Wayne Township
Hisey Farmhouse and Barn in Hisey Park, on Middletown Rd.
This is a story about the 158-acre farm owned by the Hisey Family for the past one hundred years. It was located at 5443 Middletown Rd., Waynesville, Ohio, between the Little Miami River and Caesar Creek. Janet Hisey, Ben’s daughter –in-law is telling the story. Author: Mrs. Benjamin Hisey (Dianna)
The Home Place Dilemma
The old man became very talkative as the wagon bumped and jerked up the long lane, David his second son was driving the tractor and I was accompanying my father-in-law, hoping to learn some interesting stories about the relatives who had lived on this farm for the past one hundred years. Benjamin Herr Hisey had been born and raised on these one hundred and fifty-eight acres, sixty-five years ago, and there wasn’t a crook nor a corner that he didn’t know as well as he knew the back of his hand.
It was one of those magnificent autumn days when the air is so clear and the sun so radiant, that it motivates common, ordinary people to become poets, storytellers, and songwriters. I was glad to be alive and realized that this was the first time I had ever noticed how incredibly beautiful the farm, that we called The Home Place, really was.
I could tell the old man was enjoying the trip too, because as he talked, he pointed and directed my attention to certain areas I would otherwise have missed. Sometimes he took hold of my arm to make sure I didn’t miss something that he thought was worth of attention, such as the red-tailed hawk on the dilapidated fence post and the
clear spring trickling down the hillside.
“That spring has the coolest, cleanest water you have ever tasted,” he boasted. “And it never ran dry…not even during the drought years. When the dug wells went dry, the spring kept us and the animals in the water until the rains came.”
The lane was narrowing and the ride was getting rougher. I’m certain that it caused stress on his already achy arms and legs, but he was too interested in the ride to let inconveniences like that, spoil the trip. We were moving between the small winding creek and the hillside n the right. Suddenly, the Old Man got very excited.
“See that spot of land on the other side of the creek? That’s the Island. You can find the biggest and finest mushrooms on that Island, on the whole farm.” He was almost whispering, so as not to reveal his secret to any other ears. “If there isn’t a mushroom there, you don’t need to look any other place else…cause there isn’t any.” He talked fondly about the Trilliums, the Dutchman’s Britches and the May Apples, all of which decorated the woods during mushroom season. I was delighted that he would share his secret with me and he seemed pleased that I had responded so positively.
The tongue of the wagon made a screeching sound as the tractor took a sharp turn to the right. We were winding our way to the top of the hill. On both sides of the lane, we observed squirrels, and other wildlife chattering noisily about our intrusion to their part of the woods. Tracks in the mud and deer hair on the briars suggested that larger animals also inhabited the area.
“That’s the tree over there where we found the Indian artifacts back in the fifties. Best ones we ever found,” the old man concluded. The hogs rooted them up and there they were, just laying there for us to find. “That tree over there,” he pointed, “is where the cousins from the State of Washington and I carved our names, at lease seventy five years ago…and they’re still there.”
As the wagon reached the top of the hill, I noticed a large grove of hard wood trees. “How in the world did those get up here?” I questioned. “By lost of sweat and hard work,” the Old Man assured me. “I set 5000 trees out all by myself. They’ll mature in another twenty years, he confided. “Long after I’m gone.”
The tractor stopped and we vacated the wagon. David joined us the two men began to talk. My mind wandered back to the time when the Indians inhabited this land. I could almost see them running u and down the hills, looking for berries and wild game. Abruptly, my thoughts were interrupted.
“Girl,” Benjamin said, (because of late, he was having trouble remembering names), “see that field over there between Caesar’s Creek and the Little Miami River? It often flooded before they built the Caesar’s Creek Dam. It was just one big fifty-acre lake. It was a real chore to clean up the mess but the topsoil was rich and fertile. I’ve seen fuel tanks, toys, cars and all kids of debris floating in that field. No sir-ee, we haven’t had a flood like that since they built the dam.”
“So the dam was a wonderful improvement for the farmers?” I said.
The old man hesitated for a moment and seemed to be weighing his thoughts before he spoke. “Yes and No,” he pondered. “It weren’t too wonderful for some. Just up the way a few miles, there was this little town of New Burlington. Those people lost their farms, home and businesses when the water was backed up to form the lake and
the dam. The whole town was covered with water. There were a lot of unhappy people and problems with buying up the land.”
But the dam keeps the flooding from occurring and look at the beautiful lake that was formed. Hundreds of people use the lake for recreation.” I insisted. “Sometimes change is good, but with change, often comes heartaches too.” The Old Man muttered. “Guess there’s going to be changes around here to soon. I’m too old to farm the land anymore and the County would like to buy the farm and develop it into a Recreational Area and Green Space.” “That would mean that lots of people could come here and enjoy nature just like we did here today.” I added.
“That’s true Girl, but I’ve spent a lifetime, fighting the floods, picking the rocks, fertilizing the fields, re-planting the trees, cutting the brush our of the woods, building and remodeling the buildings, and spraying the weeds so I could leave the land better than I found it. Now the County wants to turn it back to what it use to be. Don’t get
me wrong Girl, I’m not agin it but I just have to cope with change in my own way.”
There was a long period of silence and soul searching before Benjamin spoke again. Finally he pointed over to the bicycle trail on the other side of the big field. “That use to be the railroad right of way. I miss the whistles and the railroad noises.” He confessed. “Back during the depression, the bums and hobos used to ride the rails and they
would get off the trains and beg for food. We always fed them. Guess they left a sign that this was an easy mark. One of them spent the night in our barn and burned it down.”
Accidentally?,” I questioned. “Guess he was just trying to keep warm,” he assured me.
Once again we were back on the wagon, surveying the top of the hill. He talked about hunting fossils in the creek, about building tree houses in the woods, having picnics and cooking boiled eggs using creek water, gathering walnuts in the gall, picking blackberries and hunting Indian artifacts in the freshly plowed fields. It was obvious that
these memories were very dear to him.
“See that clearing over there,” the Old Man exclaimed. “We found a hearth there which indicated that there had been an old log house at this spot, at one time.”
Farther around the hill, Benjamin told of an old stone house and some out buildings that stood in this area. The inhabitants had developed a spring near the house. Years later, one evening our dogs started barking and barked most of the night. The next day, we discovered that the old stone house had fallen in.
Over the years, the Old Man told of finding foundations, wells and other artifacts that indicated that there had been other buildings on the farm. During a particularly bad drought, he noticed how dry the grass had gotten in the back yard. Eventually the grass completely dried up and he could see the outline of the large foundation. It is
believed that it had been an Inn for the stagecoaches that passed through this valley. There was evidence that there had been commerce in the area for some years.
He spoke of several mill sites, with dams and millraces along the Little Miami River; however, they were all destroyed during the floods.
Benjamin chuckled as he started his next story. “At one time, a Motorcycle Club was given permission to use the hills on the farm for their motor cycle climb. It was about the most exciting thing I had ever witnessed but there was too much damage to the crops, fences and hillsides to continue that sport.”
The Old Man was noticeably proud of all the buildings he had built on the farm. Single handedly he had built the hog houses, the tool shed, the fences, repaired the barns and remolded the big stylish house that had so many fond memories for him.
Too soon the journey around the Home Place was over. I was totally saturated with the stories and sights I had experienced and seen on the two-hour trip. Now I could identify with the feelings of the Old Man concerning the farm. Maybe he should just keep it as long as he lived. Surely the County could wait for a few more years, I
reasoned.
Benjamin had survived the trip as well as any near octogenarian could expect. He was limping a little from his arthritis but I noticed how surprisingly young and strong he looked as he approached me.
“Girl,” (I wanted terribly for him to remember my name, but I kept quiet.) “I’ve been having some real problems with selling the Home Place. It has kept me awake for a good many nights, but I think this trip this afternoon has cleared the cobwebs out of my head. I some how realized that all the wonderful things we saw this afternoon were not just meant for my eyes. Everyone should have the chance to see and love nature the way I have for all these many years. If the farm is converted to Recreational Trails, Wet Lands, and Green Space, people for generations could come here and enjoy the very things I have so selfishly protected. Girl” he stammered, “Uh er…Janet, I’ve made up my mind, let’s call those County fellows and talk.”
