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Winchester Tales Winchester Virginia History
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Some people leave us with memories so warm that even through our tears, we find ourselves smiling. That is how I will al...
10/26/2026

Some people leave us with memories so warm that even through our tears, we find ourselves smiling. That is how I will always remember Eugene B. Smith—with his smile, his kindness, and the generous heart that made him feel like family.

Eugene gave me a gift I will treasure for the rest of my life. He allowed me to use his beautiful artwork on the covers of all my books. Every time I hold one, I will remember the man who believed in what I was doing and so willingly shared his talent with me. His artwork welcomed readers into my stories before they ever turned a page. Having that connection to him means more than I can put into words.

Through his art, Eugene captured so many beautiful moments in Wi******er. He helped us pause and appreciate the places we know and love, preserving them for people who will discover their beauty long after us. I hope we honor him by taking a little more time to notice that beauty—and by offering others the kindness he so freely gave.

My deepest condolences to Sarah, Kayla, Brennan, Marilynn, Anne and the entire family. May you find comfort in knowing how deeply he was cherished and how much of himself remains in the art and memories he shared with us.

We were so lucky to have you, Eugene. Thank you for your friendship, your generosity, and for leaving us so much beauty to hold on to. Whenever I see your artwork, I will think of your smile—and smile back.

You will be missed beyond words.

The salt and pepper shakers had become race cars. In a corner booth at Manuel’s and Wife Restaurant, a gray-haired man s...
10/22/2026

The salt and pepper shakers had become race cars. In a corner booth at Manuel’s and Wife Restaurant, a gray-haired man slid one past the other, showing his young dinner companion how to take the inside position on a racetrack. When their waitress returned to the table, she found Paul Newman giving Tom Cruise a driving lesson—right there among the dinner dishes. The waitress later told me about that remarkable evening in July 1987, when two of Hollywood’s biggest stars settled into a Wi******er restaurant and turned a quiet meal into a little preparation for Summit Point.

Newman and Cruise had become friends while making The Color of Money, released in 1986, and their friendship soon carried them from the movie set to the racetrack. Newman was already an experienced driver; Cruise was learning how much could happen between one turn and the next. During his racing visits to Summit Point, Wi******er offered a place to eat, spend the night, and perhaps pick up a few pointers over dinner. Their waitress remembered both men as friendly and generous, leaving her a handsome tip and a story she would never forget. Somewhere along the way, those shakers went back to being ordinary tableware—but for one evening in Wi******er, they had Paul Newman behind the wheel.

They were spotted at many locations around Wi******er over the years. Where did you see them?

Someone wanted Cameron Street to burn. In the fall of 1863, an anonymous writer identifying himself as “A UNION FRIEND” ...
10/22/2026

Someone wanted Cameron Street to burn. In the fall of 1863, an anonymous writer identifying himself as “A UNION FRIEND” left a note intended for Federal soldiers who might enter Wi******er. Its message revealed how bitterly war had divided neighbors: “MY FRIENDS, it is the report that your army intend to burn this town of Wi******er.… I drop these lines, to beg you to let the burning be confined, mostly to Cameron Street.” The writer singled out outspoken Confederate supporter Mary Greenhow Lee, declaring “THAT LITTLE WIDOW BY THE NAME OF LEE & HER GANG OF OLD MAIDS, ARE NOTHING MORE, THAN CONFEDERATE SPIES.” He closed with an unmistakable plea: “WHIP THE REBS FOR GOD’S SAKES.”

But the note never reached its intended audience. According to the account accompanying the letter, a Southern sympathizer found it in the street and delivered it to Mrs. Lee, believing she would find it amusing. She did—and preserved this venomous little souvenir of a neighbor’s hatred. Wi******er had contained strong Unionist sentiment before Virginia’s secession, but war turned political disagreements into accusations, broken friendships, and threats against the people next door. The note survived among Lee family papers and eventually sold through Cowan’s Auctions for $3,500. Its anonymous author wanted Cameron Street reduced to ashes; instead, his words became a lasting reminder of how fiercely Wi******er’s war was fought beyond the battlefield.

Do you remember? In the summer of 1960, Barbara Moore, a 56-year-old Russian-born engineer and health enthusiast, was cr...
10/20/2026

Do you remember?

In the summer of 1960, Barbara Moore, a 56-year-old Russian-born engineer and health enthusiast, was crossing America on foot! She had left San Francisco on April 13, with mountains, deserts, and thousands of miles of highway between her and New York City. By late June, her journey brought her along Route 50 from Romney toward Wi******er, trading the steep roads of West Virginia for Virginia’s apple country. While most travelers measured their progress by the automobile’s odometer, Barbara measured hers one determined footstep at a time. By July 1, the Wi******er Evening Star reported that she had passed through Wi******er and was continuing toward Washington.

Barbara’s unusual journey made international headlines. Promoting her beliefs about diet and endurance, she became known for sustaining herself on foods such as fruit, nuts, honey, and vegetable juices. On July 6, she reached New York City, completing a journey reported at 3,387 miles in roughly three months. But somewhere between the California coast and that celebrated finish were the familiar roads of our own community—a small stretch of an extraordinary adventure. It makes you wonder how many Wi******er residents watched her pass, perhaps never imagining that the woman walking down the road would still give us something to talk about sixty-six years later. Do you remember Barbara Moore coming through town?

HALLOWEEN FUN - 👻 🎃 “Medizin! Medizin!” The man downstairs sounded desperate. Upstairs, a woman lay awake beside her sle...
10/18/2026

HALLOWEEN FUN - 👻 🎃

“Medizin! Medizin!” The man downstairs sounded desperate. Upstairs, a woman lay awake beside her sleeping boyfriend, listening to two strangers argue in a house where neither belonged. It was October 1992 at 424 South Loudoun Street. She nudged him. “People are in the house.” He listened. German. They were speaking German. The couple crept downstairs, but with each step the voices grew fainter, until there was only silence—and the empty room waiting below. According to the tenants, other things happened there, too. Children laughed in the attic. A man in colonial clothing appeared in a doorway, then turned and faded away. One night, the young men renting the house returned to the smell of a wood fire. The great cooking fireplace looked as though someone had used it. But the chimney was sealed. A fire should have filled the house with smoke. Someone, it seemed, had forgotten that.

Nearly 220 years earlier, German immigrant Godfrey Miller had built his family’s home on that corner of Loudoun and Leicester Streets, reportedly using timbers salvaged from the deteriorating Fort Loudoun. A stocking weaver by trade, Miller and his wife, Anna, raised nine children beneath its roof. There would have been small feet on the stairs, laughter overhead, and long evenings beside the cooking fire. Miller also dealt in medicines, giving that desperate German cry a troubling place in the house’s history. Medizin. Medicine. Was someone calling for help for a feverish child? An ailing wife? Godfrey died in 1803. But if the tenants’ story is true, someone was still downstairs in October 1992, asking for medicine—and still waiting for an answer.

The oldest section of “Homespun” was built around 1790 beside an old dirt road that would later become Cedar Creek Grade...
10/15/2026

The oldest section of “Homespun” was built around 1790 beside an old dirt road that would later become Cedar Creek Grade. Originally part of Isaac Parkins’ landholdings in the 1750s, the farm encompassed more than 500 acres when it was sold to Godfrey Miller in 1790. The sale carried one condition: Miller had to build a brick or stone dwelling within a year. He constructed a “dogtrot” house, with two separate sections connected by an open central passageway.

Through marriage, the Miller and Bell families became connected, and by 1852, Homespun belonged to John Newton Bell, Sr. The Bell family used the property as a country retreat, surrounded by some 400 acres of apple orchards and woodlands. John and his second wife, Margaretta, had four children, including Stewart Bell, Sr., who was born in the basement of the family’s Cameron Street home during the Third Battle of Wi******er. Homespun itself stood amid the turmoil of the Civil War, with fighting during both battles of Kernstown sweeping across its grounds. This photograph, taken around 1905, shows John Bell, Jr., in the woods behind Homespun.

The voices woke him again. In 2017, the man living in the first-floor apartment at 418 North Loudoun Street couldn’t sle...
10/14/2026

The voices woke him again. In 2017, the man living in the first-floor apartment at 418 North Loudoun Street couldn’t sleep. A heavy sadness hung over the rooms, and even alone, he felt watched. That morning, men were talking on the porch. Women answered, offering food and blankets, while outside came the shuffling of countless footsteps and the groan of wagon wheels. He lay still, listening to what sounded like hundreds of people passing his apartment building. Perhaps there was a historical event at Fort Loudoun across the street. But when he reached the kitchen window, Loudoun Street was empty. No wagons. No gathering. No one on the porch. Behind him, his apartment door stood wide open. The strange experiences reportedly continued until he eventually suffered a mental breakdown. Yet the voices he described bore an unsettling resemblance to a day more than 150 years earlier—a day when this exact house had opened its doors to suffering and dying men.

On July 8, 1863, wounded Confederates streamed through Wi******er from Gettysburg. Reverend John Broadus found bandaged soldiers crowded onto Anne Magill’s porch as she and her daughter Mary handed out buttered bread. He was put to work making coffee; Mary was sent for more bread, and a woman called above the weary procession, “Who needs a blanket?” They worked until their provisions were gone, but still the wounded came. Inside, critically injured officers were laid in the front parlor, where some drew their final breaths—the same room that had once welcomed Stonewall Jackson and other Confederate commanders. After Mary’s arrest and removal south in 1864, Anne sold the house to hardware merchant William F. Keller. Death followed him home, too. One evening, a robber shot Keller near Cecil Street as he walked from his store. Mortally wounded, he stumbled back to 418 North Loudoun Street and died in the front room. More than a century later, a resident awoke to voices offering comfort to men he could hear but could not see. Outside, the street was empty. Inside, the door was open.

https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/131881592/william-f-keller

The first night sold out so we decided to do a second night!Come join us at Gypsy Jane’s on October 22nd at 6:30pm for a...
10/14/2026

The first night sold out so we decided to do a second night!

Come join us at Gypsy Jane’s on October 22nd at 6:30pm for a little Ghosts and Gumbo! I’ll be telling the story of the old McCoy house which once sat along Back Creek Road in Gore. 👻 🥘

The price is $27.95 and includes a gumbo bar with authentic New Orleans Chicken & Sausage Gumbo, Seafood Gumbo, and Pumpkin Gumbo…served with rice and garlic French bread pistolettes. The dessert is cinnamon sugar beignets.

Reservations are required…just call Gypsy Jane’s at 540-450-8438.

It was 1817, and Americans were arguing over politics. Sound familiar? Political divisions, bitter disagreements, accusa...
10/12/2026

It was 1817, and Americans were arguing over politics. Sound familiar? Political divisions, bitter disagreements, accusations, and strong opinions were nothing new, even in the early days of our republic. That year, in a small printing shop at the corner of Loudoun and Cork Streets in Wi******er, Virginia, Jonathan Foster printed and bound a book with a rather remarkable title: “The Olive Branch, or Faults on Both Sides, Federal and Democratic, A Serious Appeal on the Necessity of Mutual Forgiveness and Harmony” by M. Carey. Even 209 years ago, someone thought Americans needed a gentle reminder to get along! The book's very title acknowledged something that remains familiar today: people could passionately disagree over the direction of their country while still sharing a common future. Some of its chapters might seem surprisingly familiar to modern readers. Apparently, the art of disagreeing with our neighbors has been around nearly as long as the nation itself.

And perhaps that is the most fascinating thing about history. Every generation tends to believe its challenges are unprecedented, its disagreements more intense, and its times more uncertain than those that came before. Yet here we are, more than two centuries later, discovering that Americans in 1817 were wrestling with many of the same human tendencies. Political figures come and go, arguments rise and fade, and yesterday's great controversies eventually become chapters in dusty old books. Through it all, our country has endured, imperfectly perhaps, but always moving forward. Two hundred and nine years from now, someone might discover an old account of our own times and exclaim, "Wow! That's exactly what's going on today!" And maybe that's the real lesson from a little book printed on Loudoun Street in 1817. We aren't nearly as unique as we think we are. History doesn't always repeat itself word for word, but it certainly has a way of sounding familiar.

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