By Beverly Belcher Woody
When the dogwoods and redbuds begin to bloom, my thoughts—and my heart—are drawn back to the land of my ancestors, the hills and hollows between Meadows of Dan and Woolwine. There is a deep and abiding love in that landscape, one that is difficult to fully capture in words. While my own attempts to describe that connection feel feeble and inadequate, my second cousin, 2x removed, Daisy Violet DeHart Pendleton, possessed a remarkable and rare ability to do just that. Through her words, she did not simply describe the land—she preserved its spirit, its history, and its quiet beauty in a way that few ever could.
For the next couple of columns, we will look back at some of Daisy’s wonderful writing. A native and lifelong resident of Patrick County, Daisy had been an Enterprise correspondent for fifty years (since the age of sixteen), when she began writing Buffalo Ridge News. The column title was later changed to “Down in the Valley,” which it remained until her retirement as a correspondent in 1977.
In 1972, Daisy researched and wrote fifteen series of articles on the history of Patrick County. She also worked as an interviewer for the Patrick County Project, an oral history effort conducted by the Reynolds Homestead and the Patrick County Library. She had interviewed at least twelve people before her passing on the 20th of January 1981—ensuring that the voices and memories of her community would not be lost to time.
Throughout her life, she was a writer, poet, and historian whose work reflected both a deep knowledge of her community and a profound love for it. From 1977 until her death, she wrote “Path Across the Hills” for The Enterprise, a column rich with poetry and prose about nature and nostalgia, religious reflection, and historical insight.
Daisy’s great love for nature is evident throughout her prolific body of work. She published approximately 300 poems and articles in her lifetime, including her very first piece at the age of sixteen, titled “Memory Trail to Grandma’s.” Her writing reflects not only observation, but a deep emotional and spiritual connection to the natural world.
She was also a devoted bird enthusiast. According to her nephew, the late Sheppard Allen deHart, she knew the names, colors, and lifestyles of every bird in the State of Virginia. At one point, he said, she had identified 96 native species and faithfully fed and cared for them.
“Not only was her home a sanctuary of hospitality for neighbors,” deHart said, “but she also took care of the birds in the wintertime. She was so devoted and sensitive to the needs of people, that I think it carried over to her love for birds.”
The following was published in The Enterprise on July 18, 1963, and was thankfully saved by my mother, as I have read it many times over the years. In this piece, Daisy beautifully captures a journey that begins in the “Dark Hollow” below Conner’s View Church, where my mother was born, and continues along what my family has always known as the “River Road.”
My grandmother and her sister would run all the way down this same road to visit their newly married sister who lived near Bowling’s Store in Lone Ivy. I understand they would come out of the hollow on what is now known as North Fork Road. Cousin Ivalien and her father, Stowell Hylton, would travel from Conner’s View down the mountain to pick cherries at Mrs. Sarah Cockram French’s, and even farther on to fish at James Samuel Boyd’s pond on Millhouse Road.
And so, through her words, the paths we once walked are not lost, but remembered—worn smooth again by memory and meaning. In Daisy’s writing, the mountains breathe, the rivers move with purpose, and the voices of those who came before us seem to linger just beyond the bend in the road.
What follows is more than a simple account of a journey. It is a glimpse into a way of life—one shaped by family, faith, and a deep-rooted connection to the land. It is, in many ways, a homecoming.
In her own words, Daisy invites us to walk beside her once more—down the old road, along the river, and into the heart of Patrick County.
A Rare Day In June
By Daisy D. Pendleton
Today the sun rose bright; there was a gentle breeze passing over the valley toward the mountains, clear and blue. High cloud shadows playing on the bright green vale.
The urge to hike down the old, abandoned road along the “north prong” of Smith River was far too inviting. My husband and I, with a party of six, Tommie, Regena, Roscoe and Lyle Pendleton, Janice Harbour and Jewel Cockram, tingling with the promise of adventure about to unfold, hurried to start. Husband Calvin driving the old pickup and me by his side, the others laughing merrily in the back, the old truck rattled around No. 8 on up 58 then off on a road to the spot where we were to start down the trail, the place at Conner’s View Church near James Cruise’s. The family wished us a pleasant journey and leaving Jewel there to drive back and meet us at the homeplace of the late Mr. and Mrs. Rufus Hylton at the end of the trail.
At the top of this mountain I was looking off at the magic panorama stretching away to the horizon—mountains that mean so much to me to the last purple peak—the long view seemed to carry its offering of relaxation and serenity.
The first part of our journey we had to go through a field (the old roadway here washed deep by heavy rains and filled with debris) about a hundred feet down was a flattish place ’neath a spreading oak, the green grass, beautiful shade and the smell of the dark woods below which we entered there. All were so inviting. The path led beside the old roadway where we marveled at the depth cut by the rushing waters in time. It was mostly soft underfoot, the leaves damp from rain the night before, then the land was level for a distance. Soon we entered on to the original trail and began to enjoy the shady cool spots covered by ferns and other plants of the forest. Soon we came to a stoney little stream; on the other side the path divided—one to the left my husband had traveled many times in his youth on foot and by wagon to his paternal grandfather’s, Greene Pendleton. The right was our course; we branched off the main toward grandfather’s old place, but it was too grown up to find the way without difficulty. We retraced our steps and continued on down.
The sunlight filtering through the green, the birds singing, the ivy and rhododendron were so alluring, faintly reminiscent of the twenty-four years ago my husband and I last traveled this way. There were high rocks, table rocks, and mossy rocks throughout this mountain terrain. Blue Jays screamed at us from nearby branches. There were wood thrushes and a few chickadees. Soon we came to the spot where the path follows the rushing Smith River (the source not many miles back on the Blue Ridge). The many, many little waterfalls add truly exotic beauty. I stood still for a while in meditation, gazing at the huge rocks. One of my mother’s favorite scripture verses came to me. Psalms 61:2: “From the end of the earth will I cry unto Thee when my heart is overwhelmed: Lead me to the rock that is higher than I.”
I must continue on. Now and then we would walk out on the high rocks, looking straight down to some depth upon the silvery spray of the water and the twisted, gnarled shapes of the trees that grew between the rocks. It was really fantastic. There too were gray trunked beeches standing ghostly against the green of the forest.
Soon we came to the place called “Lyn Bridge.” It was difficult to cross the river for there was no bridge there and the rocks slippery.
Farther on at a place called “Forks of the River,” where “Witt Creek” joined Smith River, was an old trail which led to my husband’s maternal grandfather’s, Willie Jones. Along this same way Uncle Moses “Babe” Pendleton lived for some time. His seven children were born there, they moved away in 1910.
We would stop many times to rest along the way and admire the beauty of the forests—something of beauty everywhere—for a new visitor—just turn your head! These impressions carry one deeper into Virginia and emotions.
Now there were no voices save our own party. No one to wave a welcome hand, gave a lonesome feeling to know many had traveled this way and were forever gone away. I thought too soon I will not walk this way again. Then it came to me Psalm 121:1-2: “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help.” “My help cometh from the Lord, which made Heaven and earth.”
Then there was the place where George Hylton lived many years past. We tried to find something left of the old home but could find nothing, where Robert C. Hylton took his bride Lula over fifty-one years ago. Then another place still farther down off the trail was the old chimney left standing alone. This marked the spot where my husband’s sister Ollie Martin lived and died near thirty-six years ago. Her husband, Sam Martin, died a few years later.
At this point the rain clouds appeared and the thunder roared. We rushed for shelter—then home.
Looking back, it’s hard to realize the enchantment, the splendor of that world ringed by blue distances, but it must have grown on me slowly and you who love nature and the beauty thereof would derive some degree of pleasure from a trip such as this.
Next week, we will learn more about Daisy and her family and enjoy a few more selections from her wonderful writing. For questions, comments, or story ideas, contact Woody at rockcastlecreek1@gmail.com or 276-692-9626.
