November 2007

            It wasn't long before father was back from Wheeler's with his wagon piled high with corn and pumpkins.

            "Whoa!"  The horses jolted to a stop.  Several pumpkins rolled off the pile, hit the ground and created a pile of orange slush.  Father turned at the smashing sound, motioned for me to jump up on the seat beside him and we took off for home.  My root beer barrel was now very small in my mouth, so it didn't keep me from talking.  The family always calls me "The Question Man", so I figured I'd better live up to my reputation.

            "Was John W. the first man to come here and stay, father?"

            "Some people think that is true, but that's because they didn't bother to get the facts."

            "What do you mean?"

            "Well, I'm sure you have heard the name Gershon Morehouse, haven't you?"

            "Yes, but his name is just about all I know about him."

            The horses were moving along nicely with almost no guidance from my father, who seemed lost in thought. He didn't say a thing when I mentioned that all I knew was Gershon Morehouse's name.  The wagon bumped along.  Occasionally I had to grab the side of the seat to keep from falling off, if we came to an unusually rough spot in the road.  For once, and I'm not really sure why, I just sat quietly as we rode along, watching the horses tails swing back and forth to swish off the big horse flies.

            "Well, even though many people haven't paid much attention at all to what really happened in the early days of our Town, John W. was not the first permanent settler.

            "Well then, who was?"

            "It was a good looking young man names Gershon Morehouse."

            "Morehouse.  What a name.  Did he have more of a house?"

            "No, he didn't."

            My father paid no attention to my attempt to be humorous.

            "But Gershon did have a great deal of energy, a great deal of skill and because of these two attributes, he achieved a great measure of success right her in this little Town."

            My father was a teacher in his younger days so sometimes his vocabulary gets pretty "high falutin".  That's what Mother tells him, from time to time.

            "What the dickens did he do to make you praise him like that?"

            "Well, here's what he did.  See if you don't think that he has earned all of the recognition, all of the praise, and all of the success he achieved."

            It was almost noon.  The sun was beating down.  I took off the vest mother had made for me and threw it back on top of the pile of corn and pumpkins.

            "Are you read for Gershon Morehouse's success story?"

            "Sure, come on! Tell me!  Tell me!"

            "Here we go.  I'll slow the horses down a bit so I'll have time to tell the whole story before we get home."

            The horses slowed, looked around a bit and walked on.

            "Well, it was one of those unusually warm spring days 1n 1786.  The sky was an unusual shade of blue and fluffy white clouds floated along just above the horizon.  Absolutely no one in the area had any idea at all that a 22 years old man, who was already a millwright by trade, had arrived.  There weren't too many people living here in 1786.  The unrest and conflict had tended to keep the population low, and of course you already know that it was seven more years before Greenfield officially became a Town.

        "Sure, I know our big date for celebration is March, 1793."

        "Right.  Now, back to Gershon.   He came from Greenfield, Connecticut and right away purchased land in the wilderness along the old East-West Indian trail in the Northern part of Albany County, which is now Saratoga County.  He built the first sawmill on the West bank of the Kayaderosseros Creek, just above the lower bridge in Middle Grove.  This mill was so successful that in just two years, with money in his pocket, he returned to Connecticut, got married and returned with his bride to what had become known as the Morehouse Mill Hamlet.  Then he built a gristmill."

        "What is a gristmill?"

        "A mill which grinds grain."

        "Oh, I remember.  Grandpa told me about the one in England where he worked as a boy.  He told me all about the mice and rats who ran all over in the mill trying to get some grain to eat."

        "Right.  Anyway, Gershon now owned the two most successful mills in this whole area."

        "Did he keep both of them going for many years?  Did he build more?  Were they sawmills or gristmills?"

        "Look!  Look! Here we are, right back at our own barn door."

        "How did we get here so soon?  I thought you slowed the horses."

        "I did, but you were so engrossed in our conversation you did not notice, as we were driving along."

        "Well, how about my questions?"

        "Right now we're going in and have our late meal.  Then I have to go down to the Grand Union.  I'm going next door to pick up Jim Gilroy.  He's going along with me to help unload the wagon."

        "But when can you answer my questions about Gershon Morehouse?"

        "Right after we finish supper tonight.  Your mother told me this morning not to be late.  She is making baked chicken and rhubarb pie.  Now, go down to the henhouse and gather the eggs.  I'll be back in plenty of time for the chicken and pie."

        The horses moved.  Another pumpkin smashed to the ground.  Father used the reins to guide the horses down the path to the road.  As they moved along, father yelled, "You'll be surprised what Gershon did next.  You'll be surprised!  And a new, important, Greenfield resident will come walking in.  See you at supper."