Song of the Shenandoah

By Brenda George

Jed Buchanan is one of the Blue Ridge mountain people displaced by the formation of the Shenandoah National Park. Through a quirk of fate he is offered a job as a farm manager on one of the loveliest farms in the Shenandoah Valley. Though he loves the life, dire danger lurks in the form of a fanatical, old-style Ku Klux Klan klavern that has been operating in the rural areas of Northern Virginia. Jed falls in love with two very different women: the beautiful, sultry sophisticate, Virginia Chadwick, whom he saves from being savaged by a vicious dog. This leads to the humble hillbilly giving regular lectures to one of the most powerful groups in Washington DC., Then theres lovely, spunky Sage Kelly, who has left three men at the altar. However, Jed has good reason to suspect that she and her brother, Tom, are members of the Ku Klux Klan. Sequel to the widely acclaimed "Falling Leaves and Mountain Ashes", this compelling epic novel, set in the1940s and 1950s, displays once again what a master storyteller George is.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: May 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483609072

Brenda George

Born in South Africa, Brenda George grew up in the small mining town of Luanshya, in Zambia, with her parents and three sisters. Divorced, with no children, she writes epic novels and has been a freelance editor and a literary agent. She edited A Man Cannot Cry, an international best seller written by her sister, Gloria Keverne. A prodigious researcher, Brenda has been deeply interested in American history and politics since she was a young girl, and visited the United States on several occasions, when she did extensive research for all of her novels. She now lives in Pietermaritzburg, South Africa.

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About The Author

Born in South Africa, Brenda George grew up in the small mining town of Luanshya, in Northern Rhodesia/Zambia, with her parents and three sisters. Divorced with no children, she has been a freelance editor and a literary agent. She holds occasional novel writing workshops. She edited the international best-selling novel, A Man Cannot Cry (an 11-year sojourn) and Broken Wings, both written by her sister, Gloria/Glory Keverne. Thus, the sisters share a unique writing/editing relationship, as Brenda started writing novels herself in 1982, and now devotes all of her time to this much-loved pursuit. A prodigious researcher, she has been deeply interested in American history and politics since she was a young girl, and visited the United States on several occasions, when she did extensive research for all of her novels. Today, she lives happily in Pietermaritzburg, South Africa, on the top floor of an apartment block, overlooking a huge hillside of trees and a beautiful hilly park, through which flows a stream, spanned by a quaint wooden bridge. Eagles, hawks and raptors fly overhead …

Song of the Shenandoah is the second book of a 5-book series. The first is the widely acclaimed Falling Leaves and Mountain Ashes.

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The author: Brenda George

Song of the Shenandoah

Sequel to the acclaimed

Falling Leaves and Mountain Ashes

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Brenda George

Copyright © 2013 by Brenda George.

E-mail: [e-mail]

First Edition, Sherando Sun Publishers, 2012

Second Edition, Xlibris, 2013

ISBN:   Softcover   978-1-4836-0906-5

         Ebook      978-1-4836-0907-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Effort has been made to give acknowledgement to all printed reference in this book. If the author has, however, unwittingly used material requiring copyright, the author requests the copyright holder to contact the author, to enable the author to make due acknowledgement.

Rev. date: 05/01/2013

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

0-800-644-6988

www.xlibrispublishing.co.uk

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Contents

About The Author

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Acclaim for Falling Leaves and Mountain Ashes

Some Readers’ Comments "Falling leaves and Mountain Ashes

Author’s Notes

Book I Heartache and Serendipity

Book II The Messenger

Book III Glimpses of Heaven

Book IV In the Dark of the Night

Book V Daughter of the Stars

More Acclaim from Readers for Falling Leaves and Mountain Ashes

Dedication

I dedicate this book to:

My beloved late parents,

Thomas William Douglas Keverne

and

Dorothy Gwendolene Keverne

I will always be grateful for their love and spiritual guidance.

My cherished mother, so brave and full of inner strength,

the epitome of a selfless, loving nurturer,

her family, her entire world.

My wonderful father, a loving, deeply spiritual man,

but full of fun and nonsense just the same –

thus both daft and divine.

Your combined legacy to me, Mom and Dad,

is enormous and remains ever in my heart!

And:

My best friend in all the world,

My Rock!

Marcel Talbot

who has been such an incredible blessing to me!

He is a writer’s dream to have around!

Thank you for believing so much in my work, Babes!

Your constant encouragement and support

means so very much to me!

Love you so, so much!

Acknowledgements

There are so many people that I have to thank for helping me with my research for this book, whom I met during the times I visited Front Royal for research purposes over the period 1981-1988. Unfortunately, many of them have since passed away; it is so long ago now. Many more may have passed on without my knowledge. I would like to point out that any mistakes that may have been made in the gathering and transferral of this and other extensive research I did, are mine and mine alone.

My old stalwart friend, W. Briley Morrison, ex-photographer with The Front Royal-Warren Sentinel, who helped me with so many things to do with Front Royal, the Shenandoah National Park, and the Civil Rights struggle. He drove me to the Samuels Library, schools and on trips to the Shenandoah National Park. He also wrote to me of his personal memories of the Ku Klux Klan in Front Royal (also see Author’s Notes).

The late B Nay Scheuer, my dear friend, also drove me around Front Royal and took me to farms in the area that equipped me to write about farming in Warren County in this novel.

The late Karl and Yvonne Westfelt allowed me and B. Nay Scheuer, to visit their lovely farm, Island Ford Farm. Special thanks, posthumously, to Vyonne, who gave me a tour of the farm and answered my countless questions about farming matters, as well as the flora and fauna and birdlife, of the area.

The late John Earle also allowed me to visit his beautiful farm, Cedarbrook, on the outskirts of Front Royal, and also answered many questions about farming in the area.

The late John Stoneberger, a genuine ‘hillbilly’, helped me with research on the mountain folk of the Blue Ridge Mountains, and wrote the delightful memoir, Memories of a Lewis Mountain Man.

The late Alvin Dohme proved a mine of information about the Shenandoah Valley, and wrote the highly informative book Shenandoah – The Valley Story.

Ann "Maud" Naylor provided me with much information about the White House, her lawyer father having been an advisor for several administrations, which provided me with good grist in this novel.

Ann’s late husband, "Spike", provided me with much information on the Shenandoah National Park, having been instrumental in its formation.

All of the fine people above also supplied me with innumerable books about subjects relating to my research, which proved invaluable in the writing of this book.

I am also deeply indebted to:

Brigette Johnson, my niece and a young genius, designed the covers of both my published books. She shines with sheer brilliance and has the poetic soul of a true artist! Thank you, darling Briggie, for bringing my visions to such incredibly beautiful life!

June Johnson, my wonderful Sunshine Sister, for reading through my huge manuscript and giving me such insightful guidance and advice. Once again, you were of invaluable assistance to me, Junie!

Stan Corwin, my incredible American agent, who has worked so tirelessly on my behalf. I am so grateful to him for his continued faith in my work. I could not ask for any agent more dedicated to the cause. Thank you so much for believing in my work, Stan, my Book Man! You’re the greatest!!

Di Poupard, a gifted, internationally known horse whisperer from California, a wonderful, compassionate human being, gave me much information about pacifying problem horses, and the reactions of horses in different situations.

Chantal Boulle, from the United States Embassy, Durban, South Africa, procured for me invaluable information about the jurisdiction of sheriffs, the police and the FBI. Grateful thanks both to her and to those from whom she obtained the information.

TonyGray’Owl, my talented American friend, poet, writer and spiritual teacher, who kindly imparted of his wisdom and knowledge to me. I also thank him for the use of his beautiful prophecy/prayer at the end of the book.

My wonderful, wise Native-American, Senecca, friend, Ric, who kindly read through certain parts of my book, and gave me much encouragement, and – most of all – courage!

Musa E. Zulu, ambassador extraordinaire and motivational speaker for the Disabled and one of the most positive, talented and inspiring individuals I have ever met. The Man with Wheels on the Soul of his Shoes and a Song on a Spirit that Soars! I thank him for the use of his wonderful verse, taken from his book, The Language of Me.

(Extracts from Musa E. Zulu The Language of Me, 2004, are reproduced by permission of the author and publishers, UKZN Press, Pietermaritzburg, South Africa.)

Acclaim for Falling Leaves and Mountain Ashes

‘… I am so mesmerized by your writing, your evocation of the Blue Mountain ambiance, the unbelievable characters … How do you know all about these people? You captured every aspect of their lives, their thoughts, the ambiance of the Blue Mtns … What a story. Congratulations on a terrific novel … Bravo, Brenda … Those characters still stay with me.’

Stan Corwin, Hollywood literary agent, film producer, book packager, author.

‘Brenda George weaves an elaborate tapestry of rich, compelling characters, and a passionate story … Her writing is lyrical and visual – a movie in the making!’

Annette Handley-Chandler, Ex-Hollywood literary agent/film producer, Emmy Award winning producer, writer.

‘Brenda George’s novel is quite beautifully written (and reminded me of EAST OF EDEN) …’ Random House, USA

‘I found the historical details to be immersive & well-researched, giving the setting a time period a good sense of authenticity.’

Kensington Publishing, USA

‘Any and all readers will enjoy this manuscript. The title is catchy and the words are powerful. They place the reader in another era … I loved this story and cannot wait to read the next installment. The author has an excellent way with words.’

Cynthia Sherman – Writers’ Literary, USA

‘… Exceptionally well-researched and seven years in the writing, Falling Leaves and Mountain Ashes is a magnificent, spellbinding, epic tale. Peopled with strong, vivid, unforgettable characters, it is poignant, beautiful and haunting, lingering on long in the mind and the heart, after one reluctantly closes the last page …’

Richmond Times

‘Put your hand in the hand of a truly gifted storyteller and step into another world.’

Gloria Keverne – author of the international bestseller A Man Cannot Cry and Broken Wings.

‘Beautifully constructed, this book tells the tale of the formation of the Shenandoah National Park, the ‘Mountain Folk’ that lived there, the inter-clan fighting, the fierce family loyalties … The descriptions of the forests take the reader out of this world and into theirs where eagles soar and leaves change color with the seasons.’

Lesley Thomson – The Lazy Lizard Book Traders

‘… the book is beautifully written and a compelling read.  The reader is transported into the forests and shares the magnificent views from the mountain. It is a love story, an adventure, includes the history of the setting up the now famous Shenandoah National Park, the Senedo Indians and a fascinating portrayal of interesting characters.’

The Meander Chronicle

‘The characters are so alive, so real, her background so precisely drawn, that I was there with them, where it was all happening, transported to a place and an era that was new to me, yet it was as vivid as if I’d been living in the early 1900s in the Blue Ridge Mountains.’

Felicity Keats-Morrison, Publisher, right-brain specialist, author.

‘… Brenda George brings us a riveting tale of the hardships with which the mountain folk of Virginia had to contend with intermingled with the breathtaking scenery … Feuds, lawlessness, illegal trade of moonshine and more … I guarantee that once you begin reading you will not want to put it down.’

The Zululand Observer

Some Readers’ Comments

"Falling leaves and Mountain Ashes

‘I’m speechless! I’ve just finished reading Falling Leaves and Mountain Ashes and I’ve never read anything like it … What a wonderful three-hour movie it would make! It’s just wonderful! It’s the best book I have read in my life!’ Dave Robertson

‘I read Falling Leaves and Mountain Ashes in a week and it was a magnificent read. It was like Gone With the Wind, but even better. I loved Mary and Zachary Thomas and the way their love story developed. There were magnificent passages in it and the characters were very real. I loved all the parts with the Jed and the Red Indian … The characters I loved were, of course, the good ones – Mary and Zack, Jed, the Doc, and Emma. Eli, I hated, but at the end, I could understand why he turned out so evil after his father’s terrible hold over him. The book had tremendous power and the graphic description made me feel part of it all, especially Claw Mountain and the Red Indian …’ Mervyn Askew

‘It was brilliant, absolutely stunning, and I could not put it down. The author is such an unbelievably talented writer, I even found sympathy for the main antagonist, Eli. I loved all the characters, especially Mary, Zachary Thomas, the spunky little mountain child, Emma, and Mary’s little mystic son, Jed. I found the end very moving and sad, and never wanted it to end. I am so haunted by it. Jenni Riddell

‘It was absolutely fantastic, stunning, stunning, stunning, with brilliant writing. I loved the characters and the story, which was very, very sad in the end. It haunted me and I haven’t been so moved by a book since I read A Man Cannot Cry (written by the author’s sister, Gloria Keverne, and edited by her!) many years ago.’ Debbie Khan

‘Enthralling! I could not put it down! I read it in 36 hours straight!’ Darryl Tammadge

‘I finished the book and just had to phone you to let me know that it was excellent, a remarkable piece of work. It was so descriptive and real, I felt I was right there. I loved the characters, Zachary Thomas, and the antagonist, Eli, and the main character, Mary, is in a class of her own. The parts at the end with Eli moved me so deeply I had to put the book aside for a while, before starting reading again. I am an avid reader, reading about 20 books a month.’ Sewraj Ghurparsadh

‘I love this book, - it’s absolutely fantastic, fantastic!! My whole book club has read it and everybody just LOVED it! It’s amazing. It is the most awesome book. Wonderful. I loved the characters. I want to buy a book of my own, because it’s one I want to keep on my bookshelf forever.’ Bea Wallis

‘I wanted it to go on forever. It’s divine! Absolutely divine! I loved it so much I didn’t want it to end. It’s so different. But I’m sure I’m only one in a long line of people to say how fantastic it is. You must have because it IS fantastic. Like Gloria, you describe everything so well, you feel as if you are right there. What is it about you two Keverne girls that you can both write so brilliantly? You write differently, but both so descriptively that it comes to life.’ Vio Cameron

‘I loved the book, and once I started reading it, I just could not stop and my husband complained, ‘When are you going to get your nose out of that bloody book?’ It really is a marvelous book and the writing is excellent. I especially loved the part with the eagles and the Senedo Indian and the descriptions of the mountains.’ Lesley Thomson

‘I read your book and it was excellent. I enjoyed it immensely. It was one of those books I read non-stop from cover to cover until I was done. I can’t wait for the next one. I have been telling everyone about it … Your characters are amazing! I still think about them. I wanted you to know how much I enjoyed it. It is quite an accomplishment and you should be very, very proud.’ Judy Lewis

‘… It’s been a very long time since I’ve so enjoyed reading a book, longed to finish it and yet dreaded ending the experience. It was with a sigh of both satisfaction and regret that I closed the last page of your wonderful book. I’d dragged it out as best I could to make it last longer, and savored every word. I was left in no doubt as to how Claw Mountain looked and felt, and could even smell the air in the changing seasons!! … I smiled. I cried. My heartbeat increased. My heart filled with love … Loved it. Loved it, Loved it!! …’ Jan Kernan

‘I am halfway through reading the book and I am finding it excellent. Right from the word go I was captivated and couldn’t put it down, and I was right there with the characters. Even though I am full up with the ‘flu, I can’t stop reading it.’ Amelle Stow

‘Beautiful! Vivid! I felt like I was living in the book. It transported me.’ Cheryl Dormer

‘Well, I just finished reading your book and wanted to let you know how much I enjoyed it, and how sad I was when I came to the end. I so badly wanted to know what happened to Jed. Wow! What an epic saga. You certainly have a way with words – so descriptive. I felt I was there with them throughout their 40 years on the mountain.’ Merilyn Howes

‘I am loving it so much and the book is set out so beautifully … Out of 100, I give the book 100. It is fantastic and I couldn’t put it down … all the other people in the book clubs love it, and all they all want to know is when the second book is coming out!’ Jenny Cairns

‘I am so enjoying your book Falling leaves and Mountain Ashes I cannot put it down. My boyfriend is overseas for 9 weeks and it is just as well - even though I miss him - because I am in bed at 7.00pm every night so that I can read. Well done!’ Sharon van Rooyen

Author’s Notes

Although the Ku Klux Klan wasn’t as active in Virginia as it was in the Deep South, my invaluable Front Royal research contact, W. Briley Morrison (also mentioned in the Acknowledgements), told me that Front Royal had a healthy chapter of the Ku Klux Klan right up to the 1940s, and how he, as a boy, would see the local Ku Klux Klan members in their white robes and hoods, on their annual silent march in single file down Main Street to the Baptist Church. They would interrupt the service to hand the minister a handsome donation and sit amongst the congregation. He said the congregants knew who was under the hoods by seeing who was missing every year, and that these included the sheriff, the postmaster and many other county officials. In his book The Fiery Cross, Wynn Craig Wade points out that as many as 40,000 Fundamentalist ministers joined the Ku Klux Klan, most of them Protestant, and mainly in the 1920s. Those who gave pro-Klan sermons from their pulpits were rewarded by a church visitation and a substantial donation. This leads me to believe that Briley did indeed witness these marches in Front Royal in his youth, and I have thus used this information in my book.

The Fiery Cross, by Wynn Craig Wade, was the mainstay of my in-depth research into the Ku Klux Klan, and I wish to thank him for the fantastic, well-structured and highly informative book he wrote  – a remarkable accomplishment! Without this amazing book, I could not have written about the Klan in the way I was able to.

I made the Klan members of my Front Royal Klavern fanatical fundamentalists who cling to the old-style early Klan restarted by Colonel Simmons in 1915, when they still rode horses on their midnight terror raids. The fact that I have used a Baptist Church in Front Royal is not meant to be disparaging to any particular Baptist Church or congregation there. Mine is thus a fictional church used for dramatic purposes only (though if Briley Morrison’s assertions are correct, the congregation of at least one Baptist church in Front Royal was pro-Klan in those days).

My story is not, in any way, meant to cast any aspersions on any of the citizens of the wonderful little Virginian country town of Front Royal, past or present. I visited there on several occasions for research purposes and since it was perfect geographically and historically, also featuring strongly in the Civil Rights struggle (in the third book of the series), it made sense for me to use it as a setting. I also loosely based my fictional farm on the banks of the Shenandoah River, on Island Ford Farm, just outside of front Royal. It was once owned by the late Yvonne and Karl Westfelt, who gave me kind permission to do so.

Like human beings, all creatures are sentient beings with feelings, emotions and individual personalities therefore I believe that it is not beyond the realms of possibility and belief that there is such a thing as interspecies communication. There have been countless people, such as horse whisperers, animal psychics, animal pacifiers, saints and mystics, who claim to have the ability to talk to animals, both wild and domestic. Many of these specialize in working with difficult, fearful, abused or badly disturbed animals through a method of mental telepathy, which they are able then to translate into their own language or emotions. The results of their conversations, such as subsequent radical changes in the behavior of these animals, thereafter, seem to bear out that they do, indeed, have this rare and unique gift. Two Christian saints, Francis of Assisi, and Anthony, are reputed with being able to talk with the animals, as well as many other saints and mystics. I only recently discovered that the wise King Solomon of the Old Testament of the Bible understood the language of the birds and the beasts, and they would gather and form a court to amuse and entertain the king. (See Old testament Wisdom by Manly P Hall, pages 180/181.) This greatly interested me since I had already written of similar occurrences with the main character in my story.

The flood of the Shenandoah River in 1942 actually occurred, and the devastation it caused is accurate, but I have made a few minor changes for dramatic purposes. I have also occasionally used some poetic license when it came to geography, fruit and produce coops, and marketing, in places.

I did much research on the Internet, using information from many different articles for which I was not able to ascertain who the author/s was/were. I also used certain information from books (including the non-fiction one that was the basis of my Glimpses of Heaven part), I have since been unable to trace over the years it took me to research and write this novel. I wish to acknowledge them all, even though I am unable to name them. The authors have my deep gratitude.

Brenda George

‘I am … one of a kind … unique … yet part of a unity.

Within the small universe of my being is embodied

the whole vast miracle of God’s creation …

life and death … past, present and future

… time and eternity.

I am one note in the symphony of life …

but through me the entire orchestra

finds its harmony.’

The Language of Me, Musa E. Zulu

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Song of the Shenandoah

Book I

Heartache and Serendipity

‘Song of the Shenandoah,

so achingly sweet,

Why is it that I hear it no more?’

Brenda George

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1

1940

The relocation of the Blue Ridge mountain people to make way for the Shenandoah National Park was considered by many to be the best thing for them, a public service, at last bringing them into the 20th century to join the rest of mainstream America. Long considered backward hillbillies, steeped in ignorance, with scant or no ambition, lacking a sense of citizenship, or possessing comprehension or respect for the law, these people had presented a weighty problem to the organizers of the Park. With land acquired through blanket condemnation laws, and paid for by state appropriations and extensive private donations, the thorny problem had arisen about what to do with the people already living within the proposed park area. Enumerators had already established there were still 432 widely scattered families (about 2,250 individuals), living within its boundaries. The mountain folk had hoped that they might be allowed to remain on in their homes even after selling their land to the state, as many options were being considered. But in the end, by federal decree, these hardy highlanders, including those who were leasing their land, and squatters, were ordered to be removed. It was a cruel blow for the mountain people, all the more so since the life-changing proclamation was arbitrary and not something about which they had been consulted. Most had been bitterly opposed to leaving their beloved mountain homes. Some of them had been unable to leave their farms before they were forced to, because they had no savings in a world where barter was the currency, and they possessed no marketable skills to help them get started in the unknown world that lay beyond the mountains. Others clung fiercely onto their homes, hard times or not, because to them the mountains were home and precious to them. But, ultimately, all of them – save seventeen elderly souls, who were given special use permits to stay on in their homes within the Park, under strict conditions – were forced to leave and face the strange and frightening world on the outside. A few managed to do so without federal or state assistance. The Resettlement Administration of the Department of Agriculture set up seven resettlement communities close to the Park, where a displaced family could buy a house and land with no down payment, and a 30-year mortgage at very low interest. Many families moved to these communities. The rest were resettled by the Virginia State Welfare Department.

The removal of the mountain people from their beloved mountain homes was heartbreaking and catastrophic for them, the culmination of a long, complicated process to realize the dream of many influential campaigners to have a national park in the Blue Ridge Mountains. One of the hardest things for these hardworking, independent people to take was not being consulted about what would happen to them and thus losing control of their own lives. Nobody seemed to understand what it cost the mountain people to lose their homes in such a harsh and relentless way. They didn’t only lose their homes, they lost a cherished way of life. And more than anything, it robbed them of a priceless heritage that only Nature in all her glory can provide. After all, man needs bread for the soul as much as bread for the table – and they had plenty of both in the mountains, even though life was tough. In a scorched earth policy as devastating to the mountain people as that of Sheridan’s Union army in the Shenandoah Valley campaign during the Civil War, their shacks, cabins, houses and barns were systematically destroyed by fire, after they had left, to eradicate any evidence of their tenure of the land – and to make sure they wouldn’t be tempted to go back there ever again …

*     *     *

Zachary Thomas Buchanan and his elder son, Jed, were the last of those mountain people forced to leave their beloved mountain homes. Along with many other displaced mountain families, they’d been forced to leave behind the graves of loved ones, and magnificent scenery akin to visions of paradise to their eyes, to go and live in the comparatively dreary lowlands.

An inveterate man of the mountains, Jed Buchanan’s physical strength and fitness lay in the fact that he had lived for nearly four decades at Eagle Spur on top of Claw Mountain, the highest mountain in the northern Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. For a man who had spent most of his life exposed to the harsh elements of wind and sun, his golden-tan skin was remarkably smooth, and at forty years old, he looked at least ten years younger. Despite the full, sensitive mouth, it was a strong face, with high cheek bones, a classical nose, and a strong, firm jaw-line.

Although a quiet and gentle man by nature, physically, Jed was as tough as a hickory tree, with a spirit to match. Despite his lack of worldliness and sophistication – a natural enough order of his hillbilly roots – his brilliant blue eyes were full of age-old wisdom and knowledge, and they gazed at the world with a much deeper level of understanding than most. And although unsophisticated and unaccustomed to the ways of the world beyond the mountains, he was widely read and had the uncanny ability to commit and retain everything spoken or typed on a page to his memory, for instant recall. Far from being a fool, though sometimes mistaken for one, he was highly gifted spiritually and keenly intelligent. Full of humility, this God-seeking mystic walked the earth with great, quiet, inherent dignity – seeing, hearing and feeling what few others did …

Jed was busy in the corn fields he’d planted on his uncle’s 15-acre subsistence farm, in Ida Valley, one of the seven resettlement areas that had been set up for the displaced Blue Ridge mountain folk. Twenty families lived here, doing part-time subsistence farming and holding outside jobs.

He stopped his spade-work and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. Lifting his eyes to the Blue Ridge Mountains that rose up as an immediate backdrop to the the Ida Valley settlement, he felt the familiar gnawing ache inside him. He hadn’t been back to his home mountain once since he and his paw had been forced to leave the old homestead at Eagle Spur.

Jed was still not reconciled to the idea of such a paradise lost. The constant pull of heartache dogged his days and his eyes were always rested longingly on the mountains where he’d spent a virtual lifetown. Though Uncle Clem had told Jed he could use his truck to go back there to visit anytime he wanted – and Jed had even learned to drive the contraption and got himself a license to drive it with just that in mind – he couldn’t bring himself to go back to the magnificent mountain that he loved so much. The pain of being forced to leave it was still too raw inside him, a constant ache that sat inside him as heavy as a mountain boulder, threatening never to budge. And one thing he knew for sure – he would never get used to being a level-lander. He found the flat land of the valley uninspiring and the proximate view of the Blue Ridge from the smallholding only served to make him pine even more for the mighty mountain with its glorious mountain slopes and breathtaking views of the Wilderness Valley below.

And for the first time in his life, Jed was lonely. While living in the mountains, loneliness was something unbeknown to him for he had communed silently with the birds, the creatures, the wildflowers and the trees, and his friend, Spirit of an Eagle, the spirit guardian of the Indian burial ground in the thick forest of the plateau. Now, without their undemanding company, living with his Aunt Rosie and Uncle Clem and their children and grandchildren, ten of them all told, in a noisy and boisterous household, he yet felt painfully alone in the world. Even though they’d been kind to him and generous with their affection, it had been hard on Jed, learning to live with so many people again, like he had when he was a boy, living with his parents, his younger brother, Caleb, and six sisters. But having been used to living on the top of a wild, lonely mountain his whole life, engulfed in great echoey silences, split only by the cries of eagles and the trickling of streams, their constant chatter and raucous laughter wore badly on his nerves. It was a far cry from Eagle Spur on Claw Mountain to this smallholding here in Ida Valley!

Thankfully, the earth was something that Jed understood all too well. So he worked from sun-up to sundown on this flat patch of land and it didn’t do anything to ease the wretched ache in his heart. He grew cabbages weighing all of 50-lbs, just like his mother had done up on Eagle Spur, plus a variety of other vegetables, including sweet carrots, beans, potatoes and pumpkins, corn and rye, raised chickens and sold eggs, as his contribution towards his keep. Other resettled mountain families around them did much the same.

When it came time for butchering, they and several of their neighbors dragged their bathtubs outside to scald the hogs, but it pained Jed deeply to think of the poor creatures being slaughtered, let alone witness the carnage. So, as he had on every annual butchering day up in the mountains, he made himself scarce, thankful that he had let his parents’ hogs loose into the tableland forest to feed on the mast, rather than brought them here to suffer the same ugly fate. Jed had long ago ceased to eat meat – chicken and fish, too, for that matter.

Jed had chosen to work the land while his Uncle Clem and Cousin Ned went out to work as handymen. They were out in Clem’s truck every day, except Sundays, when the whole family attended church, except Jed, who preferred to be alone to worship his Creator in his own quiet, personal way. Funny, since he had always enjoyed going to church when he lived in the mountains. He guessed it was because he relished the times he was alone. He would go into the fields and get down on his knees, raise his face to the heavens and pour forth his devotion to God, the Creator, and ask for strength to remain true to Him and what He wanted for his life. Life sure hadn’t been easy this past year, but Jed knew there was a greater plan involved, and he just had to trust the Creator to show him the way when the time came.

What puzzled Jed was how easily his kin had adjusted to their new lives. Oh, sometimes, when her grandchildren were at school and her husband and son were away at work, Aunt Rosie’s eyes would mist up with fond memories as she peeled apples to make jars of apple jelly like his mother, Mary, had taught her to make.

Your maw was a saint, she would mutter. I miss her somethin’ fierce.

Yeah, Jed would reply. Me, too, Aunt Rosie.

Other than Doc Adams, who had long since gone to his grave, his mother had been the only person who had truly understood him, who had accepted him for who he was. Everyone else seemed to regard him as freakish and strange. He and his mother used to talk for hours as they took their daily walks in the tableland forest, or they would walk in total silence, even then communicating in such a deep, profound way that it made her absence from his life a painful wound inside his soul. When he lost her to a painful death, he felt as if he had lost a vital part of himself, as if someone had punched a great hole in his chest and ripped his heart out. Sometimes, at the time just before he fell asleep or when he would go out into the fields on his own, he would strongly sense her presence, and be comforted by it, but he hadn’t actually seen her again, as he had done once in the forest immediately after she had died, when she’d given him the eagle feather that she’d worn around her neck for forty years. He now wore this symbol of her strength and courage around his own neck. By rights the eagle feather should be tatty and disintegrated, yet it hung from his throat in absolute perfection. The feather made him feel his mother was part of him still and was a strong link to Eagle Spur, where the giant golden eagles wheeled and soared overhead.

Jed looked up as he heard the sound of an automobile chugging down the dirt road. A little black Model-T Ford stopped in front of the gate and a young man alighted from it. He opened the gate, closing it carefully behind him and, raising a hand in greeting, walked across the clearing towards Jed. As he drew nearer, Jed saw he had a boyish face and wore black, horn-rimmed spectacles, a straw boater, a neat brown suit, a white shirt with a stiff upraised collar, yellow suspenders showing through his open jacket, and a brown bowtie with yellow dots on it. Jed wondered who it might be. Probably another member of the staff of the Relocation Project. They had called by from time to time in the past year to find out how things were going.

Kin I help you? Jed asked the stranger as he reached him. Then suddenly he recognized him. It was the spectacles that had him fooled for a moment. It was that young reporter fellow who had covered his father’s forced eviction from his home up on Eagle Spur when the sheriff and some deputies had arrested him and forced him down the mountain at gunpoint. The realization startled Jed, forcing him, suddenly, and without warning, to confront again the three most painful days of his life, inside the space of two weeks – the day his mother had died of mountain fever a week before the eviction, the eviction itself, and his father’s death just a week after they arrived here at Ida Valley. His father, a rugged old mountain man, had been unable to bear the anguish of the forced move, or the fact that he’d so recently buried his beloved wife of forty years there, inside the space of a week, and the heartbroken, grieving old man had passed on to the higher life.

You betcha, said the fresh-faced young man with a smile. "I’m Dale Abernathy from the Washington Post newspaper."

I know who you are, young fella.

The young man looked puzzled. You do? he asked in puzzlement. Say, I’m looking for a old fellow by the name of Zachary Thomas Buchanan. You happen to know him by any chance? He a relative of yours?

Jed started at the mention of his dead father’s name, feeling a great raw pang inside his chest. I knew him real well. He was my paw. But ye’ll have a hard job findin’ him, I reckon, he said with his slow Virginian drawl. He’s six foot under, up yonder field. He indicated where by a nod in the direction of his grave site.

"He’s dead?" cried young Abernathy, with a look of dismay. Oh no! I am real sorry to hear that. What did he die of, if I may ask?

Heartbreak, I reckon, replied Jed solemnly.

Why’s that? enquired the young reporter.

Well, take a born-and-bred mountain man away from th’ glory of his mountain and th’ last restin’ place of his recently departed wife’, lost to mountain fever, and two young’uns who’d died durin’ the 1918 ’flu epidemic, and it ain’t no big mystery.

Gee, I’m sure sorry to hear that, sir. Who are you, by the way? The young man eyes narrowed as he appraised the tall, handsome man, dressed in denim overalls worn over a vest, exposing tan, well-developed arms and wide shoulders, and wearing a battered felt hat, standing in front of him.

I’m Jed Buchanan, Zachary Thomas’s eldest, he answered.

Well, are you now? The young man’s eyes widened with interest. I take it you are one of the displaced Blue Ridge mountain folk then, since you are living here in Ida Valley?

Jed nodded. Sure am.

"When did you leave the mountains then?"

Same time as Paw.

You mean you lived at Eagle Spur too?

Sure did.

May I ask you where you were when they forced your father off the mountain at rifle point that day?

Up a tree, watchin’.

Up a tree? the reporter repeated hollowly. You mean you witnessed all that?

I surely did! Then jest after they took my paw away like that, I saw them CCC boys come drag out all our belongin’s from th’ cabin then set our home alight. Jed didn’t have to tell the young man how gut-wrenching it had all been. By the shocked and horrified look on his face, Jed knew that he appreciated how difficult the whole ordeal had been for him.

Paw wouldn’t have wanted me to see him being handcuffed and led away strugglin’ that way, said Jed bluntly. He was a right proud man. ’Sides, couldn’t risk havin’ th’ sheriff and his deputies arrest me, too, when I had to stay behind and take care of th’ livestock.

Jed hated to be reminded of that terrible day and the dreadful humiliation of his father, remembering how the CCC boys had torched the cabin after the sheriff’s party had left. He’d watched those sickening, unrelenting flames destroy the home he’d lived in his whole life. But it also destroyed something even more precious – their whole way of life. To a born-and-bred mountain man like himself, to whom the mountains were a sacred place, it was a cruel and extremely painful thing to experience and he knew it was something he would never forget as long as he lived. Standing up to his full height, with a face like thunder, Jed could not prevent tears from smarting his brilliant blue eyes.

Dale nodded and said, I understand. Frankly, I’ve never witnessed anything as sad and heartwrenching as I did that day. Why the pain in that poor old man’s eyes has haunted me ever since. That’s why I decided to come see how he’s faring a year hence.

Yeah, it were real sad alright. Maw had died of th’ fever a week a’fore that happened and he’d buried her at th’ foot of th’ skeleton of the Big Chestnut, alongside my two little sisters, who’d died in 1918, durin’ th’ flu epidemic. Paw couldn’t bear to leave her behind. They’d bin married fer nigh on forty years and were as close as two people kin git. Clean tore his heart out, it did. And then on top of it all, to got to leave a home like Eagle Spur … well, let’s jest say, it ain’t th’ easiest thung fer any man to do, let alone someone as set in his ways as Paw was. Believe me, it’s real hard on a man to git his land forcibly taken away from him and his home burned clean to th’ ground!

The deaths of both his parents within two weeks of each other had been a bitter blow to Jed, followed by yet another blow when the sheriff had come to tell the family that his Uncle Eli had been found dead in his automobile on Claw Mountain, in a clear case of suicide by gassing, on the same day as his mother’s funeral. The news had saddened Jed, and yet he felt strangely unsurprised. He hadn’t known his uncle very well, since he lived in Washington DC. He knew he was a highly successful businessman there, with many political connections that went all the way up to the White House, but, once, his mother had intimated to him that he was a terrible, violent man. His mother had possessed a great capacity for love and forgiveness and he had been surprised at her vehemence the only time she had talked to him about his Washington-based uncle. He knew the sixteen living sons of the Buchanan clan, once known thoughout the Blue Ridge as the Buckos, had a terrible reputation for violence and lawlessness before his mother went to live on the mountain, yet she hadn’t held it against any of the others, growing to love them like they were her own kin. Why was it that only Eli who’d had this effect on her? Was he such a bad man? That much worse than the others?

Surprisingly, at his mother’s funeral held on top of Claw Mountain, Jed had found the smartly dressed, handsome man, with a jagged scar running down one cheek, kind and sincere, and he had sensed that there was some terrible turmoil going on inside him, revealed in those strange pale-yellow eyes. Indeed, he had seen all the suffering of the ages in them that long and painful day.

The reporter clucked sympathetically, and said, Well, Eagle Spur sure is the most beautiful spot I’ve ever seen. Why, the view from up there is simply glorious! I guess I can understand why he found it so difficult to leave. I take it you weren’t happy about the move either?

Heck, no, I surely wasn’t, Jed replied shortly.

Well, I came out here to interview the last mountaineer to leave the Blue Ridge Mountains to make way for the Shenandoah National Park and see how he was coping with life on the outside, so to speak. Sure isn’t the man I expected it to be, but it seems I have found that man, after all.

Ain’t that a fact?

"Mind if I ask you a few questions? I’m writing an article for the Washington Post about the condition of the displaced hillbillies a year after the Removal. I’d chosen your father as my main subject. Now, under the circumstances, I’d like it to be you."

Jed squinted down at the boyish reporter and decided he liked the look of this young fellow. He seemed like a decent and honest sort, who genuinely appreciated how hard leaving the Blue Ridge had been on the mountain people, and who would tell it like it was. Maybe ordinary folk needed to appreciate what a cruel blow being forced to leave their beloved mountain homes had been to them – to have their lives suddenly ripped apart by strangers in Washington, without them having any say-so in the matter.

Sure, I don’t mind, Mr Abernathy. Reckon I’d like folks to understand how th’ mountain folk felt at that thar time. Not that I’m aginst th’ Park, itself, mind, replied Jed, shrugging his shoulders. Reckon all them critters and birds needed to be in a place whar they were safe.

That is a good thing, yes, said Dale Abernathy, whipping a notepad and pencil out of one of his suit pockets. First of all, have you ever been back to Claw Mountain?

Jed shook his head adamantly.

Why not?

Jed sighed, loathe to answer that one. Guess I cain’t face it yet. It still sets too raw inside me.

I’m sorry to hear that. Well, what’s the transition been like for you personally from living an isolated life on a mountain, to livin’ down here amongst us ‘low-landers’, as you call us?

Well, it sure ain’t bin easy. First off, it were real strange gittin’ water from a tap instead of with a bucket from a spring, or rain water in big barrels settin’ either side of th’ porch. And no more kerosene lanterns. Heck, thungs sure are different down here.

"Well, now that you are settled, are you happy living here in comparative, so-called ‘civilization’?’

Jed carefully considered the question and, because he was nothing if not an honest man, he sadly shook his head. How kin a man who’s lost paradise be happy? Why that view over th’ Wilderness Valley was like a’lookin’ down on th’ Garden of Eden itself. Back thar, th’ mountains kiss th’ sky and th’ air is so pure and sweet, it’s like breathin’ in God’s own sweet breath. Springs are so crystal clear and clean that a sip of that thar water tastes like pure nectar. He eyed the reporter to gauge the man’s reaction to what he was telling him. Well, see here, mister, I ain’t a’knowin’ exactly what you’re after, but I kin tell you one thung. This here scrap of land, as nice enough as it is, ain’t a patch on livin’ in them mountains.

Well, I guess that takes care of my next question, which was ‘What do you miss most about the place’?

Jed gave the man a slow, wry smile. Yep. Every doggone thung!

He rambled on about his new life. It had been a year of bewildering change for a man civilization had passed right by and had taken a whole heap of adjustment on his part. Living up at Eagle Spur, they had been cut off from the rest of the world, with no electricity, no running water and the general store half-a-day’s walk away. Here at Ida Valley, they had electric power, indoor plumbing instead of a wooden outhouse or the forest, an ice-box instead of a spring house, a Philco radio and even a Zenith television set with its bewildering black-and-white moving images that never ceased to astound Jed. It had taken the family some months of burning kerosene lamps and candles before they had discovered what the hanging pull-cord light switches were for. And Jed never ceased to wonder at water that poured mysteriously from metal taps instead of bubbling up from a spring in the ground. Then there were community buildings on a large stretch of land being used as craft and woodworking workshops where many Ida Valley mountain men plied their trade. He guessed there was much for which to be thankful. Yet …

Jed tilted his head and his thoughts roved, eliciting the memories of a lifetime spent on the huge mountain. He listened to the trickling of the streams on the mountain inside his head – the chuckles of the mountain his mother had called them. There was the tableland forest where he knew every creature, every tree, every stone. He would not tell the reporter that, knowing intuitively that the reporter could not possibly understand the extent of his affinity for the natural world in which he had grown up. Neither would he tell him about Spirit of an Eagle, who had been his friend and spiritual mentor his whole life, for he had learned that something as common-place and natural as communicating with the Indian spirit had been to him, such phenomena had no place in the somewhat frightening new world into which he had been thrust.

Well, it’s a fine place you got here and you’ve done a real good job from what I can see.

"Sure, it’s decent enough, and I sure am grateful my kin has bin given this here land on sech easy terms, but … well … doggone it, it’s a mite too flat fer th’ likes of a born-and-bred hillbilly like me."

What about all the modern conveniences? I mean I saw the general store just down the road, and I believe it’s near to schools and doctors. Indeed, I understand that the State Department of Public Health pledged to give the displaced mountain people free medical care for five whole years after the Removal.

"Well, takin’ thungs one at a time, startin’ with th’ general store – we stocked up on th’ goods we needed. We ain’t needed to go to th’ store every day like we do now. Takin’ th’ schoolin’ bit next – thanks to my maw, th’ Emily Tuttle School was started on the mountain way back in 1901 and it only closed in 1936. Scores of mountain young’un’s were taught in its school house, by first, Miss Violet Prescott, until she got married when my cousin, Emma Darwin took over, afore she got married. It started off as one classroom and ended up as three, with two other teachers, Mr Galbraithe Pennefeather and Miss Janie Atkinson, bein’ hired to take th’ higher grades introduced. Some of its pupils ended up goin’ to high school and even college down here in th’ lowlands. Th’ school only closed when th’ Shenandoah National Park was officially declared open.

As fer doctors, I ain’t never had a sick day in my life, m’self. As fer th’ others, why, my maw persuaded Doc Adams to hold a clinic on th’ mountain every three months or so, until his death in 1919, when his fine young colleague, Doctor Jason Darwin, carried on with it almost till th’ end, too. Hardly charged us more than a dime apiece and then never bothered to collect, so you could say it was fer free. Not that we ain’t grateful to th’ State Department of Health fer thar kindness, y’understand. Granted, few mountain families had all them privileges brung to Claw Mountain and th’ neighbourin’ mountains by my blessed maw. She even brung religion to th’ mountain, and got a proper church built on Beacon Mountain, too, he said, with a hint of heartfelt pride.

The young man had a look of admiration on his face. You don’t say? My, your mother sure sounds like some fine woman.

That she was, Mr Abernathy. That she was. She was a fine Christian woman, a saint, and was loved by all who knew her. And she sure as heck had a way of makin’ thungs happen. She sure drove my paw crazy at times, he said with a quiet chuckle. "Heck, I sure I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, you understand – Mr Zerkel and all them other folk of th’ Relocation Program are right kindly, but I still cain’t help a’wonderin’ why we had to be moved. Folks said we were poor and life was tough and we ought to be glad to git off th’ mountains, but they were wrong. I reckon we were th’ richest folk in th’ country back then! Oh, Ida Valley is full of mountain people who mourn th’ loss of their mountain homes and are still real mad at th’ government at th’ way they went about thungs, but they’re gettin’ on with thar lives and are kinda tickled about all them thar so-called ‘luxuries’ lowland livin’s given ’em. I admit it does make life a mite easier, but it sure as as heck don’t make life better!"

Tell me, Mister Buchanan, do you have outside employment?

Name’s Jed, young fella.

Of course, Jed.

"Th’ answer to that one is no. I work this here piece of land and it’s enough to feed me and my kinfolk, with a little extra to sell at th’ store, but, doggone it, it sure ain’t enough to hold me! Hold my soul, that is. Heck, up yonder, I had me th’ whole of th’ Blue Ridge Mountains as my backyard!"

By the time Dale Abernathy left two hours had past, Jed had purged himself of a whole heap of mountain memories and the reporter had taken a bunch of photographs of him, using a camera, flash and tripod that he had lugged from the automobile.

*     *     *

Jed was out in the fields a few days later when Aunt Rosie came running out of the house waving a newspaper in her one hand. Wearing a white apron over her blue cotton dress, flat, black, lace-up shoes and white ankle socks, she was no longer mountain-thin. Indeed, lowland good living had made her plump as a hen ready for the slaughter block. She had gray hair drawn back in a bun, big rosy cheeks, half her teeth were missing, and as she came hurrying towards him, the loose fat jiggled on her bare arms.

Why, Jed, jest you lookee here, she said breathlessly as she hurried up to him, pinning excited brown eyes on him. You’s famous, boy! Why, jest lookit how handsome you are in this here photygraph. You look jest like one of ’em Hollywood film stars. Reckon every girl in America is gonna tape yer picture up on the wall as a pin-up.

Jed felt himself go beet red. Aunt Rosie’s favorite pastime purloined from so-called civilization had been collecting film magazines and she pounced on any one of them she could find at the store. She would inform the rest of the family about all the film stars and what films they had acted in, but she’d never been to see a picture show herself. Her big dream was to go and see Gone with the Wind, which had recently been released and had sold out in theatres right across the country. She declared that Clark Gable made her go weak at the knees, much to old Uncle Clem’s intense annoyance. He had churlishly refused to take her to see the film at a picture palace in Washington, saying he’d never heard anything so witless as ‘travelin’ over a hundred miles to go see a whole bunch of people pretendin’ to be somebody they ain’t’. He saw the tainting of Hollywood as a dangerous legacy of living amongst lowlanders.

However, Aunt Rosie remained so smitten by the handsome star of the film that she had even recently managed to persuade Jed to cut his long hair to resemble a Clark Gable hairstyle after she’d pestered him for months about it. While she had declared he looked every inch as handsome as her matinee idol, after she’d finished hacking it off, Jed felt like the biblical Samson shorn of his shoulder-length brown locks – as if he’d lost all his strength.

Why, I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you starin’ up at me from th’ pile of newspapers on th’ floor of th’ general store, she continued breathlessly. I near passed out. Everybody’s talkin’ about it. I ain’t read it m’self ’cuz my eyes ain’t what they used to be and th’ print is so small, but mebbe you kin read it to me, boy.

Sure thung, Aunt Rosie, said Jed, thinking how, like a good many members of the Buchanan clan, his aunt used to be illiterate until his mother had taught her how to read.

Jed took the newspaper from her warily and looked at the front page of the Washington Post. There was a large portrait picture of him and several smaller ones of him in his overalls and vest, and a whole article boldly entitled: ‘DID WE DO RIGHT BY THEM?’ with a smaller line below which read: The Displaced Blue Ridge Mountainers. He read the report out loud and he was surprised to find tears stinging his eyes even as he watched Aunt Rosie’s tears splashing like twin mountain streams down her plump, red cheeks. Her face crumpled and she pouted like a spoilt child. Oh Jed, you miss it same as me. Sometimes I feel nobody understands th’ way I feel. Makes me real angry and sad th’ way they kicked us out of our homes, jest like we was a bunch of naughty young’uns expelled from th’ school house. Th’ government’s as bad as them damn Yankees, if’n you ask me.

I understand, Aunt Rosie, said Jed sympathetically. Seems to me thar be only one thung that makes livin’ here bearable fer me.

What’s that?

Th’ Shenandoah National Park.

Aunt Rosie squinted up him in astonishment. Huh? Seems to me that’s what drove us out of our homes in th’ first place! she cried indignantly.

Sure, Aunt Rosie, I know that, but we were messin’ up th’ place fer th’ critters and th’ forests and sech. Reckon they sore needed someplace whar they could finally be safe from man.

Aunt Rosie got a puzzled look on her face. "What you mean, boy? Safe? Them thungs were put thar fer us to use and eat. Them’s not living thungs. They ain’t got no souls."

This statement was not exactly surprising coming from someone born and raised in the mountains. In Jed’s experience, most mountain folk killed any animal they came across even when it wasn’t for the pot, without a thought that they were dooming many of them to near extinction, such as had already happened to the deer, the wolf, the black bear and the mountain lion, which used to be so plentiful in the Blue Ridge. Why, he’d read how, during the time of the early white