Happy Birthday, Websterville

Last month my story was about the history of Websterville, the little community west of Creemore. This month it is time to tell you about the wonderful centennial celebration we had July 17, 1976.

Our meetings began in the winter and were always chaotic with people throwing around ideas. The meetings would end with laughter and people telling funny stories about past events. Somehow or other everything was planned and ready by the morning of July 17.

The celebration began with a parade up County Road 9. The participants, all 30 of them, assembled at Schwantz’s garage half way to Creemore. It proceeded west, turned up Riverside Drive, crossed a field near the bridge and turned east. It ended at the celebration site, a well-groomed pasture field that had once been the site of one of Websterville’s mills. The most original float award went to The Ten Hill Cuties: Lorna Falls, and Karen and Peggy Hughes. The best overall award went to Dunedin Women’s Institute float, called “Hello, Websterville, It’s Dunedin Calling”. The float commemorated the first Noisy River Telephone Co. call between Dan Mitchell’s store in Dunedin and Frank Webster’s house in Websterville.

The celebration brought out more people than we ever thought possible. There seemed to be hundreds. Pam, who wrote a weekly column in The Creemore Star, estimated 500 cars along the side of the road although that seems like an exaggeration.

The pasture field had a large platform set up with electricity for the loud speakers wired to John McGrady’s house, picnic tables were arranged and a dance floor of plywood was beside the river. There was a best beard contest and pony rides and a refreshment booth. The river was available for swimming but it was too cold that July day.

The program began with a few speeches. Local MPP George McCague, presented the citizens of the village with a plaque hoping we would grow as we had done in the past. This brought a big laugh as we had grown smaller, not larger.

My house was set up as a museum. People stood in line all the way out to the road waiting for a turn to view the displays. Inside I was selling The Rising of the Moon, a history of Websterville.

We were fortunate to have six bands providing non-stop music from 2 p.m. until 2 a.m. My Webster cousins were and still are musicians and their friends came along to play.

Many came and danced all night. The dance floor proved much too small so people danced on the grass. Don and Elsa Wilson of Collingwood sent a Letter to the Editor saying, “Dancing under the stars and the tree setting will be an unforgettable evening of my life. I would like to dream that this could be renewed yearly.”

My most enduring memory is that of Ken McBain playing his mouth organ with the wonderful melodies, thanks to the loudspeakers, filling our whole valley with the sound.

Written in honour of the centennial was a song written by Francis Webster and Annalee Coons (Webster) called Happy Birthday Websterville. During the afternoon it had its debut sung by John, George and Francis Webster. (photo: John, Francis and George Webster singing Happy Birthday Websterville on July 17, 1976.)

Here are the words:

Websterville, Websterville, a mile from Creemore, between the hills.

Where the Mad River flows and the winters are cold and the spirit always flows. We’re one hundred years old.

Now here is the setting and we are the people. Let’s echo it off the hills.

Happy Birthday, yes, Happy Birthday,

Happy Birthday, Websterville.

Now the names of the faces that live in this valley are the characters in our play. Look around and you will see them. You’ll meet them all today.

There’re Emmetts, Knoxes, Hargraves, Nelsons, Montgomerys and McGradys, too. And Mickses, McLeods and Cormiers and Griffiths. And Websters, quite a few.

Some people have moved away, like Hughes, McBains and Meeks. But there are cattle and goats and chickens, and groundhogs and cats and sheep.

Wilfred’s the carpenter, Helen teaches school.

Annalee paints, so you see we’re no fools. There’re musicians and farmers and Ruthie does hair. There are welders and housewives and children to spare.

Here are the memories we’d like to share.

The tractor pull at Montgomery’s when the David Brown beat the Massey fair and square. Now how about the time John took the tractor up the hill,

Sent a load of tires rolling down,

Flattening fences? Lucky nobody was killed.

The times we sneaked away to Montgomery’s to watch wrestling on the first TV.

Do you think we should tell them about the fox? What fox?

The rabid fox which 20 would-be sharp-shooters chased through Mickes’ backyard, cross the road, past Wilfred’s 410 shotgun – which jammed.

Through Hargrave’s garden killing a watermelon and upsetting a bale of hay, past the compost heap. Across County Road 9, past McLeod’s chicken barn.

Without batting an eye, jumped the swamp and under Bill Hughes’ backhoe he sped, Bill Hughes shot twice, but only the backhoe bled. Crossed County Road 9 again.

Just as Russell Meek had the fox in his sights, from up the road with all he might, Aunt Alice yelled, “Don’t shoot my kids!”

Seen by Fred Nelson who tried to club it to death with his 303 because he couldn’t find his shells. Up and down the valley with the hunters behind ran that fox till the neighbour girl that lives up the line had the animal in her sights.

From the speeding car she shot. Margaret was her name. And that dirty, low down, conivin’, rabid varmint was finally got.

Websterville, Websterville,

A mile from Creemore

Between the hills.

Where the Mad River flows and the winters are cold.

And the spirit always flows,

We’re one hundred years old.