​PART I – The Deer Story
Until my family moved to the Shenandoah Valley, we were major-city suburban types. Paved roads, sidewalks everywhere, gutters, and trash and snow removal were just some of the amenities we expected without really paying attention to them. But my grandparents lived "in the country," so I felt pretty knowledgeable about rural life.
 
Not long after our move, I was in conversation with a coworker, talking about the upcoming hunting season. She told me her husband loved to hunt, but they had a freezer full of venison and she didn't want any more. "If he gets a deer this season, do you want it?" she asked.
"That would be great," I answered enthusiastically. My tone was smooth and casual, but I thought to myself, "Yes! Free meat!" Feeling shrewd and thrifty, I pictured stacks of labeled and neatly wrapped meat in our freezer—and significant savings to our always-stretched grocery budget.
 
The weeks passed, and the conversation was forgotten, when I received a call at home one crisp fall day. The hunter had bagged a young buck, and it was hanging in a local barn. We could pick it up in a couple of days. Hanging in a barn! Pick it up? The whole thing?
 
And not only that, but at the end of the call, my friend added, "He'd like to keep the head, so you can just bring that back for him."
 
Indeed. I thanked her calmly on the phone before the panic set in.
 
"Okay, we can do this,” I told myself. Surely our ancestors had done this many times.  Not to worry. So, knowing how important it is to delegate to avoid becoming overwhelmed, I asked my husband to retrieve the deer from the barn. He brought it home in the hatchback of our small car.
 
Our children gathered ‘round the back of the car and peered at the carcass through the glass. "I think it's alive, I saw it move," said one son. “Why are its eyes open—can it see us?" said another. Putting on my cloak of parental calm and assurance, I told them no, it was not alive, and it couldn't see us. And, for good measure, I told them we were getting our meat just like hunters did in the olden days. They weren't convinced. 
To be continued…
 
 
 
 
Copyright 2016 by Barbara Finnegan – Used with permission.

​PART TWO:  The Deer Story
 
The next morning, with the deer still in our hatchback and still dead, it was my turn to ante up. I drove to a butcher shop out in the countryside and parked outside the main building. Resolute and strong, I approached the counter. I really did know these country ways, after all!
 
After ascertaining the legality of the kill, the man behind the counter said, “So how would you like it cut?”
 
Ummm. How would I like it cut?  “Well, I’d like it mostly ground in one-pound packages,” I said tentatively.
 
“You want the hams butterflied?” He said. “’Course, it’s up to you.”
 
Butterflied hams? Was that like bacon with wings or something? Busted! Seconds passed, and I knew I had to ‘fess up.
 
“Okay, I said humbly, “I really don’t know what I’m doing. It that’s what most people get, then that’s what I want─butterflied hams and the rest ground.” He kindly kept his thoughts to himself and wrote up the order.
 
“And, oh,” I added, “the hunter wants you to save the head.” He nodded his acknowledgement without flinching.
 
Mission accomplished! All that remained of my new adventure in rural living was picking up the meat in a couple days. When I returned, I received neatly wrapped and labeled packages of meat, flash-frozen and ready for my freezer. As I wrote the check, I mentally calculated how much I was paying per pound. Not bad, I thought─and for such healthy, low-fat meat, too. I turned to leave and the man said, “The head is out in the shed.”
 
Oh yeah. The head. Gross.
 
“Look, would you mind putting it in a trash bag and taking it out to my car for me?” I asked, hoping my pitiful glance would soften his heat. It worked. I didn’t have to look at the disembodied head, which I delivered forthwith to the hunter.
 
These rural life things take time. Now I’m trained and ready for that kind of thing.
 
The venison was fantastic. For months, my family never knew whether I was serving round venison, ground beef, ground turkey , or any combination thereof. We played “guess what meat this is” around the dinner table. The butterflied ham steaks were delectable─a culinary delight.
 
This event took place many years ago, and this former city girl has made the central Shenandoah Valley her home for over 25 years now. I don’t miss suburban living one tiny bit. In my book, living here beats suburban living by a coon’s age, whatever that is.
 
So if you know any hunters with freezer space for meat, just tell them to give me a holler. I’ll be right over.
 
Copyright 2016 by Barbara Finnegan – Used with permission.

​And so, on the 13th day of Christmas, the holiday season has been packed away in cardboard boxes and plastic totes. The skiff of snow on the ground reminds us however, that, although Christmas is over, there is still a lot of winter to wade through.
 
Tonight, icy winds are whistling-- rattling windows, stirring up bare branches, and turning the neighbor’s decorative flag into a twisted knot. You can’t really take a deep breath outside. The air is like a hundred tiny knives stabbing your nostrils and threatening to make mincemeat of your lungs. Even the outdoor cat takes one look out the sliding glass doors and turns disdainfully back to the wood stove. The mice can wait.
 
We spent several days last week revisiting our friends in Custer’s Mill. The story is unfolding, and we’re hoping to have it ready to read by early summer. Perhaps that is wishful thinking, because we’re also starting to write a non-fiction book on the process of collaborative writing (more later). One of the questions we’re consistently asked during book talks is “how do three of you write one novel?” Excellent question—one we don’t always know how to answer, as much of our process flows organically. But not always. Sometimes our ideas don’t mesh, and our thoughts about how the story should flow diverge. The writing process is enigmatic at best and chaotic at worst. Somehow we manage, though. Somehow the story comes through!
 
We hope you’re as excited about reading our stories as we are about writing them!

​The new year is three days away. On Saturday night we’ll tuck away all of the memories of 2016 and open a fresh notebook to begin recording the happenings of 2017.  There is something energizing about starting a new year. The slate is clean, the world is fresh, and undiscovered possibilities lie on the horizon.
 
I have turned my resolutions into goals, and most of my goals are the same each year. (Obviously, the idea of mastery is not a prerequisite for recording an aspiration!) One goal I list each year is to write more.
 
My creativity appears to peak in January, and invariably dwindles as the long days of summer approach.  I start many projects in winter, and many of them have disappeared by early March. My main goal this year is to hold on to the creative spirit in every season. To write, to share, to be vulnerable. For vulnerability is a big part of writing. Baring ones soul to an indiscriminate public can be risky. What if my ideas are misunderstood? What if I sound eccentric and unbelievable? What if my words aren’t true? I suppose if writers stopped too long to analyze those abrasive questions, we wouldn’t put many of our thoughts on paper.
 
At any rate, Book #2 of the Custer’s Mill Mystery series is well underway, and we hope to publish in the spring and began to share them with the public by early summer. We’re excited to be immersed in the lives of the fine folks of Custer’s Mill once again. We found the library ladies still hard at work – not only on library business, but also in renovating the old Brubaker mansion. In her will, Miss Bertha left the house and grounds to her unconventional friends, and they are busy turning the old estate into a cozy tea room.  Former detective, Jake Preston, is now Custer’s Mill police chief, and Emma, his unwieldy sidekick, is still conducting solo side investigations. But as art imitates life, all is not well in the little town. New residents bring new troubles, and soon, murder will strike again.
 
We hope you will enjoy this next visit to Custer’s Mill.  In the meantime, I hope to hold on to my writing schedule and connect with you more often!

Autumn Fires by Robert Louis Stevenson
(From  A Child’s Garden of Verses, 1885)

In other gardens
And all up the vale
From the autumn bonfires
See the smoke trail!
Pleasant summer over
And all the summer flowers,
The red fire blazes,
The gray smoke towers.
Sing a song of seasons!
Something bright in all!
Flowers in the summer,
Fires in the fall!
​
Although October is my favorite month of the year, I seem to have trouble holding on to it. Time seems to take on a new rate of travel this time of year, and before I know it, it’s Halloween and October has passed me by once again.
This year, I am intentionally trying to enjoy October. So far the rainy weekends are keeping me from the fall tasks of cleaning off the garden and putting the flower beds to rest for the winter. But I am doing my best to soak in the signs of the changing seasons: darker mornings, lengthening shadows, and subtly turning colors.
I’ve put a pumpkin on my porch, and set a pot of yellow mums beside it. A minimal decoration, but a purposeful contribution to my awareness of the month! October will not pass by unnoticed this year!

A Deer Story, Part 1July 22, 2016
by Barbara FinneganUntil my family moved to the Shenandoah Valley, we were major-city suburban types. Paved roads, sidewalks everywhere, gutters, and trash and snow removal were just some of the amenities we expected without really paying attention to them. But my grandparents lived “in the country,” so I felt pretty knowledgeable about rural life.
Not long after our move, I was in conversation with a coworker, talking about the upcoming hunting season. She told me her husband loved to hunt, but they had a freezer full of venison and she didn’t want any more. “If he gets a deer this season, do you want it?” she asked.
“That would be great,” I answered enthusiastically. My tone was smooth and casual, but I thought to myself, “Yes! Free meat!” Feeling shrewd and thrifty, I pictured stacks of labeled and neatly wrapped meat in our freezer—and significant savings to our always-stretched grocery budget.
The weeks passed, and the conversation was forgotten, when I received a call at home one crisp fall day. The hunter had bagged a young buck, and it was hanging in a local barn. We could pick it up in a couple of days. Hanging in a barn! Pick it up? The whole thing?
And not only that, but at the end of the call, my friend added, “He’d like to keep the head, so you can just bring that back for him.”
Indeed. I thanked her calmly on the phone before the panic set in.
“Okay, we can do this,” I told myself. Surely our ancestors had done this many times.  Not to worry. So, knowing how important it is to delegate to avoid becoming overwhelmed, I asked my husband to retrieve the deer from the barn. He brought it home in the hatchback of our small car.
Our children gathered ‘round the back of the car and peered at the carcass through the glass. “I think it’s alive, I saw it move,” said one son. “Why are its eyes open—can it see us?” said another. Putting on my cloak of parental calm and assurance, I told them no, it was not alive, and it couldn’t see us. And, for good measure, I told them we were getting our meat just like hunters did in the olden days. They weren’t convinced.
To be continued

Anybody remember those old telephone “party lines?” Some might argue that those first communication channels were better than Twitter and Facebook, and possibly even superior to Instagram (minus the pictures, of course). Pick up the phone at the right time, and you might hear who is visiting whom, who might be cheating on their spouse, lying to the preacher, stealing from the country store or secretly courting the milkman!
The telephone system in Rockingham County had a rather auspicious beginning in – of all places – the tiny town of Bergton. Two young girls, Ada and Pearl Wittig, were the first switchboard operators in the area in the late 1800’s. The first switchboard was located in the Wittig house behind the Bergton Store.
But usually, when folks think about the telephone system in Bergton, they think of Vanny Moyers. Albert Savannah Moyers “Vanny,” was a pioneer in telephone operations. In the early 1900’s, he moved the switchboard to his 200 acre farm some 2500 feet up West Mountain. With the help of some books on electricity and telephony he managed to build – by hand – a stronger, more far-reaching switchboard.
A few years later, in 1905, the Harrisonburg Telephone Company helped to organize the Dovesville Telephone Company. They strung wires from their homes up to the mountain top switchboard, using trees for telephone poles. The first board of directors for the telephone company included: Siram May, L.P.Souder, S.G. Wittig, Michael Fink, Benj. Smith, William Wittig, and John F. Wittig.
The first telephone customers used a magnetic telephone, which held four batteries. They were all on the same party line and could easily listen in on their neighbors’ conversations. Each household with a telephone had a separate ring, with “long” and “short” ringtones. Folks had to listen carefully and count the “longs” and the “shorts” to hear if the phone was ringing for them or for a neighbor
Vanny was the only person in the area who had a radio. He often helped the community stay informed of international and national events by turning on his radio and opening the telephone lines for everybody to hear.
Although communication devices have come a long way since the old party lines, human nature has stayed pretty much the same! We are still interested in the details of our neighbors’ lives—their comings and goings, joys and tragedies. Fortunately, we don’t have to listen in on conversations anymore. We can read it all – and comment on it all — on the latest forms of social media!
Information from Local Lore of the Shenandoah (Cullers/Lilliendahl) and an interview with Kenny May of Bergton