The name of the town was Millers Falls, and it was located on the banks of a small stream called Salt Creek. It was not very large, but had a fair number of permanent houses and the usual run of stores and shops. It was a center of commerce for a large section of prairie land that was dotted with farms. The people who lived on those farms came to Millers Falls once every two weeks or so to stock up on supplies, catch up on the latest gossip, and to see to other various human needs.
There was a doctor in Millers Falls, and he shared an office and surgery with the town dentist. Millers Falls also had eight saloons, four churches, two undertakers and two lawyers. The lawyer to undertaker ratio was just about right.
The two lawyers were partners, of sorts. They were a father and son team. The firm of Keister & Son was a thriving law firm. Being the only two lawyers in a ninety mile radius helped. They handled the usual range of property transactions, suits over who owned what pig, and the occasional criminal defense.
One day well over a hundred years ago tragedy struck the firm of Keister & Son. The elder Keister met an untimely death at the hands of a dissatisfied client. The perpetrator had retained Longren Keister to defend him in a court action. It seems that one of the man’s bulls had escaped and made his was to the barnyard of a neighbor where said bull made merry with one of said neighbor’s prize cows. The cow was apparently suffering from the bovine equivilent of a headache and was not in the mooood, so to speak, and the bull injured the cow as a result. The neighbor thereby lost a chance to sell the prize cow at a handsome profit at the county fair and decided to sue the socks off of the owner of said bull.
The court case did not go well and the bull’s owner was ordered to pay damages to his neighbor to the tune of an amount that he did not feel was quite fair. Especially because he did not have enough cash on hand to make restitution. He did have enough cash, however, to go to one of the eight saloons and have more drinks than was prudent under the circumstances. It was as the man left the saloon and was stumbling his way towards home that the somewhat insensitive Longren Keister elected to bring up the subject of legal fees.
In the hullabaloo that followed the client ran to his wagon and pulled a twelve gauge shotgun from under the seat. Longren beat a hasty retreat into the hardware store as the buckshot flew. In trying to make his escape out the back door of the hardware store he crashed into a keg of nails which caused him to tumble into a track mounted ladder, the kind that leaned against the packed shelves of the store. The ladder rolled down its track, tumbled over and smashed a glass case containing the latest in hand tools. A shard of glass flew across the room and imbeded itself in Keister’s neck. Longren Keister fell to the floor, rolling in agony and loose nails. With the glass stuck in his neck, he staggered to his feet. He reached up with his right hand felt the blood, fainted, and fell back into several two‑man rip saws which had been leaning on end in a corner. He scratched the back of his left hand on the saw’s sharp teeth.
The scratches became infected and he died two weeks later from lock‑jaw. At sixty‑two years of age, Longren Keister passed on the family heritage to his son, Joshua, who promptly brought suit against the owner of the bull, who had fired the shotgun. Joshua claimed that he had caused the death of the elder Keister by way of “criminal mischief”, but the man got off. By and large, the jury had not liked Longren Keister anyway. Keister & Son was never considered to be a totally reputable law firm, but, as folks came to say a hundred years later, they were the only ball game in town.
Now as we all know it is the sometimes less than honest men that become the most successful. So it is with Josh Keister. Longren had over the years invested in a number of enterprises in the hopes of becoming wealthy. To a degree, he prospered. But he never seemed to have enough. The elder Keister was one of those individuals who measured his success in terms of money amassed. His self satisfaction rose with the balance in his bank account.
At one occasion, Longren Keister was asked to represent the owner of a small distillery in a civil action. He was successful, and demanded his rightful payment. Unfortunately, the client did not have the funds to pay up. This was a common problem in pioneer America. The distiller offered a barrel of his best spirits in trade.
Keister was more than willing to accept the offering, even though he himself was a teetotaler and did not ever touch so much as a single drop of liquor. He figured that he could resell the whisky at a handsome price to one of the various traders who periodically floated their way down Salt Creek. Using an old trick, he intended to “doctor” the barrels of spirits using pepper. The pepper would give the whisky an additional “kick” and thus give the illusion of being somewhat more intoxicating than it actually was. Frontier whisky was prized more for its kick that its smoothness.
Unfortunately, Keister & Sons was in the employ of the First Methodist Church of Millers Falls. The church was in the process of consolidating some real estate parcels that had been left to it by various congregation members who had passed on in recent months. Keister was afraid that if word got out that he had taken payment for a case in alcholic beverages his sanctimonious clients would become very upset. Not sure he was willing to deal with upset Methodists, he came up with a plan.
He worked a deal with the distiller whereby he was to receive a royalty of 5% on every barrel of whisky sold for a period of two years. This allowed the distiller to pay off his debt over a period of time based directly on his profits or lack thereof. It also meant that Keister would have a small income should the lawyering business go dry, as might be the case if suddenly everybody were to obey all laws.
The beauty of the plan was that it was kept confidential.
In the meantime, the previously mentioned Methodist Church was causing a bit of a stir in Millers Falls. The new pastor was pretty fair at arithmetic, and one afternoon had gone out to do some counting on the streets. In one block of the small town he counted five men clearly the worse for drink. And, to make matters worse, he discovered that saloons outnumbered churches two to one. The Reverend Barton was distressed, to say the least.
The next Sunday he announced from the pulpit that he was starting a crusade to rid the town of derelicts and to close its bars. He also explained, in a high pitched voice, that any God‑fearing sinner who wished to enter the Pearly Gates to Everlasting something‑or‑other would do well to follow him. He painted pictures of drunken men lounging their lives away in saloons, while their wives and children went begging in the streets of Millers Falls.
Even though up to that date not one wife or child had ever begged in town, Reverand Barton’s dismal portrayal of what the future held affected the more faint of heart. The next week he again preached his anti‑alcoholic message. After church on the third Sunday a committee was formed to deal with the problem.
Meeting in the homes of one of the committee members every Sunday evening, the Methodists Against the Evils of Alcohol planned their strategies. They easily identified the various saloons in town. That was certainly no problem. But, they focused on MacDougal’s Distilling Works as the primary source of the spirits in town. They decided to run MacDougal’s out of Millers Falls.
This was easier said than done. The Methodists Against the Evils of Alchohol did not have enough power to fight the saloon owners, who wanted MacDougal’s to stick around. The members of M. A. E. A. decided to contact other churches to see about joining forces. Already the other local clergy had noticed how the Reverand Barton’s sermons were increasing attendance on Sundays, so they were more that willing to sponser comittees of their own. Thus, came to being the Presbyterians Against Social Sin, the Lutherans for A Better Life, and the Baptists for Spiritual Purity. When it was pointed out that the B. S. P. sounded like it stood for better distilling methods, they changed their name to the Baptists for Abstention.
The various groups formed a multi‑congregational organization called Christians Against Alcohol. The local Catholics were not involved because the Protestants were afraid of Latinization and Papist influence. The Goldberg family was excluded for obvious reasons.
As the months went by it became apparent that the C. A. A. was getting nowhere against the saloon owners. The owners steadfastly refused to close down. One night after a particulalry emotional meeting several members of the Lutherans for A Better Life were seen to go into the Golden Slipper for refreshment. It was at this point that the groups realized that they had some very fundemental problems that had to be overcome.
As with many organizations, there is often a radical minority who espouse strong sanction and even violent action. So it was with the C. A. A. Some members had been quietly suggesting that the best way to get MacDougal’s out of Millers Falls was to arrange for an accidental fire to destroy the still. Longren Keister had just finished a meeting with Reverand Barton concerning the sale of some property when he overheard some men discussing a plan to destroy the distillery.
Longren stopped dead in his tracks when struck by the thought of his little extra income going up in radical smoke. He hid around a corner and listened to the plans. The plotters were scheduled to strike on the evening when there was to be no moon. Keister had only three days to do something.
Longren did not like the idea of anyone tampering with his income. He was a crusty buzzard with a heart of lead. He conferred with MacDougal and they decided that when the group of Christians attacked they would be ready.
Three nights later when not a stitch of moon was in the sky, and when the autumn air hung chill and damp, the black corners of Millers Falls appeared to move with the shapes of men. The dark forms creeped towards the site of the MacDougal still. The yard around the barn containing the still was empty. The place was quiet. Slowly they sneaked closer to the windows. Already some of them were spreading kerosene around the base of the walls.
About this time one of the mob’s members made an important discovery. Creeping past the back door he checked the latch, and much to his surprise he found it unlocked. Hoping to discover some booty for the after arson celebration, he decided to investigate. But, behold, the structure was empty!
Keister and MacDougal had sneaked the still and related equipment out of town over a period of several days, leaving nothing but an empty building. They set up shop on top of a small hill about fifteen miles upstream from Millers Falls on land that Keister owned. From this location they manufactured their whisky and continued to sell it in town. This did not really satisfy the church folk, but they quieted down somewhat once the devil’s own machine was gone from the city limits.
A short time after that, Longren Keister got wind of a rumor that the railroad was going to build a line right through that area. It was pretty obvious that Millers Falls was the place to pass through. Logically the railroad would want to run the line into the town. The same people who wanted to burn the still wanted to build a railroad station.
Keister had other plans.
The first thing that he did was to send a letter to the vice president of the railroad. He explained that he was platting out a town and that the proposed settlement would be adjacent to good land with a creek nearby. He described it as being a veritable paradise, just waiting for a prudent investor.
Keister had a surveyer lay out lots and streets. The whole community was registered with the state and Keisters Ridge was born. In the meantime the lots were sold to a group of eastern investers. Using that money Keister, bought more land, and sold that. Before long he had a town that was owned by Eastern types who had never traveled farther west than Pittsburgh.
Needless to say, when the railroad announced that it would build its line through Keisters Ridge, land values tripled, the Easterners’ sold their land to eager buyers looking to cash in on the railroad. Keister made money by handling all the transactions and by selling additional land nearby. Longren Keister, the founding father of Keisters Ridge, was very rich.
Within fifty years, however, the line proved unprofitable and the railroad shut down its operations, except for the occasional freight train to the local grain elevator. By this time, Keister was long gone and buried. He was imortalized in the ‘fifties when the Founder’s Day Committee planted a statue near the abandoned train station. The statue is of a cantaloupe.
Legend has it that when it came time to name the town, Longren Keister and MacDougal were standing around, waiting for inspiration, trying to think of a name. A farmer with a cart load of cantaloupes was passing by, and stopped to shoot the breeze with the two men. The three of them tried the name Middletown, except the site wasn’t in the middle of anything. Likewise Grandville was out. MacDougal liked New Glasgow, but Keister put the kabosh on that one.
Finally, Longren said, “What the hell.”
With the immortal words, “Let’s call it Keisters Ridge. It ain’t got no ridge, but its got a Keister.” He snatched a cantaloupe from the back of the cart, split it in half, and poured the juice on the ground as he shouted, “Skoal!”
Thus, Keisters Ridge was born.
The offical history portrays Keister as being a visionary. A few, mostly older descendants of clients he diddled, know otherwise. But, they are considered obstructionists and have learned that some legends are best left uncorrected.
Millers Falls continued a slow and steady growth, always behind Keisters Ridge until the 1890s when hard times hit along with the stock market crash. The economy was rough, and the railroad pulled out. Keisters Ridge started to wither. Millers Falls grew larger and eventually became county seat.
This explains a great deal of the inter‑town rivalry.
Secure in the self delusion that legend provides, Keisters Ridge has remained much the same as always. The statue of the cantaloupe is generally ignored by the citizens except around Founder’s Day each year. The visitors from out of town like it. They consider it a fitting contrast to the monuments in their own cities. The thought that a cantaloupe is to Keisters Ridge is what the statue of Liberty is to New York is staggering, but fairly accurate.
Longren Keister lacked a sense of historical perspective.