Homeplace

by John Lingan

  “I’m a businessman,” explained Jim Williams, the company president. “I’ve worked in finance, tire wholesale, and I own a silencer manufacturing company, and we knew we had a good product here.” It took years of wrangling with the Greek government but they finally opened their bottling plant in 2013, and they weren’t bothering with local service.

  “The model is Evian,” he said. “We have geologists checking the water flow, we’re talking with distributors in Asia. We just came back from a food and beverage conference in Abu Dhabi. Last year we beat Fiji and Evian at the European water awards.” He was referring to the 2014 International Taste and Quality Institute awards, where Theoni had received a rare three-star rating in its first year of evaluation.

  “But it’d be the best thing in the world to win this,” Jim said, gesturing around the tiny ballroom, where, outside, the snow was growing heavier, raining down in thick specks against the deep red light of a SHEETZ sign.

  The judges had been asked to wear fancy dress for the post-dinner events, the better to honor the bigger-ticket water in the evening flights. I went up to my room and changed into my suit and tie with the TV on, watching commercials for car dealerships and banks in Hagerstown, Maryland, about 45 miles northwest. In both cases, a pretty-enough female employee spoke directly into the camera and gave just the slightest sultry edge to deals on trade-in values and low-interest home loans. From my window I could look out across the snowy parking lot to the intersection of Johnson’s Mill Road, the route up to Jim and Bertha’s. Eight to 10 inches was a threat for those of us in town, just a couple flat miles from Interstate 70. I grew nervous thinking of that storm hitting elderly, infirm people in a trailer on a mountaintop. On the television, another young woman in unflattering lighting was warning us about the road conditions. I used the bathroom three times in thirty-five minutes.

  When I reentered the lobby, the locals were now arriving in force. Full families came in at once, thumping chunks of snow off their boots onto the carpet. The children immediately unzipped their coats and wriggled out of them like shedding snakes before sloppily running from exhibit to exhibit, guzzling water samples and shadowboxing Mr. Waterman. Their parents gathered up the spent jackets and collapsed into audience chairs, unzipping their parkas and slowly unwinding their faded scarves with long, exhausted sighs. Once situated, they were more talkative and excited than any of the industry people in attendance, and the place began to dance at last. The parents looked grateful for the excuse to leave the house. They spoke zealously about everything, from the blizzard and the cold to the preponderance of suits and, of course, the 15-foot winding sculpture of bottles that sat ostentatiously on the parquet. Besides hats and coats, most of the from-heres had brought large reusable shopping bags, since the highlight of this spring-addled town’s winter every year was the “Rush,” a free-for-all where the public was able to grab whatever exotic water bottles they could from the floor. Jeanne’s little city wasn’t only showmanship—it was a gift to her neighbors, a little handout for residents to partake of the bizarre global bounty that somehow found its way to their backyard. A thank-you, as well, for sitting through a water tasting as if were actual entertainment.

  At 6 p.m., our hosts resumed, unafraid to reuse material for the newcomers.

  “You know, Jill,” said von Wiesenberger, “it’s so cold out there that I heard Congress hasn’t even been able to get in a heated argument.”

  Like affectless game-show models, the pourers emerged with their carafes, wearing all black. As before, light piano music played through the room’s sound system New Agey covers of Motown songs and movie themes. There was more human noise in the room and more enchanting clothing onstage, but the same worry nagged at me while I began sipping and sniffing again: Why would anyone watch this? As if on cue, the TV cameraman set up to our right gave a 3-2-1 finger countdown and one of my fellow judges, the Hagerstown broadcaster, gave his live report from the dais. The side of my head was now on the same show I’d been watching minutes earlier between pee breaks. I tried to focus on the task at hand.

  Many of the waters in the Spring flight smelled earthy and mineralized, almost like a wet cave. These were the most prestigious waters, the single-source, untreated spring products like Theoni and Llanllyr Source. They all felt airy on my tongue, even more luxurious and flavorful than the best of the Municipal samples. They tasted cold even though they weren’t. These waters were a brand of natural miracle to match Shenandoah apples. Halfway through the forty samples, I hit upon a few in a row that tasted relatively unimpressive, and I wondered if I’d simply gone numb. Then I took my next sip and had that same epiphanic experience that the best ones earlier in the flight had provided. I wasn’t quite ready to adopt the full von Wiesenberger lifestyle—he said his children never once drank tap, and that his dog preferred Perrier—but I could understand the appeal. To have every sip of water in your life safe from contaminants, chemical treatments, industrial disaster, or even plain flavorlessness—it was more of luxury than I’d ever previously considered, and the far-flung origins of all these natural beauties really underlined just how few people enjoy it on a regular basis. If that were all Berkeley Springs afforded its residents, it would be a considerable benefit to living there.

  The final flight was twelve Sparkling waters, a cruel joke considering our stomachs were now filled with the fifty-five previous sips. I figured each taste had been at least 3 or 4 ounces, meaning we were nearing 2 gallons on the afternoon. And here came CO2, like a final sprint uphill.

  But this wasn’t your average grocery store seltzer. The bubbles were delicate and fine, like champagne, and a few of the samples barely tasted carbonated at all. But that also meant they were light, crisp, and less harsh, with more room for the actual mineral flavor to shine through. They all tasted less lab-born than any sparkling water I’d ever had, and a few were indeed naturally carbonated, from rare springs like von Wiesenberger’s in the Sierra Nevada.

  After my last sip, I was ready to sprint for the bathroom, but there would be no quick movements. The Parkview Garden Room was now a party: more people, less businessman stiffness, the windows black except for torrents of snowfall. And since the lobby bar was now open and serving, nobody seemed to care about water, only red wine. The room twinkled with clinking glasses. Between the threatening weather, the free-flowing alcohol, and the hanging strings of lighting, the whole event finally achieved something like the Troubadour’s air of improbable decadence—a luxury water tasting competition, in the snow, in a town smaller than a midsize concert hall? Why not? There’s an actual Patsy Cline gold record right up the road.

  Jim Williams and his cousin canvassed the room, wearing matching Theoni sweatshirts and passing out half-liters to everyone. The Pennsylvanians were sitting by themselves, silent, buzz-cut and unmoving, as they’d been the entire day. I noticed Bob Hidell, the doomsday prophet of water consulting, sitting next to his much younger, wine-sipping wife. His arms were crossed, and he made no movements other than the bouncing of his lower jaw as he lectured a rapt man nearby. They were three of the only unsmiling people in the room.

  Jill Klein Rone consulted offstage with the webcam team and then clicked on her microphone to kick off the awards-giving portion of the evening. But it began with her summoning of “the woman who put Berkeley Springs on the map.” Jill extended a loving hand as Jeanne Mozier ambled past her bottle sculpture and up to the stage amid applause.

  Jeanne took the microphone and the volume throughout the room dropped. She had no stage voice and no notes, just an earnest message for the folks who’d come out for this perennial ecosystem she’d cultivated. “Now I know this is the Oscars of water and everything,” she said, “but this year we are actually happening on Oscar weekend and we have a connection to them. One of our purified waters, IndigoH2O, is going to be in every gift bag at the Academy Awards tomorrow night!” Applause for the validation that our little mountain party was worthy of Hollywood. “And I’ll tell you
something, I spoke with the owner of Indigo today and he said he’d be more excited to win the Berkeley! Springs! International! Water! Tasting!”

  By now I could actually feel the crowd encroaching on the free bottles. Sitting in the second row, I could barely see through the wall of jostling sweaters and empty bags. And at this worst possible moment, the time came for the presentation of Jack West’s Lifetime Achievement Award. Jill and Jeanne cued up a DVD tribute to the water-purity enthusiast as a groan of impatience rose from the tittering crowd. The TV was too small for most people to see, the volume too low for most people to hear, and it took an interminable minute or so for one of the hotel’s AV guys to fix a technical glitch with the DVD player itself. Finally, after the staid video tribute, West came onstage to accept his tear-shaped crystal award, and the audience clapped perfunctorily, talking among themselves.

  Jill and von Wiesenberger reclaimed the microphones and reinstituted the air of glamour.

  “Hamilton, Ohio!” Jill announced the Municipal winner, scanning the room to see if they’d sent representatives. No such luck. A great cheer erupted anyway, celebrating the very idea of small-townishness and the simple luxury of perfect water. Some faraway borough in the Midwest now had a claim to renown to put on their town sign, and what could be more worthy of celebration?

  For the Spring awards, I watched Jim Williams, now seated, tapping his fingers anxiously on his knees. One by one Jill counted down the runners-up and medalists from Australia, Canada, Tennessee, and California, before announcing that the winner came from Greece. Jim’s fingers curled into a fist.

  “Fengari Platinum, from Athens!” she shouted, with an even less hopeful look around to see if anyone was there. Jim and his cousin stood and clapped heartily for their countrymen. Ben, whose Welsh client had also failed to place, took a sip of red wine and laughed from his perch among the “rushers.”

  Athens won again in the Sparkling category. “Daphne-Ultra Premium Quality Natural Mineral Sparkling!” she read slowly from her card.

  Travis and John stood with their arms crossed, exchanging an occasional nervous glance as Jill began the Purified awards. They were not among the runners-up; again, it came down to the gold. It would be all or nothing for Life Source.

  “It’s Indigo! IndigoH2O, Berkeley Springs scoops the Oscars!” she exclaimed, and we all cheered.

  The competition over, Arthur von Wiesenberger explained the Rush rules: “First, no pushing and shoving. We have young children here. And adults who act like children.” He paused for a laugh that never had a chance. “Second, remember there are glass bottles. Please be respectful . . .” Then his voice, amplified though it was, was lost in the din. I hopped through the mass of eager water-gatherers and found one of the pourers on the other side of the room. I asked him how worried I should be.

  “Oh, well, this is pretty mild. Few years ago we had a man in the front row fall over as the Rush kicked off. Turned out he was only drunk, but another time, a woman with a walker got pushed over and trapped against the floor while people filled their bags.” I held my breath as our hosts completed the countdown.

  But this year’s Rush was nearly chivalric. As Jill and von Wiesenberger shouted “Go!” a hush fell. Kids led the way, running up to the edges and eagerly grabbing the lighter plastic bottles. Glasses gently clinked, cameras flashed. Grown men and women were soon down on their knees, checking each bottle before putting it back or loading up. Everyone stepped calmly and deliberately, and even a few bagless attendees jumped in to claim as many bottles as their hands could hold. In quiet excitement they set about dismantling Jeanne Mozier’s little city, reducing five hours of careful work to an empty floor with a half-dozen tipped-over display cubes strewn about. She watched it from a spot against the wall, as far from the crowd as one could be in a tight ballroom. This was perhaps the most important part of her weekend. Everyone else—the Greeks, the Pennsylvanians, the judges with their distant bylines and search for the next local-color story—would be leaving in the morning, but the people with grocery bags were her neighbors. These were the people she counted on to support her museum, her art space, her movie theater. They might have mixed feelings about her monopoly over the Berkeley Springs social and economic reality, or maybe they’d heard whisperings about her previous life in Washington, D.C., and the Ivy League—something about communists? A little water could go a long way, especially in a place that knows how to appreciate it. How else but through Jeanne would the families of Berkeley Springs get to taste $15-a-bottle water from Australia, Thailand, or the Baltics? How else might their adorable snowbound children end up as charming interviewees on the evening news? Maybe it was worth it to trust her after all.

  Jeanne had already e-mailed out the press release announcing the winners of this year’s International Water Tasting. Industry representatives all over the world would awake to the news that a small historic spa town in West Virginia had the inside track on the Academy Awards. The release quoted Arthur von Wiesenberger: “It was another wonderful year for the longest running and largest water tasting in the world. Berkeley Springs is the granddaddy of them all.”

  The hotel staff opened the ballroom doors as the kids pulled their barely dry coats back on and their fathers hoisted strained bags over their shoulders. The families marched home in the cold quiet, through streams of thick snow and wide circles of pale streetlamp light. Like Dr. Matt Hahn said, the streets were quiet and safe, and the community had in fact come together on a snowy night and made a private party unlike anything you’d find nearby, or even in a richer place over the Maryland or Virginia lines. For a few hours at the Country Inn, Berkeley Springs resembled the regal idyll that history books describe. But plenty of the parents walking down Washington Street that Saturday night had lived there before the International Water Tasting was even a from-here’s vague notion. For them, “America’s first spa town” might as well have been Tombstone or ancient Rome. They’d grown up in a lonely mountain town with incredible water, low property values, and a few good places to drink cold beer. They’d known a river nearby and a great rusted factory even nearer. A night of white linen and red wine might have been lovely, it may have even had the patina of history, but that isn’t the same as feeling like home.

  Photographs © Matthew Yake.

  Jim McCoy at Troubadour Park on its opening weekend, June 1, 2013.

  Jack Myers and his Mountain Dew-drinking macaw taking in the music at Troubadour Park.

  Inside the Winchester Records recording studio, old reel-to-reel tapes are stored in the bathroom.

  Ward Plaza, the site of Jim McCoy’s old record store, is now just another mostly abandoned strip mall.

  Closing time at the Troubadour Bar & Lounge. Jim and his wife, Bertha, share a moment.

  Joe Barber and Tom Davis in their dune buggy after a night at the Lounge.

  A man swims in the Cacapon River near Berkeley Springs.

  The homemade champion’s belt at the Covey Pro wrestling tournament.

  Patsy Cline Boulevard, one of the only municipal monuments to Cline in Winchester. It’s a nondescript street flanked by a Lowe’s and a Kohl’s.

  A faded picture of Patsy Cline and a single candle mark the fiftieth anniversary of Cline’s death.

  Downtown Winchester.

  Apple crates line the road at White House apple processing plant.

  Oscar Cerrito-Mendoza on the newly renovated pedestrian mall in Winchester.

  A location of the primary employer and healthcare provider in the region, Valley Health.

  Jim, having a smoke in his trailer against doctor’s orders, June 8, 2014.

  6

  Toxically Pure

  The Winchester walking mall looked exactly as it was meant to. The late-morning sun beamed off storefront windows and reflected in the sunglasses of ambling middle-aged men in brewery T-shirts and baseball hats. They walked side by side with their wives, glancing around without urgency as they waited to meet their children for
brunch during a visit to Shenandoah University on the other side of town. From a bay window seat in a dimly lit, earth-toned coffee shop, I watched these couples shuffle along, past restaurants where young male employees were putting out al fresco seating. Past a few black-clad teens squinting into the bright sky, trying their best to look wayward while in sight of a half-dozen antique shops. All the way to the walking mall’s broad black gate, on which OLD TOWN WINCHESTER blared in white letters on painted steel. Piccadilly Street, the intersecting road, looked dead. But the walking mall bustled.

  If the one-night water tasting and modest theater embodied Berkeley Springs’s economic evolution, this stretch of restaurants and retail boutiques embodied Winchester’s. This, like Jeanne Mozier’s many innovations and businesses, was designed with out-of-towners in mind. It was made to give visitors and tourists something to do and somewhere to eat when they inevitably exhausted their Civil War or parents’ weekend activities. Loudoun Street, location of the walking mall, used to be the place where Patsy’s people parked their cars and hollered at each other in the moonlight while passing a bottle. Now it was lovely, clean, wholesome. Capital investment will do that; Old Town Winchester has been treated to more than $125 million in funding since 1985. That kind of money will buy a lot of smooth brick. That kind of money will bring espresso to the upper Valley.