I write because I am rooted. My story—like the stories I so ardently chase and preserve—grows in the rich, loamy soil of Owen-Withee, Wisconsin, on the west banks of the Black River. If you want to find the reasons behind my passion for research, documentation, and sharing, you need only follow the current of that old river, winding through the memory-haunted woods once called The Pineries. You will find my origins there, and the origins of many more whose tales might otherwise be washed away with time.
I grew up in the 1950s and 1960s, a time when our dairy farm on the Black River felt like its own universe. The farm was a world of early morning chores, the patient rhythm of cows chewing their cud and a barn heavy with the scent of hay. My father taught me to milk cows before I could ride a horse, and my legs grew strong from tramping over fields to pick rocks and plant corn. Summers meant stacking bales under a sun that never seemed to tire, and winters meant the squeak of boots on snow.
My great grandfather, Henry Hodnett, had come to Clark County from Maine in the 1870s, one of the earliest old pioneer lumberjacks to brave the wilds of Wisconsin. He found work in the great white pine forests, felling giants that had stood since before the Revolution, and helped bring the prosperity that built the towns we know today.
My formal education began in the old rural Poppe and Longwood schools. There, in classrooms heated by wood stoves and ruled by teachers who commanded respect, I learned the basics—reading, arithmetic, geography—but also something more: the value of community and the importance of collective memory. We knew our neighbors, and we knew their stories.
Graduating from the local high school was a milestone, but also a crossroads. Farming had given me strength and character, but I wanted more from life than early mornings and endless rows of corn. I promised myself, as a teenager, that I would find a new path, and with the ink still wet on my diploma, I set my sights on the University of Wisconsin–Madison.
College opened the world to me. I studied business and majored in accounting, learning the skills I’d need to navigate a rapidly changing world. After college graduation, my journey led me far from Owen-Withee: to cities and boardrooms, to global companies where I worked as an auditor and eventually in executive positions for industry giants like Philip Morris, Miller Brewing Company, and Johnson Controls.
For 43 years, I traveled widely, building a career and a life that in many ways fulfilled my boyhood dreams of doing something different. But the further I traveled, the more I found my thoughts returning to the banks of the Black River. I’d visit home when I could, driving the roads past familiar barns and fields, and each time I returned, I saw more clearly the changes time had wrought. Old landmarks faded, new faces appeared, and with each visit, the stories I remembered seemed more precious—and more at risk of being lost.
Retirement brought with it a new sense of possibility, and a calling I could no longer ignore. My passion for history—dormant during those years in the business world—flared back to life. I began to research, to dig through archives and old newspapers, to seek out elderly neighbors and record their recollections. The deeper I looked, the more I realized how many stories were just waiting to be told. Stories of pioneers and lumberjacks, of teachers and shopkeepers, of hardship and resilience.
What started as a personal quest soon grew into a mission: to document, preserve, and share the rich local history of Owen-Withee and Clark County. I wanted to ensure that the tales that shaped me—and all of us—would survive for future generations. I wanted to keep them alive, not just in my memory, but in the collective memory of our community.
In 2020, I began writing a weekly newspaper column dedicated to the stories of Owen-Withee. At first, I wondered if anyone would care. But the response was overwhelming: neighbors, old classmates, and even strangers from far-flung corners.
As often as not, I found myself learning from my readers, who knew things I’d never imagined or remembered, moments I thought long forgotten. The bond between writer and reader, I came to realize, is a powerful thing.
My writing, then, is for you—the readers who care enough to open the newspaper, to write in, to keep the conversation going. Each article is a thank-you, a way of giving back to the community that gave me so much.
I write because I believe the history of a small town matters. Our stories might seem modest compared to the grand events of world history, but they are no less meaningful. They tell us who we are, where we come from, and where we might be going. They knit us together across generations, giving us a sense of belonging that no amount of progress or change can erase.
If you ask me why I write, the answer is simple: I write to remember, to connect, and to give thanks. I write for myself, and for you, and for the countless men and women—named and unnamed—whose lives shaped this corner of Wisconsin. It is a privilege and an honor, and as long as there are stories to be told, I intend to keep writing