The town of Westmoreland lies high atop the northern part of Tennessee’s great Highland Rim, on what Sumner Countians inhabiting lower elevations to the south call “the Ridge”.  Some six miles below the Kentucky border, the land in the town itself is generally rolling, causing its streets to rise and fall with the awkward lay of the land.  Moisture from the Gulf of Mexico rides the winds northward to give the town an abundance of rainfall when needed, contributing a necessary ingredient for stunningly picturesque autumns and profusely-flowered springs.  Mild winters and summers are occasionally interrupted with spikes of cold and hot, respectively.  Tornadoes menace the area with what seems to be an increasing frequency.

Originally a congregation of buildings divided in the center by the tracks of the Chesapeake and Nashville Railroad,  the town has slowly spread in all directions from its earliest origins.  The haphazard reaches are bordered to the east by Macon County, to the north and west by verdant and fertile farms, perhaps past their prime but still rich with crops, cattle and horses and family tradition, and to the south by the sharp valleys and ridges that mark the conflicting lines between the Highland Rim and the Central Basin. 

Though a commercial center in one of Tennessee’s fastest growing counties, Westmoreland has, until recently, been the center of the “slow growth” portion of Sumner County, and to many folks that’s quite alright.  Historically, growth has been minimal and incremental at best.  No busy interstates or rail lines pass through the immediate area, the closest such transportation being some sixteen miles to the west.  Economic growth is often about location and Westmoreland is at a disadvantage due to its distance from such life-giving arteries.  There is found within the town the intersection of two ancient wayfares: the Old Fort Blount Road and the Jackson Highway, now officially named Highways 52 and 31-E.  Both roads are travelled daily by increasing numbers of users, teasingly hinting at development that is soon to come.

Westmoreland borders no large body of water.  Large creeks have their beginnings as smaller ones before meandering from within its environs to flow occasionally southward toward the Cumberland but most amble off toward the north and a rendezvous with Kentucky’s Barren River.  The area’s ample springs lured a number of early settlers to lay down roots in this place. Many a descendant still drink from these aquifers. 

Most small towns like to claim something unique to make them seem different from all the other small towns.  Though it has done a poor job in letting the world know, the town is home to what should be the world’s shortest railroad tunnel.  Long standing hidden and nearly forgotten, it remains as though it were money stuffed into a mattress, an opportunity for so much more.

Though both blessed and cursed with being small, Westmoreland is classic “small town America”.  When there were more of them, the ladies of the Methodist Church on Park Street sponsored their annual rummage sale in September, their benefit auction and supper in November.  The Red Hat Ladies used to gather frequently for lunch, adorned resplendently in their scarlet headdresses.  And, for awhile, the Rotary Club met every Tuesday for lunch at the meat and three.  The library still plays host to an abundance of chattering children during its summer reading programs.  Many of the same children warily square off against each other as Little Leaguers on the local baseball diamonds, sporting the uniforms of Mike’s Food Valu, Macon Bank & Trust, and so forth.  The volunteers in the fire department stand ready to answer the call when needed, even if the call is to take a few minutes to show off the new fire engine to a multitude of curious preschoolers at the local day care center.  Towering shade trees in the Ricky Woodard Memorial Park provide comfortable spots for lawn chairs and blankets on which to enjoy summer concerts, Independence Day fireworks, the sight of neighbors competing in horseshoe tournaments, a hot air balloon ride, or the chance at taking home a choice cake won in a cakewalk.  It remains the kind of place where a visit to the grocery store becomes an allotted amount of time, due not to long lines but rather to long conversations with others in the aisles and to drive home, both hands must be used on account of frequent waving to other passersby. 

That is Westmoreland and what follows is a sampling of the history of the place, its surroundings, and its people.