Visiting Shenandoah Valley Virginia

In the early 90′s I worked in Harrisonburg, Virginia, which lies between the Blue Ridge Mountains and Shenandoah National Park and is situated in the heart of the Civil War. It’s a place of rolling green hills, apple orchards, and grits. Now, if you haven’t tasted grits you sure have to come to these parts just to taste real good heart grit. The taste ranges between cream-of-wheat and cement. As I said, you won’t forget it, but you ain’t a local until you’ve tasted some old Virginian hospitality.

Heading out of DC, over the Potomac River and past the Pentagon, I felt a sense of freedom. I anticipated my friends’ greetings as I still bore the physical scars of the attack, as well as the hidden emotional ones. I headed west onto I66 and onto the open road and through the heart of Virginia. Her soul—for she has an old soul—is like any wise soul; she does not give up her secrets easily. You have to go out and explore the beauty and magnificence of this state. I can see why my fellow British countrymen never wanted to give her up, as Virginia reminds me of Shropshire in England.

I passed Manassas and the home of Stonewall Jackson, a Confederate general who fought many battles against the Union Army at Fredericksburg and Manassas but later died after being shot from friendly fire. During the summer in Manassas mock battles that carry on for days are played out on the same fields where those Union and Confederate soldiers fought all those years ago. I have often come here in the early morning and wandered across those dew-dropped fields where the Virginia fog pervades the morning air, a fog that hovers over these old, scarred battlefields. Here, it is easy to imagine you are somewhere in another time or dimension, that these poor soldiers long-forgotten are still fighting a war that ended so very long ago. Each day they engage in a battle lost in time and space.

I opened the car window and let the wind and the afternoon humidity hit my face and, for a time, I lost myself in the moment. I had no worries, no shame, no pain, just this present moment. I took pleasure in this bliss and smiled for the first time in months.

Driving along this road, I didn’t feel alone. I somehow felt akin to all the other travelers on their own journeys. As I drove past Front Royal and took I81 to Harrisonburg, Virginia, there on my right was my first glimpse of the Blue Ridge Mountains. I was relieved that I had finally left England and the misery of my old life.

John Denver sang it best in his song, “Take Me Home, Country Roads.” Only the Blue Ridge Mountains are in Virginia (a small, technical point!). But the Blue Ridge Mountains are indeed blue; it could be the humidity that creates its aura but it is indeed beautiful and old. The mountains remind me of a grandma protecting her young ones from harm, and that’s exactly how the Blue Ridge Mountains make me feel; they make me feel safe. Nearing my destination, I passed barns that were now battered and weather-worn. But they simply looked their place nestled in the green Virginia fields.

By Sharon Page @ All Rights Reserved 2011