At a recent delivery, I had the opportunity to talk to a customer about a historic landmark that was a few miles from his place. The site, known locally as “Fort Fizzle,” was the scene of a hastily built fortified structure that was the location of a one-day standoff between draft dodgers and Union soldiers during the American Civil War.
Fort Fizzle was a name that I had heard many times as a child. The site, no longer standing, was just a few miles from my maternal grandparents’ farm. I remember that my grandfather had spoken of the place many times over the years when I was a boy. Although I had never seen the place, I remember wondering what was there – and how it had received its name.
The conversation with that customer brought back several memories from my childhood.
My grandparents were among those who have been called the “Greatest Generation.” After Grandpa came home from serving his country in Europe during World War II, he and my grandmother started their family together.
Mom’s parents lived on a farm where my grandfather had been raised. In fact, many distant cousins called that area home. Grandpa was amongst the fourth generation of his family to live in that region. Growing up an hour away, I knew of names – but never met many of the people that they spoke of.
Grandma passed away when I was six. Before then, I remember how we would go there on occasional Sunday afternoons for dinner after church. As a young child, I remember my grandmother giving me raw pieces of potato to eat as she was peeling them for cooking and mashing.
A bank barn, seen in this article, once stood at the east end of the yard, had burned from a lightning strike when my Mom was in high school. An old schoolhouse on the property, with a large lean-to attached to the rear, then filled the void left by the barn. There, a dairy cow and hay were kept. Behind the building was an old wooden corncrib and a hog pen, where I remember as a little boy, going to watch pigs run and wallow in the muddy lot.
The atmosphere inside the old schoolhouse was a mix of history, sweat and hard work. Narrow aisles ran among the assorted tools and needless items that may one day be needed to fix a tractor or mend a fence. Grandpa was a machinist by trade in a bus factory, so needless to say, I’m sure that there wasn’t much that he couldn’t do. So, in that old building, one was likely to find an anvil used in shaping metal beside a corn sheller.
A memory from my childhood involves a time when Grandpa and Grandma had taken some hogs to sell at a livestock market. After dropping the pigs off at the sale barn, my grandparents brought down some extra hay that was in the back of their pickup for us to use in a goat pen at our house. Like many farm families, and people raised during the Great Depression, they didn’t let anything go to waste.
Like most farm families, farming involved the whole family. My first truck ride, a few months after I was born, involved riding through hayfields in a truck driven by my grandmother. From the stories that I’ve heard, she had a green thumb – which was necessary to raise many of the garden crops that fed their large family.
Known for her kindness, Grandma was also well-regarded in the area for playing the piano. She learned to play by ear and spent many years playing in her church and occasionally at dances and a local restaurant.
Many years have passed since both Grandpa and Grandma have passed away. I look forward to seeing them again one day. Until then, I will remember their love and care for me and others – and stories like Fort Fizzle continue to connect me with them and our family’s past.
Have a great day! 😊
Reflections from the Road 