Corny Home Mills
Corny. I note that simple jokes and entertainers are often called “corny,” but I don’t know who that insults. You can’t insult someone who agrees with you. My family has a long association with grist mills. In 1785 a Baptist Church was formed in Phillips Mill near Washington, GA. How old the mill was prior to 1785 is anybody’s guess.
The Mill was owned by Joel Phillips, Sr. (who served under Lt. Col. Elijah Clarke) then later his son Joel Phillips, Jr.
Phillips Mill Baptist Church is still going.
Joel, Sr., is my 3x great-grandfather.
In the 1840’s an indirect great-uncle, Ephraim Pray, built Pray’s Mill on Dog River. It was burned during the “recent unpleasantness” of the summer of 1864, and Pray’s Mill Baptist Church was about twenty years old at the time.
In the 1920’s, grandfather Joe Phillips hired Mr. James Cansler to build a mill on Dog River. My grandfather and Uncle Guy Phillips operated it until sometime in the 1950’s.
In a number of ways I am the black sheep of my family, including that I don’t own a grist mill.
I only saw Phillips Mill operate once when I was very young and my father wanted freshly ground “real” grits.
Little Miss Phillips was very young and had been listening to her great-grandfather tell about how terrible modern grits are and how wonderful coarse ground grits were.
He told LMP that he grew up on grits that were chewy, loaded with flavor ground in the family grist mill.
LMP called for a road trip. We found Butler’s Mill leaning over the Little Tallapoosa River near Graham, AL.
The miller understood what we wanted but said he hadn’t had a call for coarse ground grits in years. He leaned on an iron handle which opened the gate, which allowed water into the sluce, which turned the water wheel, which caused the stones to turn. The whole building shuddered and groaned as if the nails were trying to escape. LMP rolled her eyes at me.
The miller adjusted the stones until we had what we thought we wanted. My father later pronounced the grits authentic.
After all that testing and adjusting, we bought only five pounds of coarse ground grits and still have a handful in a Mason jar hiding in the frig.
Everybody was happy. The miller was pleased to have a request testing his skill and memory. My father was pleased to have a dish from his childhood. LMP nearly swooned at the difference between grits as she had known them and the bowl of joy flavored with butter, cheese and salt.
joenphillips@yahoo.com
