O Shenandoah! The Line Cellar for July

By JOHN WAYBRIGHT

This summer looks like a good growing season in the Valley. The recent hot, humid days accompanied by afternoon thundershowers have been just right for many vegetables and fruits.

At our house, we stopped planting a garden several years ago when we finally figured out that it costs less and is a lot more convenient to just grow a few tomatoes and get the rest of the fresh edibles at the grocery store. Of course, it helps to have friends with home gardens who share the bounty of the harvest.

Lately, we've been fortunate to get fresh mustard greens, cucumbers, green beans, peaches and, of course, squash from generous acquaintances. Nothing quite substitutes for that grown-in-the-garden taste. My sister puts fresh sliced cucumbers and onions in a simple marinade of water, vinegar, sour cream, salt and pepper that makes a perfect accompaniment to green beans cooked in the old Southern way with a little salty pork or country ham. With some grilled chicken or fish, that makes a summer meal that lingers in the memory into the canned and frozen days of winter.

Soon, we will be picking the tomatoes off the few plants we have nurtured beside the old willow stump in the yard. The willow, aged 30 or more, was the victim of a Halloween windstorm two years ago and its legacy is a shallow stump about four feet across with a wide hollow middle. In that space, my wife discarded the insides of last year's jack-o-lanterns carved for the grandkids and now we have there a pumpkin vine loaded with perhaps a dozen ripening orange fruit.

The previous year we had pumpkin, watermelon and cucumber vines in that same spot and they grew in unfettered abandon over about a fourth of our lower lot lawn, causing some alarm to the fellow who mows our grass and to the neighbors who wondered if we had entered the commercial truck farming business. However, the harvest was somewhat disappointing -- a few scrawny cucumbers, a single watermelon the size of a soccer ball and a dozen or so smallish misshapen pumpkins.

But this year my clever wife designed a wooden frame of sorts which confines the pumpkin vines to a reasonable space with about three feet of vertical growth. Thus several of the plump and well-shaped fruits are growing above the dampness of the earth and look like good prospects for Halloween decor -- and perhaps a pie or two.

The nearby tomato plants -- Big Boys provided by my wife's sister -- also are properly caged and, as we say, loaded. Clusters of green tomatoes will, no doubt, all ripen at the same time and create a feeding frenzy among the lovers of the pommes d'amour who reside here. The plants really belong to my mother-in-law, who promises she will can any excess for our enjoyment later in the year.

It's a far cry from the halcyon days of gardening 15 years ago when we would hire in early spring one of the neighbors to plow a sizable portion of our lower lot yard. There we would plant lettuce, radishes, corn, peppers, cucumbers, carrots, squash, eggplant, cabbage and, in one especially insane instance, broccoli. The preparation began in March to try to turn soil originally the consistency of modeling clay and cement into a hospitable environment for this mixed horticultural collection. Then the real battle began.

For now, I'm content with the shared crops from our friends and neighbors and happy that we don't plant an extensive plot of our own to prepare, seed, weed, water, weed, thin, weed, spray, weed and, eventually, gather.

July 19, 1996 --

Perhaps we will never resolve the exact origin of the name "Shenandoah," but for now it seems well to accept the charming and romantic legend that it's an Indian word meaning "Daughter of the Stars."

Likewise, disagreement lingers about the physical boundaries of the Shenandoah Valley. Some think Harpers Ferry, W. Va. is a bit too far north to qualify as a Valley locale and others feel that Roanoke is snuggled in its own mountain valley way to the southwest. However, I think we should be generous and include both beautiful places.

This magnanimous gesture permits me to write about a recent brief visit to Roanoke, known as the "Star City of the South." We traveled the 2 1/2-hour Interstate 81 route to see our old friends, who I will refer to as Don and Sandy Smith, since those are their real names and they can be held accountable for any repercussions from this column.

On a short weekend, we didn't have time to experience even the major travel attractions in the city and its surrounding county of the same name, also from an Indian word which they think refers to the shell beads once used as trade goods. There is the Mill Mountain Zoo, with 45 species of animals ranging from Siberian tigers to prairie dogs on its 10-acre preserve. The Virginia Museum of Transportation emphasizes Roanoke's close association with the development of the railroad, from its first arrival in 1852 through the opening of the Shenandoah Valley Railroad in 1881 to its present-day status as a main location of Norfolk Southern.

We were fortunate to be able to sample the city's Center in the Square, a multicultural complex featuring a professional theater, planetarium and museums highlighting history, science and the arts. Roanoke's historic market district still offers a colorful array of freshly harvested vegetables and other edibles along with flowering plants and shrubs, handcrafted artifacts and homemade breads, cakes and pies.

Food offerings range from a quick hot dog with all the messy trimmings to a delectable full-scale Italian menu. And the greater Roanoke area offers restaurants, cafes, chili parlors and barbecue joints in number and quality to rival any major American city.

The Smiths surprised us with a meal at Kabuki, a Japanese steak and seafood house where the waiters make a dramatic production out of preparing dinner at tableside grills, ginzu knives a-flying and flames roaring close to ceiling height. Despite the appearance of danger -- from razor-sharp utensils, airborne shrimp and mushrooms or uncontrolled grease fires -- all is well by the time the meal is served and the last cup of plum wine is imbibed.

After dinner, we traveled up Mill Mountain to the site of the huge lighted star from which the city derives its nickname -- or which was built because of Roanoke's "star" reputation, I never could find out which. We stood right next to the 100-foot steel-and-concrete structure waiting with a few dozen other tourists and area residents for the switch to be thrown lighting the great lengths of neon tubing. The star's been up there for more than 40 years. Meanwhile, we had a spectacular view of the valley below dominated by a towering banking headquarters building and lit up like a Christmas tree from mountain ridge to mountain ridge.

"I guess they're not going to turn it on tonight," Don said as the clock approached 9:30 p.m. We left, only slightly disappointed. By the time we rounded the first curve on the road down Mill Mountain, the giant star was alight in all its glory.

Sunday brought another gustatory adventure with an elegant brunch at Le Maison, a long-time bastion of French cuisine in a historic brick home near the Roanoke Airport. A formally dressed pianist was at the keyboard of the grand in the foyer, playing suitably unrecognizable and soothing melodies for late morning dining. At the buffet, you could have a freshly made omelette with your choice of mushrooms, onions, peppers, chopped country ham, bacon, etc., etc. Another smiling chef proffered Belgian waffles with fresh berries and real whipped cream. Then you could proceed to the just-baked breads, rolls and muffins, the salad bar with enough crispy veggies to overwhelm a hutch of rabbits and a steam table overflowing with perfectly seasoned browned potatoes, carrots, green beans and a half dozen meat entrees.

Oh, yes, the desserts: A German chocolate cheesecake to die for and a fluffy key-lime flavored mousse light enough to float. All this gourmet bounty is, naturally, rather expensive -- about $80 for four including tax and gratuity.

As we walked through the parking lot past the Cadillacs and Mercedes Benzes to our old Chevy van, Sandy announced: "I have some homemade apple pie and ice cream for a snack when we get home!" Unanimous groans.

The weekend did, indeed, pass too quickly and we vowed to return soon to take in some more of Roanoke's southernmost Shenandoah Valley attractions.

July 12, 1996 --

To the casual visitor, the Shenandoah Valley's population may seem like a pretty close-knit collection of families with the same interests and ideals. Those of us who have lived here for any length of time know better. Although folks here tend to get along with each other without outbursts of violence, the differences and distinctions extend deeply into the social culture.

Take language, for instance. While most Valley natives speak a form of English with an accent more Midwestern than Southern, the nuances of dialect are apparent to anyone with a good ear and a passing knowledge of the spoken word.

Most all of us on the western side of the Blue Ridge can easily recognize the Tuckahoe accent used by folks to the east in Rappahannock, Orange and Culpeper counties. Tuckahoe has a definite Southern twang, almost like the drawl heard in Georgia or Alabama. Folks over there -- 30 or 40 miles distant from the dividing mountains -- have a whole different set of colloquialisms from those used in the Valley proper.

For instance, you will be told in Culpeper to "Puh-lease, pull the doh-ah togethah aftah you come in." In west-of-the-mountain English, that translates to "Please, close the door behind you."

An Orange Countian will ask if he may carry you someplace. Over here, we say: "Can I give you a ride?"

More subtle than the slow drawl and picturesque imagery of the Tuckahoe tongue are the extremely localized accents of the mountains, the hollows and scattered areas of the Valley. Folks living atop Tanner's Ridge in Page County in the generations just past spoke a harsh form of English which several linguists from nearby academic communities most closely related to the Elizabethan times of William Shakespeare. "I'd liefer have et blueberries than strawberries," a Ridge native would say, using the ancient "liefer" instead of "rather."

That dialect, along with others which once distinguished small isolated communities all over the Valley, has virtually disappeared over the past 30 to 40 years with the increase in public education and better communication.

My Grandmother Golladay was one of the last I heard speak the mountain dialect tinged with "Dutch," the low German language which was widespread among European immigrants in the late 18th and early 19th centuries in the Shenandoah Valley area. "Dutch" in this sense has nothing to do with Holland, but is the English corruption of the German word, "Deutsch," the word Germans apply to themselves and their language.

"Pull up a cheer to de taffle," Grandma would say, meaning "Bring a chair to the table."

The German language disappeared from the Valley by the mid-1800s, a victim of the need to communicate with the English-speaking rulers of the Commonwealth who held the reins to the economy. Very few remnants of that language can be found in common use today. However, the German heritage continues in cooking recipes handed down for many generations. Many people still butcher and make "ponhoss," a concoction of cornmeal and boiled hog fat called "pfanhaas" in German. Sauerkraut and dumplings are still prepared by many Valley cooks.

While the Valley accents have tended to blend together in recent times, traces of them still can be heard among the older folks.

And the old linguistic differences remain in memories like this one:

When my sister and I were about ages six and seven respectively, my mother thought we were old enough to go up the street and purchase a pint of ice cream all by ourselves. We skipped our way to the Valley Restaurant where my sister, the least shy of the two of us, put down her quarter and asked for the ice cream. "Do you want a poke?" the country-gal waitress inquired leaning over into my sister's face. The little girl turned white as a ghost and ran from the restaurant crying, with me trailing behind as fast as I could go. "Mama," my sister screamed when we got home. "That woman at the restaurant wanted to give me a poke!" Calmly, my mother explained that "poke" was the rural dialect word for "paper bag."

You never hear the supermarket clerks of today ask "Will that be a plastic or paper poke?"

July 5, 1996 --

Independence Day: It's something you can depend on to inspire nostalgic reveries among those who have celebrated more than two score of them.

For me, it stirs up memories of those long-ago summer holidays when lazy afternoons of biking to the river stretched into long starlit nights of magical adolescent wonder. I had two best friends who were my near-constant companions in those days -- Bobby, a classmate whose penchant for mischief was legendary, and John David, my next door neighbor who was always called by both his first and middle names to avoid confusion with me, also named John David.

I was irreverently referred to as "Johnny" by all my family and friends except for Bobby, who used a nickname he had given me: "Caesar." He chose that particular nickname because somehow his unique mind had mixed up the Roman emperor with the 20th century mathematician and genius, Einstein. His intention was to make light of the fact that I garnered really good grades in school without studying.

Bobby had nicknames for everybody, including John David, whom he called "Froggy" in reference to and derision of that young teenager's truly ugly dark plastic-framed eyeglasses. Bobby also made up hilarious (to us) appellations for our teachers and other elders.

It was shortly after the Fourth of July in my 12th year of life that my friendship with the infamous Bobby was put to its harshest test. I had put up with my pal's stupid nicknames, his constant teasing about my stringbean physical appearance and his obvious superiority in every game and sport. And now, on a steamy July afternoon, John David and I were being hoodwinked into participating in something we all knew was wrong and could get us into serious trouble.

We were biking, as usual, to the river to cool off in the semi-polluted waters when Bobby came up with his brilliant idea. "Hey, guys," he yelled as he braked suddenly beside a large field of watermelons and cantaloupes. "Look at them ripe melons. Let's take some and put 'em in the river to cool and we can come back tonight and eat 'em."

"But they belong to that old man who lives down the road," I pointed out, reluctant to take this first step on the road to a life of crime.

"Aw," jeered Bobby, "you afraid of that old coot? And 'sides, he's got way more melons than he can ever eat."

We needed little further convincing. We dismounted our bikes and followed Bobby into the field, plucking five or six of the ripest, juiciest, most tempting melons. We hustled them down to the river and secreted them underwater at a spot we carefully marked so we could return and get them after dark.

The three of us agreed to meet at Bobby's house on the road out to the river about 9 p.m. With daylight saving time in effect, it had not been long since sunset as we rode down to pick up our delicious booty. Just as Bobby had cut into the first melon with the next-to-new hunting knife he had "borrowed" from his older brother, a shout went up and Bobby yelled: "Run. It's Mr. Coot."

I ran as fast as my skinny little legs could carry me and ran directly into the chest of the burly owner of the melon field.

"You're coming with me," he snarled, twisting my arm painfully up behind my back.

He placed me in the back seat of his car and, recognizing me in the dim light, said: "Why, you're Johnny. What in the world do you think you're doing?"

The forgiving man, who knew my parents well, said he would take me home and not tell what I had done if I promised never to do such a thing again. Through uncontrolled sobs, I promised.

"Who was with you?" the melon man demanded. "Nobody," I said. "I was b-b-by myself." I didn't want to rat on my friends. Although Mr. Coot didn't believe me, he started the car on the trip back into town. As we drove past Bobby's house, there they were -- my two buddies waving merrily at me, wide grins on their faces, as they stood astride their bikes in the driveway.

I'm not sure what lesson I learned that day, except I never stole anything again. And as far as I know, neither did Bobby or John David. We all turned out to be reasonably honest American citizens. And just about every Fourth of July, we all think about those innocent and not-so-innocent days of our youth when we learned some lessons very well.