Madrid memories

The Madrid grist mill was torn down in 1959 by John Duryea, who had purchased the mill along with our old stone home. From my last post, you can see that the large grist stones are still piled along the bank of the Grasse River.

Here is a further quote from the essay, "The Madrid Bridge":

"The boys were interested in every step of the process by means of which the wheat or corn left the bins and became flour or corn meal. It was the atmosphere that intrigued me -and the miller. He was a friendly, kindly man, named Smith, and he looked, as I thought, as a miller should ('the Miller of December...') He had a daughter, Cynthia, who married Dakota Jim Fisher, a brother of 'my' Fisher girls."...
"Above the grist mill, the street rose sharply for a short space until it leveled off into the Square around which was the chief business section. On this hill was Nell's father's store where he sold all kinds of the simple kitchen equipment of those days. Some time in the past the shop must have made its own pans and basins because behind the building was a most fascinating pile of spirals or curls of tin with decorative touches of rust along the edges. We girls used to collect these. I have no idea why."
"Next was Ben Jackson's harness shop. Across the street was Cranston's Barbershop. The only one in town. I remember it because both children, a girl and a boy, died from tuberculosis when they were quite young."

Mrs. Keenan's reminiscences are from the years 1877-1889. In 1889, she attended the Potsdam Normal School.

Her essay is such a treasure. I will be sure to share further snippets from it in future posts!

down by the old mill stream

There are hidden gems to be found in the archive center of the local historical society. Yesterday afternoon, I came across an essay written in 1958 named "The Madrid Bridge", written by Ruth Goodnow Keenan. She was 85 years old when it was composed.

After a few afternoons of bunny-trail research at the county courthouse and the archive library, we took a breather and paid a visit to the old stone home on the river. With the roar of the falls and a view of the stone arches as our background, we clambered down to the bank where the grist mill once towered.

While we perched ourselves on these curious rocks, I let my mind drift back in time to when the old grist mill was the life of the town.


I quote Mrs. Keenan:

"On the northeast end of the bridge stood the gristmill. The sight of the huge stones, which, powered by water, moved round and round with a steady, majestic rhythm and ground out the flour, fascinated me. Now, teachers take their classes to visit industries. We used to wander wherever we like and, as far as I can remember, were welcome."


Thank you, Mrs. Keenan, for reminding me that the world is our classroom. These old mill stones provide a lovely place for reflecting upon that.