Walter Wiley S Home Town
Walter Wiley’s Home Town
One Resident’s Perspective on Early 20th Century Herndon
By Barbara Glakas
Walter Herndon Wiley Sr. (1894-1975) once ran a watch repair, newsstand and candy store in downtown Herndon. His small wood frame building was formerly located in the town square on Lynn Street, nestled between the former Dudding’s Hardware Store (now a parking lot at the corner of Lynn and Station Streets) and the Nachman building (now home of the Green Lizard Cycling Shop at 718 Lynn Street).
Early Herndon residents remember Wiley’s store. Francis Darlington (1914-1998), who spent many summers in Herndon as a child, recalled,
“Next door [to the Dudding’s Hardware Store] is Wiley’s newspaper and candy store where my children can still choose from an intriguing assortment of jawbreakers, red and black licorice strips, peanut chews etc., as we used to…. After Sunday school and church we would walk with our friends to the village for chocolate soda at the drug store, then to Mr. Wiley’s to pick up the Sunday paper and home to enjoy the ‘funny papers.’ ”
The Wiley family had a long history in Herndon. Harvey C. Wiley, born in Loudoun County in 1845, was a house carpenter and spent most of his adult life in Herndon. He and his wife, Harriet, built a house on Coral Road along the railroad tracks in the 1880s.
Harvey’s son – Walter Wiley Sr. – was born in Herndon. He earned an 8th grade education and, in his youth, worked as a clerk in the Marcus Cohen Clothing Store (later the Nachman Store). In about 1921, at the age of 23, he married his wife, Nellie. By 1930 the Federal census indicated that Walter Sr. owned his own home. His occupation was listed as “merchandise, newsstand.” Ads published in 1932 editions of The Fairfax Independent newspaper indicate that some of the merchandise he sold included school supplies, greeting cards, Christmas and birthday gifts and watch repair services.
Mr. Wiley had two sons and a daughter. In 1933 he was elected to the Town Council and served on the Roads and Streets committee. On the 1940 census he marked that he worked 70 hours per week; he had his retail store and also had a lunch room. His wife worked as a waitress. The following year he spent about two months in the Catawba TB Sanitarium in Roanoke, Virginia, a facility which treated tuberculosis patients. He recovered and came home, living his life as the proprietor of his store. He died in 1975 at the age of 81.
One long-time Herndon resident, Howard Nachman, remembers going to the store in the mornings. He described the small store as practically a “lean-to” type of building with an awning on the front. Howard would open the awning for Mr. Wiley, for which he was awarded a piece of penny candy.
Another long-time Herndon resident, Virginia Clarity, remembers how newspapers were not delivered to individual homes in the 1930s and 1940s. As a young girl it was her “job” to stop by Mr. Wiley’s store every day after school to get a newspaper. She said,
“It was a wonderful thing for me because he had the most delightful penny candy selection around. I generally had a penny to get something and if I didn’t he was always generous and gave me a piece of candy. I remember the newspapers and, of course, the candy; the watches he worked on were at the back of the store.”
Bill Hanes, who grew up in Herndon, also fondly remembered Mr. Wiley’s store in the 1940s and 1950s.
“I went there many, many times as a kid to buy penny candy, Kitts and Mary Janes, and I remember from time to time my father buying a newspaper there. I remember Mr. Wiley quite well. I can picture him in my mind right now. He was a nice very quiet man with a big belly. His candy stock was mostly, if not exclusively, penny candies. I don't remember ever buying any other kind of candy there. It might have been that I never had more than a penny or two to buy candy with. Mr. Wiley's store was very small and spartan with only one glass front candy case and a place behind the case where I suppose he worked on watches. Mr. Wiley walked to work every day as I recall. I had a paper route and many times I ended my route downtown and would get to Mr. Wiley's store for some Kitts or Mary Janes and would have to wait for him to get there and open his shop. The Wiley's lived on a dirt road that turned east off of Monroe Street and ran parallel with the WO&D [railroad] track at the bottom of the hill from the Baptist Church, turning left where Herndon Lumber was later built.”
Mr. Wiley’s store abutted the Dudding’s hardware store which once sat at the corner of Lynn and Station Streets. In 1967 Mrs. Dudding sold her hardware store to Vance Hicks who opened the Herndon Farm and Garden Center. Herndon residents recall that it was not too long afterwards that Mr. Wiley’s little store building was taken down.
One of Walter’s sons, Walter Herndon Wiley, Jr., whose nickname was “Bud,” was also born in Herndon in 1923. In 1940 he had a job as an Assistant Manager of a movie theater. He graduated from Herndon High School in 1941. While in school he played in the orchestra, was in the Drama Club, participated as a Boy Scout, served on the Student Council, and was an usher at Herndon’s Congregational Church. The same year he graduated he accepted a job at the Justice Department. In 1942, at the age of 19, he got married. Soon after, in 1943, he enlisted as a Private in the Army, ultimately rising to the rank of Staff Sergeant by the end of his 36 month tour of duty. In 1953 Bud worked as a manager of Suburban Distributors in Arlington. Until his death in 1995, he lived in other Northern Virginia locations such as Woodbridge and Falls Church.
Before Bud passed away he typed a paper entitled “My Home Town.” In that paper he reminisced about Herndon in the early-mid 1900s and the changes he witnessed in the town during his life. Below we are re-printing Walter Herndon “Bud” Wiley Jr.’s paper in its entirety.
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“The history of a town is written by the people who lived there. Those who were born, grew up, lived, worked and died there were the authors. This is not to detract from the honor and importance of the personage for whom the town was named. I remember that once I saw a name of a town in Wyoming and made an inquiry as to how it came to be named. Eagerly expecting a romantic and historic response, I was a bit disappointed to learn the gentleman for whom the town was named brought employment to the countryside by erecting a sugar beet processing plant which was indeed deserving of the honor so bestowed upon him.
“Now I remember the town where I was born and spend my first eighteen years and now have my tombstone in place adjoining those of my parents, grandparents and great grandparents; many fond memories come flooding my consciousness. People, children, old folks, mothers, fathers, family doctors, teachers, druggists, churchmen, business men and women, merchants, wealthy, educated, uneducated, poor, sober, imbibers, good, not so good, laborers, farmers, colored and white. All these people were responsible for the affection that I feel for my home town. Theirs were the lovely freshly painted homes and mowed green lawns with flowers, the humble unpainted houses with bae earth dooryards edged with daiseys and honeysuckle, the full churches, the peaceful Sundays, the sombre funerals when businesses closed during the services. The school socials, church picnics, noisey fourth of Julys, fireman’s carnivals, town days and familiar faces of the town band.
“Listening quietly to the many stories of the men gathered in my father’s store, one soon knew almost all of the good and not so good about the inhabitants of the town…yet every one of those folks, interacting together, made the history of the town. The shady cool tree lined main street bespoke the lovely planning of some group who saw to the planting of those trees, the church bazaars where hand-crafted were sold which exquisitely and lovingly made. Delicious fund raising suppers prepared by the work worn hands of farm wives and town wives in their starched aprons, pies and cakes without much hint of vast preparation of such a repast.
“The town square noisey or quiet seemed a living and breathing entity. The train arriving, loading and unloading passengers, milk, freight and mail. Activity at the post office as the rural route mail men prepared to again traverse the dusty or muddy or snowy back roads in assorted vehicles according to the season such as sleighs, mud spattered cars with tire chains or their summer cars all packed full of letters, packages, seeds, catalogues and even baby chicks in the springtime. Long lines of children slowly wending their way up the long hill to the school. The freight wagon loaded with newly arrived freight from the depot, pulled by one man and pushed by another in straw hat and bib overalls as summer uniform, heavier clothing in the winter, but still mr. pull and mr. push delivering to this store and to that store. People arriving to shop for groceries in the forenoon stopping on the street to exchange friendly greetings and ask about other members of our families as they go about their errands.
“Then, suddenly, the noon siren and a pause. The track repair crew arrives on the little flat car powered by an old model T engine, stopping on the siding to purchase cheese and crackers or beans and bread to eat in the shade of the depot. The noon freight train stops long enough for the crew to buy lunch at the drug store or buy sandwich makings and pop. Stores close for the noon hour while the proprietors go home for lunch and a quiet descends. After an hour or two things stir again with activity increasing as the schools disgorge the children who walk down the hill to the drugstore for cokes and ice cream and other stores for school supplies and sundry items. Some board the train for Sunset Hills, Pinecrest, Hunter Station and points east, others depart by yellow school bus while the town children walk to their homes about town.
“Evening newspapers are in and ready to be delivered… hurried trips to the market for a forgotten supper item… then train time and autos arrive to pick up arriving townspeople who work in Washington, Arlington and Falls Church. These commuters stop to pick up evening newspapers, magazines, tobacco…then home for supper. After supper people move through the square going to their choir practice, PTA meetings, lodge meetings, and movie house, visiting or just out for an evening stroll.
“Friday and Saturday nights our town swarmed with people from the surrounding farms who came to town to sell butter, a few eggs, buy groceries, clothes, hardware, farm feed and equipment, gossip, see friends and see the double feature at the movie house. About midnight the quiet descends again on the town. Sunday morning my father liked to be out early in the town square, waiting for the Sunday morning newspapers to come in for delivery… but he would walk the square as one would walk an early morning beach after the tide had gone out, curiously inspecting the flotsam and jetsam left by the multitude of the previous night.
“Sundays in my home town the bells of the over half dozen churches called the young and old to Sunday School and again tolled to announce Church Services… All in their Sunday best and fresh faces trooping to church, stopping after for a newspaper, candy or ice cream, a drug item or the post office for mail before going home to that big Sunday dinner which required some time to recover from but allowing enough time for a visit with friends or relatives or a drive… then home for supper and a church youth meeting, choir meeting or church service… then home and bed for Monday brings another week of activity… dairy farmers wake very early to begin his day in the milking parlor.
“One time I’d like to attend a celebration of a town where the principal attraction was a large sign board, temporarily erected on which was listed all the name so of the people who had lived there for a period of time… a list of those born there… a list of those who died there … those who went to war from there and those who lost their lives in doing so. With each name I’d read and recognize, whole scenes would be remembered involving many other of my neighbors. I’d like to see an old fashioned outdoor town picnic where former residents could spend all day meeting old acquaintances, asking about old friends and retelling old stories of our home town. There was once such a picnic grove privately owned in our home town which saw many large gatherings including the feting of Col. Mosby at an ox roast.
“Today many of us, tho we have lived many years in a locality, indicate another town and often another state when asked about our home town and I am no exception... I noticed with pride that one of our former residents who have distinguished themselves had indeed succeeded with fame and fortune in a northern industrial state was returned to be buried in his family plot in our cemetery. On a few days preceding and including the 30th of May, walk through out old town cemetery and read the family names on the stones recalling the gentle townspeople at rest there you once knew. See the autos with out of state plates, watch the quick glances from the occupants who hope to recognize someone from their home town… seeking a link to the old days. Not so… you disagree… then why do you ache inside when you find a once lovely street has become shoddy and ill kept, when a church building or a place of business which has housed a store whose smells and sounds still live in your memory has been gutted by fire or torn down. When large homes which sat in freshly painted neatly trimmed dignity are razed to accommodate a fast food store or a filling station. Well, that’s progress but little by little our home town erodes til at last we must ask directions when we return to find a familiar landmark.
“To expect our home town not to change is not practical, is fanciful and really not using ones’ head… but let’s face it… the strings that bind us to our home town are our heart strings. These are the emotions that make men outstanding, they die for causes, fight overwhelming odds to protect home and loved ones, return after wandering to the far corners of the earth to find their birthplace, to speak quietly and fondly to their grandchildren of their home town. All this is a demonstration of our hearts cherished memories and when we return to visit, we seek familiar names, faces and places for home is a fancied light burning in a remembered window surrounded by sights, sounds people we once knew so well in our home town.”
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About this column: “Remembering Herndon’s History” is a regular Herndon Patch feature offering stories and anecdotes about Herndon’s past. The articles are written by members of the Herndon Historical Society. Barbara Glakas is a member. A complete list of “Remembering Herndon’s History” columns is available on the Historical Society website at .
The Herndon Historical Society operates a small museum that focuses on local history. It is housed in the Herndon Depot in downtown Herndon on Lynn Street and is open every Sunday from noon until 3:00. Visit the Society’s website at , and the Historical Society’s Facebook page at for more information.
Note: The Historical Society is seeking volunteers to help keep the museum open each Sunday. If you have an interest in local history and would like to help, contact .