In 1814, brothers Simeon and Heman Cooley settled a plot of land in the wooded hills of Southeast Ohio and began laying out a village. Coolville, as it would be called, initially benefitted from access to the adjacent Hocking River and then later on from a regional road that coursed through the center of town. Although the village's population has never exceeded 700 residents, there was a time when it hosted at least two service stations, a family-owned grocery store, a motel, a flower shop, a locally owned restaurant, and two antique stores.
The fabric of life in Coolville underwent changes during the 1960s when the main road was expanded to four lanes and rerouted from the heart of town to its perimeter. The new route, along with a proliferation of chain stores offering cheaper goods in the region, slowly reduced the stream of customers visiting Coolville's "mom and pop" shops and eventually forced most of them out of business. According to some, this shift, coupled with the relocation of the village's high school to another town, took a toll on the community. As in similar places in rural America, the present reality often necessitates long commutes for work and prompts many young people to ultimately move elsewhere.
Coolville-area resident Dave Rupe believes there had been an opportunity to attract new industry and jobs to the outskirts of the village back when the four-lane road expansion was being constructed. A point of contention is whether the town was unable or unwilling to court this development. The prospect of what might have been leaves many feeling conflicted. "How much poorer would it have been if it were modernized?" he wonders. "It now has a significance for being frozen in time."
Many of the 500 people who remain in Coolville in spite of the challenges point to the value of the peace and quiet here. They also say that Coolville continues to be a place where a neighbor will lend you a generator if your power is knocked out in a storm. It's a place where people might worry if you don't show up at a breakfast at the firehouse or a potluck at the library. It's a place where older folks relish shared tales of days gone by—stories of a monkey that lived in the old Roots service station, of a house that was picked up and carried down the street to prevent its demolition, of a flooded bridge, of spouses married and children raised, of commitments to a small-town life that no external factor has been able to completely erase.