above it are the lower trenches, where Confederates were able to take some prisoners--whom, you remember, they left here with local families.

We are following in the footsteps of Kessler’s detachment, but we take the least steep, northernmost approach, an attractive wooded farm road. These soldiers were supposed to wait for a cannon shot from across the Little Kanawha (where Jackson and his men stationed themselves) before they attacked. One of their numbers decided to yell "Charge," and either wittingly or unwittingly, warned the Union army, asleep in the trenches--dug by one of Moses Cunningham’s boys using the southern sympathizer’s own oxen and finished by hand with his shovel.

We continue up the hill to the site of the fortifications. As both levels of trenches were dug about 3x10 feet and the dirt thrown over the cleared hill, the scenery wasn’t as pretty then as it is today.

The upper trenches are more clearly defined than the lower ones, and we see where Mattingly’s men were safely positioned.

One hundred soldiers usually occupied the fort, which the Union kept manned for the entire length of the war, but on October 13, 1863, 150 were here. Jackson had counted on only 100 men to have to overtake in their superior position. Although he had 700 troops, his position was not advantageous, and even though they were outnumbered, federal officers refused to surrender their position. When Mattingly was injured and command fell to Simpson, Jackson called a second time for the enemy commander to surrender. Simpson’s famous response was, "Not until Hell freezes over! If I have to retreat, I will do it on the ice!"

Atop the hill, we can see all positions, as the northern soldiers could at daylight. We walk in the upper trenches all around the knoll where the fort stood.

Signs every few feet record what buildings were here and what archaeological research has uncovered about them. We read and listen to Judy, who knows what happened to most prisoners and wounded men after the battle. One was taken to this house, and another died later in Huttonsville prison when his infant son was only days old.

What really strikes me is that this Union fortification was held for 4 years on the property of Moses Cunningham, a rebel himself, with Mattingly commandeering his home and property and his own son and equipment digging his enemies’ trenches. He must have thought that the occupation was over when he saw the southern army on his hill and came running out of his house yelling, "Hooray for Jeff Davis!"

I am also amazed at the ridiculous position of "Mudwall" Jackson. We see it through the trees that weren’t here then.

Did he really think he could cross that river and ascend this hill? Cannons were fired from here and could reach his men, and I am amazed that his force wasn’t decimated--but then I remember that these armies didn’t really want to hurt each other anymore. It must have been "somebody else’s war" to them. Heck, they had got along fine with the Delaware Indians until those insidious murderers came along! In their rural home, sheltered by mountains, neighbors were more important than abstract ideals.

The battle is reenacted each year, this year on October 9.

A passerby can’t see the cemetery until he is in Jackson City Park. We walk down the gentle slope toward the playground. The iron fence around the graveyard finally comes into view. Around the corner, gates are open. Stonewall is buried in Lexington, Virginia, but…Read More

A passerby can’t see the cemetery until he is in Jackson City Park. We walk down the gentle slope toward the playground.

The iron fence around the graveyard finally comes into view. Around the corner, gates are open. Stonewall is buried in Lexington, Virginia, but this visit provides insight into the land-owning, Indian-fighting, civic-minded, somewhat wealthy and connected family he hailed from.

His father Johnathan Jackson is here, and his marker indicates that he was born in 1790 and died (of typhoid fever) in 1826--lived only 36 years and died when Stonewall was only 2. Stonewall’s sister Elizabeth was an infant and died of typhoid, too, at the same time, but his mother gave birth to his other sister Laura the next day after the death of her husband. (Stonewall was particularly fond of his sister Laura and grew up with her at Jackson’s Mill, near Jane Lew.) After recovering from the death of her husband and baby daughter, Stonewall’s mother, Julia Beckwith Neale, made a meager living teaching and sewing for three years and then married a man who made not much of a living and didn’t like her children.

She died at age 33 during childbirth when Stonewall was 6, and some say that her malnutrition that she suffered during her second marriage may have caused the lung ailment that killed her. She had sent all her children to live with relatives before she died, and one might speculate that her home with her second husband wasn’t safe for her children or herself. Her emaciated body was buried in Amsted, West Virginia in an unmarked grave until a sympathetic patron later bought her a marble marker. Her absence here in the Jackson family cemetery and the tragic details of her life serve to illustrate the difficulties of the isolated frontier life, especially for women, who were estranged here from their parent families, who might have intervened. (Julia came from a wealthy family.)

Other difficulties, too, become apparent in the graveyard.

Captain John Jackson is labeled as "INDIAN FIGHTER, REVOLUTIONARY SOLDIER," and I understand that these were one and the same in these parts, where Delaware Indians were instigated by the British to attack settlements. He must have been a very successful indian fighter, for he lived to age 85! Born in Ireland, he was the first of the family to immigrate. (His brother, Dr. Joseph Jackson may have been the grandfather of President Andrew Jackson, but there are problems with this genealogy.) John’s wife, Elizabeth Cummins Jackson, has a marker indicating that she was born in London and lived to be 105! If that is accurate, then a good family could prosper here. These Jacksons, Stonewall’s great-grandparents, had a better life than did Stonewall’s parents and provided "good stock" for the Jackson family here in West Virginia.

Another sign tells us that this land was the original Jackson family farm, an "outpost of pioneer Clarksburg and scene of Indian raids." Another sign near Dolly Madison’s sister and mother (Mary Payne Jackson and Mary Coles Payne) explains that this particular spot was the orchard and that the land was deeded as a public cemetery by George Jackson--he appears to have been a brother of Stonewall's grandfather Edward, who started the plantation farm at Jackson's Mill, farther south, where Stonewall was raised by Edward's son Cummins.

Most of the Jackson men outlived their wives, so many of them had two wives in their long lifetimes. Some of these grand sires had as many as fifteen children. Looking at the family tree, I see a James Madison Jackson, and I notice that a number of the Jacksons married members of the Brake family. One Brake woman (Elizabeth Weatherholt Brake) was married to Edward, so we'll learn more about her and her relatives at Jackson's Mill.

I rarely dabble in genealogy, but the Jackson family is rich in research. Many books have been written about the descendants of Captain John Jackson and the Jackson family tree. This particular branch of history would drive me mad, I’m sure, with a steady diet of it, but it is friendly enough for mastering just one early local family with a perfectly clear lineage: Captain John Jackson (original Jackson stock and Stonewall’s great-grandfather), Col. Edward Jackson (grandfather, who started the plantation farm at Jackson’s Mill near Jane Lew), Jonathan Jackson (Stonewall’s father and brother of Cummins, inheritor of their father Edward’s farm and uncle who raised Stonewall).

This much, we have straight before we head to Jackson’s Mill, Stonewall’s boyhood home. That’s another journal that includes two Civil War sites south of here--Jackson's Mill and Bulltown. These figures here in the Jackson family cemetery turn up again at Jackson's Mill in the tourguide's narrative, so we're glad we've stopped here first to get to know them.

A sure sign of their European past, early residents of Clarksburg buried their dead in town and lived among them. (Perhaps they were inspired by their greatness!) Their old cemeteries aren’t elaborate or whimsical, like those of the French, for early settlers here weren’t wealthy.…Read More

A sure sign of their European past, early residents of Clarksburg buried their dead in town and lived among them. (Perhaps they were inspired by their greatness!) Their old cemeteries aren’t elaborate or whimsical, like those of the French, for early settlers here weren’t wealthy. On the frontier, they were busy repelling Indian attacks until the Treaty of Greenville in 1795 and hadn’t time for whimsy or creating new burial customs, and so they carried on with life as they had known it in the old country. Founded in 1785, ten years before the Treaty of Greenville, the early city interred their notables in church yards or family plots.

We find Daniel Davisson DAR Cemetery on W. Main Street beside Go-Mart. After circling the block twice, we see the sign.

Several dozen graves are scattered about what used to be the yard of Hopewell Baptist Church, first church in Clarksburg, now gone. Most markers are natural stone with names and dates scratched in them, long ago faded and unreadable, but I learn at Waldomore that the old Baptist church kept and preserved good records! In the book there, I see that Forbes Britton, first newspaper man in Clarksburg, is buried here. Some markers have been supplied by the Veterans Administration and are like those we see in national cemeteries.

Here is Daniel Davisson, one of the first recorded settlers.

I learn at the genealogy research center at Waldomore that DAR (or Veterans Administration?) has got details wrong. Davisson was never sheriff or in the Revolutionary War! He was awarded the title of "Major" in 1799 because he had lived on a dangerous frontier where homesteaders were attacked by Delaware Indians--encouraged, of course, by the British (following the lead of the French in the French and Indian War). Nobody here fought Redcoats. As colonists in the East complained to England about taxation without representation, Harrison County, Virginia expressed to Richmond their indignation about the meager help they got from any central government to repel Indian raids! With the patronage title of Major, Davisson was given the paid position of sweeping the courthouse floor. One other interesting tidbit concerns his being accused of stealing chickens.

David Houchin, Secretary of Harrison County Genealogical Society, regrets that he can’t prove whether Davisson was a chicken thief: "But he was in the chicken house!" He confirms that most of Clarksburg’s downtown--Main St. and Pike St.--is on property that Davisson donated. I am impressed with the knowledge available about early settlers and with the amount of frustrating work needed to verify details. Even so, Houchin stresses, you can never be sure. He adds that his head is so full of details that he longs to retire so that he can empty his brain and "find out if I still have one." Working on Civil War research, I can empathize, but I must consider myself lucky. When research won’t give up the missing link, who ya gonna call? Genealogy.

Another marker in the cemetery is almost accurate.

Major Thomas Preston Moore was a legitimate participant in the War of 1812, but not in the American Revolution. His daughter, Harriet Moore, who married Waldo Potter Goff, lived in the antebellum mansion of Waldomore, built in 1839.

That’s where Harrison County Genealogical Society is housed on the third floor--where I am sitting when I discover this link to the markers I have found in the graveyard.

Eighty-five years after its charter as a city in Virginia, Clarksburg was hardly even a town with only 895 residents in 1860, just before the Civil War’s preliminary skirmishes in West Virginia. Although this is a Revolutionary-era graveyard, I find clues here about the appearance of the town as it existed at Stonewall Jackson’s birth. From the tombstones I can read, I gather that most of the luminaries here now were here before 1824 and certainly before the Civil War. This Baptist church and graveyard were on Main Street near the courthouse in the isolated frontier village in Virginia. Bragging rights included operating more grain mills than any other settlement around, so land was dedicated to farming.

The Army Corps of Engineers and West Virginia University have been dismantling and moving some of those mills that are still in existence. We’ll see two of them later today at Jackson’s Mill, Stonewall's boyhood home. An effort is also being made to preserve early farming, logging and woodworking methods. I see folk heritage sites in the making all along the Civil War Heritage Trail. Everywhere I go, guides explain what has been saved, moved, restored and, more interesting to me, what I can expect to see when I return.

Lakeview Resort began as a swank private golf club with members all the way to Georgia. Then it was a Sheraton Resort--one that for some reason couldn’t give Preferred Guest points! At present, it is affiliated with some small hotel chain I’ve never heard of, but…Read More

Lakeview Resort began as a swank private golf club with members all the way to Georgia. Then it was a Sheraton Resort--one that for some reason couldn’t give Preferred Guest points! At present, it is affiliated with some small hotel chain I’ve never heard of, but the affiliation doesn’t matter. Lakeview is Lakeview to locals, and we’re glad it is here, because it’s a special place to go.

It’s the best place around for a lavish Sunday brunch. For $13, you can get a made-to-order omelette, plus help yourself to the buffet that compares with any. My family loves Lakeview for Thanksgiving dinner, when their chestnut dressing can’t be beat--except by dear old Mom’s oyster dressing. Lakeview always has the best chefs around, and the resort is also famous for its wine list. (As a former wine stewardess here one year during grad school, I am qualified to recommend their wine list.) Even with the good food, wine, and bar, the best part of any meal is the view of Cheat Lake.

As soon as we arrive, we agree that not much has changed in decades. Sometimes, permanence makes me feel good! Some folks might think the lodge needs updated, and decor in the bar and dining room have had a facelift. But I imagine that staying with a good thing is what keeps costs reasonable. Nothing here is outrageously priced. Hotel rates compare with those for the Radisson downtown.

Even though it is a resort and conference center that could command higher prices (like nearby Nemacolin Woodlands), the community is included in the consumer profile. Management has taken steps over the years to keep locals coming: dinner theater, annual antiques fairs (February), spa memberships, and at present, karaoke in the bar. So, out-of-towners don’t have to stay off to themselves on the property. There are plenty of opportunities to meet the locals.

Rooms and condos are attractive, and they overlook the 18-hole championship golf course.

In the main lodge are games for kids. There is also Kids Club (supervised play that keeps the tots busy while Mom and Dad go for a hike--or a massage). A family pool is outside, and the full fitness center offers climbing wall, tennis and basketball courts, lap pool, hot tub and sauna, and a physical therapist to plan your fitness program. For those who would rather be pampered, the spa offers full massage, facials, manicures, pedicures, makeovers, hair styling, and more. The pro shop is reputed to be excellent. I’ve often thought that I could stay here a month!

All this is in addition to what goes on in the bar and on the lake. Music is frequently on the Tiki Deck, and Friday night is Ladies Night in the bar, Legends, where ladies drink for $1. Heck, enter that karaoke contest, and you’ll drink for free--well, maybe, if you’re any good! By now, you get the picture that there is usually something going on at Lakeview. In addition, Cheat Lake has swimming beaches, horseback riding, and marinas with boat rentals--you can even rent a pontoon and take the family.

Sixteen miles upstream and east at Albright in Preston County, locals raft the Cheat River. The Cheat is a powerful waterway, and quite perilous just across the Maryland border, so check with a reputable outfitter in Albright.

One word of caution: Snake Hill is nearby, and the name isn’t meaningless. In the 1990’s, new residential communities shot up like poppies all around the lake. Eventually, somebody recognized the need to clear the area of reptiles so that little children would be safe in their yards! Signs along the roads for miles around advertised "Snake Hunt--Cheat Lake!" I was glad for a friend who had had to kill snakes in his house, and we’re not talking blacksnakes, either. They were copperheads on his hearth.

Working at Seven Springs Resort one summer and driving these roads every week, I saw for months those signs all the way into Pennsylvania. Remembering some past experiences, I feared that my car would break down after dark and vowed not to get out of it onto the two-lane--or into the ditch--if it did.

One might assume that heroic local boys adequately decimated the population. After all, everyone knows what excitement groups of the manly type find in the hunt, and to be fair, I must admit that it was quite chivalrous of them to slay the evil dragons so that young damsels could sunbathe and go out at night without distress. I wasn’t sure ecologists would agree, but I didn’t care. Then I saw the lake drained for a while and surmised that authorities had got into the act. Yes, snakes swim like gold medalists. I had reptilian company side-stroking alongside me twice. I remembered a movie about this problem that sometimes accompanies residential development of a wild area, and I wondered if this neighborhood could be the source of the story. (The lake is filled and beautiful now.)

I have never seen a snake on Lakeview Resort's property.

I have faith in the local effort. Still, just to be on the safe side, I wouldn’t walk around the area outside the resort property at night with sandals on my feet. I have seen the cold-blooded things myself on at least four occasions--but those predate the hunt! I mention the mischief-makers for reasons of self-interest, and that means just in case any cowboys out there who pack a mean shovel want to come on down and double-check to make sure the local boys did a thorough job--damsels would be ever so grateful for the extra vigilance.

In all seriousness, the area is a little less "wild" and even more "wonderful" than it used to be, and many of the WVU athletic department pay a lot of money to live near the lake--with their children. The neighborhood with expensive housing just a few miles outside the city offers the good life to residents and vacationers alike. And, development of the area is a lesson in progress, a lesson about ecology or the chain of being, however you see it.

Ecologists disagree, but I think the Lake community is better now. As a visitor, you are welcome to get into the dialogue, too. I’m sure property owners agree with me, and I think you will, too, if you visit. Just remember that state slogan: "Wild and Wonderful, West Virginia." We have just the right amount of both in "the North" of the state.

David and I enjoy coffee and cheesecake at Lakeview Resort. Sitting by the window, we see all sorts of pleasure craft on a blanket of blue, a proper shroud for the old iron-working settlement of Ice’s Ferry, gone with the politics that built the National Road a half-hour north of here. That’s where we’re headed.

Lakeview Resort will pick you up at the airport.

The bus from the parking lot stops at Shenandoah Street where there is a renovated blacksmith's store and a general store. There are guides in period costume to explain the area. Around the corner on High Street is a display on local African American history…Read More

The bus from the parking lot stops at Shenandoah Street where there is a renovated blacksmith's store and a general store. There are guides in period costume to explain the area. Around the corner on High Street is a display on local African American history in the Black Voices of Harpers Ferry, which is interesting as is the Civil War Story further up High St. On the left of High St. are some steps which lead steeply up from the street to Upper Harper's Ferry - Harper's House, St. Peter's Church and Jefferson Rock. Jefferson Rock gives a fine view over the joining of the Potomac and Shenandoah Rivers and a view of Maryland, Virginia and West Virginia.

Heading back into town there are little stores and the railway station. It's possible to cross the river on the railway bridge and walk in either direction up the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal. The Appalachian Trail crosses through Harper's Ferry and so there are several hiking stores and facilities for those tired trail walkers. Harper's Ferry is one of those places you'll want to keep going back to, just to look at the scenery again if nothing else.

"If she was buried in the earth, reasoned Miss Beswick, her death might prove to be only an illusion, a dreamless sleep . . . . She left, therefore, a large sum of money to Dr. Charles White . . . on the condition…Read More

"If she was buried in the earth, reasoned Miss Beswick, her death might prove to be only an illusion, a dreamless sleep . . . . She left, therefore, a large sum of money to Dr. Charles White . . . on the condition that the doctor should pay her a visit every morning, after what appeared, to uninstructed persons, to be her death, in order that he might be assured of the reality of this."
Edith Sitwell, English Eccentrics (1933)

Barbour County, West Virginia looks ordinary enough, with its broad river valley and trim little towns, but looks are often deceiving. Scratch the surface of this unassuming place and some singular oddities emerge, not the least of which are the Philippi Mummies.

Homemade Mummies in the Bathroom

Elsewhere I’ve written about the Barbour County Historical Museum, located in a restored train station just across from the Philippi Bridge. Well worth a visit for its wealth of historical artifacts, the museum is best known for two rather unorthodox residents: the Philippi Mummies. The mummies, housed in what was once a bathroom, are the remains of two institutionalized women. Ensconced in glass cases, the mummies are nameless, though when the National Geographic Channel’s "Mummy Road Show" visited the museum, the mummy sleuths discovered that lesions on the lungs indicated the women probably died of tuberculosis.

The story behind the mummies is convoluted, but this much is certain. In 1888, Graham Hamrick, a local storeowner and part-time undertaker, obtained the two cadavers from the West Virginia Hospital for the Insane. Hamrick, who had developed a process for mummification, had previously conducted experiments on small animals, vegetables, and other items using his specially developed embalming and mummifying fluid. A devout Baptist, Hamrick claimed to have gotten the recipe from the Bible. He envisioned his embalming fluid as providing an easier and cheaper method of eternal preservation for the common man. Hamrick was convinced that his simple, inexpensive method of mummification would soon revolutionize mortuary science.

Hamrick treated a number of other corpses with his process, including a baby, though accounts vary as to how many mummies he actually produced. At one point, Hamrick offered his mummies to the Smithsonian, but since he refused to divulge his secret process, the institute turned down his gift. He found another interested party, however, in P.T. Barnum, who took Hamrick’s mummies on a tour of Europe in 1891. At some point during this tour, the mummies came to the attention of the Paris Inventors’ Academy, which elected Hamrick an honorary member. The following year, Hamrick took out a patent from the U.S. Patent Office for his mummification fluid. He displayed his mummies every chance he could get, but remained cagey about the secret to his process. All he would say was that a nickel’s worth of ordinary ingredients were all that was needed.

"Would you like to see the mummies?"

I’d just come into the Barbour County Historical Museum as Evangeline Poling, the docent, was concluding her spiel to a group of three elderly visitors, who seem baffled by her offer.

"Mummies? You have mummies?"

Mrs. Poling launched into an account of the chequered history of the Philippi Mummies. She told them all about Hamrick and his patented mummification fluid. She related how the mummies were ultimately passed on to Hamrick’s grandson in 1948, and how they were displayed each year at local fairs. Then in 1970, the mummies were purchased by "Bigfoot" Byrer, a local man who had long coveted these peculiar relics. He stored them at home, under a piano, until they were swept away in the devastating flood of 1985. Later found on a riverbank, the mummies were taken to the local funeral home for restoration. They were in terrible shape, covered with green mold and stinking to high heavens. Given chemical baths to combat the mold, the mummies were returned to Byrer, a little worse for the wear (both mummies lost their hair in the cleaning process). Byrer later donated them to the Barbour County Historical Museum. His only stipulation was that anyone who wanted to see the mummies had to pay $1, the proceeds to be divided between a football scholarship (Byrer’s brother had been the coach at the local high school), and the public library.

The trio of visitors hesitated when Mrs. Poling informed them of the $1 fee. After a long pause, one, a sickly-looking man with a cane, said he wasn’t interested. His wife, however, handed over a dollar and was led to the back of the museum for her viewing. Later, after the others had left, I spent an hour in the museum chatting with Mrs. Poling. Of course, I wanted to see the mummies and duly handed over my dollar for a viewing.

The mummies lie in state on a raised platform in what was once the train station’s bathroom. The white tile walls of the room are covered with clippings of articles about them that have appeared in newspapers and magazines. In contrast to their porcelain surroundings, the mummies are dark brown, their skin resembling old shoe leather. The remains are not so much gruesome as poignant, however. A few plastic flowers lie on the mummies’ chests but do little to alleviate their sinewy grimness. Their biers are lined with satin, but the contrast between the sheen of the fabric and the wizened limbs draws even greater attention to the mummies’ most salient characteristic: their undeniable deadness.

A shelf near the mummies holds a collection of items that have been immersed in Hamrick’s fluid, and these items, rather than the desiccated women, are almost ghastly in their lifelike state of preservation, particularly a large jar containing dozens upon dozens of perfectly preserved mice. I asked Mrs. Poling if I could take some photos, and she readily agreed, but my camera, as if refusing to participate in postmortem voyeurism, malfunctioned and the photos did not turn out.

The Fluid That Is Always Dependable

Before I left the museum, I purchased copies of a few pamphlets that Mrs. Poling showed me, a reprint of an article on Hamrick and his mummies, and photocopied testimonials regarding his patented fluid. Later that evening, as an owl hooted in the stillness outside my tent, I read these documents by flashlight, contemplating the saga of Graham Hamrick and his itinerant mummies.

In graphic detail, the testimonials told of the amazing preservative properties of Hamrick’s fluid. A mother and father recounted how their daughter, who had choked to death, had been preserved "in good condition and free from odor" after treatment with Hamrick’s fluid. Physicians in Ohio and West Virginia testified to the fluid’s ability to fight "decomposing influences." Most macabre, however, was the account of a burn victim and the use of Hamrick’s fluid in combatting the "offensive odor." I could not help but reflect that despite all the visual images of death that bombard us today, that in the 19th century, death was a much more immediate and tangible thing.

Among the documents was a leaflet extolling the properties of Hamrick’s fluid, including the claim the Hamrick had rediscovered the secrets of Egyptian mummification and even improved upon them. The fluid was touted as a germicide, deodorizer, antiseptic, and disinfectant. According to the pamphlet, its virtues included simplicity (no blood need be drawn during the mummification process), harmlessness (it could be drunk with ‘no evil consequences’), cheapness, and permanence (‘absolutely prevents decomposition’). At first, I assumed these claims and testimonials had been prepared by Hamrick, but a look at the date on the document –- 1913 -– told me otherwise.

Six Feet Under

In 1899, Graham Hamrick died, and the secret of his mummification process was bequeathed to his heir. Oddly, Hamrick never seemed to make any real attempt during his lifetime to profit from the process. At one point he even turned down an offer of $10,000 for his patent –- a considerable amount of money in the late 19th century. Whether Hamrick’s heir was able to cash in successfully on the mummifying fluid remains a mystery, but the story of Graham Hamrick himself has an ironic end.

Hamrick left a supply of his fluid, along with detailed instructions on how to use it, with several of his friends, who were charged with mummifying him after he died. His friends, however, were apparently too squeamish to carry out his instructions. And thus it was that Graham Hamrick, inventor of the "simplest and most efficient substance known to the scientific world for Embalming," was given a conventional burial.

His body lies in Mary’s Chapel Cemetery, just north of Philippi.