****Castor, 99 Years & Holding****

Bill E. Williams was born one mile east of Castor on his Daddy's farm.  He moved away, then returned upon retirement to live on those same acres owned by the Williams family.  At age nienty-three, he is one of the oldest minds around, and is full of stories he likes to tell.  He sometimes has difficulty in getting his stories to come out in proper sequence, but patience yields rich anecdotes of the early 1900's in the Castor locale.

"I remember those days just like they were yesterday," Williams said.  "My Daddy's place was about a mile out of town, and as a young boy, I worked at Clarence Richard's Commissary.  The commissary was located about a mile out of Castor on what is now Ridge Road, and across from the old Chandler house.  Part of my job was to pick up supplies and groceries brought in by train once a week.  We worked most days until late, and on Friday's we would close at 7 o'clock and socialize a little.  Sausages came in gallon tins back then, and my boss always opened up a tin for his workers to eat.  Nothing tastes quite as those sausages did back then."

"There were seven lines of track extending from Castor to Chandler's Logging Camp just east of Castor Creek.  The old steam engines would pull up to 35 cars from those lines up to Stamps, Arkansas.  I will always remember one of those engines colliding with another.  He was going up a hill, pulling a string of cars, and suddenly there was another engine coming up the other side.  He couldn't stop, and the engines collided.  One man was scalded by the steam and died before he could get to Shreveport."

It is hard to visualize a logging community such as the one Williams describes.  There is no trace today of a thriving settlement extending up what is now called Ridge Road.  Now and then something surfaces like a token with a name of H. P. Glass Company, a logging company with a commissary that existed for a year in the area.  We see old photographs of huge logs being moved by teams of horses.  We see a picture of a young boy sitting on a huge old stump, and we have people such as Bill Williams with a vivid memory, and a willingness to spend the time to make the past come alive for us.

"We boys would stay in town late on weekends and listen for the train to come in.  The engineer had a way with that train whistle.  He would start blowing miles up the track to signal the depot agent he was coming".  Williams said.  "Lory Williams was the depot agent back then and it would sound like the whistle was saying, L-O-R-Y WILLIAMS!!!! GET-ME-SOME-ORDERS!!! Lory would have the orders listed and hung out on the pole for the engineer to catch as he went by the Castor Depot.  The train would go on down, pick up whatever cars were ready down in Alberta on Chandler's Camp, then take them back up to Stamps, Arkansas."

"There were a lot of country dances back then, and someone would always bring some bootleg whiskey to liven up the dance." Williams relates.  "I was just an old boy and I drank my share of that." he laughs.  "I remember one occasion where things kind of got out of hand.  there was a fight, somebody got cut up, and the folks giving the dance decided to shut things down.  They pushed the trouble makers out the door and left a few of us inside.  A friend of mine took exception to that, since he was one of the ones pushed out.  He gathered up an armload of stove wood, and each time someone would try to come outside, he would fling a stick against the door, Kerwhap!"

"He managed to keep everybody inside for a long time with that, but finally I got tired and wanted to go home," he continued.  "I got a stick on the side of my head when I went out the door, but I put my hands on his arms and persuaded him to let's go home.  We had both gone to the dance on his hourse, and the bootleg we had taken in didn't help our efforts to mount the house.  He would get up n one side and fall off the other.  I would do the same," he laughed.  "But finally we managed to get on the horse and head home.  When we got to the lane heading to my house, he let me off.  He didn't want to chance facing my Dad and both of us drinking."

"I slipped into the house that night trying not to wake anybody, and hoped Daddy wouldn't know that I had been in a scrape.  The next morning, Dad went to town early, and when he came home I knew he had heard the story of the night before, and I was in trouble.  He called me out on the front porch, and you know, the old man had been crying.  I had expected to be hit up side the head, but my Daddy's crying really got to me.  He started right in to counseling me about the trouble I'd be in.

"Son," he began, "I heard about what happened last night, and I just want you to know how disappointed I am in you.  I want you to always remember this day, and I am going to give you some rules to live the rest of your life by.  Rule number one is to always pay your just debts.  Rule number two is to let your word be your bond.  Rule number three is; now son, I can't be with you all the time, and I know I can't keep you from drinking, but son; just don't be no hog about it!"

Bill Williams would up in the District Attorney's office for questioning about the knifing incident.  Seems the D.A.'s main concern was who was furnishing the bootleg whiskey.  After extensive questioning and pressure from the elder Williams, the young man identified the bootlegger.  He was the Justice of the Peace from the next town.

Hours and hours are required to put together the fragments of Castor's history of the past 100 years.  Another day, we will listen again to the stories Williams remembers so vividly.  It allows a look into the age that built strength into its people.  Is an opportunity we would not want to lose.