Copied from the July 12, 1945, issue of the Marion Record-Review.
By Mrs. T.B. Matlock
Marion’s first “Fourth of July” celebration took place in Billing’s park, which is about four hundred yards from our present home.
That was in 1863, just 82 years ago today that the first settlers assembled, 90 in all, which included everyone on this frontier at that time.
The big picnic started early in the day and lasted long into the night. Everything that could be found in the way of eatables was enjoyed by young and old.
While the youngsters were wildly playing back in this, then primeval forest, their elders gathered near the log house and began a rehearsal of their hardships endured since their arrival two years before. They were a discouraged people on the morn of this first “celebration”—but not for long, for Aunt Keziah suggested that “we change the tune” and a real “community sing” followed. They sang hymns—we have an idea that “the forest rang with their hymns of love and praise.’ They sang every song they knew. Then they entered the games with the young people—and of course, they danced—there was no pavilion that day. They swept a portion of ground here and there and sometimes several “sets” were going at one time—no musical instruments. They sang and whistled their music. Uncle George and his daughter, Mollie, “called” the dance.
It proved a gala day after all for twilight in Billings Park that day found those first pioneers drifting into enthusiastic plans for their future. It proved to be a day of the renewal of their courage to remain and carry on in their chosen place—on this frontier.
Some of the things that we remember and perhaps some of our readers may not have forgotten:
First, the town pump—corner of Main and Third streets. It was for a long time a watering place for man and beast. It served its purpose as a typical town well. A large flat rock covers the spot, just east of the front of Kirchner’s Drug Store.
Then there was the old town well on the hill, located on north Lincoln, in the middle of the street, between the present homes of Mrs. Chris Utting on the east and Miss Edna Rupp on the west.
Time was when many of the families on the hill carried their drinking water from this well. A subscription was taken and this was a test well, as at that time many believed that good water on the hill was not available—but it was proven otherwise—for this old town well, built in the old fashioned way, with stone curb and a shingled roof covering, with tin cup attached by chain refreshed many a pedestrian, and many a “schooner” winding in on the old trail from the northeast rested there, and watered their horses, pursuing the journey down through the valley westward.
The well, which was put down by Mr. A.R. Hill, a blacksmith, whose home stood where now stands the Utting home, was filled in and covered over sometime late in the ‘80s.
Then there was “FIRST AND LAST CHANCE” at the foot of the south hill, a building near the ravine just west of the First Baptist Church. Timothy Benjiman Rhodes was the confectioner. We can see, yet, that display of candy or candies and pink lemonade. “First and Last Chance” was a tempting rendezvous to the youth who passed up and down the till on summer afternoons.
The Rhodes home was a small structure jutted in the top of the hillside at the corner just east of where now is the church. This little home which sheltered a family also held a large loom for Mrs. Rhodes was a weaver of carpets and rugs. Many good old rag carpets she made for the homes of the town.
In the earlier days, the old calaboose was an attraction, but not a pleasant one. On the contrary, it was viewed with fear and trembling by the children of the burg. This important structure was located about the middle of the block on Miller street between Second and Third streets. It was surrounded by sunflowers as tall as a tall man’s head. It was one story, built of native stone with iron barred windows and doors. It faced the south and presented a picture—one that we would like to forget.
About this time, there was a small meat market on west Main, owned and operated by a man commonly known as “Butcher Schmidt.” He was an Austrian with a decided brogue and a loud voice that was heard all around the town as he conversed with his customers. This town character was a corpulent figure, wore a large white apron and a small black cap at a peculiar angle. He was never without it. He had a friendly way. It comes to us just now that he was sort of a Wallace Beery type.
Those high board sidewalks! We’ve long since heard the story of Marco, the Frenchman, who after weeks of rain and mud “hub” deep on Main Street, one morning surprised and amused the people by making his appearance on high stilts (which he had made). These he used with much effort in crossing Main Street. Marco had a sense of humor, which added to the performance, which greatly amused the citizens.
Then there was the old Town Herd. The Grimes Herd, managed by Grandfather Grimes, father of Sam, Marion, Charlie, George, and Will and the daughter, Mrs. Phillips. The first Grimes home was a pretty place, a white house surrounded by trees, located between the old court house and the Santa Fe Station. Father Grimes was assisted by his younger sons, George and Bill, who took the town herd each morn out east. The land now a part of which is the Golf Course.
The tinkle of that old cow bell near sundown each day was a signal for youngsters, sometimes five or six at a time, to meet the herd and share in riding horseback with the herdsmen back into town. We remember the youngsters, piling into the wagon, as Grandfather Grimes would stop to give them a ride, as he drove in from the farm or pasture those days. He talked little but he was kind hearted. His live abounded in good deeds.
After the M & M branch of Santa Fe was built and the passengers were running on schedule—westbound, 9 a.m., and eastbound, 8 p.m.—it became the chief delight of the youngsters, in fact the entire family would
“dress up” and meet at the little station to see the evening train “come in” from the west and watch its exit out toward Florence.
The old sugar mill—on the south hill—we wonder how many children, in their time, played around there, fishing, and wading, swimming in the creek below in summer and skating on the ice in winter. There was a wonderful grapevine swing, for a long time, and the east bank just south of this old stone structure where they made the kegs of good sorghum.
The hill to the south was a bower of wild flowers in summer, and that space north and east was a spacious knoll where, with some old Dobbin Hitched to a bobsled, filled with youngsters, played the winter evenings through.
Then there was the EVERYTHING store, south corner of Main and First, Jack Costello, proprietor, where we purchased our first beads and hair ribbon. “Uncle Jack” had a way with children that won their friendship. He would offer a stick of candy to the boy or girl who would sing for him. This always brought many tryouts or contests when the “gang” gathered there.
The building which was so long the blue front was occupied by Pete Magathan’s bakery, the upper room being the birth place of the late Colonel Chase Duster, or classmate.
And there was Mr. Jim Corbett’s green front Livery Barn near the bridge. Our fine post office now graces this corner. The upper part of this two-story affair of early days was painted; we thought then, a beautiful green. Now it would be nauseating in its gaudiness, but that genial proprietor always out in front, made it a pleasant place to the passerby.
The Corbett home at the time, to the south of the barn was originally the first home in the settlement—the historic first home of Uncle George Griffith, where now is the Drainage Canal. To the east of this house was a large apple orchard running back to the creek (west side) across from the old spring.
The children from the hill would cross the ford of big white rocks and climb the steep bank to this orchard when the luscious apples were “ripe.” Did they steal the apples? Not if the owner of the orchard was on the alert, which he was often. They were never chased out of the orchards for Jim Corbett gave them a “standing invitation” to help themselves, just so they did not damage the limbs of the trees. It was not thus in after years when the property changed ownership. These children cherished pleasant memories of Jim Corbett.
The great playground surrounded the old spring in the park. The rock road leading down from the east was the road the first caravan entered, forded the creek, and “drove stakes” on their first location.
Memories—yes, and many more. Twould fill a book just to name them o’er, or hid and held round the town of which we write. This town where lamplight glowed across each tranquil night—in the long ago.