While sitting in her car outside the front of Roberson Mill with the warm sun pouring through the windows, Regina Roberson Cox muses about the many childhood days she spent inside. Visions of those younger, carefree times produce a keen sense of belonging to the historic building.

She remembers a time when the cogwheels were turning, one dependent on the other, to rotate the big millstones. The sounds were deafening as the old wheel outside pushed water over its top. It was loud enough to force anyone inside or outside to raise their voices to be heard in conversation.
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