My first visit to Gilmer was about forty-five years ago, when I came
here with my father and brother on a wagon loaded with cotton and meal.
My father was a ginner, as his stock in trade. Coming up what was known
as “Culberson Hill” our pair of fine mules almost let the wagon roll
back down the hill. It was raining, muddy and boggy. But the mules got
down on their knees and pulled, and finally made the grade. I felt sure
the mud and slush would be left behind after reaching the city, but
imagine my disappointment and disgust to find the streets and square
shoe mouth deep in mud. We wore pretty high-topped shoes then, too—it
took about two yards of strings to lace them up.
The square was really a friendly place for pigeons, ducks, geese,
chickens, hogs, dogs, horses, mules, and people all mingled together
with one common purpose—to profit from their labors. People were there
to sell whatever they could find. The goats loved to go to court. In
fact, they acted as door-bailiffs, resting in the shade of the
courthouse porches, chewing their cuds, and unmindful of whether people
could get into the building to testify.
Along about 1901, the city incorporated or re-incorporated and
ordinances were passed to banish Mr. Goat from court. But Mr. Tom
Chandler, or Mr. Perry would trade in goats, and back they would come.
On such occasions the Hays Studio porch was their sleeping quarters. We
have gone to the door many times armed with broomsticks, old shoes,
buckets of water, and other weapons. Mr. Goat would be just beyond range
by the time the door was opened. It is needless to say much sweeping and
fumigating had to be done after the hasty departure of the unwelcome
guests.