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Culture Living

Ancient skills: The Frontier Culture Museum threads the past into the present

When I find Mary Kate Claytor, she’s cross-legged on the grass under a catalpa tree, working a deer hide over the sharp point of an awl made from deer bone, trying to poke a hole. The hide is wet: It recently came out of a freezer, where it’s been waiting since it was taken from a deer hunted last fall.

We’re at the Frontier Culture Museum in Staunton, where recreated homeplaces from Europe, Africa, and North America tell the story of how many civilizations blended to create a new, American culture. This is the Native American portion of the museum’s sprawling outdoor grounds, and Claytor’s work as an interpreter involves demonstrating processes that people of Eastern Woodlands nations would have performed as part of daily life. Poking this hole is one of the first steps in tanning the deer hide to make buckskin.

The awl sits on its rounded handle, pointed straight up, and Claytor wiggles the hide down over it. Finally the awl breaks through. The hide is incredibly strong. It’s fur-side down right now, and we’re looking at a smooth surface with pinks, whites, and light browns swirling over it. To the touch, it’s rubbery and a little slimy.

In front of her on the ground is a wooden frame with dozens of handmade nails pounded into it at regular intervals. Having made holes all around the border of the hide, Claytor begins to thread jute twine through the openings, then winds and knots the twine around the nails on the frame. “When I get it stretched,” she explains, “as it dries it will contract and become more tight in the frame.” This should make the next step—scraping off the hair—easier.

But she’s not there yet; stretching the hide takes quite a while. Every time she threads another hole, she’s got to carefully pull the jute tight with one hand while massaging the hide outward with the other. Sometimes the jute snaps. It’s far more likely to break than the hide itself.

The strength of deer hide is part of what made it so useful to indigenous peoples. Claytor hands me a piece of finished buckskin, which is just like what she’ll have at the end of this tanning process. It’s seductively soft, velvety, thinner than I’d imagined. I immediately want to wrap myself in it, and it’s big enough to be at least the beginning of a garment. Moccasins and pouches can be made from buckskin, too.

As Claytor works her away around the hide, her colleague Misti Furr explains to some nearby museumgoers that deer hide also became an important export from the American colonies back to Europe, where buckskin was used to make gloves, and rawhide served as pulley cables. “These skins helped fuel the Industrial Revolution and make a lot of money for the mother country,” she says. “It’s one of the colonies’ most stable exports”—more reliable year-to-year than cash crops like tobacco.

That trade changed life for Native Americans; they acquired European goods, and hunted more deer to satisfy European demand. Furr weaves a tale of interlocking changes that stretches from the woods of eastern North America to the shores of West Africa and down to the sugar plantations of the Caribbean. The usefulness of deer hides—their size, their pliability, their abundance and toughness—made them a valuable resource in the early global economy. But before that, they were a basic life material for people all over this continent.

“Brain tanning is a traditional method used by indigenous peoples across North America,” says Claytor. Native Americans processed many animals, including buffalo, using the technique that Claytor will be following with this hide: The animal’s own brain is made into a solution in which the skin gets soaked. Oils and fats in the brain tissue lubricate the fibers in the skin, making it soft and workable. Then the hide is smoked over a smoldering fire to preserve and waterproof it. It’ll take the better part of a week altogether.

Claytor’s approach to this project isn’t totally purist; it’s a mix of old and new. She made a deer leg bone into a scraper to remove the fur, for example—using a Dremel tool. And she’ll scrape the hide before removing it from the frame, while Native Americans would have been likely to do it with the hide laid over a log. Claytor and her colleagues do it that way sometimes, too.

“We’re in this weird place—non-Native people interpreting Native culture,” she acknowledges. Interpreters don’t always know exactly what the old ways looked like—they do a lot of experimentation to help figure it out—and of course the old ways changed over time and geography. They weren’t the same everywhere, and they evolved as all cultures do.

Finally the hide is fully stretched. Claytor stands the frame on end and flips it around so I can see the fur: dark brown along the spine, lighter on the flanks, white on the edges. The sun is behind her, and just for a moment it shines through the skin, lighting it up and making it glow.

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Abode Magazines

High-altitude house: Restoring the spirit of a midcentury gem

The driveway is so steep it seemed like a no-go.

On the day in 2009 when he first visited, “I drove up the driveway and told myself ‘Whatever’s at the top of this I can’t buy it,’” remembers the owner. “But then I got up there and thought, ‘Oh, I do have to buy this.’”

The house is a rarity in Virginia: a midcentury-modern artifact that captivated the owner’s California-honed sensibility. And the view’s not too shabby either. The driveway is so formidable because it switchbacks up a mountainside to a site near Stony Point. The house looks down and across Charlottesville, then out to the Ragged Mountains and the Blue Ridge.

Photo: Andrea Hubbell

Built in the late ’60s or early ’70s (records are unclear), the house had vertical cladding, inside and out, made of old-growth redwood. “It’s probably two to three thousand years old,” says the owner. Seeing that previous owners had painted every inch of the redwood, he began to see this house not only as a potential home for himself and his family, but as a project. “I’m really a lover of wood. I wanted to get back to that original source of the house,” he says. “It took nine years of slow work to do that.” Local craftsmen Mark Bibb and Robert Chico undertook the painstaking restoration of the redwood siding and woodwork.

Originally designed by Joshua Harvey, an architecture professor at UVA, the house now seems to radiate the spirit of the modernist ideas that birthed it. Long, low horizontal lines define its flat-roofed profile. Large expanses of glass—some of them meeting at corners with no interruption—bring in the outdoors. Ceiling lines and planes carry through from inside to outside. At every opportunity, the house seems to suggest that people and sightlines freely flow between indoor and outdoor spaces, a la iconic homes like Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater.

“It seems that the original intent of the house was that you’re just surrounded by the warmth of the redwood, and you really want the aesthetic elements of the inside of the house to go away so your eye goes to the view,” says the owner. The restoration, then, would focus on removing interior distractions.

Photo: Andrea Hubbell

Over the four decades or so the house had been standing, there had been some dubious updates, like the white ceramic floor tile—“very 1980s,” says the owner—which covered the original concrete. Now, 24″x24″ black slate tile, its size mirroring the openings in the wooden trellises outside, recedes from one’s attention to allow the views to come forward.

Other major updates happened in the kitchen and bathrooms. Charlottesville firm STOA designed a new kitchen layout, including redwood-veneer cabinetry built by Dan Hunt, and absolute-black granite countertops—both of these choices, again, being intended as visually quiet.

“The house is really laid out well in that there are public spaces but they feel very peaceful,” says the owner. “And every bedroom has a view and a relationship with outside, so you have your own private world in each bedroom.”

In truth, although the mountain view is a constant presence in the interior—all three bedrooms, kitchen, and dining spaces line up along the west side, drinking in the vista through floor-to-ceiling glass—the structure itself carries plenty of calm, dignified interest.

Photo: Andrea Hubbell

Zones are lightly defined by changes in ceiling height, a few steps up or down, and occasional redwood-clad columns. A modern wood-burning fireplace flush with the wall offers an elegant sense of shelter and warmth. High, narrow clerestory windows, a contrast with the acres of west-facing glass, create a sense of play between hiddenness and openness.

The renovation lets the house itself shine while improving certain details—like the master bathroom tub, which had been a 300-gallon behemoth. “It was really beautiful, but there wasn’t a hot water heater on the planet that could take that on,” says the owner. Instead, local craftsman Kierk Sorensen made a more modest, but still spacious, soapstone tub.

Photo: Andrea Hubbell

Anyone soaking there would look out over a newly added pathway that circles behind the house, lined with Corten steel planters. Simplicity reigns outdoors as well as indoors—the owner actually took out some overly traditional plantings that were cluttering the view—but large oak and maple trees, and smaller Japanese maples, provide softening shade for the west-facing patio, most of which is really just a grassy pad.

Two guest houses, a cottage, and a pool beef up the main house’s relatively modest square footage, but the owner—who recently put the property on the market—says that the original house was what he and his family loved. Asked what it was like to dwell on the mountaintop, he talks in detail about watching sunsets and thunderstorms (“Sometimes you can see those storms split in half and go off in different directions…”) and the wildlife—deer, turkey, bear—that regularly wander through the yard.

“When I got there I said, ‘I bet I’ll become desensitized to this view and tune it out,’” he says. “What the truth ended up being was that every night I’d walk outside and say, ‘I can’t believe this view.’”

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Abode Magazines

Starting over: An energy-efficient house rises on an old foundation

Mark Graham was actually relieved when he discovered that the first floor of his house was rotting.

He’d planned to add on, not tear down. But when crews prepared to build a second story onto the 1980 brick ranch house in Ivy, they discovered some problems. “It turned out the walls had holes from rodents and water,” says Graham. There was leakage around the chimney too. It became clear they’d have to dismantle the house and rebuild.

“We left the basement and built up,” says Graham, who—along with Barbara Gehrung, his partner in the architectural firm Gehrung+ Graham—had already renovated the basement level. “Now we could know what was there. It was lovely to not have to deal with mystery materials.”

Photo: Virginia Hamrick

That mattered because the team was aiming to meet stringent energy-efficiency standards: the Passive House criteria, which set a very high bar for reduced energy use. The engineering of walls is key to reaching this goal. The idea is to insulate heavily and not allow air or heat to move between the indoors and outdoors. “Now we could have a 2×6 wall with exterior insulation, as opposed to building inside the siding,” says Graham. They could use the old footprint, but design the energy-efficient structure they wanted from square one.

Graham and his family had been living in the rancher for several years. They’d found the interior dark and overly compartmentalized, so rebuilding would mean completely reimagining the layout and feel of the house. “The driving forces were just connecting outside to inside, bringing in natural light, and using healthy materials,” says Graham. Using the Passive House standards (which originated in Germany) forces designers to reckon with indoor air quality, since the method results in so little air exchange with the outdoors. Nontoxic materials and energy recovery ventilators are key to keeping indoor air healthy and fresh.

Photo: Virginia Hamrick

“We were early adopters of the Passive House movement here in the U.S.,” says Gehrung. “I think Passive House was attractive to both of us because it empowers the architect. You can test your design in a model, and it helps you set priorities.”

The rebuilt house, which the family reoccupied in 2017, is full of light and closely connected to the outdoors. The kitchen, for example, has exterior doors on both ends: one to a deck, which Graham says his family now uses “all the time,” and one to a courtyard. “The kitchen was dark and dingy before, so we were partially reacting to that,” says Graham. Clerestory windows along the long wall provide light but also privacy.

Base cabinetry runs the length of that same wall, eliminating the need for upper cabinets and ensuring “a flow of space, instead of having a dead wall with a piece of furniture,” says Graham.

Photo: Virginia Hamrick

A Swiss railroad clock above the deck door symbolizes, for Graham, a “modern and comfortable” European aesthetic that he fell in love with during a stint in Switzerland. It’s something he and Gehrung, a native of Stuttgart, feel they share. “We’re trying to find ways of calming and simplifying,” he says. One strategy in this room is to hide outlets in a gap behind the backsplash, rather than letting them break up wall space. The house also has centralized, programmable panels to control lighting, rather than light switches scattered throughout.

Though the floor plan is more open than in the old brick house, Graham says, it does offer more distinction between spaces than a standard great room. Cooking, eating, and living spaces form an L shape, providing some separation. “The ceiling heights change to suggest spatial differences,” says Graham.

“We also designed for aging in place,” says Gehrung, pointing out the built-in flexibility to turn the current music room and dining room into a first-floor suite if needed in the future.

For now, though, the vibe of the house skews young. Graham’s three kids enjoy whimsical features that friends probably envy: their second-floor bedrooms connect to upper lofts via rope ladders in the closets. Once they’re up there, they can launch themselves onto nets hanging above their bedrooms.

Photo: Virginia Hamrick

The entire family enjoys the basement media room—the Gehrung+Graham studio is also found on this level—and the kids are actually invited to play indoor soccer in a specially designed basement hallway, where hard paneling protects the walls.

If they get muddy outside, they (or the family dogs) can easily hose off in a basement shower tiled in slate. “It’s extremely durable, with a slot drain,” says Graham. And while they’re in there, they can draw on the walls with chalk.

Photo: Virginia Hamrick

Upstairs, anyone would feel drawn to sitting in the reading nook in the hallway. “We made it a big feature—a large window with a bench,” says Graham, “a zone where you can hang out and look at the Blue Ridge.” At a certain time of day, automatic shades lower themselves to cover the overhead skylights and prevent too much solar gain.

This one spot in the house symbolizes the transformation of the whole structure. Sitting in the reading nook, one would be surrounded by elements of sophisticated, energy-efficient design. But it’s the view that really captures the attention.

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Abode Magazines

Minimal modern: A new kitchen gets down to the basics

Mike and Isobel Sadler move every few years. They’re the third-generation owners of Charlottesville Area Builders, and they usually occupy a house their company has recently built—both to showcase new features for potential clients and to test-drive floors, appliances and so on. This summer, they moved again, to a contemporary home in Ivy looking toward the mountains. The kitchen takes full advantage of the views.

“When you’re in the kitchen, you don’t feel like you’re confined to a window,” says Mike, thinking of the traditional small-window-over-sink arrangement. “The way we oriented the house, you’re glancing out at the mountains.”

That’s because of the placement of the sink in the 10-foot-long island, and because of the wall of glass (with enormous sliding doors) that runs along the kitchen/dining/living space and before opening onto a deck. The Sadlers calibrated this design to offer both views and shelter, with a privacy wall shielding the indoor and outdoor spaces from nearby neighbors.

While their previous house (and its site) were similar, the couple did make some adjustments this time around. In the kitchen, an island design replaced what had been a U-shape. “We wanted it to have more of a flow around the island, and to be more of a focal point,” says Isobel. The resulting layout is simple and powerful, with the quartz-topped island facing into the common areas, and cabinetry by Vaneri Studio providing a kind of permanent artwork that anchors the whole space.

Inside and out, the house has a warm but minimal style, and the kitchen is no exception. “Even though it’s contemporary, we featured elements that could be included in a modern farmhouse or midcentury Scandinavian style, which are styles our clients are leaning towards,” says Isobel.

Custom cabinetry, built by Todd Leback, is certainly the centerpiece here, with natural-finish walnut on the island. Its horizontal grain goes hand-in-hand with the sense of flow the Sadlers had envisioned. Wall cabinets are built of maple, painted Pratt & Lambert’s African Night. “It’s a moody color that changes. It’s lovely,” says Isobel. “It goes from green to gray.”

The cabinetry features touch-open doors and a hidden refrigerator. A walnut backsplash and floating shelves dress up the back wall. Smooth white quartz countertops on the island contrast with dark leather-flat granite behind. “It has some depth and dimension just like the color of the cabinets,” says Isobel, adding that all the countertops in the house are flush with the cabinetry.

Many of the design choices here—leaning toward the sleek and minimal—are meant to rhyme with materials and forms in the adjacent spaces and, in fact, throughout the house: dark slate for a fireplace surround and bathroom tile, walnut shelving, white oak on floors and paneling. Matte black plumbing fixtures repeat throughout the house, and brass on the globe-shaped pendant lights echoes midcentury elements that appear in other rooms.

The Sadlers, who took over the 36-year-old family business three years ago and recently changed its name from Jefferson Area Builders, find that their kitchen makes cooking and cleaning up feel like a pleasure. “You don’t feel like you’re working in the kitchen,” says Mike, the head chef. “You’re spending time.”

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Arts Culture

Look again: Sanjay Suchak finds new views of the Old Dominion

In a year defined by wild new perspectives—on health, on risk, on human separation and connectedness—images have played a central role. Photos of people in crowds or isolation are newly fraught, and as we gather virtually, the visual appearance of other humans on-screen has become a startling, imperfect social lifeline. Sanjay Suchak’s photography show at the Crozet Artisan Depot isn’t limited to images from this year, but the way it cultivates space for alternate perspectives feels very apropos for 2020.

Take, for example, his shots of the Robert E. Lee monument in Richmond—an object that stands for so much pain and, graffitied or not, is usually pictured from below. Indeed, it was designed to loom over the viewer, expressing white supremacy and dominance in its presentation of the Confederate general as a towering figure upheld by a permanent-seeming pedestal.

That permanence is less assured these days, even though the statue for the moment stands. Suchak’s take on the monument turns the usual perspective upside down, using a drone camera to position the viewer directly above the statue.

Not only does this offer poetic justice (now who’s being looked down at?), it reminds us that the statue is an object, not a person, and that its power derives from nothing more substantial than convention. Lee and his horse become just frozen metal, their position suddenly awkward, their antique patina belied by the lively quilt of spray-painted color that artist-protesters spontaneously created all around the statue’s base.

Suchak is UVA’s senior photographer and works independently for clients like National Geographic, but he’s exceedingly modest about his presentation of these images at the Depot. “I never really considered the fine art space,” he says. “These are just beautiful photos of the region.” True, there are familiar Virginia icons here, but there’s nearly always a twist: He shows the Rotunda with lightning forking through the sky above it. (“That would be a terrible image for UVA to use,” Suchak acknowledges dryly.)

His view of the Blue Ridge Parkway is a long-exposure image of stars wheeling through the night, a hint of immense time spans and distances that dwarf the human world. And, standing in a 7-11 parking lot off I-64 near Williamsburg, he used a drone to hover above private land where a flock of decommissioned presidential busts, 15 or 20 feet tall, huddle surreally in a field.

Suchak says he got into drone photography “just to have another tool in the toolkit of being a photographer.” He realized, though, that the drone offered not only the possibility of a kind of omniscience—seeing everything—but the chance to show things from angles most people have never considered. “I try to go for simplicity: addition by subtraction,” he says. “All drone cameras are pretty much like your iPhone—very wide. You have to compose your scene simply.”

Suchak doesn’t shy away from the social struggles that have made this year such a searing one in Virginia and elsewhere; many of the images concern the rewriting and removal of Confederate monuments, including the Johnny Reb statue in Charlottesville. “I never thought I would see this in my lifetime. I think it’s the start of a very important conversation,” he says.

Interestingly, there are photos of a Gordonsville rodeo here too: plaid shirts, rippling hides, and all. It’s tempting to make assumptions about how mismatched the nostalgic realm of the rodeo might be with the urban, future-looking world represented by some of Suchak’s other images—say, the one of a young female graduate in cap and gown raising a fist in front of a graffiti-enhanced monument.

But if there’s one thing 2020 asks us to do, it’s to reconsider what we think we know. As Suchak’s collection proves, this is a complex region, state, and world, with room for infinite perspectives.

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Culture

The long season of trees

My children have a library book right now that tells us trees appeared in the middle Devonian Period, over 350 million years ago. The drawings of these early specimens look strange to my eye, not as graceful as the trees out my window, but the proto-trees—Lepidosigillaria and Eospermatopteris—were doing important work. “Deeper roots and more plant matter meant that a significant amount of dirt—more correctly, soil—began to build up for the first time,” says the book.

No soil before this—and the Earth was already nine-tenths of the way through its 4.5-billion-year history! I praise trees firstly because, on a planet made of naked rock, where the vast majority of life was confined to the oceans, they made the soil. In life, their roots broke that rock down and mined its minerals; in death, their decomposing trunks provided organic matter to feed bacteria and fungi. They became the producers of the conditions on which so many other beings depend.

I praise the trees as I weed my garden, with the trees’ new idea—soil—finding its way under my nails. In the spring, the weeds I pull sometimes include tree seedlings. Once in a while we’ll discover a baby walnut tree still attached to a split-open underground walnut, a perfect illustration of tree reproduction, and a reminder of who really owns this land. If we didn’t keep up with our mowing and weeding, the trees would quickly reclaim it.

Actually, they already have. In our 13 years here, an area we used to call “the back field” has become a forest of slender young poplars, perpetually shady in the summer. They don’t flower yet; they’re concentrating their energy on gaining height, making leaves, making sugars. When they’re a bit taller, they’ll turn their attention to producing the orange and yellow cuplike flowers that give them their other name—tulip tree. These poplars are still kids, not yet arrived at adolescence or the necessities of reproduction.

In the front of the house, too, brash young white pines have swiftly grown to block what was once our view. They’re on the neighbor’s land, so we can’t do anything about it; anyway, the smell of their needles when struck by the sun makes up for the vista we lost.

Still, I praise especially the tree elders that dot our land, survivors of the time when our property was logged several decades ago. Big stumps here and there tell me that some sizable specimens must have been cut. But we still have tall, mature poplars; statuesque walnuts; an enchanted grove of Osage orange where the trunks form rainbow arcs my kids love to climb. We have oaks of medium age and young Norway maple. We have redbud, black locust, and a small tree we’d never heard of until a neighbor identified it: hackberry. I praise the hackberry’s warty bark, which I now spot in lots of places, and the little green berries it makes in the summer.

I praise all this variety and this fecundity. Even on scarred land, the trees are growing with a ferocity that gives me hope. Their crowns know how to spread and spread until they find each other, then stop. Their roots hold the soil in place. Their leaves produce oxygen and the haze that makes the Blue Ridge blue. They continue to clean the air, quietly resisting a tide of pollution.

I praise my favorite scent on earth: the pungent black walnuts we sometimes break open with rocks on our lawn, picking out the meat of the nuts with dark-stained fingers. I praise the leaves, more tender than lettuce, that we pluck from sassafras seedlings and munch on while we walk in the woods. I praise their curvaceousness: some having one lobe, some two (like a mitten), some three. I praise the way they turn red and yellow so early in the fall, or even late summer, a teaser for all the bombastic beauty to come.

I could, and do, praise the trees for providing a place for animals to live—screech owls, raccoons, squirrels, tentworms, tree frogs, hornets, ants, wood thrush, and woodpecker. But when I sit in my house, or sit on my deck, shaded by trees, it’s clear that I live in the trees, too. I sleep in a wooden bed; I eat at a wooden table. Wooden frames surround the images I’ve chosen to adorn my wooden walls.

I praise the paper, made from wood pulp, on which this library book is printed. It tells me that most of the time there’s been an Earth, the trees were not yet here. And yet compared with the trees, people are an extremely recent experiment. I praise them for sharing this place with us. I hope we will be worthy of their company.

 

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Culture Living

All hail the Harrison: A historic apple takes root in central Virginia

Once upon a time, the apple was king in America. There were thousands of specialized varieties, home orchards were widespread, and cider was the most commonly available beverage. These days, we’re used to a very different reality: Most Americans are familiar only with a handful of commercial apple varieties, bred for shelf life and looks instead of flavor, and cider is more of a niche product than a staple. But local cider makers are reconnecting to that lost era of the apple, and the Harrison—which came within a hair’s breadth of being lost to history—is a key link.

“Anyone interested in fine cider and heritage apples is interested in the Harrison,” says Charlotte Shelton of Albemarle CiderWorks, the orchard and cidery located in North Garden. It’s an apple that earned praises from connoisseurs as early as 1817, when William Coxe, author of an illustrated guide to American apple varieties, called it “the most celebrated of the cider apples of Newark in New Jersey.”

Newark was part of an important apple industry serving the New York and Philadelphia markets, and Coxe went on to note that the Harrison “commanded a high price in New York.” Buyers in those days would have been attuned to the Harrison’s special qualities: “the taste pleasant and sprightly, but rather dry—it produces a high coloured, rich, and sweet cider of great strength.”

Within the century that followed Coxe’s guide, though, the temperance movement and changing American demographics put a damper on what had been a robust apple and cider culture. Prohibition in 1920 was the last nail in the coffin for many of the American apple varieties, and the Harrison—being suited only for cider, not for eating—was among many that were largely forgotten.

Many varieties will never be recovered, a fate nearly suffered by the Harrison. But in 1976, a collector from Vermont went searching for it in the Newark area and, by a stroke of luck, discovered a Harrison apple tree that was less than a week from being cut down by the owner of the backyard where it grew.

Before it fell, the collector took scions (cuttings). Some of these eventually made their way into the hands of Tom Burford—a celebrated central Virginia apple grower, pomologist, and nurseryman who spent decades spreading the gospel of heirloom apples through his books and public appearances. Burford also helped and advised Charlotte Shelton and her siblings from the time they established their business in the 1990s until his death in March.

“One of the things we’re interested in doing is exploring what American apples can produce in terms of cider. The Harrison plays into that hugely,” says Shelton. “Tom was interested in promoting that, and we are his heirs in that regard.”

The Harrison is now being grown around the country and featured as a varietal by several craft cideries. Albemarle CiderWorks, for one, is growing around 150 Harrison trees and makes a single-varietal Harrison cider. According to Chuck Shelton, Charlotte’s brother and the CiderWorks’ cider maker, the Harrison is important not only for its place in history, but because it still makes great cider today.

“My opinion is it’s probably the best cider apple that’s ever been grown in the U.S.,” he says, praising the Harrison’s practical advantages: “It’s a great producer. It’s dense and hard, and stores fairly well so you don’t have to press it right away. A high-sugar apple tends to make a high amount of alcohol from fermenting. That helps preserve the cider.”

All that is a boon to the orchardist, of course, but what about the taste? There too, Shelton says the Harrison earns its keep through a balance of several characteristics. “It’s high in tannins, which give you a slight bitterness and full-bodied mouthfeel,” says Shelton. “It’s very acidic, so it has a very sour taste to go along with the astringency. All these things together make it one of the best.” As for Burford, he may have gone even further when he told Edible Jersey magazine that he was so bowled over by his first taste of the Harrison that he had to sit down.

Come early October or so, the Shelton family will be harvesting this year’s crop of Harrisons: smallish, yellow-skinned, black-spotted apples destined to be pressed, fermented, and eventually poured from tall bottles into waiting glasses. Chuck Shelton says the Harrison is finding its way into more orchards in Virginia and beyond, and that its popularity is a boon to the growing American cider business. “We’re fortunate,” he says, “that it didn’t go completely extinct.”

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Culture Living

In their own backyards

“Phenology” might not be a word you use in everyday conversation, but it’s one of the keys to tracking climate change. The term refers to the study of timing in the natural world—the dates when plants flower, leaves emerge, seeds drop, and animals migrate. The USA National Phenology Network is building a stable of citizen scientists to track events like those across the country. I joined up this spring, and the observations I’ve gathered have become part of a database used by scientists worldwide.

“Phenology is a really great indicator of climate change impacts, but we don’t have a good way to do standardized monitoring across the country,” says Erin Posthumus with USANPN. Her agency—which is based at the University of Arizona—was created in 2007 and launched the citizen scientist program, Nature’s Notebook, two years later. Since that time, 18,000 people nationwide have taken part by keeping a close eye on certain plants and animals and reporting their observations.

Among those are many groups at schools and nature centers, but also “backyard observers”—individuals, like me. When I signed up with Nature’s Notebook, I chose four plant species that grow on my property, so I could keep up with regular observations without having to get in the car. These included two trees (poplar and sassafras), one shrub (spicebush), and one wildflower (bloodroot).

As I began observing in March, everything still looked wintry, but soon things started to happen. Bloodroot leaves emerged. Poplar buds appeared. It all felt surprisingly dramatic when I had data sheets in my hand (I marked it all down on paper and entered the data manually, but another option is to use the program’s mobile app).

Posthumus says that the data collected around the country is a real resource for science. “All the data submitted are freely available,” she says. “You can filter for specific data sets, species, life cycle
events. We’re up to 82 peer-reviewed publications by scientists that have used the data.”

I found that having a reason to check on these plants every few days got me to walk in the woods more often, putting me in closer touch with the progress of the season, and acquainting me with the plants themselves. Next year, I plan to add more species to my list, and I’ll make sure some of those are part of Nature’s Notebook’s special campaigns. The Nectar Connectors campaign, for one, aims to collect data specifically on plants that monarch butterflies and other pollinators use for food. Knowing when milkweed blooms, for example, can help scientists predict whether the timing of monarch migrations will continue to align with when their food is available.

All this can help with future adaptation, Posthumus says. “National parks and national wildlife refuges are using the data to help them answer their own questions about how the onset of spring has changed in parks and refuges,” she says. “It can help them think about what’s going to happen in the future.”

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Culture Living

Hallelujah. What’s next?: The defeat of the Atlantic Coast Pipeline is only the beginning

On July 5, my family and I were in the car together when we had a media experience that feels old- fashioned and rare these days. All of us, at the same time, heard the headline on the radio: The Atlantic Coast Pipeline has been canceled.

There followed a few seconds of disbelief, then many minutes of celebration. After so much awful, awful news this year—after seasons in which the news has felt like a constant morass of overlapping grief and confusion, experienced mostly in private, while hunched over a tiny screen—this was a shout of clarity, unity, joy: a mini-version of the nation’s communal viewing of the moon landing. Soon enough, the exclamatory texts from friends and neighbors started arriving, and we celebrated electronically, too. But we kept saying it out loud to each other, delightedly, in person: “No pipeline!”

Those two words had suddenly, magically become a statement of fact rather than a pleading slogan on thousands of blue-and-white yard signs and banners dotting Nelson County, where we’ve lived for years, with NO PIPELINE as a constant refrain in our landscape.

Like virtually all of Nelson’s residents, we wholeheartedly agreed that a land-grabbing, water-polluting pipeline slashing across our county was a heartbreaking prospect. My kids made handwritten versions of the signs and posted them in their room. Adult activists (many working through the group Friends of Nelson) made art, wrote songs, cataloged native plants in the pipeline’s path, symbolically walked the route, drew maps, blogged, gathered signatures, campaigned for anti-pipeline supervisors, held meetings and demonstrations, and relentlessly spread the word.

I supported all of it but, frankly, I wasn’t betting on their success. When two wide swaths of trees were clear-cut in 2018 near the entrance to Wintergreen Resort, despite the fact that many legal challenges were still pending, it seemed inevitable that the behemoth energy company, not the private citizens, would win out.

Part of the reason I felt a sense of hopelessness was that I’ve seen the crushing power of the energy industry in my home county, in southwestern Pennsylvania. That region, underlain by the vast natural gas formation called the Marcellus Shale, hosts the other side of fracking: the wells that supply the gas which would have flowed through the ACP. Over the last decade or so, the infrastructure of fracking has marched over my native landscape like an unstoppable dystopian monster.

It’s a hilly, scrappy place; I grew up seeing sheep farms and cornfields, junkyards and railroads. Coal and steel had left their own deep scars, but the first frack wells I noticed were still jarring: hills brutally decapitated in order to create flat wellpads, acres of heavy gravel, wide new roads cut into the soft slopes so that large trucks could roar into the fields, bringing water that would be mixed with proprietary chemicals and injected underground.

The economics of the situation in rural, post-industrial Pennsylvania are such that many people there are glad for the gas boom. It brought jobs, even wealth in some cases. That the jobs probably won’t last forever, or that the wealth comes in exchange for risking one’s drinking water, are facts that are often brushed aside. When you’ve been ground down for generations by the boom-and-bust cycles of extractive industry, it’s hard to say no to high-paying jobs or lucrative gas leases.

After some years during which I saw more and more frack wells on every visit home (Washington County now contains 1,146, more than any other in the state) I started to notice pipelines, too. More clear-cut hillsides, more country roads torn up so that pipelines could pass underneath, more silt fences holding back erosion. It defined the lie that natural gas is “clean” energy.

All this has been on my mind as I’ve followed the saga of the ACP. Make no mistake: I’m one hundred percent glad that Dominion and Duke pulled the plug on this; it would have meant nothing but degradation for central Virginia and the environment we all share. But I can’t help seeing the contrast between the way people in central Virginia furiously fought the ACP and the way people in southwestern Pennsylvania have mostly welcomed fracking.

Separated by only a few hundred miles, the two regions are very different. The wealth, the value placed on scenic beauty and tourism, the generally high education level—all these things mark greater Charlottesville as distinct from my Rust Belt home. I’ve come to realize that it’s a privilege to be able to oppose fossil fuel development, to be able to see beyond purported short-term benefits for locals. Even for those anti-ACP activists who are members of marginalized groups—like the residents of Union Hill in Buckingham County, a historic African American community that would have suffered terrible air-quality impacts from the presence of an ACP compressor station—there is power in being connected to a larger movement of people with the means and the time to mount a sustained, sophisticated resistance.

Buckingham even got a visit from Al Gore in 2019; he denounced the proposed compressor station. Meanwhile, New York-based writer Eliza Griswold published Amity and Prosperity, a searing embedded account of water pollution and poverty set in the very village in which I grew up. Her book won the Pulitzer in 2019, but fracking in Washington County continues. Whereas Charlottesville has a certain ongoing national cachet—indelibly stamped on every nickel—there is something chronically invisible about greater Pittsburgh, and the Rust Belt, in American discourse. Like Appalachia, they get mentioned occasionally, almost anthropologically, and then dropped again.

Now that victory has come on the local scale, the questions have to expand in scope. Why was the pipeline proposed in the first place? What are the priorities for financial investment and political muscle among different energy paradigms (including conservation, a latent “resource” that is far from fully tapped)? What can local activists—who have now proven their efficacy—do to influence the broader conversation about where we get our power?

The answers will have bearing on our local environment, of course, but even more directly on places that, compared to this wealthy, exceptional region, are downtrodden, ignored, polluted, impoverished, and miseducated. Hallelujah: NO PIPELINE has become a reality. NO FRACKING (and while we’re at it, NO MOUNTAINTOP REMOVAL, NO NEW COAL PLANTS, YES SOLAR and YES WIND) should be next.

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The city’s newest wilderness: Right outside town, community forest will offer a wild escape

Just a quick drive from the most urban sections of Charlottesville is a unique wild environment—acres of boulder forests, sunny woodlands where blueberries grow, and a creek with architectural ruins along its banks. It’s all part of a 144-acre property called the Heyward Community Forest, snugged against the Ragged Mountain Reservoir. The city acquired the land last November, and once trails are completed, it will offer a set of new adventures to local hikers.

“It feels like Shenandoah National Park out there, but you don’t have to drive 20 miles to get to it,” says Chris Gensic, the city’s parks and trails planner. He first became aware that the property was for sale about five years ago when he spotted a real estate sign while helping to rebuild Ragged Mountain trails after the expansion of the reservoir. “We thought it would be nice,” he remembers, “if that could be purchased as an adjacent property to Ragged Mountain”—already a favorite outdoor escape for city dwellers.

Along with the Piedmont Environmental Council, Gensic approached the landowner, a member of the Heyward family, the clan that had already donated the nearby Foxhaven Farm property to UVA. Through a community forest grant from the USDA, written by Gensic, the city secured about $600,000—roughly half the appraised value of the property—and the owner agreed to donate the rest of the value. 

“Chris is a bulldog,” says Devin Floyd, of the Center for Urban Habitats, which completed a natural resource inventory on the property in February. “He’ll have a vision and just keep going until he figures out how to do it.” In this case, the Heyward Community Forest became part of a sweeping swath of public land straddling I-64 and anchored by the reservoir—a place for solitary hikers and birders, naturalists, state ecologists, and schoolkids alike.

“There’s a big educational component to this,” says Gensic. Eventually he’d like to see a pavilion on the property for school groups to use, but the more immediate goal is to create trails. CUH’s survey work found a number of special features on the property that the trail design will showcase and protect.

Floyd emphasizes that the Ragged Mountains are a special environment—a higher-altitude terrain, rising from surrounding plains, where the underlying geology makes for strong biodiversity. At the Heyward property, his team cataloged plant and animal species, mapping the different habitat types that form a patchwork over the property. The CUH report declares this forest “uncommonly rich and varied.” Asked what’s notable about it, Floyd first mentions an unusually large collection of rock outcrops north of Reservoir Road.

“We find patches of that,” he says, “but we don’t find 20 acres of that. The ground cover is dominated by outcrops that are dome-shaped and flat. It’s just the most extraordinary forest.” 

Associated with these rocky places are occasional old-growth trees—not especially huge ones, stunted by the shallow soil, but up to 300 years old, spared by the loggers of previous generations precisely because they were small and gnarled.

The property also includes small stretches of grassland, which Floyd points out were once a lot more widespread in Virginia than most people realize, and what he calls a “rip-roaring stream” that he hopes will be closely approached by the new trails. “This stream reaches a steep gradient on the east side of the property, so there’s falls and slides and a geologic element that really fills the air with sound and smells and everything associated with a mountain stream,” he says. 

Along the creek is evidence of human activity from the past—remnants of drylaid stone buildings. “What we’ve come to understand is the families that lived in the Ragged Mountains had very little access to resources and they made do with what they had on their land,” Floyd says. “That produced an architectural signature that is unique in this area, possibly unique to the Raggeds.”

Finally, there’s a combination of habitat types the CUH identified as unusual enough to merit protection as a preserve within the community forest. One is an environment known as a Piedmont mafic barren, which features exposed bedrock on which native prickly pear cactus grows alongside lichens, mosses, and stunted trees. The CUH report stresses the rarity of this habitat—with less than 20 sizable, healthy examples known worldwide—and calls this habitat type “the crown jewel of ecosystems in our region.” 

These barrens are found next to xeric woodlands, also locally rare, with widely-spaced trees over shrubs like huckleberry and blueberry. Trails will skirt around these remarkable habitats, offering visual access from a spur trail while protecting the preserve from the impacts of human traffic. 

Floyd and Gensic are both excited about the potential for this property to host environmental education, given its easy accessibility from UVA and every primary and secondary school in town. “It’s pretty special because of its proximity to the urban core,” says Floyd. “It’s a resource for the citizens of Charlottesville to come and reboot, and there’s a lot to learn in the Ragged Mountains. Every time we look, we see something new.”