Read Online Long Way Home by Bill Barich - Free Book Online

is the seat of Culpeper County. Its slogan, “Still Making History,” caused me to scratch my head. The sturdy brick buildings downtown—historic, naturally, and newly revitalized—were scrubbed clean and painted inviting shades of red or pale blue. The old train depot, also recently restored, was a trophy during the Civil War, coveted by both sides for its telegraph line and easy access to the railroad.
    Once Culpeper was a hub for dairying and beef cattle, but most farmers quit after a government buyout in the 1980s. That freed up acres of land for developers. A housing spree began a decade ago, with subdivisions built at warp speed and crews of Mexicans arriving to do the labor. The spree had ended, of course, but the Mexicans hadn’t left, a sore point in certain quarters.
    Now Culpeper banked on its tranquil atmosphere to attract harried Washingtonians ready to swap the urban frenzy for a simpler lifestyle, if such a thing exists. Tourism figured in the plan as well, with horseback riding, golf, biplane flights, and an array of B and Bs. You could visit the boyhood home of Eppa Rixey, inducted into baseball’s Hall of Fame in 1963, and Belmont Farms Distillery, the only legal purveyor of “moonshine” in Virginia.
    That evening, I fell into a trap that loneliness sets for travelers. Though I knew better, I conned myself into believing that an hour or so at the motel bar might relieve the symptoms, blissfully ignoring the fact that such bars are the venue of choice for veteran cranks and other self-regarding bores every bit as lonely as I was.
    The only other customer on this dreary Monday was a veteran crank attired for golf in an Izod shirt and jackass slacks. He stared blankly at Fox News, while the bartender sliced lemons and limes, attacking the fruit more violently as the negatives escalated in a dismal financial report.
    â€œI hate the news!” she cried, stabbing a lemon. “It’s so upsetting!”
    â€œScare tactics,” her ally muttered. “You can’t trust the damn government anymore.”
    â€œI feel it’s all beyond my control,” the bartender shuddered. “Thank God, I’m blessed.” Her blessing, it seems, was a lower mortgage payment renegotiated prior to the collapse. “I’ll never be foreclosed. I’ll come out of this just fine.”
    â€œThey should never have allowed it to happen,” said the guy in slacks. “They weren’t paying attention!”
    â€œWho do you mean by ‘they’?” In a split second, I wished I’d never opened my mouth.
    For the next ten minutes, I listened to a highly polished, well-rehearsed harangue. In broad strokes, old jackass slacks blamed the government for failing to protect its citizens from making such stupid decisions as buying real estate and material toys they couldn’t afford. Absent from his argument was any notion that an individual bears some responsibility for his or her actions.
    â€œI’ll say it again,” the bartender piped, her voice overflowing with emotion. “I am truly blessed!”
    She was not alone in her sympathies. Organized religion is a powerful force in Culpeper County. There are more than a dozen Baptist churches, some dating from the 1800s and Crooked Run Baptist from 1772. The Presbyterians, Episcopalians, Methodists, Lutherans, and various evangelical sects have congregations, too, although the county lacks a synagogue and has only one Catholic church.
    Had I been younger and even more foolish, I’d have countered the man’s argument with FDR’s admonitions—no plague of locusts had descended on us and so on. Instead I crawled into bed, ate a Virginia Gold apple, and read some Emerson.
    â€œGod will not have his work made manifest by cowards,” he wrote in Self-Reliance .
    EAST STREET IS Culpeper’s Park Avenue, famed for its lavish Greek and Colonial Revival–style houses. With a