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Winchester Tales, Winchester, VA (2026)

02/18/2026

In the early 1990s, the legendary actor Robert Duvall made a memorable visit to Wi******er when he was invited to the beautiful home known as Macsfield, perched above the roundabout near John Handley High School. The home, owned by Linda Ross at the time, became the setting for a special unveiling—one of those quiet local moments. The painting being presented that day had been commissioned by Shenandoah University, under the leadership of Jim Davis, who served as the university’s president. It was a meaningful tribute, honoring not only a famous actor, but recognition for man who truly loved Virginia.

That afternoon, local artist Radford Wine presented Duvall with a painting of the iconic actor in his unforgettable role as Gus McCrae from Lonesome Dove. The moment was caught in a photograph, and those who witnessed it said Duvall was truly moved. He didn’t simply smile and pose for the camera—he stepped forward and gave Radford Wine a big hug, the kind of reaction that showed the painting struck something personal in him. Later, during the gathering, another photo was taken with Linda Ross standing beside him, a reminder that Wi******er has always had a way of attracting remarkable people while still treating them like neighbors. Duvall wasn’t a stranger here either. Over the years, he spent more time in Wi******er than most would ever guess, even coming to Handley High School in 1988 to see Johnny and June Carter Cash perform. It was another moment when a famous name blended in with the local crowd—and Wi******er embraced the moment…

02/17/2026

Isaac “Ike” Thomas became one of those names you didn’t have to explain. If you grew up around the local hangouts in the 60s and 70s, you just knew Ike. He wasn’t a celebrity, and he didn’t need to be. He was the manager, the burger man, the steady hand behind the counter. He was there when your life was wide open and your whole world was measured in music, cars, and whoever happened to pull into the parking lot. Ike was the adult in the room when your parents weren’t around, but he never acted like he was above you. He carried himself with that rare kind of authority that didn’t come from being loud, but from being consistent. He was stern when he needed to be, but he understood teenagers better than most grown-ups ever did. If you forgot your money, he didn’t embarrass you—he’d just tell you to catch him next time. If you peeled out in the parking lot, Ike would come marching out, give you a piece of his mind, then crack that grin that let you know you were still alright. Then he’d turn around and walk back inside like nothing happened, like he had just quietly kept the whole world from spinning off its axis.

And that’s what he really was—an anchor. A bridge between adolescence and adulthood. A grown man who understood the confusion of youth, the restlessness, the need to flirt with irresponsibility just because you could. Back when Valley Avenue felt like your own personal highway and every night felt like a scene out of American Graffiti, Ike was part of the landscape. Before cell phones and constant plans, you didn’t schedule your friendships—you just ran into people. You hung out where life happened. You drove until you found the crowd, the lights, the laughter, the familiar faces, and somehow Ike was always there, watching it all unfold with the patience of someone who remembered what it was like to be young. Ike Thomas passed away on May 12, 2008, but he left behind something stronger than a name in an obituary—he left a place in thousands of memories. Those carefree nights, those happy days, those moments when life was completely in front of you. Thank you, Ike, for being part of the best chapters of so many stories.

02/17/2026

Did you know?

In 1956, Montgomery Wards opened a brand new satellite service station at 21 East Cecil St.

02/17/2026

You would see her walking the road toward Wi******er in the 1880s, wearing tattered clothes, a wide-brimmed hat pulled low, and a pair of men’s riding boots that never seemed to leave her feet. Folks noticed the loaded C**t pistol tucked down in the top of one boot, and the long staff she carried like a traveler who had seen too much to ever be surprised again. Some said she looked like something out of a storybook, not far off from Tolkien’s Gandalf, but there was nothing imaginary about Rosanna McCormick. She was known across the northern end of Frederick County, and she was a familiar sight at the Jordan Springs Resort, where wealthy visitors came for mineral water and fresh mountain air. While they rested on porches and walked the grounds, Rosanna told fortunes, talked literature, and held her own with the best educated men and women who passed through the resort. Always at her side was her dog, whom she called Faithful.

When Rosanna died in March of 1889, she did it the same way she lived—alone. The newspaper called her an “anchoress,” a woman who kept herself apart from the world, and it said she had spent the best years of her life caring for her mother near Jordan Springs until her mother’s death around the war years. After that, Rosanna lived for nearly twenty-five years with no companion but her dog, refusing doctors, refusing comfort, and working by sheer force of will. Neighbors said they heard her driving cattle at midnight, and she was known to sleep on the floor with her boots on, even though fine feather beds and expensive bedding were found in her home. Pneumonia took her quietly, and she was found on a fertilizer sack with a rough pillow under her head—boots still on, just as the headline would later say, “Died With Her Boots On.” She was buried at Burnt Factory Church, just a couple miles south of Jordan Springs, and the obituary noted she left no will and seemed to have no family. We remember Rosanna McCormick not only for the mystery of her story, but for the resilience of her spirit—her grit, her tenacity, and the quiet determination that carried her through a hard life most could never have endured...

02/17/2026

In December 1755, from his headquarters at Fort Loudoun in Wi******er, a young Colonel George Washington fired off one of his sharpest reprimands during the French and Indian War. This letter is aimed at Captain John Ashby at Fort Ashby in what is now West Virginia. Washington was furious over the breakdown of discipline at the post and blamed much of the unrest on Ashby’s wife, Jane (Jean) Combs Ashby, accusing her of stirring up trouble and calling her the “chief of every mutiny” in the garrison. In his letter dated December 28, 1755, Washington warned that if she was not immediately removed from camp, he would “drive her out” himself and suspend Ashby from command. Adding fuel to the outrage were rumors of illegal rum sales at the fort—rum Washington said was reportedly owned by Ashby. Soon after, Washington sent Captain Charles Lewis to take temporary control and restore order, and the incident quietly faded, but the letter remains a striking reminder of how tense and unruly the frontier forts around Wi******er could be.

TO CAPT. JOHN ASHBY
FROM
COL. GEORGE WASHINGTON
Wi******er - Fort Loudoun
December 28, 1755.

I am very much surprized to hear the great irregularities which were allowed of in your Camp. The Rum, although sold by Joseph Coombs, I am credibly informed, is your property. There are continual complaints to me of the misbehaviour of your Wife; who I am told sows sedition among the men, and is chief of every mutiny. If she is not immediately sent from the Camp, or I hear of any complaints of such irregular Behaviour upon my arrival there; I shall take care to drive her out myself, and suspend you.

- GW

02/16/2026

On the surface, the words “sham wedding” sound like something dishonest. But in the mid to late 1800s, a sham wedding was one of the most popular forms of community entertainment—a staged wedding ceremony put on for laughter, music, and fellowship. It was not a legal marriage, but a performance meant to draw a crowd, raise funds, and give a town something to talk about for weeks. In Wi******er, these events were often held in rented halls and upstairs meeting rooms, where church groups and local organizations could gather after a long work week and enjoy an evening of tradition, food, and friendly social life.

One such evening took place on March 27, 1898, when Wi******er’s African-American community rented the upstairs hall of the old Odd Fellows building at the corner of Cameron and Boscawen Streets. The party began at 8:30 p.m., and the “wedding” procession entered in full style—waiters and waitresses leading the way, followed by Miss Mary Grey on the arm of Mr. William Darks, and Miss Mary Burwell on the arm of Mr. Hayes Brown. Then came the bride and groom, Mr. John Gray and Miss Emma Tokes, with Mr. T. T. Brown acting as the father and Mrs. Jane Brown standing in as the bride’s mother. Miss Hattie Andersen played the wedding march, and Aquilla Stephenson served as the reverend for the ceremony. The ladies wore silk—Miss Grey in pink, Miss Burwell in blue—and the gentlemen appeared in proper black tie, giving the night the feel of a formal occasion. And in a detail that reminds us how closely faith and community life were tied together, the paper noted that Reverend Newman baptized twenty people that same evening—a reminder that Wi******er’s gatherings often blended celebration, tradition, and church life all in one unforgettable night.

02/16/2026

Henry Wyatt Clowe Sr. served as superintendent of the Harpers Ferry Arsenal during one of the most important periods in its history. In October of 1859, he was there when John Brown launched his raid on Harpers Ferry, an event that shocked the nation and became one of the defining moments leading up to the Civil War. As superintendent, Clowe was responsible for the federal armory and its operations, and he witnessed firsthand the tension and disruption that followed the attack. After his years connected to Harpers Ferry, Clowe later settled in Wi******er, Virginia, where he raised a family and lived out the remainder of his life. He died on July 18, 1894 and was buried in Mount Hebron cemetery.

The Clowe family’s connection to American history continued into the next century. His great-grandson, Mifflin Clowe Jr., commanded I Company of the 116th Infantry Regiment, 29th Infantry Division, and led his men in the first wave at Omaha Beach on June 6, 1944. After the war, he returned to Wi******er and served as the city’s mayor from 1948 to 1956. Today, Henry W. Clowe and Mifflin Clowe Jr. are buried just yards apart in the Clowe family plot at Mount Hebron Cemetery. Both men taking part in two major points in American history…from Harpers Ferry, to Normandy, and the lives they led in Wi******er, Virginia.

02/16/2026

When Robert Duvall, the legendary actor whose career spanned more than seven decades, chose the rolling countryside of Virginia over the glitz of Los Angeles, it was a decision that spoke to his soul. For decades he lived simply on his farm in Fauquier County, cherishing quiet mornings, the rhythms of rural life, and the living history that surrounded him in the Old Dominion. Though his body of work included iconic roles from Tom Hagen in The Godfather to the unforgettable Lieutenant Colonel Kilgore in Apocalypse Now, it was his heartfelt portrayal of General Robert E. Lee in Gods and Generals that connected him, in his own way, to the Civil War heritage of Virginia — a landscape marked by stories of courage, conflict, and reconciliation. Duvall’s respect for history and his thoughtful approach to the past made him not only a beloved artist but, in his adopted Commonwealth, an advocate for preserving the places and stories that shape who we are.

Many in Virginia will remember Bob not just for his craft but for the many quiet moments he spent immersing himself in the history around him. He attended local seminars on American heritage, lent his voice to causes protecting historic battlefields and rural landscapes, and spoke often about the importance of understanding our shared past — whether on a stage, in a classroom, or over an iced tea on his own porch. Robert Duvall and his wife Luciana would often come to Wi******er to shop or have dinner. He always loved a good ribeye!

Virginia lost Robert Duvall, yesterday…February 15, 2026. We lost one of our biggest champions of history — a storyteller whose love for character and story will continue to echo through the rolling green hills of horse country. Robert Duvall made it to one last Valentine’s Day—one more chance to remind his beloved wife, Luciana, how deeply he loved her, and for the rest of us to reflect on how much we loved him…

02/16/2026

In the spring of 1874, a young Clarke County boy named Thomas Stadden found a large turtle near his family home west of Wadesville. Something about the creature fascinated him, and rather than treating it like a passing curiosity, Thomas made it a quiet tradition. On the turtle’s plastron—the smooth bottom shell—he carefully carved his initials “TS” and the year 1874. The turtle would disappear into the fields and woods, but it always seemed to return, and each time it did, Thomas added another mark. Over the years the shell gathered a strange little record of time itself: 1876, 1879, 1880, 1881, 1882, 1884, and 1885—each date a reminder that the same steady turtle had somehow survived season after season and wandered back again like an old friend.

Then, in 1885, Thomas took the turtle to visit a friend a few miles east of Stephenson, and the friend talked him into doing what boys rarely want to do—letting it go. Thomas agreed, and the turtle was released near a pond, disappearing into a new landscape of streams, timber, and distant ridges. Life moved on, and the turtle became a memory. But twenty years later, around 1905, Thomas was outside his home in Wadesville when he saw a large turtle slowly crossing his yard. He almost laughed at the thought, but curiosity made him pick it up and turn it over. There, carved plainly into the shell, were the initials and the long line of dates—his own handwriting from boyhood staring back at him. According to the newspaper account printed in March of 1905, Thomas said the turtle must have crossed streams, pushed through heavy woods, and endured every hazard of the countryside to make its way home. The only explanation he could offer was the simplest one: that turtles carry an inner compass, always drawn back to where they began. And in the most remarkable detail of all, he noted that his little friend had taken twenty years to travel what amounted to only a couple miles—proof that sometimes the longest journeys aren’t made in haste, but in quiet determination!

02/16/2026

In September of 1753, Wi******er became the setting for a frontier council that carried the weight of an entire continent. British and Virginia leaders met with Native delegates from the Ohio Country, including the influential Six Nations chief Monacatoocha, also known as Scarouady. The meeting was not held in a grand building, but in a humble log structure that once stood where the parking lot sits today across from the El Centro Mexican Restaurant on the Old Walking Mall. Inside those rough-hewn walls, the discussion was serious—French forts were rising in the west, alliances were shifting, and Wi******er stood as the doorway between the Shenandoah Valley and the dangerous lands beyond the mountains. It was one of those moments when the town’s history was being shaped.

Less than two years later, that fragile partnership was tested during General Edward Braddock’s 1755 expedition toward Fort Duquesne. In the confusion of the campaign, Braddock’s soldiers mistakenly killed Monacatoocha’s son, often remembered simply as “Young Scarouady.” Braddock was said to be genuinely shaken by the incident, and he called in the chiefs, offering gifts and apologies to hold the alliance together. The young man was buried with full military honors near what is now Irwin, Pennsylvania, at a place remembered today as the Monacatootha Camp. And when Braddock’s army was later shattered at the Battle of the Monongahela, Monacatoocha was there with sixteen warriors, witnessing the disaster and the moment Braddock was mortally wounded. A serious reminder that on the frontier, friendships were fragile, and history could turn quickly…from a single musket shot.

02/15/2026

Zopher Johnston, Sr. (also spelled Johnson) came into Frederick County, Virginia around 1774, settling in the White Hall area. He and his wife Catherine built a life in a log home that is long gone, and together they raised a large family of ten children. Family records place them near the Crumley’s in White Hall. One of the Johnston daughter’s named Elizabeth—often called “Betsy”—would later marry William Crumley, Sr., connecting the Johnstons to the Crumley–Lynn–Lodge House—still standing today near White Hall—where William Crumley was born and where generations of that family left their mark.

But Zopher Johnson Sr. was not just a settler—he was also a soldier. During the Revolutionary War he joined the Virginia militia and was present during the final campaign of 1781, serving in support roles as the fighting closed in around Yorktown. He later recalled working in a hospital tent as the siege reached its peak, and he wrote home about the steady nighttime bombardment that shook the ground until the surrender finally came. When British and Hessian prisoners were marched into Wi******er and confined at the camp off Poor House Road, Johnston was among the local men assigned to guard them—likely because he lived nearby and knew the country well. In the years after the war, that same White Hall neighborhood saw an exodus as some families pulled up stakes and headed to Tennessee. The Johnson and Crumley lines followed that path, and by 1817 the family story surfaces in Greene County, Tennessee, where Betsy Johnson married William Crumley, Sr. —proof that the Wi******er-area frontier families didn’t just survive the Revolution, they carried the Shenandoah Valley with them into the next stage of the American frontier.

02/15/2026

Did You Know?
Lakeland Caverns—in Charles Town, WV was discovered beneath Liberty Street on April 13, 1906, when workers digging a foundation discovered a large limestone cavern with a clear underground lake. By 1928, Charles P. Weller had leased and developed the cavern as a paid attraction, adding electric lighting (including underwater lights), leveling parts of the floor with gravel, and building a dock, turning the space into a rare “underground venue” with a lake, a dance area, and room for organized events. In local recollections from that era, it could host community gatherings—including school celebrations—where red-and-blue balloons and class decorations were tied onto stalagmites and railings while live orchestras played music through the chamber.

After the depression, the cavern was sealed-off, but it was not entirely forgotten. The West Virginia Speleological Survey documented the cave in a 1984. Historian Gary K. Soule later wrote that he was granted permission to enter and was shown access through a trap door in a small dress store, climbing down to see what remained of the “tiny lake” below—one of the clearer firsthand accounts of a post-closure visit. By the late 20th century, testing also found petroleum contamination in the lake water, and the entrances have now been permanently sealed.

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