The Fort Beneath Our Feet

Being a booster of a hometown requires one sometimes to make do with what we have. Local history is frequently more disappointing and less dramatic than we envision it. In grade school I became obsessed with the Marshfield Fort. Dad had read me the juicier parts of FWG’s blue centennial book, which mentions little beyond its plundering and destruction. Dissatisfied that no photo or drawing existed I set out to correct this insufficiency. Needing little else beyond hubris and art supplies, the stockade timbers of construction paper came to life, -it did look eerily similar to my Fort West playset. In my version of local history, a desperate crayola struggle ensued betwixt a blue command holding out against a gray horde who’d apparently taken up a position between Citizens State Bank and the post office. A determined stick figurish Col. Hampton stood atop the works, sword in hand encouraging his brave men to hold out, as the rebel lines maneuvered around the courthouse. All seemed lost till Captains Butts and Bodenhammer with 200 horsemen, concealed behind Beckerdite Music, attacked the rebel rear joining battle. Blood ran down Marshall Street. My masterpiece was first presented at show and tell, which truthfully should have included a parental warning, as no gore was spared in relating the imaginary Battle of Marshfield. Afterwards I was quietly informed “it probably didn't happen that way and had to write sentences. The following is an attempt at academic honesty on the topic” -CCH