I stand inside surrounded by monstrous machinery. I climb the rickety wooden-slat stairs to the top. On every floor I can hear, echoing from the past, the deafening noise of the machines, the calls and heavy footsteps of workers treading the wooden floors. Can feel the heat pressing in and flour dust that fills the nostrils, working together to stifle me. And I am amazed, again, at those that went before us.
Smoky Valley Roller Mills