The Mill on the Bridge

"There's a covered bridge not far from here," Aaron said as I was finishing my second cup of coffee.  Claudette and I were at the Edenhouse Bed and Breakfast in Swainsboro, Georgia. This was our second day at Edenhouse, and we were planning our day. Swainsboro is about 70 miles from Savannah and not much of a tourist attraction, so we were surprised that there would an example of Americana nearby.

"Tell us more," I said.  Our rotund innkeeper was sitting at a nearby table. We had enjoyed conversation with Aaron since our arrival.  As a retiree of the U.S. Air Force he had many interesting stories.

"It's just a few miles from here, near Twin City.  It's at the George L. Smith State Park.  There's a grist mill, cotton gin, and sawmill too. And, you know what the best thing about it is?" he asked.

"Nope," I said.

"A four hundred acre lake," he replied.

"Wow," I said and turned to Claudete to say, "Let's get movin'".

Claudette knows all about my fondness for old grist mills and the like.

We left Swainsboro on Highway 80  for Twin City, and there we followed the sign pointing to the George L. Smith State Park, but we never saw the entrance to the park.  When we reached Metter, Georgia, we realized we had missed the entrance. We took an alternate route back to Highway 80 and found another sign indicating the direction to the park. There is not actually an entrance to the park. As you drive through a pine forest you see signage indicating the locations of campsites and cabins. Eventually we saw the lake and followed the road beside it until we found some buildings by the lake. The small one was labeled restrooms. My second cup of coffee was making itself known, so we stopped in the parking lot under trees which gave credence to the old expression, "higher than a Georgia pine".

Across the road was the lake, studded with cypress and tupelo trees. The waters of the lake were held back by an earthen dam with a covered bridge in the middle of it.

"Claudette, didn't Aaron say there was a sawmill, cotton gin, and grist mill here?"

"Yes, he did, but I don't see anything but a bridge," she responded, "and he said something about railroad tracks going over the bridge, too".

"Well, let's just look at this bridge then. Maybe those fellas fishing can tell us something," I said as I grabbed her hand and walked across the dam to the covered bridge.

About twenty feet inside the bridge, which seemed as wide as the northbound lanes of I-95, I realized that the bridge housed the mill. There were some odd looking wheels about two feet in

diameter over on the side toward the lake under one of the windows.  "They look a little like railroad car wheels," I mused aloud.

"I know what they are!" Claudette said.

"Oh, really," I said.

"Yes I do.  When the horses would  pull wagons onto the bridge they would sometimes get spooked and bolt. So they put those wheels on the wagons and the horses could not pull the wagons in any direction but straight ahead," she said as she gleefully shared her new found knowledge. "See, it says so right here on this plaque mounted on the wall."

"I'm not sure of exactly how that would work...but I guess it would," I said.

Along the wall there were windows so that you could see the interior workings of the grist mill. The history of the mill was told on the wall mounted plaques as well as the technical data about how the grist mill and the former sawmill and cotton gin had operated.  The sawmill had been used to saw some of the timber from which the bridge was built.  The grist mill had begun operation in the 1880's and continued to grind corn until 1973.
Actually, it could grind corn at the rate of two hundred pounds per
hour.  That's a lot of cornbread and hushpuppies!  The mill is currently operated on a limited basis.  I was particularly interested in how the water powered turbine operated.  The older one was on display.  It's about five feet in diameter.  The speed at which the turbine and subsequent mill stone turns is determined by the pitch (angle) of the turbine blades.  It must have been a busy place with everything operating.  We exited the other end of the bridge, and I thought I would see if the fishermen were having any luck.


I walked down the stairway about thirty feet to water level. There were about four fellows fishing there. Just as I walked down, a fisherman pulled out a fish that was black and about fifteen inches long.  The young man in the John Deere cap deftly took the fish off the hook and released it back into the foaming water.

"What's the matter? Was that one too big for the frying pan?" I asked.

"Naw," he said, "That's an old blackfish.  Ain't no good to eat.  Too many bones. Some people call 'em a freshwater shark 'cause they got so many teeth."

"What other kind of fish are in here?" I asked.

"That fella up there caught some bream and crappie," he answered.

"Yeah, a bream's a good eating fish," I said.

"Amen, to that.  Ain't nothin' better," an old timer added.

"Y'all don't catch 'em all now," I said in parting.

We had enjoyed our visit to George L. Smith State Park.  It was a good outing, and we learned a bit, but it was time to head north to our home in the lowcountry of South Carolina.