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  The Last Witness Falls: A Tale of Two Sycamores By Jerry Buchanan History is usually written in books, but sometimes it lives in the grain of a tree. Today, we look at two iconic Sycamores: one that survived a massacre, and one that finally succumbed to the silence of the town it loved. 1. The Ghost of St. Charles, VA: A Final Rustling Sigh For over a century, the Sycamore by the creek in St. Charles was the town’s oldest friend. It was there before the first rail was laid and stayed long after the coal mines emptied and the movie theaters went dark. The Rise: It shaded the men who dug the "black gold" and watched the town explode into a bustling mountain hub. The Fall: It stood through the terrifying dynamite blasts and the devastating floods of 1963 and 1977. The End: The Sycamore in St. Charles stands no more . Like the company stores and the crowded sidewalks it once watched, the tree has passed into memory. Its absence leaves a hole in the skyline of the hollow, a f...

  Beyond the Margins: 10 Women Who Engineered the Modern World History has a habit of remembering the names on the buildings while forgetting the minds that designed the foundations. For centuries, women navigated a world where they couldn't own property, sign contracts, or even cast a vote—yet they never stopped creating. From the code in our smartphones to the warmth in our homes, these ten women refused to accept "impossible" as an answer. Today, we’re stepping out of the textbooks and into the labs of the silent architects who built our reality. 1. Ada Lovelace: The Visionary of the Digital Age (1843) A century before the first electronic computer, Ada Lovelace saw beyond simple math. While Charles Babbage viewed his "Analytical Engine" as a giant calculator, Lovelace realized that if a machine could manipulate symbols, it could create music, art, and complex science. She wrote the first algorithm intended for a machine, making her the world’s very first com...

  📰 The Town Next Door: Why Harlan Needs to Read the Tragic History of St. Charles, VA By Jerry Buchanan A century of silence: St. Charles Main Street at the height of the boom (left) and the quiet of the present (right). When I close my eyes and think of St. Charles, Virginia, I don’t see the sleepy, almost vanished crossroads it is today. I see the ghosts of its roaring past. I see the dust rising from a booming coal operation, smell the coal and wood smoke, and hear the train whistles echoing in front of my house. For those of us who grew up there, a short drive from Pennington Gap, St. Charles is more than a map point—it’s a story of ambition, a meteoric rise, and a devastating fall. It is a story encapsulated by a single, haunting phrase: "Author Traces the Tragic History of His Virginia Hometown." A Tense Border History: The Link to Harlan, KY For readers in Harlan County, Kentucky, the name St. Charles carries...

  The Roots of the Crack: Why Our Democracy is Breaking from the Bottom Up By Jerry Buchanan We often talk about political "division" as if it were a weather event—something that swept in recently and might just as easily blow over by the next election cycle. We treat our democratic institutions like stone monuments: permanent, unmoving, and indestructible. But look closely at the image of the fractured ballot box. The box isn't just broken; it is being uprooted . The crack running down the center isn't a surface-level scratch caused by a single candidate or a heated debate. It is being pushed open by gnarled, deep-seated roots growing from the foundation upward. If we are honest with ourselves, the political discourse isn’t going to change in the near future because those roots have been growing for decades. The Illusion of the "Quick Fix" We spend millions of dollars and endless hours of screen time trying to "tape" the box back together. We focu...

Remembering Doug “Medo” Edgar: A St. Charles Original By Jerry Buchanan Every town has a few people who become part of its everyday heartbeat. In St. Charles, one of those people was Doug “Medo” Edgar —a man whose steady presence, easy laugh, and quiet devotion to his hometown left a mark that still lingers today. Most people called him Medid but some like me called him Medo. I am not sure how he got his nickname other than a rumor that one he responded to a question and said me did it. People in St, Charles were quick to give nickname to some of the locals. For example, a man named Silvester always carried an umbrella, come rain or shine. One friend gave me the nickname "nickel". I owed him an nickel and never paid it back and every time he saw me would say 'hello nickel. In St, Charles nick names follow you for life,  The son of Judge and Maxine (Herron) Edgar, Medo or Medid grew up in a lively household alongside his sisters Betty and Lois and his four brothers. The Ed...

  The Witch of Pungo and the Healers of St. Charles by Jerry Buchanan                                             Image provided by a lady called Johnna  In the folklore of Virginia, the name Grace Sherwood —the famous "Witch of Pungo"—carries the weight of salt air and 18th-century trials. But hundreds of miles west, in the shadows of the coal peaks of St. Charles , the word "witch" carried a different kind of power. To a child, it was a ghost story told to keep you indoors at night; to an adult, it was often the only medicine available when the nearest doctor was miles away. The Shadows in the Trees Local memory is a flickering thing. Some, like Edna Crumley , grew up with the chilling "old folks' tale" of a witch burned at the stake right here in St. Charles—a shadow that lingered long enough to make a little girl wonder if she was still alive. Others, like Crystal ...

  The 38 Cities That Stand Alone: How Virginia Became a State of Exceptions   Revised Blog By Jerry Buchanan Authors Note: There are only 41 Independent Cities in the entire U.S. (38 are here in Virginia, along with Baltimore, St. Louis, and Carson City). Most Americans grow up believing that cities belong to counties. But Virginia—shaped by colonial habits and a long memory—chose a different path. Today, Virginia remains the only state where dozens of cities stand completely alone. It’s a story about identity, pride, and the way communities define their own boundaries. A Tale of Two Neighbors: The Divorce of 1954 In the coal-rich mountains of Southwest Virginia, the map tells a story of two different paths. Just a few miles apart, you’ll find Norton and Big Stone Gap . On paper, Big Stone Gap has often been the larger "hub"—home to the hospital, the community college, and the cultural pulse of the area. But in 1954, Norton made a radical move. It officially "divorced...

  Wisdom From the Women of the Hollows By Jerry Buchanan as suggested by Liz Fultz Strickland  The "Granny Women" of Appalachia were far more than just neighborhood grandmothers. They were the backbone of mountain healthcare from the late 18th century through the mid-20th century, serving as midwives, herbalists, and spiritual healers in a region where doctors were scarce and paved roads were non-existent. Here is a look at their vital role in Appalachian history. The Role: More Than a Midwife A Granny Woman was a community staple. Because professional medical care was often a day's ride away (and prohibitively expensive), these women stepped into the gap. Midwifery: Their primary role was bringing new life into the world. They handled everything from prenatal care to delivery and postnatal support for both mother and child. The "Yarb" Doctor: They were master botanists. Using a blend of Cherokee traditional medicine and Scots-Irish herbal knowledge, they c...

  Saturday Night in the "New York of the Hollows" By Jerry Buchanan If you looked at the census numbers for St. Charles in 1950, you’d see a modest count of 550 people. But if you stood on the sidewalk on a Saturday afternoon, those numbers lied. To us, St. Charles didn't feel like a small town; it felt like a mountain metropolis. The Saturday Swell Every Saturday, the sidewalks were so packed with miners and their families coming in from the camps—places like Bonny Blue, Kemmerer Gem, and Benedict —that you often had to step off the curb just to get around. The town was a transportation hub. We had a passenger bus running to Pennington Gap, but the real local "movers" were the taxis. The taxi stand usually had three or four cabs idling, manned by drivers like Carl Buchanan and George Gibson . Walt Gilley (related to "Blackie" Gilley) also drove for Carl from time to time. I’ll never forget the day Walt walked into the Cavalier Cafe looking for a co...

  From Lunch Pails to Free Plates: A St. Charles Journey Since 1956 By Jerry Buchanan The old brick walls of St. Charles: Where my journey began in 1956. The Heartbeat of St. Charles: A Journey Back to 1956 Looking at an old photo of the St. Charles school, I am instantly transported back to 1956, the year my journey began. While the finer details of those early years have faded like a sepia print, the rhythms of life in that building remain etched in my mind. The Midday Trek One of my most vivid memories isn’t of a lesson at a chalkboard, but of the midday bell. In those days, the cafeteria was tucked away behind the high school, but my siblings and I rarely saw the inside of it. There were no programs for free or reduced lunches then; if the cafeteria meal didn't fit the family budget, you simply went home. Rain or shine, we made the trek home for lunch. It was a testament to the times—our parents worked hard, but with multiple children, the budget was tight. I do remember one sm...

  Cold Springs: A Chorus of Voices By Jerry Buchanan  For generations, the spring at Friendship Holler—Cold Springs to most folks—has been more than a pipe in the mountain. It’s been a ritual, a landmark, a taste of home so pure that people still argue it’s the best water in Lee County, maybe the best anywhere. David F. Hudson remembered taking samples to be tested, only to be told it was “the best water they’d ever seen.” Others didn’t need a lab report. They had a lifetime of proof. Wanda Spangler drank it every time her family came down from Ohio and still does. Christy Cantey remembered Sunday lines of people waiting with jugs. James Owens joked that if it were unsafe, “half of Lee County would be dead.” Charlotte Parsons ‑ Cooper still drives from Big Stone Gap with seven five ‑ gallon jugs to fill. Joy Warrick carried it back to Indiana in a Coleman cooler. Glenda Dotson Hubbard said the spring reminds her of simpler days in Pin ‑ a ‑ Lee. Richard Dotso...

  Frozen in Time: Remembering the Cold Spring Market (1965 vs. 2024) The Constant Flow: The Pipe That Never Ran Dry If you grew up in Lee County, you know that some landmarks aren't made of brick and mortar—they are made of water and memory. For generations, the Cold Spring Market in Pennington Gap was the heartbeat of the community, a place where the mountain literally poured itself out for anyone with a jug and a few minutes to spare. A Legacy of Service Looking back at 1965, the market was a bustling hub of activity. With its iconic Coca-Cola signs and stone-faced storefront, it was the premier destination for fresh fruits, vegetables, and social connection. It sat at the base of the mountain, serving as a gateway for travelers and a daily staple for locals. Through the Fire The 1990s brought a bittersweet chapter to this location when the original market building was lost to a fire. For many of us, it felt like losing a piece of our childhood. Today, the site looks different; ...

  From Coal Dust to Camouflage: How My Virginia Past Shaped My Service, and Why I Chose Bargersville to finally call Home By Jerry Buchanan 1 Introduction Standing here in Bargersville, a town that hums with the energy of growth and future plans, it feels like I've finally found the anchor I spent a lifetime searching for. But the foundation of who I am was set decades and a thousand miles away, in a Virginia coal town that was fading into a ghost of its former self. That town was St. Charles, VA, where I lived in two small homes during my formative years . I spent my childhood years in those simple houses as our family navigated the local economy, learning early on what it meant to fight for stability in a town whose boom days were already over. "The decline of St. Charles was my first major life lesson in impermanence. I left to join the Marines on May 19, 1968, trading a familiar struggle for a life of strict duty. That path took me straight into the heart of the Viet...