(A southern view from Algonquin Trail toward Raccoon Ford. On the right is Raccoon Ford Road- today’s Virginia Route 617. Local historian Clark B. Hall captured this view in 2017, with the bluffs and tree line of Orange County visible in the distance).
Sorry to intrude this delightful morning with an account of average events in a rural slice of America. We had a nice celebration of a life event yesterday. The solidity of the clouds and the seemingly endless showers faded into a sort of meteorological uncertainty towards mid-day, and the light rose as we flung the cover back from the grill and invited the fires of summer to burst into life.
The steaks were grand, and the salads were exceptional: a cabbage-based slaw of fresh ingredients and zesty dressing, potatoes marshaled in an array of fine ingredients and spices, and fresh lettuce and magnificent cucumbers delivered dramatically from the soil next door. It does not get fresher unless you eat it in garden. Did I fail to mention the lobster tails, served up in shells to dip in melted fresh butter and the mushrooms imported from exotic Elmira, Michigan?
Anyway, it was great, and equally great were the people gathered at the table overlooking the dramatic fresh green growth on the pasture below. There was the usual country conversation- “How many hens left after the latest attack by predatory foxes? How are sales going on the turkey chicks?” Fun- and an important contribution of what soil and shelter and labor can wrest from our earth. A joy of life near complete.
There were other elements of conversation about the curious nature of life, and of the loving struggle we all face in the course of the inexorable march of life. And with that, a tear and laughter at what we can share in this world.
The greenery is lush as Spring has swept over our fields. The Quaker immigrants who displaced the indigenous people in these parts had a certain decency and firm moral standing. With the Plank Road opening east to Fredericksburg through the rich land, more unattractive travelers also congregated in the areas adjoining the rivers. One of the sheltered ravines was in an area of flat land large enough to accommodate wagons, animals and camp sites. It boasted proximity to a spring and creek providing an ample supply of water for traveling man and beast.
Local lore often references the goings on in “Wicked Bottom,” so named for the conduct of hardy but lascivious travelers. It was not dignified in written accounts, but the oral history is pervasive and logical. That those events are not marked by a Virginia Historical road marker is also understandable. Unmarked, the challenge for a modern resident is to find it and imagine the long-ago goings-on in the brush just over the hill.
East of The Farm there are two prominent springs. One is known as Bradley’s Spring, and it saturates the ground alongside Bob Brown’s house at the corner of Back and Spring streets. That property dates to the original plat drawn in 1782. You can easily see the house from Route 3, looking north into the remaining village buildings. That would be closer than the Quakers would have permitted intermittent wild traveling shenanigans.
The second spring is named Yowell’s, feeding a well-cut creek east of the village on the south side of Route 3. Curiously- or not- it is just prior to the entrance to the Salubria manor house that holds so much of the history of this junction land. Local lore is unclear on the origin. It is said it was named for either a former owner, or as likely, for a regular visitor to the Wicked Bottom, the unofficial and delightful name for the flat land by the rushing water.
Wicked? There is nothing particularly salacious about the meadow and trees this morning. Only quiet green. The rowdy activities of the waggoners who used the spring site as an overnight campsite could be heard from The Farm: wild fiddles and joyful shouts of male and female voices.
And sometimes, after a decent rest under stars and clouds, a quiet morning walk to the church in the village after a good night beside Yowell’s Spring. It is a nice place now. Even large conflicts and old conflicted merriments can rest undisturbed in the green around here. Unless we choose to dig them up, but that would be a matter best dealt with in lengthening shadows with laughter and a jug of that stuff they used to distill down in the bottoms. Don’t tell the Quakers.
Copyright 2021 Vic Socotra
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