Smoke On the Mountains

By Sam Knupp

It's 2018 in the regular world, and 1864 just a few miles down Main Street. The civil war uncivilly rages on in heartland America. A great nation is divided against itself. Tearing a few statues down shouldn't rip at the social fabric of a whole country, but after Charlottesville, and that innocent girl being run over - bad things getting worse is only to be expected. Stonewall Jackson sits precariously in the town square, while down in the 'holler' an invading army is encamped. A little girl sets out to find her missing puppy, walking a dangerous path between the past, and the future, and when she doesn't come home a church bell rings the coming storm: what is lost, and what is found is the very meaning of profound. Timberville, VA is ground zero for murder.

The seven-foot tall blind pastor over at the Tastee-Freez Church has seen this day coming in his 'mind's eye'. A dark poem overshadows the Blue Ridge.

The probable, and the impossible are about to collide. Monuments in town squares, and cemeteries will come alive, and God in Heaven will finally take sides. It's getting as cold as winter. Spring is far away. Smoke is on the mountains. A little girl waits to be found.

"Tears fall from heaven; then the Shenandoah do carry them away."

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543930207

Book preview

Opinion:

Part One

‘The Search’

Chapter Zero

‘In the beginning…’

(Five weeks before Christmas)

Daddy, what’s gonna happen if I can’t stop crying?

Hush child, that’s nothing to fret yourself over. Crying don’t bother a thing. You ever see a rain that didn’t come to an end, and then the sun come out to play? Tears fall from heaven; then the Shenandoah do carry them away.

After daddy said his piece, the Good Lord above turned off the drizzle for a moment; the sun coming out bright, shinny penny in the cold soon to be Christmas airs, and Pepper Anne stopped crying. She squeezed her daddy’s hand, and he gently squeezed back, a sign of forgiveness, and meaning everything to her eight-year-old breaking heart. Daddy didn’t hate her any. He understood. Daddy didn’t hate her none, and maybe some day she’d not feel so bad. Not today, or tomorrow, but sooner than forever.

Daddy had dug a little hole for Socks out back. It was under the big maple tree, still carrying half his leaves red, gold, and still flecked in places with a living green. The rest lay on the ground: gonna be Sock’s blanket; covering up his grave.

She knelt, and hugged him one last time; parting such a hard thing when you love so true. Parting just impossible until Daddy held out his hands, taking that little broken form; first from her arms, then her heart. Daddy seemed to know he was burying a little dog with pieces of a little girl’s heart. Daddy said, Pepper, Pepper, Pepper Anne; Socks is with Jesus now. Pepper Anne cried then, not for Socks, or herself, but it hurt so bad to see her daddy’s tears. He wept without saying another word, tears twice the size of hers. A big, big man’s tears falling like rain, and his face looked like stone in pain. Little Pepper Anne Wright gave her father’s hand a big, big girl squeeze, I love you daddy. And that seemed to help: the sun come out on his face in a smile.

(Friday evening three days before Christmas)

That was almost a month ago. And the thought of that happening again almost made her sick. Rufus, Rufus where are you boy? Come to mommy. Rufus please come home. Pepper Anne knew she had locked the gate proper this time. Every time she put on her socks for school she felt that extra special responsibility that comes of being a doggy mommy. Baby dogs don’t know better then to run away, getting runned over in a horrible way: it’s up to big girls to keep them safe. Daddy don’t need to cry more either. The thought of her daddy’s tears sent her own shooting out of her eyes, Rufus, you come home this minute. And when the minute passed, and then another, and a few more after that: Pepper Anne’s heart sank down to her stomach.

School had been let out early. Timberville-Broadway Elementary School decided that a thousand folks marching down Main Street, chanting, and carrying signs might cause an educational slow down, or worse some form of political meltdown, and it being Friday anyway, and Christmas only a few days away, Better safe than sorry.

We say about decisions getting made in this manner, Boy, were we wrong. Not for the decision itself, but linking safety with sorrow. Bob ‘Muddy’ Waters, a school board member, saying, after all was said, and the hidden stuff finally known, Lord a Mercy, you try to protect children from things, and it’s what you do ‘do’ that makes bad things come to possibility. And if you are having trouble understanding that particular valley phraseology, then you’re a protester, a visitor, or just passing through to somewhere else. If you’re from around here, Muddy Waters is as clear as the stuff you drink right from the tap.

The school district never had such ‘goings on’ going on before, or at least not such a diverse grouping of activities being offered in such a distinctly northern manner. It’s not an every day occurrence for folks to take the time to walk the two miles that make up the boundaries of our two corporate limits. The march from Charlottesville to Washington, D.C. is certainly a much longer route, but maybe not over such contentious grounds. Walking two miles in some southern towns is more about the passage of the last 150 years than a simple placing of one foot before the other. A passel of blood has been spilled in this valley: every step here is the measure of a man’s stride. The men of the Army of Northern Virginia ran on bare feet to die defeated at Gettysburg, and that sad day seems only yesterday, so when those protesters came to town today, to some who live here there isn’t much difference between a Thursday, and a Friday.

After that much anticipated arrival finally, and fully arrived, and that march through town marched, it was silence that seemed to outweigh both cheers, and boos: a heated up moment didn’t burst into flames, just smoldered on the same. The protesters set up camp for the night down in the hollow, six short blocks from the town square. It was only yesterday a slew of tents gone up, along with two truck loads of ‘porta-johns’ delivered, and then tastefully set up behind a screen of pine trees for modesties sake.

This sense of decency, a delicacy of touch at odds with the earlier divisive rhetoric, led some southern minds to a most logical comparison; first given voice by Mr. J.L. Kincaid. ‘Just Lucky’ had a strange thought when driving by the marcher’s encampment. He’s not usually one for thinking about thoughts, more a bread, and butter thought producer than the full chateaubriand, but he was struck by what he saw; hit hard enough to want to pass his cogitation forwards; first sharing with his wife, and then later that night with his girlfriend, You can put pine trees over by an outhouse, but all that’s doing is to tell people that this is a place that smells bad. Those outhouses being hidden by those little pine trees made me think of that deodorizer ‘doodad’ they sell over at the filling station. You know those ‘little trees’ – the ones that are bright green, shaped just like what everybody buys for Christmas, but small enough to hang from the rear view mirror. Those are the ones I’m talking about. It’s like putting a sign on your car. ‘My car stinks.’ I figure if I want to not smell bad stuff, all I gotta to do is stay away from places with deodorizers.

When we think of the murder of little Pepper Anne, the smell of green pine deodorant comes to mind. The problem with deodorant: it only covers up - doesn’t change a blessed thing. When things smell to high heaven it don’t pay to add one more pine to a whole forest of little green trees: hiding the stench of corruption just makes the nose go blind. But that’s the human thing humans do, and in all the animal kingdom it’s only man that closes his eyes, splashes on perfumes, and turns up the radio when the wolf jumps the fence, and the sheep cry for the shepherd. You’d think we’d learn by now. You’d think that, but you’d be thinking wrong. Not for the fact of thinking, God knows we need more of that these troubled days, but for the fact that the one thing that’s true no matter when you say it, Man don’t learn for shit. And what man don’t learn gets repeated.

Daddy, do you still love me?

Honey, I love you more.

Rufus where are you? Little Pepper Anne feeling scared, not for herself, scared for puppy Rufus, and scared for her daddy; left her mother a little note. I’m taking Rufus out for a nice long walk. We’ll probably be back for supper. Don’t worry Mom. Love, PA. Then she said about what she wrote, something her daddy did religiously, From your lips to God’s ear. And from the way she said it, it sounded just like a prayer. Little Pepper Anne promised, I won’t come home until I find him. I’ll never come home again if I can’t find the puppy. Rufus is coming home. She closed, and locked the gate behind her, setting out, carrying in her shaking hands an empty leash, and when she looked back one last time at home she saw that all the leaves were now off Sock’s maple tree. Socks was covered up with a quilt of leaves. She shivered, not finding any warmth in that image.

It gets light in the valley in the morning before you think it should. Morning comes glorious. It gets dark in the valley early, and by six it’s black where it’s not electric lit. Pepper Anne started out light, and dark then had its way. She called everywhere she went, Rufus; Rufus Wright you come home. Rufus please, please, pretty please come walk home with me. That was her little prayer that she called into the dark, chill night air: her high piping child’s voice was heard, but not by Rufus.

When it was full dark she saw the firelight down in the hollow where the marchers were having dinner, and resting those many tired feet. It looked so warm, and inviting, reminding her of ‘s’mores’, and family. If only Rufus would be there, warm, safe, and ready to come home. She prayed to the Lord Above, I promise that if I find Rufus that I will never ask another thing for myself again. I promise. God heard that prayer. A child’s promise is a most sacred thing, and what it binds is forever.

We say in our valley, when we say things ‘for good’; we say Forever, and a day more. Little Pepper Anne said to God, I promise Lord. Forever, and a day more. And when she said her vow to the Almighty she heard what she thought was a familiar little yip.

A figure had been observing Pepper Anne as she walked, and called for her dog. The monster was looking for someone too.

Pepper Anne turned away from the inviting fire, and followed little puppy yips for a long, long time. She’d call out Rufus, and wait for a response. Sometimes he would, and sometimes it was just faith in God’s promise that guided her feet. In such darkness sounds are hard to locate in their rightful space, and place. A yip can sound different in the dark, first in front, and then from behind, and then the last place you just were. Pepper Anne’s feet were God guided tonight: she didn’t falter, not even one missed step. A promise is a promise, and a bargain too. She walked calling for Rufus, and praying to God. And when she thought of God, it was her father that she imagined saying, Honey, I love you more.

An old shed loomed, highlighted against the sky, and a yip coming from nearby hurried her feet forward. There was puppy, safe, and sound: his little collar catching him by the neck on a long wicked looking nail, holding him captured, and keeping him from coming home to his mommy.

The angels in heaven are weeping now. Seeing such joy between two innocent creatures is a sight only God can fully understand. The earth shrieks, and the Blue Ridges shake in awe. The shepherd finds the lost one safe, and that puppy danced in a little girl’s arms. Oh, Rufus. I love you so. Rufus licking her salty tears of happiness, and yipping as only adorable puppies are wont to do. Yipping, saying with tongue, and madly whipping little tail, I love you too. Oh, God Above, can’t we just stop writing now? Please Lord; let the story end here - please. If I had a soul, to the Devil I’d go, and maybe a mercy purchased.

The monster grabbed both girl, and dog together. It was too much of a handful to hold securely. The little girl squirmed away; scooting under the locked shed door, taking a path no adult figure could follow. Eight is a slender age, and agile with that, and her terror gave her a special lubricant leaving behind a urine trail no monster small enough to follow. Once in the safety of the shed she saw the outline of a dusty old car. She opened the door to the back seat, closing it softly behind her, curling up tight into a soaked ball of misery. A little moonlight fell down from a hole in the roof; the cracked windshield of the car casting a splinter of shadows everywhere Pepper Anne looked. The monster rattled the door to the shed. She looked up when he shook the doors, and all she could see was crazed glass, and bales of straw lining the walls. She cried, but very, very softly, closing her eyes. If I can’t see him. He can’t see me.

Then it hurt puppy. Rufus screamed in agony. It kept hurting the little puppy. It banged on the shed door for a minute, waiting it seemed for a response. It banged, waited, and then it would make the puppy scream. It wanted in. It didn’t have to say a word. Every unanswered knock on the door followed by the torture of a little dog. It went on, and on, and on, and on. Piling up heaps, and then mountains of screams: the absence of response multiplying the torture. She put her hands over her ears, but that made things worse. When she put her hands over her ears she couldn’t hear if the puppy’s screams were louder, and more terrible. But it was the time she took her hands away, and all she heard was an exhausted whimper that finally broke her. A mother knows her child’s limits: a dying puppy’s whimper isn’t a fit sound to ever hear - sounds like the end of the world.

Little Pepper Anne thought of Socks, and that horrible day that she left the door open. She thought of that when she uncurled from her fetal position on the floor, and opened that car door, straightening herself up, squaring her shoulders back, calling out, I’m coming for my puppy. She opened the shed door, telling the monster, Don’t hurt him no more. It was a blessing that she died a few moments later, and didn’t have to see how much more he hurt Rufus the puppy. She was dead before that. Strangled with a dog’s leash, and the last thoughts she thought were of when they buried Socks, and how her father had cried then, and a few hours later she had seen him crying when he thought he was alone; crying as if his heart was breaking. Pepper Anne died, and her last thoughts were of her dad, Daddy’s going to cry forever. Tears fall from heaven: Shenandoah isn’t going to carry these tears away.

Wisdom says ‘love is what makes a parent. Love, and sacrifice is mother, and father to raising a child. When children die parents cry because it wasn’t them.’

Chapter One

‘The metal of men’

(Three weeks before Christmas)

Blue Ridge Mountains

Smoke upon the mountains

Blue ridges to the sky

Down in the valley

Metal bleeds, and cries

Night lifted a little. A slice of day casts no shadows. Just makes the outlines of things stand out. The sharpest part of time is a cut along the horizon. It draws the eye, spare, stark, and limed. Light is a knife, sharp to dull night, a drawn line between dawn, and dark. Morning is black, and white. Takes the full light of day for color to have its way. Blood looks black first thing in the morning. Red bleeds into the day. If you can see red blood the sun is high enough in the sky to form shadows.

Stonewall Jackson was a hundred feet tall this morning. Stretched out flat over the town square. Usually he’s life sized, but that’s the thing about light, it does what it does because it’s about sight: light is light, but sight is a matter of perspective.

Folks in town have been talking all week long about old ‘Stony’. Ruth Ann down at the ‘Morning Cup’ summing up most of the local opinion, He’s not white he’s green, and brown. All lives matter. It’s like drinking a cup of coffee, all the same stuff, just a matter of what you put in it. But that amphibology didn’t sit properly with Mr. Charles Lindbergh Wampler, number five of that linage: a stout man with robust opinions overflowing his chair, I drink my coffee black. That doesn’t make me one. And since he’s the former mayor his words get repeated - so much so that at dawn’s first blush Stonewall Jackson has a red face.

In the full light of day the statue in Jackson Square is livid with red paint shame. It’s a shame those people have to do something like this. That trenchant opinion shared by Earl Sutliffe the town constable, and reported by the Valley News, giving a sharp thermostatic twist to an already percolating pot, along with a sidebar opinion piece quoting Stanley Elkins, head of the local chapter of the ‘Sons of the South’, Apparently there are no good ‘N’ words for some people. If you don’t like our coffee get a cup of somewhere else.

Mrs. Delores Grant, not a local by any means; her last name always a sore point to begin any conversation in the Shenandoah, I’m second generation in this Valley, but that’s the problem with names. Jackson, and Grant may be pictured on our currency, but they sure do spend differently. Her sincere face shining for the cameras as she claimed her 15 minutes on the local stage, believing as most politicians do that if you throw money at a problem a solution is forthcoming. And when it was pointed out that it was a different Jackson in the square from the doubled sawbuck, I’m really not from around here originally. I guess that makes me ‘the Negro in the woodpile’ so to speak. You know, the one who looks like you but aren’t. Or maybe I have that backwards.

That’s what we call evolution in the valley of the Shenandoah, and like kissing your first cousin you’d do better shaking hands so as to avoid that unfortunate extra digit that comes from co-sanguinary canoodling. There’s a family down past Weyer’s Cave that has that sixth finger thing going on; giving credence to twenty-thousand years of cautionary warnings made tradition, Before you shake hands with folks from down in the hollow be sure to count their fingers. And if that concinnity of local expression sounds callithumpian then you’re obviously not from around here, and your commensality more fitting to a conventional understanding of morality.

But there is a reason for why we say things the way we do: not everything needs over speaking - argle bargle more a useless throat gargle than making sense of the meaning of words, and what they describe. Matthew, over at the stockyards will shake any man’s hand, white, black, or brown, It’s a hand for goodness sake. It’s not like it’s a man’s privates. When he was told he was being homophobic he replied sincerely, I haven’t had a drink in twenty years. And after some explanation, and a dawning realization of the meaning of the word, Well, I guess you can do most anything you put your mind to. But why would I? Milking a bull don’t give me a glass of something to go with cookies.

We believe we’re the way we are because that’s the way we’ve always been: like that old-time saying reminds, The more things change: the more they stay the same. Doesn’t matter where you live really. If you’re human you change: just not so much. Even a little change is a big deal. The hardest thing to spend is change - doesn’t really buy much. Patina isn’t really any color at all, more a matter of how things age. Some things mellow with time; some things don’t. And there you have it - laid out for display, the human corpus delicti truth in a nutshell, body in a bag, and a six foot piece of real estate, and all that’s left as evidence of life is some monument with two sets of dates, and a name. Murder never gets old. People come, and people go, but murder stays the same. Can’t kill murder - can only try to live with it.

Union soldiers rode through our valley a long, long time ago. They burned everything in their path. When locals look upon the saucer of the Blue Ridge Mountains holding the valley as that one perfect cup, we will sometimes refer to the morning mist that hides those lovely peaks as smoke. ‘Smoke on the mountains’ is always said tinged with sadness. We still remember when our valley burned: when it rained the sky poured ashes. Ashes don’t build much for good. I guess that’s why we use bronze for monuments - seems to hold up over time. Just gets greener. That’s why a coat of red paint really catches the eye.

Welcome to Timberville, Virginia, heartland American, US of A: down in the valley, betwixt, and between those many ‘other’ places. We’re valley folks - we live in a lovely green, and brown cup, and come fall our fabled mountain walls blaze bright gold, and scarlet. Sometimes we go over to Luray, pronounced Lu---Ray with a long pause in the between, driving the Skyline Drive for miles, and miles just so we can gaze lovingly down on home. Home is the valley of the Shenandoah: could anything ever be finer? Not in this lifetime, or maybe even the next, and that’s a form of speculation about direction, and up north isn’t to be equated with heaven. We pray the Lord will have mercy upon us sinners when we die. No valley person wants to wake up after death in Phil – a – del – phi – a -, P-A: the wages of sin; a move north of the Mason-Dixon line.

It’s 2018 in the regular world, and 1864 a few miles down Main Street. All summer things have been heating up, and now that fall has arrived you’d think things would be cooling down. But you’d be wrong, not for the facts of seasonal change, but for how men go about expressing themselves, one word said in a certain manner, inflected by habit, and opinion, and quick as you can say A nation divided against itself cannot stand. we’re looking down the barrel of a war that never really ended.

The Civil War uncivilly rages on: statues coming to life; bleeding out many different meanings, leading Mrs. Laurence Taylor to share her opinion during prayer request time, standing up in the middle of the congregation of the Four Square Gospel Church over in New Market - standing out for her large pink hat, perspiring red face, and apparent newly acquired short-term barmecidal memory, I declare, you’d think Sherman came through the valley yesterday for all the ruckus folks are getting up to. It’s not an invading army. We should make them feel welcome. After she sat down, Pastor Lester Grove led the congregation in a heartfelt prayer, Lord, as Sister Taylor reminds us, the last time that army came through our valley ten of our brave young men died. Give us strength to do what’s right if it comes to a fight.

God hears every prayer: he surely understands. When Mrs. Laurence Taylor heard about the death of little Pepper Anne Wright she cried herself silly. Mr. Taylor shaking his head at her folly, Foolish woman. What did you expect? The good book says forgive. It doesn’t say forget.

What you don’t know can hurt you bad: every match burns twice - once as fire, and once to touch. It shouldn’t take a flame to light the obvious to sight, but that’s the thing about things being obvious. It takes the past to see mistakes - then it takes courage, and resolve to make things change. Can’t make a future cake by relying on an old recipe. You can try, but probably you’ll end up eating a slice of what you’ve tasted before.

Change is a product of many perceptions, and why people have six senses. Taste is more an individual thing; everyman his individual sweet, and sour: but sight is plural, binocular, and perceptive - seeing is believing. The one thing everybody seems to share in our valley just before Christmas finally arrives this year is an inability to see what’s right there before us. Holding onto the past - that’s a form of blindness. As Marvel says, Being blind has it’s own viewpoint. When you’re not seeing things right before your eyes, what you’re failing to recognize is your part of being the problem. When you can’t see in the dark, that’s when the dark sees you best.

Marjory, the deaconess over at the former Tastee-Freez, where dishing up family style Southern comfort predates the civil rights movement, and integration, came there for soft-serve when she was a child. She remembers when the previous owner was criticized, You’re serving colored, along with white. And him smiling down ‘old man Jones’ to his face, Ice cream don’t care who does the licking; ice cream just want to be et. She believes it was those swirl cones; that special mixing of chocolate, and vanilla foretelling the future construction of the first successful black, and white congregation in our valley: Sweet Jesus Ministries – God served up six days a week, and twice on Sunday.

Marjory is working on the nativity blanket for the upcoming Christmas pageant. She’s as staid, and consistent as the wool she knits, and usually not known for being sensitive to much of anything, but now shivering with the first winds of December; seeing the valley differently this year, If I can’t see the mountains for all the mist, makes me wonder where I’m really living. When she told this to Mr. Russell Hodge, her husband of almost sixty years, him looking up from reading the evening paper; sensing behind her bald words a whole world of troublement, Maggie, you don’t have to see something to know it’s still there. Then he reached out to rub her chilled shoulder, It’s like my love for you. It’s there even when you close your eyes.

It’s getting cold as winter - spring is far away. Smoke is on the mountain - a young child is going to die before Christmas.

Wisdom says ‘the wise man is wise, not for what he knows, but for how he makes use of his understanding. Wisdom without understanding - ice cream, and no cone.’

Chapter Two

‘Getting ready for the 2nd battle of New Market’

(Two weeks until Christmas)

New under the sun

For every new thing

Old ways are renewed

The new market isn’t really new. It’s rather old, and comes free of charge with a spectacular view from Brock’s Gap. As you drive those hairpin turns, every winding taking you two hundred feet higher, and a few degrees cooler, you’re climbing the Blue Ridge ladder. Keep two hands on the wheel, and wait until you reach the top for the view. Good advice is good because it’s true, and timely. Bad advice is always bad no matter when it’s said.

Timing seems to be one of those factors that make some good things bad, or can turn a bad situation into a blessing. And like location, It all depends. Points of view are both timed, and located in the past, the present, and sometimes arriving as the future understanding. The past is the past only when it’s forgotten.

In Rockingham County we say about the past, It’s hard to forget what your parents remember. Like pearls on a string, children remember what parents have said about what they learned when they were taught - fathers, and mothers in every generation going back in time, pearl, upon pearl strung, knotted, and known, and that’s how rosaries are made; every day handled the same, and prayed. And like this lovely valley made from many encircling mountains, each both same, and different, The cup contains the hands that created it.

Over in New Market; right near the Seventh Day Adventist College, and High School is an interesting building that from some viewing angles looks like an outsized drum theatre in the round presenting 360 degrees of experiences two hundred, and eighty times a year, and most capable of drawing both natives, and visitors to learn about a long ago battle that none of us in the valley are ever going to forget in a hundred lifetimes.

May 15, 1864 is remembered here, and like Custer’s Last Stand where for once the Indians get to win - it’s one of those bittersweet memories – starts out good, doesn’t last, and when all is said, and done what’s left is bitter ash. Anyone interested enough to visit this museum, and memorial knows the truth: winning a battle is different from winning a war. What makes it all so sad is it’s one of those self-inflicted wounds, a nation fighting itself, and mostly the young, and rather innocent paying the butcher’s price.

Some things are worth what they cost - some things aren’t. The difference between some things is priced in life. Marvel says, When family fights itself there are no winners. You can’t win a fight with yourself. The most you can get from these types of battles is a draw. That’s where you fight yourself to a standstill, recover a sense of balance, and swear to God you’ve learned from your mistakes. Makes you wonder why there ever needs to be a second battle after a first. Marvel guesses, It’s about stature. The stature of a man is measured by the length of his memory. The tallest man in the valley sadly knows his own height is insufficient. You’d think we’d learn. You’d think that, but you’d be wrong. Every thought a man thinks he knows for sure seems to change as he lives - every thought but one. The one thing that doesn’t change, no matter who is doing the thinking is a man believing that he’s justified in doing what he’s doing right now this minute. Every horrible, terrible thing is first justified before it’s done. Murder is the product of two things - I can. and because: Because I can.

Most folks come away from a visit to the New Market Battle Museum wondering what was really won, and lost that day. When children come to visit they always gather by the ‘penny machine’ where for two quarters, and a copper penny, along with a little elbow grease, that little coin picture of Lincoln can be erased, elongated into an oval blank, and then with a few spins of the arm replaced with either a image of Stonewall Jackson, or a boy wearing a Virginia Military Institute uniform holding a rifle. Most of us who live in the valley, and have lived long enough to count costs think maybe that should be how all battles fought - 51 cents, and next week who knows what face will print when a child’s arm begins to crank.

Children grow up, become fathers, and mothers themselves: one generation burying the older one; whole crops of folks producing, harvesting, and consuming; seasons turning decades into centuries, and a whole world spinning….

The Second Battle of New Market is scheduled just before Christmas. And like the birth of the little baby Jesus it’s hard to see any divine plan in the normal day-to-day of waking up, going to work, coming home tired, and ready to go to bed, and sleep. But what’s not apparent to the eye doesn’t mean plans aren’t being plotted, hatched, and sprung. A battle is coming to New Market: an army is already marching - grim, battle hardened men, and women, faces set hard as stone; coming up from Charlottesville, stopping off to finally win a battle in New Market, and then moving further down the valley, and eventually going to end up storming the barricades over in Washington, DC.

Amos Carter heard the news that the Coalition forces are finally on the move; advance scouts due to arrive in town maybe as soon as even today, and those worthies arranging for food, and shelter, getting parade permits, and such; doing all those things that have to get done before an army takes to the field. Amos was in such an all fired hurry that he didn’t see the large blind man leading a large blind dog down the street heading over to the ‘Morning Cup’. If Marvel hadn’t seen him coming lickety-split down Main Street steering erratically while agitatedly talking on his new ‘I’ phone; the first casualties of the new civil war would have been a blind dog being led by a seeing-eye man.

You may ask yourself, How can a blind man see? The answer of course is in his ‘mind’s eye’. And if you are beginning to think things are too cutesy sounding, and some images set up, and contrived, you’d be both right, and wrong, and mostly in a state of forgetting that folksy, cute, and people acting clever is a truth about ‘being’ human: go to any place even twenty miles from home, and people will start to sound a little different, and have a different sense of pacing, and priority. A village person visiting a city is usually in for a lesson in rude surprises. And when a city person arrives bucolic he searches for a drink, and wonders why things are so quiet. We hear city people all the time saying, Can you hear how quiet it is? We’d say that stupid, but we leave that type of self-expression to our city neighbors. So, we just opine, That sound you don’t hear takes awhile to get used to. When you don’t hear it none; that’s the sound of home.

Don’t fight against learning how other’s inflect the same words you use. We’re all the same under the skin, and after awhile. Marvel has good hearing, but it won’t hurt either that in the next few months Marvel the blind man will be able see as good as you, and me. Marvel smiles when he says things about his sight, It shouldn’t hurt to see the light. When it does it’s not about eyes: it’s about I.

Wisdom says ‘wisdom says many things. Saying something is wise is different from saying something is true.’

Chapter Three

‘We are introduced to Marvel Goodman’

(Background material)

How to learn to see

Sight is a matter of practice

What you see doesn’t come naturally

Seeing anything is a matter of belief

Not seeing: that’s a big relief

With a name like Marvel it’s a good thing to live up to that advance billing. Can you imagine a man name for marvelous, and meeting up with some limp vanilla wafer of a fella?

Marvel Goodman: providentially named, Lord a mercy that boy is a marvel. I declare he’s grown another inch on both of those left feet. Large, and awkward is not marvelous, more a statement about childhood development. Marvel grew until he outgrew childhood, and adolescence, shooting past teen years, and finally arriving at the age of 66 seven feet tall. He had been two inches taller at one time, but a freak accident compressed his spine, and left him blind.

Marvel Goodman is the only blind motorcyclist in the whole valley. Most folks observing him out riding with his blind seeing-eye dog giving chase have commented, Now that’s a sight you don’t see every day. Said with reverence; awed by it all, and when they hear he’s looking to form a motorcycle club ‘Blind Faith’; that’s how they know Virginia ain’t Kansas. We don’t put much stock in tornado shelters. Safety isn’t to be found in a hole in the ground. We call such things root cellars, places for storing fruits, and vegetables; not human beings, and when storms blow through our valley it’s to the Lord God Almighty that we turn. A proper helmet may save the average head: only God can save a blind man hell-bent on biking.

After getting blinded he got a blind dog. That’s how things go around here. Bad things happen, and healing begins with someone saying, Marvel needs a dog. Someone actually said, Marvel needs a seeing-blind dog. That someone, Mr. Roy Wine, aptly named also; port red nose, and breath that could ignite too close to a hot stove; found Marvel a very large dog cheaply. Mr. Wine was rather deep into his cups at the time driving back from Mechanicsville when he almost ran over a very large black lump in the road. It was a wonder that I didn’t kill that mutt. He’s as blind as Marvel. And that’s how Wonder got his name. Blind, and blind seemed to add up in Roy’s mind; pairs of things combined, and the next thing you know, he stops off at Marvel’s home, knocks on the door, fumigating the house with his alcoholic words, and warming a blind man’s heart forever, and a day more; saying right side to Sunday both the truth, and lie, Doesn’t it say in the good book let the blind lead the blind, and do you have anymore of that hair of the dog that done bit me good?

Two peas in a pod is a similar thing being similar. A marvel, and a wonder – well that’s really a splendor: it was a splendid thing that came from that lucky inebriation. Marvel told Mr. Wine, his bass tones making the buttons on his shirt bounce, Roy, a book is good for what it holds. Words are about their meanings. Spell the word man backwards, and you don’t get much of anything. But no matter how you spell dog it surely says goodness. Marvel speaks that way. When he was just a very large little boy he said to his mother, The smoke on the mountain gets in my eyes, and makes me want to cry.

A ‘seeing-blind dog’, and a blind man seeing is not the usual order of things normally, but that’s how the miraculous goes about revealing itself, and usually not in any way you could have predicted: miracles have their own ways of doing the Lord’s will. It’s like the two-headed calf born over in Staunton: you know when you’re looking at it that it’s a miracle - you just can’t imagine why.

God is a mystery. He’s one of those things where ‘seeing isn’t believing’, making faith the complicated thing it is. Faith is about believing in what you can’t see. If we saw God revealed every day he’d stop being what he is. A visible God doesn’t seem much more than what we have for local government. Miracles are mysterious, and maybe ‘God’s little reminders’, telling us that he exists, and is still interested in what we’re getting up to down here in the valley. So, we are not really surprised when God self-reveals. But what frosts the mountain is when he locates that miracle plumb-dab before our startled faces, apparently expecting our personal involvement for what we didn’t author in the first place. God made everything: that being true - he made evil too. That’s a mystery ‘mystery’, and probably not going to be solved real soon.

A miracle though isn’t necessarily good, or bad. A miracle is a sign. Elder Jenkins presides over at the First Baptist Shenandoah Valley Reformed, and Renewed Church of Future Hope, formally noted as the FBSVRRCFH, and why we locals calls them ‘fibserchifhers’, or ‘chifhers’ for convenience as in Those poor ‘chifhers’, imagining them still sitting those buttock crippling backless pews two hours past any other normal God fearing, Christian Sunday sermon’s blessed ending. Elder Jenkins referring to the doings going on in Staunton, Jesus sent as Lamb of God, and he saves us all. A cow with two heads: that’s a message with a double meaning. Miracle, or travesty, maybe even both - who knows? Every sword two sharp edges - most good, and bad simply a cut one-way or the other.

All we can know for sure right now - murder isn’t a miracle: it’s the opposite; taking what it didn’t create in the first place. It’s an unlawful taking away of life. Murder is an ugly business. When it’s a child killed it’s so ugly that even the sighted just want to close their eyes, turn away, and forget what they are seeing. A murdered child lays heavy on the valley; smoke on the mountains; blood on the monuments, and maybe why when Marvel shuts his eyes tonight the tears he cries are God’s.

The Lord God took Marvel’s sight when he couldn’t bear to see what he saw (the Lord that is). It was a mercy really. And it was the Lord God that gave it back to him on loan. Sight is on loan from God: blindness however, is a gift of the Devil. Yes, the Devil gives gifts. For a man like Marvel sometimes it’s a struggle to choose which to accept, and what to decline.

Names name: that’s what names do. They proclaim certain things, and every time they are said they take on a greater life. Names are born, live, and some names never, ever die. A man owns few things in his short time on this earth. He has the air in his lungs, some special thoughts, and the difference between the name he’s given, and the one he earns himself. A wise parent names a child for good: every time he’s called in for supper he eats good as food, and good as growing up.

In our neck of the valley there is actually a man going by the name of ‘Peachy Keen’. When most folks see him coming they go another way around foregoing a meeting; bespeaking a truth while not wanting to be overheard for being unkind, That Peachy Keen is no sight a man wants to see first thing in the morning. Just because you’re named something doesn’t mean you are that something.

Peachy Keen, when he sees Marvel knows he’s in the presence of someone special. Marvel, when he sees Peachy coming smiles knowing the good Lord is amusing himself at his expense, or maybe trying to teach him something about the meaning of patience. The word around the valley is that the only reason Marvel talks to Peachy is that he can’t see to avoid him. One way you know Marvel is blind is that even when he sees Peachy Keen he greets him with a smile.

It is our belief that this unique fruity sign of a coming source of irritation has its origins in our very own storied valley; beginning way back with a fella shaking his head at some form of bad luck on the horizon finally arriving, and at the very worst possible time; that soon to be recipient of ill fortune moving his head back, and forth making a futile effort at denial, and then when that doesn’t work worth a hill of beans, those mute efforts giving way to the sad statement oft repeated by that originating first sufferer, and then echoed by others equally pained; adding, multiplying, and finally culminating in a grand total of a moaning of all humanity plaintively wailing, Well, ain’t that just peachy keen. Said along with maybe some cussing, fussing, and calling upon the favor of the Lord. Deliverance comes from God: the wise man calls God’s holy name in awe. Cursing don’t do much except aggravate an existing irritation.

Our valley produces many fine crops; sometimes the odd turn of a phrase is included with that fruitful harvest. That’s what we call, Taking the lean with the fat. Good, and bad come a knocking each day the same: many things depend on if, and who answers that beckoning door. Marvel believes that the best way to handle what you don’t want to see coming your way is to look at it another way. So, when Peachy Keen comes down the road, don’t try to run away; instead step forward with courage, and greet him before he can say ‘howdedo’ to you.

When Peachy Keen looms forlorn on the horizon, you want him to be seeing a marvel coming his way; setting the tone right up front, It’s going to be a marvelous day. That’s how some things get changed before they can grab hold of you, spoiling your day for bad, and keeping it from good. After Marvel gets done squeezing old Peachy’s hand, pumping it up, and down; Peachy don’t seem such a bad start to the day. And just like one bad apple can spoil the bunch - a spoon of honey sure goes a long way sweetening up a rainy day.

Marvel says, Every peach has a pit. Eat around it. Good advice is good advice only when you follow it. Good advice is sometimes hard to swallow. Marvel has sadly learned, It’s hard to stomach what you can’t swallow down. That’s how bad stuff gets stuck - stuck in the throat; stuck in the mind; some stuck stuff can make you blind.

Wisdom says ‘God made all men the same, but not equally.’

Chapter Four

‘How Marvel lost his sight’

(Forty years ago past)

Night sight

Seeing at night

Not about light

Marvel lost his sight the first time after he saw a car accident. He was out on his bike; pulled up to a light, when a car came out of nowhere; hit a woman, and her five-year-old daughter while they were crossing the street. The car kept on going, and was never caught. It was a Virginia tag on the back of that runaway car. Marvel saw it, but in the heat of the moment he couldn’t remember it for later.

The mother was killed outright; picked up, and thrown thirty feet: knocked out of her shoes, and life at the same time. He’ll never forget seeing those two little blue shoes sitting on the pavement; lined up as if for bed at night. His sight started to gray out right then; he just didn’t know it for what was happening.

The little girl, Penny Rose Hazelton had her mother’s hand plucked from her own; that fleeing car hitting her mother, and then her mom’s body doing the rest of the propelling; lifting that little girl high up into the air, and sending her five feet forwards of where her mother ended up landing. A mother cushion softening a child’s impact, or maybe a mother’s broken body accelerating a child’s growth in some awful ways it will take the rest of this book to learn about. Rose Ellen Hazelton, Roslyn to her many friends, died at the scene, and so did her daughter Penny. And like A Penny saved is a penny earned. and A bad penny always turns up.: ‘Sayings’ say many things - just because they’re said doesn’t make them true. It only makes them repeated.

When Marvel got to Penny Rose she wasn’t even breathing. The wind hadn’t been knocked out of her: life had been kicked to the curb. Little Penny Rose Hazelton was dead; dead as a doornail, hammered, and clinched. Marvel will never, ever forget that sight. It comes to him day, and night. And when it arrives dark in the blackest light that’s when Marvel closes his blind eyes, and weeps those cupreous tears that stain his pillowcase, and change the direction of his life.

Marvel can’t really remember what happens next. His mind won’t hold those things. He only knows what he did by what others have said, and even those eyewitnesses can’t really agree on the how, what, and why. When is known mostly, and the where is the intersection of two streets making it a cross no right-minded man can carry on his own. Some have speculated that the day a mother, and her daughter died is the very same day that Marvel got his calling. Orville Knight, a first responder to that tragic scene; seeing larger hands than man’s involved, and summing up for local posterity the origins of things that can’t be explained by temporal understandings, When Marvel lost his sight he saw God.

It took quite a spell for the ambulance to be called, the crew to assemble, and finally arrive. It seemed forever to Marvel at the time. He was busier than a one-armed paperhanger. Marvel had some previous life saving training, him being a former medic