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Winchester Tales, Winchester, VA (2026)

04/11/2026

He stood close against the wall along Boscawen Street, keeping clear as the workmen carried out sack after sack. With pencil in hand, he recorded each one as it was loaded onto the wagon. The brick warehouse behind him had stood since 1836, built on Robert Y. Conrad’s land by men from Harper’s Ferry who needed a place to store grain before it moved on by rail. It was a working building, plain in purpose, steady in its use—what would later be known as the Kurtz Building. By the time the last sack came through the door, the wagon was nearly full, stacked tight and ready.

The driver climbed up without a word, released the brake, and eased the team forward toward Market Street (Cameron St. today). The turn came quick, just a little too tight, and the wagon scraped the corner brick with a familiar drag before moving on. No one stopped. It happened often, and it would happen again. Over the years, wagon after wagon pressed that same edge until the sharp corner wore smooth. The driver glanced back with a faint smirk, knowing the mark would remain. A quiet calling card. Even now, the brick still shows its worn edge, shaped by the countless wagons that once made that tight turn along old Boscawen Street.

04/11/2026

THE NORTHWESTERN TURNPIKE
Near Gore, Virginia — circa 1840
The stagecoach rocked and lurched as it made its way west from Wi******er, its wheels grinding over the stones of the Northwestern Turnpike (Rt. 50). Inside, a parson in a worn black coat steadied himself against the jolts, seated across from a man who tipped a flask now and again—what folks of the hills had already taken to calling a little “Mountain Dew.” The parson watched him a moment, then said plainly, “I see you’ve been acquainted with the devil long enough to have drawn off some of his juice. The wages of sin is death, brother.” The man only smiled faintly and took another pull as the coach pressed on toward Gore, the mountains rising quietly around them.

Somewhere along that lonely stretch, the parson drifted to sleep with the rhythm of the road beneath him. When he woke, the seat across from him was empty. The flask was gone. And so was his wallet. The driver swore no stop had been made. Just another lesson carried along the old road, where travelers came and went as quickly as shadows. Yet few who pass that way today realize how Route 50 came to be—born of an 1827 act of the Virginia Assembly, and shaped in 1831 into a grand vision: a 12-foot turnpike stretching westward toward the Ohio. Its engineer, Colonel Claudius Crozet, had once marched under Napoleon, been taken prisoner during the Russian campaign, and endured two years in captivity before his release—when Napoleon himself pinned the Legion of Merit upon his breast. Later, tasked with bringing artillery to the Emperor, heavy rains delayed his march, and by fortune or fate, he arrived two days after the guns had fallen silent at Waterloo.

And so it was that this rough road through Gore and on to Romney and beyond carried not just stagecoaches and stories, but the hand of a man who had witnessed the changing tides of European history. A town in Virginia would be named Crozet in his honor. Yet, in old Frederick and Hampshire counties, Colonel Crozet engineered a route guiding travelers west, whether they arrived with their wallets…or lost them along the way!

04/09/2026

THE ANGEL OF WI******ER
Sheriff Lenny Millholland
Wi******er, Virginia
In Roman mythology, a quiet guardian stood at the threshold between life and what came after—a keeper of the final door, watching over those who had no one left to call their name. In Wi******er, that role has found its own steady figure. For more than three decades, Sheriff Lenny Millholland has carried that responsibility without ceremony, gathering the unclaimed ashes of the forgotten and holding them with care. From his early days as a lieutenant with the Wi******er Police Department, through his years as sheriff, he has stood watch over as many as sixty souls—people whose stories might have ended in silence if not for his persistence. Many of those souls are the homeless or those who had passed at shelters.

Inside a simple property room at the Frederick County Sheriff’s Office, he keeps them safe—not as evidence, but as people still deserving of dignity. One by one, he works to bring them home. A name recognized in a newspaper. A call placed across the country. A sister found. A church willing to receive them. In the last 2 years, four more souls were laid to rest or returned to family, their long wait ended. Seventeen still remain, including one known only as Jane Doe. And so he continues, patient and steady, a guardian at the edge of memory. Around Wi******er, some have come to call him something fitting—the Angel of Wi******er—for he does not let them be forgotten, and he does not leave them behind.
⸻
Unclaimed Souls Still in Care:
• Richard Allen (unknown)
• Linda Anderson (unknown)
• Jimmy Brown (January 31, 2013)
• Melvin Cox (July 29, 2011)
• Linda Coxon (August 10, 2018)
• Earl Gwynn (April 22, 2020)
• Richard Highland (February 21, 2020)
• Dorothy Jackson (October 6, 2019)
• Paula Jackson (August 18, 2022)
• Dale Lewis (March 1, 2020)
• Barron Long (August 3, 2020)
• Daniel Berkeley Merchant (Sept. 7, 2022)
• Fay Taylor (November 9, 2013)
• John Wahanquist (unknown)
• Bryant White (unknown)
• Michael Williamson (June 24, 2012)
• Jane Doe (unknown)

If you recognize any of these names, help bring them home.

04/09/2026

She was only twelve, but she felt like she already knew him. Every time her parents stopped at Nichol’s on Berryville Avenue, she would look up at the KFC sign and see his familiar face—white suit, black string tie, that knowing smile. It became a small tradition, those quiet moments in the parking lot, her eyes fixed on the Colonel as if he were part of Wi******er itself. But during the Shenandoah Apple Blossom Festival of 1975, that face stepped down from the sign and into her world. Standing there in the crowd, clutching her pad of paper and pen, she found herself face to face with Colonel Sanders—and somehow, he seemed just as she had imagined.

When he signed her paper, he leaned in with a grin and said, “Do you want to know my secret recipe with 11 herbs and spices? I’ll tell you tomorrow.” It was a week full of moments like that—Bob Hope bringing laughter, Mickey Mantle drawing cheers along the parade route, Tanya Tucker’s voice carrying through the spring air, and even whispers of a surprise visit from Elizabeth Taylor. But for that young girl, it all came down to one simple exchange, years in the making—from a sign on Berryville Avenue to a handshake and a smile she would never forget.

04/06/2026

“ROVER OF BRADDOCK STREET”
Wi******er, Virginia
1861–1865
During the Civil War, Mollie Hansford Walls and her husband, Dr. James W. Walls, kept their home in Newtown—what we now call Stephens City—while their fifteen-year-old son William stayed in Wi******er during the school week. He attended the Wi******er Academy and boarded with Dr. Walls’ sisters at 302 South Braddock Street. William spent much of his time with Rover, his large black-and-white Newfoundland dog. The two were inseparable and were often seen on Bowers Hill. William taught Rover commands and small tasks—once even sending him with a basket to the post office on South Cameron Street and trusting him to return with the mail. Rover always ran beside the carriage whenever the family went downtown, and when they arrived, he would jump into the seat and refuse to move for anyone he did not know.

One afternoon, while visiting her son on South Braddock Street, Mollie needed to go into town, so she placed her pocketbook into a small basket behind the carriage seat. When they arrived at the store, the basket was gone—lost somewhere along South Loudoun Street. As they turned to retrace their path, Rover came into view, steady and sure, the missing basket held firmly in his mouth. It was a simple act, but one that stayed with the family. In 1861, when young William left to join the Confederate army, parting from Rover was as difficult as leaving home. A year later, a Union soldier approached the Braddock Street house and was stopped at the door by the dog. Unable to pass, the soldier drove his bayonet into Rover’s shoulder. The family cared for him as best they could, but the wound would not heal. For weeks he lingered, until one morning they found Rover still on the doorstep…the place he had guarded so faithfully. They buried him in the garden behind the house with full honors…as he was always considered family.

04/05/2026

I'm very thankful to the PBS team and to host Dave Parker for asking me to be part of a fun filled day of talking Wi******er history. The segment aired and is a great episode. Here's my little segment and I also added the link for the full episode...enjoy!

https://www.pbs.org/video/s2-ep3-winchester-qmtnyb/

04/05/2026

Then & Now-
Patsy Cline
Easter on Kent Street
Wi******er, Virginia

04/05/2026

Happy Easter! Prior to 1960, maybe the most terrifying holiday for kids!

04/05/2026

ONCE UPON A TIME
The Aulick/Gavis House
Easter - 1974
In 1974, 4-year-old Katie Henry and her family lived above Mary White O' Neal’s dance studio on Braddock Street. In those days, the large brick Second Empire mansion next door (known as the Aulick-Gavis House) still stood strong at 414 South Braddock Street. The home was built in 1881.

On this day in 1974, little Katie is looking for Easter eggs and candy for her large basket. Mrs. Gavis would invite Katie in and let the little 4-year-old run around the mansion...it had seven bedrooms, four bathrooms, and a massive library. To little Katie...it was the biggest house in the world.

Today, Katie sometimes drives by the old house and remembers those wonderful childhood memories. The house caught on fire in the 1980s and she never recovered. Today, the house is a shell, hacked apart and split down the middle...slowly dying.

Mary Aulick was born here. She was the first woman hired as a Wi******er city schoolteacher and lived here almost all her life. She graduated from Harvard University with a degree in physical therapy. She taught physical therapy to the nursing students at the Wi******er Memorial Hospital. After retirement, Mrs. Aulick would help run the Ewing Dance Studio next door. The studio would become the O'Neal Dance Studio years later.

Sometimes...all that is left is the memories….

04/03/2026

By the flicker of candlelight, Mary Stubblefield sat at a cherrywood table and steadied her hand long enough to write what she never thought she would. Outside, the corner of Loudoun and Piccadilly Streets was quiet, but inside the stone house, the weight of it all pressed in. Her husband, Colonel James Stubblefield Sr., lay upstairs, his strength fading. He had once overseen the Harpers Ferry Arsenal, turning it into a vital arm of the young nation, increasing production and pushing for improvements that helped supply the War of 1812. He had written to men like James Madison and Thomas Jefferson, urging support for the work. But years later, accusations and resignation had followed, and now illness had taken its place. Their son, James Jr., was also failing. Bills mounted. The house, once a place of standing, had now become something to sustain. It stood on Lot #1—the very first parcel James Wood laid out when he marked the beginning of the town he envisioned.

That night, Mary wrote an advertisement for the Wi******er Virginia Republican, offering the family home as a place for travelers. It appeared on April 28, 1831—a quiet notice born out of necessity. Within months, her son died. Three years later, Mary would follow. Colonel Stubblefield lived in the home until 1855, his memories stretching between achievement and hardship. In the summer of 1861, machinery from Harpers Ferry—the very tooling he had helped create—was carried south by wagon and rail, passing within feet of the window where Mary wrote her advertisement. The old Stubblefield home is gone, and now a brick building stands in its place—but the history of that corner still calls to us, steady and familiar, as if the past never quite left, only settled quietly beneath the streets of Wi******er.

Winchester Tales

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