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A Painting of Grandpa Johnny’s Mill

I was five years old when I learned to shell corn. It was in the fall. Grandpa Henry had harvested his corn crop and the crib was stuffed to bursting with corn in the shuck. Grandpa retrieved a fair number of ears from the crib, shucked them, and put them in a sack which he carried up the hill to the house. We had a long bench made of wood slats under a poplar tree in the front yard, and there we parked our sack of corn. Grandpa went to fetch a bucket and when he returned I watched in amazement as he very skillfully removed the dried corn from the cob. The white grains dropped into the bucket like a summer rain. Right away I knew it was an art I was destined to master, and begged him to show me how.

Grandpa Henry was a patient man, and he consented. He taught me to single out one grain at the very tip and to use the force of my tiny thumb to dislodge that one grain. After that it was easier to dislodge the next. I found that after I shelled all the uneven grains at the tip it was smooth sailing to shell one row at a time in the straight body of the ear. My little five year old hands had not much strength. I was not able to shell more than one grain at a time. But I had inherited Grandpa’s patience, and besides that he had promised when I got the bucket full we would take it to Grandpa Johnny’s mill and grind it into corn meal. I had watched Grandma make corn bread from meal and I very much wanted to see the process of changing hard grains of corn into soft powdery meal.

The dogwood tree in the foreground replaced the poplar tree.

For three days whenever Grandma would let me I’d be hard at work under the poplar tree, dropping corn into the bucket. By the third day I was wondering if I would ever get to go to Grandpa Johnny’s mill. Hard as I had worked, the bucket was just not getting full. And to make matters worse I had developed a blister on my right thumb which forced me to work left handed, which was not so bad except that my left thumb was also getting pretty sore. Looking back, I realize what was happening to my corn. Grandpa Henry was taking a daily ration of it to feed his chickens!

Not to worry. All ended well. On the morning of the fourth day Grandpa helped me and we shelled lots of corn. That is Grandpa shelled lots of corn. I was not able to shell much with two ruined thumbs. Grandpa poured corn from the bucket into the sack until he had sacked up fifteen or twenty pounds of shelled corn. Then he slung the sack over his shoulder and we walked all the way to the mill. It seemed like a very long way, but it was actually about a quarter of a mile, more or less. It was the first time I had ever been there, at least the first time I remember being there.

Newspaper photo of the mill from the rear. A flying rock from road construction put a hole in the roof.

The mill house stood to the west of the narrow road, at the foot of the waterfall. It was a small building, made of stout notched poles and clad with milled lumber. There was a tall little room downstairs with a fireplace to the right. It was cold that morning and I was glad Grandpa built a fire. On the left side of the room was a chute where the freshly ground meal dropped down into a box. A stairway led up to the hopper where the corn was fed to the grindstones. There were windows upstairs, open to the creek, to let in some light to the one who was working at the hopper. Above the mill house, at the top of the falls was a little dam that could be opened and shut with a pole, operated from the mill house. When the dam was opened the creek could flow unhindered, but when the dam was shut part of the creek waters were diverted into a shallow trough or ‘race’ where they ran downhill and turned the wheel. The wheel attached to a shaft that rotated one stone against another and ground the corn. Grandpa Johnny’s mill was a ‘tub’ mill, or turbine mill. The mill wheel turned horizontally, and did look like a round tub, with spokes radiating from the center to the rim.

Grandpa Henry busied himself filling the hopper with corn and getting all things in readiness. Then, with a loud ‘CLACK’ the dam at the top of the falls shut; and the mill race opened. Suddenly it seemed like nearly all the water in Flat Creek was rushing down the mill race toward the waterwheel. I will never forget when that great wheel began to turn. That little mill house began to growl. It shook and rumbled like a great cat purring; and then — a miracle! White and beautiful, fluffy as snow, the ground corn began at first to sift and then to pour. Grandpa held a cloth bag under the chute, gathering up the fine meal as it fell. When all the corn was ground, Grandpa closed the mill race. The purring and rumbling died away as the mill wheel slowly ground to a halt.

Who could forget so great an adventure! It was one I was fortunate to repeat a few more times before Grandma began to buy meal at the grocery. But that ‘bought’ meal was never the same as Grandpa Henry’s. Now that I am old, I am privileged again to have fresh ground meal, and wonderful memories of an earlier time.

For genealogy buffs, Grandpa Johnny was John McCall, Jr. and Grandpa Henry his grandson.