06/07/2026
The Story of the Stone
By Christine Tailer
There is a large flat stone in the side yard of a small home in Georgetown, Ohio. The stone is estimated to weigh about two tons. Georgetown, according to the last census, has a population of about 4,500. It is a small town by any standards, and has always been a small town, but within its borders lies this very large stone.
When Greg and I first bought our farm, I knew nothing about small town life. I've learned so much. I've come to know that there are no strangers in our small town. I am greeted by neighbors when I pump gas. I pass the time of day with folk at the grocery store, and even if I see someone I don't actually know, we exchange smiles with small town understanding.
The town's population back in the early 1800's numbered just a few hundred. When Georgetown became the county seat in 1820, there were only about 20 homes, separated by fields and dirt streets. Even more so than today, everyone knew everyone else. At that time, the town sat in what was considered the western frontier, on the far side of the Alleghenies. What follows is a story about this frontier town, this large stone, and a 12 year old boy. This is a story about humility and determination.
One day while passing through town, the boy overheard stonemasons talking to a well-to-do homeowner. The workers were explaining that they had cut a massive stone out of ledge rock down at a nearby creek. They'd cut the stone to size so it would lie at the bottom of the wealthy fellow's front stoop. The only problem was that the stonemasons had not been able to figure out a way to move the large stone from the creek up to the homeowner's front steps.
The boy went down to the creek, found the stone, and dug two sloping trenches along each of its sides. He then dug two tunnels under the rectangular stone, one, one at either end. He passed a logging chain through each tunnel.
The boy had a masterful way with horses, and was skillfully able to direct his team to back their logging wagon down to the creek, the wheels descending into the sloping trenches. The boy then secured the chains over the bed of the sturdy wagon, and when he drove his team forward, they only had to drag the weight of the stone forward a short distance before the stone began to rise up off of the creek bed as the wagon proceeded up the sloping trenches. The horses no longer needed to strain once the weighty stone swung free beneath the wagon's bed.
It was late in the day when the boy delivered the stone to the homeowner. As the boy sat down to dinner that evening, his father admonished him, "Son, you are late."
The boy's only reply was that he had been helping a neighbor. His father did not learn about his son's accomplishment until folk up town stopped him to exclaim how proud he must be of his industrious, hard-working son.
This is the boy who grew up to become the humble Civil War general who undertook battles that others thought could never be won. This was Hiram Ulysses Grant, the boy who left his small hometown to head off to West Point, and who, through a clerical error became Ulysses S. Grant, a Three Star General during the Civil War, and the 18th president of the United States of America.
There are approximately 19,500 cities, villages, and towns in the United States of America. 45 men have served as president of those United States. I know that I am so fortunate to live near a small town where one of those presidents spent his boyhood years.
As I write, the streets around the courthouse in the center of town are terribly torn up, necessitated by a project to refurbish the town. I walk alongside the big machines and piles of dirt, my eyes on the ground. I wonder if I might find a marble that was carried in the pocket of the boy who once lived here. He was not only resourceful and humble, and had a magical way with horses, he also loved a good game of marbles. I suppose, however, that his love of marbles might just have to be told in another small town story.
May 31, 2026
