Part of Mike Zook’s livelihood is based on his ability to eliminate people’s body odors.

Of all the identities Melinda Bare has assumed in her life, the best was ballerina.
“I was 9 at that point and I had the measles at Christmas, and for that, I got a red ballerina dress,” she said.

This Halloween, some Valley residents are volunteering to get in touch with their scary sides by starring as vampires, zombies and other creepy characters at Fear Forest.

To most people 22 seconds doesn’t mean much. It’s the length of a commercial, the time it takes to walk from the living room to the kitchen or the amount of time you spend picking out your socks in the morning. But to Connie Peterson, assistant professor of health sciences at JMU, 22 seconds can make or break a life goal.

Jeff Fleisher traded in his desk job at the CIA for a woodworking workshop three years ago after retiring to the Shenandoah Valley.

For high-school senior girls, the major issues are always about the ’do.

In the back gym at Turner Ashby High School, 24-year-old Ashley Crowe Beahm approaches a blond senior amid a small group of high-school girls.

Jeff Haden is a ghost.

No, he doesn’t haunt the local graveyard or make eerie noises from under a white sheet, but he silently graces the pages of 22 books without people knowing his name or face. Haden is a ghostwriter, with three of his books reaching No. 1 on Amazon’s Business & Investing best-seller list. Haden has written on topics as diverse as horticulture, breastfeeding, hydroponics and personal finance for exotic dancers.

Miranda Lancaster had a front-row seat to what could have been the demise of Harrisonburg’s fashion market.

Almost every week, Joyce Shifflett and Doug Grigg slug it out. 

First there was B.B. Shiflett. Then came his son-in-law, Charles McMullen Sr., and then his son, Charles McMullen Jr., and his son, Bill McMullen, and finally, his daughter, Andrea Strawderman — five generations of a Rockingham County family helping neighbors bury their dead.

Terry Burkhalter is in the business of fairy tales.

On a cloudy Thursday last week, Ben Wyse climbed onto his mustard-yellow bicycle and set out on a morning ride through Harrisonburg. Wyse, 35, is a self-described “bike nerd” who’s used the two-wheeler as his main transportation method since he was 19, so he’s a seasoned rider — which is good, since this particular jaunt required him to tow about 150 pounds of equipment behind him.

Like millions of Americans, Mark Poirot works from home, but his home office isn’t an office at all. His workspace contains no desk, computer or fax machine.

Crossroads Country Store is the kind of establishment that demands attention, bedecked with Confederate flags and a full complement of Southern pride merchandise arranged to attract kindred spirits and provoke folks not sympathetic to the whole Dixie thing.

It was about five years ago when things changed, seemingly overnight, says Frank Marshman, sitting in front of the soldering iron and microscope in his shop.

The Bird family’s been jousting since as long as most of them can remember.

Walking up the sidewalk and ringing the doorbell at Dawn and John Morris’ home in Harrisonburg results in a cacophony of barking and claws clattering against wooden floors. When the door opens, six cocker spaniels in various degrees of excitement are contained behind a makeshift wire fence, butts wiggling, eyes wide with glee.

On a rainy Sunday in mid-May, in the narrow window between lunchtime and commencement, Andrew Cathlin sprung his surprise in the Bridgewater College president’s office.

By day, Christy Norment teaches first grade at Stone Spring Elementary School in Harrisonburg. At home, she’s a married mother of a newborn, Elliot. But on certain nights in certain places, Norment transforms into her record-scratching, turntable-toting alter ego DJ Misa, providing night owls at the Blue Nile and Clementine with a mix of what she calls “the more chill side of dance music.”

If you think this sort of business solicitation — Start On The Path To Success … Unlimited Potential! — sounds overblown and suspicious, then you probably have at least two problems:

The closest most of us get to Tom Colicchio is watching him dole out challenges to cuisine-loving contenders on “Top Chef,” but Olivia Wilson was serving him dessert two weeks ago at the James Beard food awards. Rubbing elbows with some of the best-established chefs in the country is just another day in New York for this girl from Harrisonburg.

Age: 18

Birthplace: Harrisonburg

Zodiac: Cancer

Creative right-brainer or logical left-brainer? Creative right-brainer...

If you’ve ever wondered what would happen to a theater performance if a performer went missing, well, so has Bekah Wachenfeld, a junior at James Madison University. After all, she wants to make her career running theater shows.

Excerpts from Craigslist posting 1092519901:

… He grumbles a lot, smells a little funky, and is generally unpleasant. Will occasionally nuzzle on your hand, and once you are convinced of his agreeable nature, will … molest your arm with the speed only a bunny with extremely malicious intent could muster.

Each weekday morning at 8 a.m., Grottoes Town Superintendent Ashley Davison pulls into the parking lot of a former two-story brick schoolhouse. There’s a rusty swing set just off the parking lot. Facing the front doors of the building is a newly constructed Veteran’s Memorial — one of Davison’s first projects on the job. At 22, she is the youngest town superintendent in Rockingham County.

Kai Degner is 28 and single. He has no investments large enough to require disclosure upon his election. He came here for an education and got stuck in the townie rut in the process. He’s been through a succession of jobs in the penurious world of Harrisonburg non-profits, and though he does own his home on East Wolfe Street, its 2009 assessment is a shack-worthy $113,400.

What would make a person want to fly commercial planes? When it comes to making a sustainable career as a passenger jet pilot, the process can be fraught with complicated licensure, high expenses and a long, sometimes impossible, path to seniority. These obstacles aren’t stopping Josh McDevitt, 18, who began the first step of his career as a pilot last October at Professional Air Solutions, a flight school in Weyers Cave.

If you could be anyone — who would you be? Sure, family and friends may have saddled you with a goofy nickname. And yes, that name could sum up an aspect of your personality. But is that name who you are? Or could be?

Last August, Spike and Vallie May Stroop loaded up the car and drove 1,244 miles west to Le Mars, Iowa, for their induction into the Old Time Country Music Hall of Fame, after which they came quietly back home.

When it comes to work, Curtis Hart has plenty of it. Not that he minds.

“I’m only three weeks behind,” he chuckles. “It’s been a good year.”

Chad Schwartz expected the video he posted — a string quartet arrangement of nine Legend of Zelda melodies that he performed as the encore of his JMU senior recital, spring 2006 — to languish in anonymity with the zillion other videos of pancake flipping and dancing ferrets and whatever else people have, for some reason, put on YouTube.

The pulpits at Harrisonburg Baptist Church — there is one for every occasion — were all built by Randy Shenk, liturgical artist.

Ever wonder what makes a volunteer stand for hours in cold weather ringing two little red bells? Sure, The Salvation Army is a good cause. But who are these volunteers? We found one at The Shenandoah Heritage Farmer’s Market and she’s no newcomer to the routine. She’s been ringing the bells on the bridge in front of the market since 2004.

Ice hockey is a huge deal in Glen Rock, N.J., a little borough on the periphery of New York City’s glow where Meg Emery grew up.

Step into Jay Miner’s  office at Miner, Martin and Hahn in Harrisonburg, and you find a traditional lawyer’s office — plush chairs, stacks of books and a formidable desk.

Idle hands present few problems at the Vrolijk farm in Rawley Springs, whre there’s always at least one 18,600-strong flock of turkeys in residence, growing from pint-sized poult (turkey chick) to 40-pound blue-headed, wattled, gobbling tom in just 20 weeks.

Dan Easley looks like a man who is at home with himself. Ironic, as he won’t have a house to call his own by the end of November. And it’s not due to the economic downturn. This is his choice.

Jennie Amison has a passion — and not even a trip to the hospital for a CAT scan can deter her. Gemeinschaft’s executive director is fighting hard to keep her transitional community for non-violent substance offenders open, despite substantial cuts in state funding. From her hospital bed, Amison is laughing it up with the nurses who are giving her procedural details and she is poking fun of her sister who keeps a close watch over her. All the while, Amison describes the experiences that make her a passionate woman. Much of them came from her work in the prison system.

CROSS KEYS
Mathieu Lamaure, intern at Cross Keys Vineyards, pauses between the rows of vines to pick apart a dark purple grape. His breath steams in the cool morning air and juice runs down his fingers as he separates a few seeds, light green in color, for inspection. “You want the seeds as brown as you can,” he says. “This is a problem.”

KEEZLETOWN
Arthur Rogers’ second-grade lesson begins with a recitation of Pater Noster, the Lord’s Prayer, followed by three rousing verses of Si Hodie Felix Es, Manus Plaude (“If You’re Happy And You Know It”). All dozen uniformed Redeemer Classical School second-graders clap their hands, stamp their feet, shout Jubile! and then do all three. Next comes a call-and-response round of arithmetic:

Tonight’s cover — $4, payable to Mr. Casey Wright, host — earns a welcome, a green stamp on the hand and the opportunity to watch Lost In The Trees, an 11-member outfit described in the Clementine literature as orchestral.ambitious.hip.pop. Wright parks himself at a podium just inside the front door, from which he greets the newcomers, collects their money and stamps the hands.

Donnie Plumly’s shaved head flushes as he wiggles across the wooden floor on his back, warming up for the evening’s jiu-jitsu session. It’s a Wednesday evening in late September at Harrisonburg Hebi Ashi Dojo, in a storefront behind the Valley Mall. Through the front glass window, the emptying parking lot glows golden in the sunset, as Michael Fletcher, Sensei (teacher), leads Plumly and a group of other students through their drills.

Master Police Officer Scott Drugo usually works the night shift, 4 p.m. to 4 a.m., riding back and forth and up and down the neighborhood on his Cannondale mountain bike. He’ll cover eight miles on a relaxed night, up to 25 on a busy one.

There was no Spanish language newspaper in Harrisonburg seven years ago, when Federica Pandolfi, then 12, arrived with her family from Uruguay. Seeing an unfilled local niche (in 2000, 8.9 percent of Harrisonburg’s population was Hispanic, according to the U.S. Census Bureau; the Weldon Cooper Center estimated that figure at 13 percent by 2006) her parents, neither of whom had prior experience in newspaper journalism, began publishing Nuevas Raíces.

There was no Spanish language newspaper in Harrisonburg seven years ago, when Federica Pandolfi, then 12, arrived with her family from Uruguay. Seeing an unfilled local niche (in 2000, 8.9 percent of Harrisonburg’s population was Hispanic, according to the U.S. Census Bureau; the Weldon Cooper Center estimated that figure at 13 percent by 2006) her parents, neither of whom had prior experience in newspaper journalism, began publishing Nuevas Raíces.

Back before they got married, when they were still students at Turner Ashby High School, Bruce and Helen Michael worked together at Dairy-Rite, in the building that’s now FedEx Kinko’s on South Main in Harrisonburg.

One Stop Convenience, at the busy corner of North Liberty and Gay streets, between the train tracks and the liquor store, makes for a challenging interview setting.

Four months out of the year, life in a Naples, Fla., golf course community was just fine for Gay Argyros. It was the rest of the year that posed a problem.

In most ways, Whitney March is your typical future dentist; studying pre-dentistry while a health sciences major at James Madison University and now working as a dental assistant in Harrisonburg.

His kitchen table is an art studio and his living room a gallery. But Charles “Chuck” Vogan still says, “No, I’m not an artist.”

Ten years ago, Bill Del Gallo set his VCR to record the stand-up comedy showcase, “Comedy Central Presents.” He watched the tape over and over, mimicking the jokes of Lewis Black, well aware that “the biggest faux pas is to steal stuff from another comedian,” he says.

Jeff Minnich’s refrigerator doesn’t reveal his profession.

A lot of 16-year-old girls think they know fashion. But not many get to sew their names inside custom-made handbags to sell in boutiques along the coast.

With his feet planted on a board, Aaron Dean carves across the face of a wave, spraying a sheet of white water as he slices across the surface.

Scott DeVoe doesn’t wear a red- and white-striped vest, a bowtie or a straw hat.

It started with a picture of a fish cake in Nick Jr. magazine almost five years ago.

Michael Polinko wanted to play bass, so he spent a summer mowing lawns and jamming on a cardboard replica of a Fender. Thirty years later, he wanted to live past 45, so he spent hours on exercise machines and earned a spot as a Bowflex spokesman.

Angela Rouse waits at the door of The Anointed Generation Daycare to greet parents with young ones in tow, welcoming each with a comforting “Hey, honey.” Kids aren’t so sad to see mommy go when they realize it means spending another day with Miss Angie.

Brad Driver remembers riding his bike from Bridgewater to Harrisonburg to watch the second Indiana Jones movie.

Adam is coming! Adam is coming! Adam is out of the war!” third graders in Elizabeth King’s class at Linville-Edom Elementary shout, bursting to finally meet the soldier they only knew through letters.

Somewhere between cradling bear cubs, sneaking out of the house to fish and climbing trees at Bridgewater College, Dano Heatwole decided what he wanted to be.

Megan Mele plopped into bed around 2:30 a.m. a couple Mondays ago, her blond hair crusted with hairspray she was too tired to wash out.

Environmental consciousness starts in Joanie Papadopoulou’s cabinets.

It’s tough keeping up with Pierce Hodges.

A 10-year-old Fritz Horisk sat awestruck at the 1953 Miss America Pageant.

“Look at the size of those things,” he remembers thinking.

Eight years ago, if you told John Newman he’d be talking about Jesus and yoga, surrounded by Bibles and books by B.K.S. Iyengar, he wouldn’t have believed it.

Ten years ago, a group of men pulled Bob May from a van. Amidst shouts and shoves, they jerked a pillowcase over his head and threw him into a dark room.

Behind every great band, there’s a great manager. By the time Harrisonburg’s Shapiro takes the stage, for example, much of the work is already done.

It’s not easy getting booed. But crouched behind home plate in a blue uniform and black headgear, the most disliked figure in baseball doesn’t hear the crowd’s complaints about the strike zone.

To the new cardiothoracic surgeon at Rockingham Memorial Hospital, his job isn’t rocket science. But preparing a program for the tongue-twisting specialty is.

Along the wall in Carter Melton's office hangs a collection of honors.

Melton, chief executive officer for Rockingham Memorial Hospital, displays thank-yous from state politicians, pictures with military and government figures and memorabilia from Virginia Military Institute, his alma mater.

At 12, Scott Murray had a big secret. He spent every night in his bedroom, strumming a guitar that no one knew he could play.

Ben Lundy never thought he'd see a day like Wednesday.

Movie Man
Chad Allen has had close-ups, fighting scenes and on-screen interactions with Tom Cruise and Collin Farrell, but you’ve never heard him talk. He’s been in hundreds of takes, but his total time on-screen may only add up to one minute.

When she graduated from Broadway High School in 2003, Becca Peters had no plans for college. All she knew is that she wanted to travel and loved ad...

If there was a fire in your house, the three things would you save: Anyone who’s in the house, cats and my knit hat.

The afternoon sun glints off Jeremy Cline’s tinted Dragon goggles as he stands atop the 40-foot-long tabletop jump he helped build.

There is a yellow 1982 moped in Andy Armentrout’s driveway. But it doesn’t run anymore.

“I had to upgrade,” says 21-year-old Armentrout, patting the handlebars of his Yamaha V-Star motorcycle. He bought it four months ago and uses it for work sometimes.

As Christmas approaches, we begin to think more about others — we think about presents, spending time and volunteer opportunities.

We should take a lesson from Pete DeSmit. His selflessness isn’t seasonal.

You might think the shouts and grunts are Barnes & Noble employees arguing over who has to shelve the books.

Then you hear swords clashing.

In her senior year at Elkhart Memorial High School in Indiana, Connie Peterson played tennis and was on the diving team.

She rode her bike to and from diving practice every day.

Preston Ball is an artist. And a cab driver.

Ball came to Harrisonburg six years ago after leaving a high-stress cubicle job in the advertising department at The Roanoke Times.

1981 was a great year — “Raiders of the Lost Ark” was released; Kai M. Seigbahn of Sweden won

half a Nobel Prize for his contribution to high-resolution electron spectroscopy; Motley Crue released its first album, “Too Fast for Love”; and three-year-old Jessi Wisler took her first dance steps.

Heather Ritchie is sitting on the hood of her car in the parking lot at Blue Ridge Community College.

The 18-year-old nursing student from Grottoes left her lights on, so her battery’s dead.

Maybe you’ve seen him around. A blond ponytail dyed with pink and blue stripes? Tie-dyed T-shirt and jeans? Peddling a unicycle down Main Street?

Yeah, you know Skippii.

Her desk is cluttered but organized: covered with books, raffle tickets, sign-up sheets and paperwork.

Children circle around her like lovable little sharks.

Matt Armentrout was a regular at Gold Crown Billiards. One day he got upset with management and left the hall in a huff.

“I said ‘We can do it better, let’s open our own,’” he said.

His name’s Scott, but they call him Morty.

At his favorite watering hole, Buffalo Wild Wings, most people don’t know his real name.

He’s just Morty.

The air conditioner sits on the floor near the front door, unplugged and impotent.

It’s hot, that’s for sure, but there’s no time for luxuries like air conditioning.