History: Greenwood Memories by Smith Miller #2 (1954 Letter)

Contact: Stan
Email: stan@wiclarkcountyhistory.org

Surnames: Miller,

----Source: Greenwood Gleaner (Greenwood, Clark Co., Wis.) (12 Aug 1954)

To: The Greenwood Gleaner
By: Smith H. Miller, La Conner, Wash.

Then comes the picture of the stump pulling. Now I suppose few would wonder what interest I could find in a picture of a pine stump being pulled. Well, if you had rode a horse around one of those 3-legged stump pullers as many times as I have, you'd sure appreciate that picture. I remember one time I rode hose for two weeks one summer vacation when I could have been fishing or swimming. Dad, I remember, gave me an extra two bucks, which I immediately bought a wooden air gun. That evening I came home with it and when I went to load it and compressed the air, the spring flew out where I never found it. Boy what a tragedy in boyhood. That broken heart immediately procured a new one the next day, for Dad sure melted when the tears came.

Then come the Begley Hotel. I am going to pass that as I have something else for that. It alone has a history that is very interesting and I hope to touch on that later one.

Here is a picture old Black River and the Rips where us kids had our central "swimming hole." Just above the break at the head of Rips, was sort of still water and right in the center of this was a rock where we would swim out to and dive off. There were times when we would go in swimming 7 or 8 times a day. Maybe two kids would start it in the forenoon and start home and meet up with some going down and back we'd go and likely keep it up several times a day. Then there are thos rocks in the Rips that are so familiar. In the middle is that same big rock where I used to wade out to and stand and fish for black bass. I hope that rock is still the same as in the picture.

Those Rips hold another memory that blends in with the next picture of the confluence of Rock Creek and Black River. Right here on that point on the inside was my most favored fishing spot. What a peaceful scene it is and it crowds so many things into the background. It surely brought tears to my eyes. In spring freshness I would sit there with my long bamboo pole and pail of minnows, and drag out those fine large pike by the dozens. I seemed to have a sort of a monopoly on that place for I never saw anyone else fishing there. I think it must have been because it was quite a brushy place then. But one evening was a highlight after I caught a nice string of fish and started back almost at dusk. There was a jam of logs covering all of the Rips and the little island between it and the slough, and I had to go over the top of the logs to get home. Trudging along barefooted and whistling, happy with my string of fish, crawling over those longs, I happened to look up and there as clear as clear could be, ran a phantom from the east side of that log jam to the west shore, towards the old mills. It was a log driver with a peavey and he just skimmed over that log jam. I swear by all that is holy that it was actually some demised river driver hovering on that log jam. It was so clear, I didn't seem a bit afraid that I strolled along towards it when it disappeared on the west side of the river. I wasn't like the coon who met up with a banshee when he said, "We is sho gwine to run some mo too."

Well, I don't know how I came to write so much when I was going to thank you for the book, etc.. It is so hard to resist burdening good folks with my tirades. These memories are all so dear to my heart that I just have to talk about them.

I could take that book and paragraph by paragraph and comment on each. Most histories are colored it seems more or less according to certain wishes, so to speak or to gain certain ends. Distorting for future minds to be made subservient to certain individuals. But this history of Greenwood is true, every word of it I can swear to it, for I lived it actually without a word of heresay.

As I said before, I think anybody who goes back and sits on the old porch where he was when a boy will find that he hasn't learned much about life that couldn't be found out if he never left that same porch. A single block in old Stovepipe Alley will reflect all the major joys and sadness, the defeats and victories that a man will encounter if he travels the whole world to study the human race. Every darkened home along 600 feet of those old board sidewalks cries out with stories of lives that would be remembered if H. de Balzac lived there.

I am trying to find a good picture of that old band so I can get a good copy of it. Maybe someone still has one that will take a good copy.

Again thanking the Gleaner for the book and paper. I am

Most Sincerely,
Smith H. Miller