A conversation with Hiram W. Wright, early owner of the home at Nine Mile Point, as recorded by his daughter

Let’s listen to a conversation at the homestead of Hiram W. Wright, as his family is looking over an old group of shapshots one stormy evening in November.

“Well, Dad, here’s a picture of you sawing wood; with a derby hat on your head!” remarked his daughter laughingly. “Wherever was this? And who are the heavily mustached and bearded men
with you?”

“Let me see,” answers Mr. Wright. “Oh, yes, why that’s taken down at the old sawmill in our back lot down by Four Mile Creek just before it empties into Lake Ontario. And that’s old Sam Banford and Jim Barney there helping me. They were neighborhood characters around the Point somewhat before your time, I reckon.”

“Were you sawing firewood, father?” asks his son-in-law.

“No, we had a regular sawmill down there,” replies Mr. Wright.

“I suppose when Four Mile Creek was full of water, it made a good source for water power, but I never noticed any watershed on our farm,” surmises his daughter.

“Erva,” volunteers Mrs. Wright, “when your ancestors first owned the land in this vicinity, Four Mile Creek was a larger stream than it is now. I remember hearing my mother Minerva Strowger and Uncle John Foster tell about the early days when there was a grist mill right at the first bend of the inlet behind the cottage now owned by Milford Span.”

“Oh, you mean up on the hill north of Dad’s orchard,” suggests Erva.

“Here, let me have a pencil, I’ll show you,” offers Mr. Wright. We’ll peek over his shoulder to observe the following diagram:

“Yes, that was an interesting mill,” recalls Mr. Wright. “It must have been built before the War of 1812. I should say between 1804 and 1808. It was owned by Charles Foster and earlier by Abram Foster, a pioneer, who came from the East in search of opportunity. It is common knowledge in our family, my girl, that he had a choice of opportunities. Looking for a site for a grist mill, he examined the entrance at the Genesee River, but he came on down to Four Mile Creek where he decided to purchase land.”

“But, father, if he had a choice between the Genesee River and Four Mile Creek, why did he come
here?” queries the daughter.

“You must remember that things looked different a hundred and thirty years ago. Then, too, there might have been other factors entering his decision, which we know nothing about.”

“How romantic it sounds, doesn’t it folks?” chirps Erva. “Did he have a great mill?”

“He certainly did,” say Mrs Wright. “I can remember hearing about how Judge Woodhull made a windmill to grind the wheat. The owners had planned to build a dock into the lake for boats to use in
loading their produce. The dock was built east for the present Dance Hall and the Ice Cream parlor,
but boats never used it for the purpose of loading flour.”

“The windmill was a huge one with canvas wings which were so noisy that people said they could
hear it nearly in Webster. After it once started going, there was no way of stopping it, hence it finally
whirled itself to pieces and, like the windmill of Don Quixote, it same to be known as ‘Woodhull’s
Folly’.”

“The power,” adds Mr. Wright, “came from water wheels, one of which is now on our farm at a water
gate situated at the end of the raceway. The raceway is now dried up, and the ‘Main Line’ cottage is
built on it.”

“Did you ever see it, father?” asks his son-in-law.

“No, that old mill was in ruins before the Civil War, but May and I can remember seeing some of the
huge, flat cornerstones of the ruin when I first came here,’ answers Mr. Wright.

“Haven’t I heard Earl explain with relish how he used to shoot holes in an old mill down by the creek?
What mill was that, Dad?” inquires Erva.

“Oh, yes, that was a cider mill and grist mill combined. It was about two hundred feet east of the
older grist mill, just at the left of the road crossing the present bridge down there. That mill was built
before the Civil War, and was run by Henry Tompkins and John Foster about sixty-five years ago.
Charles Foster, you grandmother and your mother owned it a various times,” Mr. Wright informs her.
“What type of building was it?” asks his son-in-law.

“Why, it was a small, two story building, about 24’ by 36’, unpainted. The water power, of course, ran
this mill, too. Mostly pickets and small wood were sawed at the sawmill in later years.”

“Mother, do you remember Sam Banford?”

“He’s the man with the dark mustache in that picture, Erva. He was a queer old cuss. He drifted in here one day, a sailor evidently seeking refuge from the sea, or God knows what. He never talked about his past. But he appropriated the abandoned old mill for a home, staying there about twelve years, until it burned down thirty-five years ago.”

“Dad, why is that dam on Four Mile Creek down there back of Lauer’s barn?” wonders Erva.

“Didn’t you know your great grandfather owned that farm?” asks her father.

“Oh, you mean Thomas Wright your grandad and Thomas E Wrights’ granddad?” remarks Erva,
somewhat puzzled.

“The same,” nods her father. “A sawmill was built there. About one hundred years ago. It was
custom mill, sawing logs brought in from the countryside for which people paid by the thousand for
the work. Joseph Davis, father of Mrs. D. D. Tompkins, rented this mill and managed it for year. In the summer time, during its idleness, Old Captain Soper, a Civil War veteran, who once owned the
Foster Burnett farm, across from the Foster boys’ homestead, lived in the old mill. It was large, 36’ by
50’, using water power from the dam. Mr. Lauer tore down the dam and fume, building another dam
farther downstream where you and the Lauer children use to go skating. That old mill was torn down
over fifty years ago, “ continued Mr. Wright.

“How interesting! Were there any other picturesque mills along Four Mile Creek?” asks Erva, as she
closes the picture album.

“Let me see” complies Mr. Wright reminiscently. “There was a saw mill on the Thayer farm, run by
water power from Four Mile Creek, built about ninety years ago. It was a small mill, about 24’ by 36’,
owned and operated by the Thayer family. Mr. Thayer ground feed – corn, oats and grain from cattle – not flour—here for many years.

“In 1879, I drew ice from the Thayer pond. So you see they were busy summer and winter. Then there was another mill on the Town Line whose ruin still stand up there, but I know nothing about that one.

“We used to have fifteen or twenty teams drawing ice from our farms, to Erva. Can you picture what
a busy place it was?”

“Yes, Dad, I can.” responds Erva dreamily. “I see who you still keep your woods lot and raise your
wheat. I see who you hate to have to tear down the old ice-house. I think I see, too, why you and
mother sometimes have that far-away look in your eye, and sigh for ‘the good old days.’”