Serendipity Green Read Online Free PDF Page B

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    â€œWell, Katherine,” said Mayor Donald Grinspoon when his hand-picked committee of saviors again gathered in his office, “what are we famous for?”
    â€œNot much,” she said, “though it is interesting how Three Fish Creek got its name.”
    â€œReally?” Dick Mueller said. “I’ve always wondered.”
    â€œYou know, so have I,” Delores Poltruski said.
    Katherine Hardihood told them what she’d learned: “It was the Tuttwyler brothers themselves. John and Amos had just arrived from Connecticut and were looking for a place to build a grist mill and they were checking out all the creeks to find one strong enough to turn a waterwheel. According to The Official History of Wyssock County published by the New Waterbury Historical Society in 1938, John looked at the shallow creek and supposedly said ‘It haint much of a stream is it, Amos?’ And Amos supposedly said, ‘I bet there haint three fish in it.’ Then John supposedly said, ‘But it runs pretty fast and I bet these hills keeps it filled all summer.’ And so the Tuttwyler brothers decided to build their grist mill on the creek they now jokingly called Three Fish Creek.”
    â€œI don’t see how we make a festival out of that,” D. William Aitchbone said.
    â€œI think we better reconsider Artie Brown Days,” Dick Mueller said.
    Donald Grinspoon ordered Katherine Hardihood to keep digging.
    So the next morning she drove all the way to Berea to visit Helen Smith, a retired history professor at Baldwin Wallace College, who knew more about the swath called the Western Reserve than anyone alive. Helen Smith offered her buttered saltines and hot tea and they leafed through ancient, brittle-paged books that smelled for all the world like sweaty pioneers. Among Helen Smith’s old books was the 1847 edition of Henry Howe’s Historical Collections of Ohio , and the next week when Mayor Donald Grinspoon called the saviors together, Katherine Hardihood finally had something to report.
    What she had was the story of an Indian woman who was clubbed to death by white settlers on the bank of Three Fish Creek. Her newborn baby was clubbed to death, too.
    â€œWhere’s the festival in that?” D. William Aitchbone wondered.
    Katherine Hardihood slowly picked her way through the facts she’d found in Henry Howe’s history: “It seems that several years later the ghost of this Indian woman appeared to a group of settlers burning stumps.”
    â€œNow it’s getting good,” Dick Mueller said.
    â€œDid she come right up out of the smoke?” Delores Poltruski asked.
    â€œI don’t know about that,” Katherine Hardihood said. “But according to the story, she forgave the whites for killing her and her baby.”
    Donald Grinspoon was elated. “Oh, that’s good.”
    Katherine Hardihood continued: “And she gave the settlers her blessing, saying, according to the story, of course, that ‘I am proud to be the last of my people to die for this sacred land. Now, my white brothers and sisters, it is your land. May you find peace and prosperity upon it. May it bless you in your time as it blessed my people in theirs.’”
    â€œOh, Katherine! That’s damn good!” said Donald Grinspoon.
    Katherine Hardihood raised a cautious finger. “Maybe not so good. The whites who clubbed the Indian woman and her baby were John and Amos Tuttwyler.”
    Donald Grinspoon grabbed the edge of his desk. “Oh.”
    The implication of that fact did not immediately register with Dick Mueller. “Serves them right for moving the snack cake line.”
    D. William Aitchbone enlightened him. “The mayor’s wife is a Tuttwyler, Dick.”
    Dick Mueller felt terrible. “Oh, that’s right. Sorry.”
    Donald Grinspoon let go of his desk. He went to the window. He looked at the village square and the