Time diluted his brogue and ameliorated some of the curmudgeon in him but nothing diminished his charm and unabashed passion for simply being alive. Everyone who ever interrupted his journey to visit the Old Mill on Highway 68 or made it his intended destination always left the historic grist mill with a sense of timelessness, an interlude where the bustle of the world’s activity was distilled in conversation and embellished with the commentary of the irrepressible Scotsman, Charlie Parnell. Under Charlie’s ownership the Old Mill became a gathering place for friendly folk as much as it was a place of business tailored-made for a well-traveled, self-taught miller. Our children can mark stages of their journey to adulthood through trips to the Mill whether the occasion was accompanying us during our usual stop to purchase flour and mixes, or when they were home on break from college, or when we shared Thanksgiving dinner with Charlie and his wife, Heidi at our house or at the Mill after it closed for the day. Local legend has it that British troops under Cornwallis commandeered the Mill in 1781 to grind flour for the soldiers before they engaged Colonial troops under General Nathaniel Greene at the Battle of Guilford Courthouse. It is fitting indeed that what was once occupied to sustain the efforts of war now offers nourishment with wit instead of bayonet; the restive flow of water on the mill wheel disrupts the deathly cadence of the drum beats of war: the mill wheel has turned full circle and turned round right. Although I think he’d have preferred Chaucer to Procol Harem, these lines from their song, Whiter Shade of Pale echo in my mind: And so it was that later/as the miller told his tale...
And He did; the miller told one fine tale.
Charlie Parnell died March 25, 2007.
