 |
Storyteller's Cabin |
Written by Craig Dominey
That's exactly what one young family did on a bright summer day back in the 1930s. At that time there was a grist mill operating near the bridge, which is how Poole's Mill got its name. The mill was first built in the early 1800s by a Cherokee named George Welch. But he was tragically forced out of Georgia by the government and sent out west along the notorious Trail of Tears. Even though another family took over the grist mill and ran it successfully for years, some say the area was forever cursed by the wrong done to Mr. Welch.
The young family I mentioned earlier included a Daddy, a Mama and their nine-year- old daughter. They were traveling through the area when they saw the pretty bridge and thought they'd stop for a picnic just upstream from the mill. Mama and Daddy spread a blanket on a tiny hill while their daughter ran down to the creek.
"Watch yourself down there!" yelled Mama after her daughter.
But the young girl didn't pay her any mind. It was hot as the devil's kitchen, and that cool water sure looked tempting. So the young girl kicked off her shoes and socks, hiked up her dress and jumped into that cool water.
What nobody knew that day was that recent rains had made the creek deeper and more trecherous than it seemed. In no time, the current suddenly swept the young girl away. Mama and Daddy heard her screams and ran down to the creek bank. Then they gazed in horror at what lay ahead.
Their daughter was floating downstream toward the grist mill.
Her daddy dove into the water and frantically swam after her. He was a strong swimmer, and with the help of the current he inched closer and closer to his screaming daughter. But she was being sucked toward the large water wheel that creaked and groaned in the rushing water like some wounded monster.
"Hold on sweetheart!" screamed Daddy, his mouth filling with the rushing water.
Daddy lunged for the big blue bow on the back of his daughter's dress, his fingertips mere inches from her. Then with one final, blood curdling scream, his daughter was sucked under the water wheel. The mill creaked to a halt, and Daddy knew with sickening certainty that his daughter was wedged under the wheel.
By this time the mill workers had heard her screams. They dove into the water to help save her. But by the time they pried her from the slimy wooden teeth of the water wheel, it was too late. The pretty young girl had drowned, her face as blue as the bow on her dress.
The story spread like wildfire through the community. Devastated, the young couple left the state with the body of their daughter and never returned. No one knew their names, but the young victim was forever known around town as the Blue Girl.
Several years later, the old grist mill mysteriously burned to the ground and the pretty bridge fell into neglect. Until the county built the nice new park I mentioned earlier, many an old timer wondered what was really happening out at the old Poole's Mill. Had the Blue Girl returned to avenge her death? Or was it the curse of the Cherokee George Welch?
Return to top
