Submitter’s note: The story we share today is from “Brown County Remembers” and is not signed by the writer. Next time (in two weeks) we will share part two, “How the Miller Drug Store came to Nashville.”

It was one of those hot days in midsummer when one sought relief from the heat in whatever way it could be found. Why the tourists came in great hordes, or so it seemed, to swarm in the streets of Nashville on such a day, I will never know. But come they did, some flitting in and out of the shops, seemingly anxious to miss none of them, while others came just to watch the crowds and enjoy the festive atmosphere. Whatever the reason, relief for the tourists on the streets of Nashville that Sunday afternoon was spelled C-O-O-L.

As usual, on such a day, we had been busy in Miller’s Drug Store — almost too busy. The sanctuary from the heat that we provided was in the form of one 12-foot-long soda fountain, the only one in town at that time. From it we dispensed the usual assortment of treats such as a monster puts out when it’s in good working order. That particular afternoon it hadn’t given us any trouble. In fact everything was going so smoothly that I didn’t notice when the little old gray-haired lady stepped up through the east door and eased her way slowly across the floor to a chair at the only empty table in the place. She sat down in the chair with a sigh of relief, and when approached by one of the waitresses, she very simply in a frail voice that went with her appearance, “May I please have a glass of water?”

The request was not unusual. For all of the appeal of the soft drinks, even the phosphates, sodas and ice cream dishes that came from the soda fountain, there’s nothing quite so satisfying on a hot day as a cold drink of water, and the health authorities would have us believe that it’s the best for us. I prefer a cool milkshake myself, one of the old fashioned kind made with real ice cream. And we made them. But the water that came through the refrigerated coils of the fountain was cold, if nothing more could be said for it. And best of all, it was free of charge to the customer.

The lady took the first drink, a long one, breathed a sigh of relief and said, “My that’s good.” A brief pause and then, “Is this your Sunday or everyday water?”

I replied very simply, as only one could after a question like that, “Lady it’s the only water we have,” which seemed to satisfy her.

But later, I got to thinking about that question and what might have precipitated it. It was not the heavenly quality of the water, refreshing as it may have seemed. I could only associate it with an idea that had arisen in the minds of some of our visitors, perhaps not totally without justification, that every so-called tourist town had two sets of pricing standards, one for the tourists and one for the local clientele. I never detected this among the businesses of Nashville, except for the occasional discount allowed a close friend or relative. It left one with a clean feeling to know that you would never be caught charging the right persons, who happened to be the customer of the moment, with the wrong price, or drawing water from the wrong faucet.

It was a series of little incidents, such as the one with the lady and the water, interspersed among the routine transactions over the years, that made the long hours behind the counter at Miller’s Drug Store seem more tolerable. I often wondered how it might have been otherwise.

How the Miller family landed in Nashville in the first place, the circumstances that led to it and the years that followed are unusual enough to give cause for reflection. I am convinced the Lord had a hand in it. For that reason, if for no other, it’s worth retelling.

For one to pause and ponder now and then as to why he might be where he is and doing what he is doing at any given moment in history is a mark of wisdom. The greater destinies are made of this. I have thought about this many times during the days at Miller’s — not that I am all that wise, but it helped transform what might have been long hours of confined routine into a meaningful occupation with a noble purpose. For us, it began thusly.

Submitted by Pauline Hoover, Brown County Historical Society