The wood is slowly reclaiming that which at one time was a level field carved from the wilderness for the Green Hill mansion house, and had in my early childhood days before World War II been known by all and sundry as "The Old Ball Field". But even in those days of yester-lore it was a fading name for all I remember was the bucket upon bucket of strawberries that my parents picked there to turn into preserves and jellies for the coming year and even to my unskilled youthful eye there was no sign of the ball-diamond of that heroic sport of old. Then when war brought jobs and a great influx of men and women from 'the south' to work in munition plants and other war-time businesses a saw mill was started here to churn out an endless supply of rough-sawn oak lumber for houses, and munition buildings and such, So in turn the name "The Sawmill" entered the local lexicon and strawberries and late summer blackberries disappeared from the field for good but in turn many a household went out to The Sawmill to bring home a wagon load of rough cut bark wood for heating the home through the long winters. Then in early teen-age years the bordering Stoney Run, where sawdust had been carried to the river to help clog the 'channel' for fishing boats, became the local swimming hole for many of us young boys and the abandoned sawmill was only a fading back-drop growing into shrub.
