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CHAPTER 21 A Binding Thread 1930 to Present

In some ways, the actions of human beings haven't changed all that much over the thou-sands of years studied in the Russell research. People still cast their lines into the Savannah River to catch fish for cooking over an evening campfire. And farmers still optimistically plow the Soil nearby, plant seeds, and trust the sun and rain will do their parts to make the harvest a good one. Even turning stone into useful objects continues all these centuries after PaleoIndians chipped rock into spear-points in the Ice Age.

Such pursuits shared over countless lifetimes form a binding thread in this story of a region, and in a larger sense, in the story of people everywhere. By focusing intently on residents and landscapes in four Southern counties, researchers have provided a portrait with features shared by other people in other regions. Although much of the information uncovered applies only to the places described, enough is universal to provide insights about our common human past.

Today, more than at any other time in its long history, the reservoir area and its people are so closely stitched into the collective national fabric that many unique characteristics have grown far less discernible. Just as modern transportation, television, and other technologies, for all their benefits, have dulled the distinctive flavor of communities across the United States, they have had the same impact along the Savannah River. This loss of a strong sense of place makes the efforts of so many to document what came before all the more worthwhile because they have preserved a fast-fading part of our national legacy.

Some factors of change in the region, however, aren't as broad based, particularly the dramatic shifts resulting from the decline of cotton. The national economic depression, the relentless assault of the boll weevil, and widespread soil erosion from disastrous farminmg practices were some of the causes for families to give up land they and their forebears had tilled for so long. But progress also played a role in displacing people from the land, progress in the form of machinery capable of work that once took many hands to perform. A similar pattern took shape throughout the South. From 1950 to 1978, for example, the number of agricultural jobs in the South declined by more than half, according to historian Charles P. Roland.

Yet, farming by no means stopped in the region. Rather, profits soared from some crops and livestock that took the place of cotton in a new diversified approach to agriculture. But gradually, more and more land fell into fewer hands as agribusiness, with all the vast acreage and sleek machinery that the term implies, replaced small family farms. Statistics show the scope of the transformation. In 1930, there were 16,605 farmers in Elbert, Hart, Abbeville, and Anderson Counties. By 1974, there were only 2,725 left, a drop of 83 percent. During the same time span, Abbeville County lost 85 percent of its farms, while farms 99 acres and larger increased from 18.2 percent to 63.2 percent of all farms.

Tenant farmers who comprised so much of the area's population were affected most by the change from small farms to big ones. Looking again at 1930, there were 12,466 tenant farmers in the four counties then, compared to just 127 in 1974, a drop of 99 percent.

Rufus Bullard watched as a way of life came to an end. "I tell you, and this comes down to facts: Farming had sort of played out, was on its way out… in the 1940's. It was on its way out. You know, people was quitting like they doing, and there wasn't too much farming. It was going to grass and cattle and stuff.... Yeah, farming was on the downswing. And it ain't picked up. It's just continued going out. You see, I'll tell you what really happened: [the government] paid the landowners so much money to get out of production-cotton and such stuff-that the tenant farmer didn't have anything to go on... .We had lots of people who hung around their houses [on tenant farms] for a long time. But, you know, they finally had to get out and find something."

But if the decline of cotton farming hurt many, the land often benefitted. The ugly scars of eroded gullies that formed when top soil grew exhausted and washed away gradually healed. Trees and undergrowth, especially the amazingly profuse kudzu vine, sprouted across former fields and homesites, eventually covering them so completely that some places became unrecognizable, even to former residents.

Grains often replaced cotton as the dominant crops for those who remained on the land or took over from others. Wide-scale tree farming also developed. Much of Millwood Plantation, for example, was planted in trees for use in paper manufacturing after a subsidiary of Duke Power Company bought the land. Adjoining acreage and thousands of acres more in Elbert and McCormick Counties, which belonged to Mead Paper Company, were used for the same purpose. Raising poultry was another successful alternative pursued by some.

But for the thousands who left farming, other jobs, and often other homes, had to be found. For many, leaving the region altogether to seek work in major cities provided the solution, while others managed to get jobs in industries nearby. Some, however, were not so successful and became unemployed.

The mainstay for some former farmers, ironically, once more came out of the ground. An abundance of granite in Elbert County fostered a thriving industry. The first known stonemasonry occurred in the county in the 1850's with the production of granite tombstones. Quarrying and refining the mineral steadily increased as the market for granite grew. Weather-resistant and pleasing to the eye, the stone earned Elberton the reputation as "the granite capital of the world"; that title is proudly displayed in bold letters on a sign downtown over a display of monuments.

This is how one resident, Carroll Mary Hudson, recalled the early years of the granite industry: "By 1920, they had three or four rock sheds in Elberton.... The first little place where they cut granite was up on the side of the railroad, up just above the Seaboard Rail Line.... A little place in there because they were afraid of the dust, you know. They wouldn't go in the shed, they would cut it in the outside there... They wouldn't wear a mask or anything, no way to protect themselves... .That's really what made Elberton; we didn't have anything here. There wasn't too much cotton, since we would have bad crops some years and that put it back. Good business in general we didn't have until the granite business come here. The granite industry is just what makes this county."

Using granite foundations for farm houses and outbuildings and constructing chimneys with a combination of granite and brick, became common in the area in the nineteenth century. Later, entire houses were made of granite, as well as the facades of businesses. Granite monuments for parks and signs also became popular.

By 1977, three or four rock sheds had grown to 125 companies for granite production. The Elberton Granite Association estimated that those businesses employed about 40 percent of the non-farming population of the region. By 1975, the value of the thousands of tons of stone these workers produced was $3,662,000. Grave markers continued to be the dominant commodity, accounting for 90 percent of the production.

Jumps in industrial employment also came in the other three counties studied. In Abbeville County, the number of manufacturing jobs increased from 20 to 60 percent of all jobs between the late 1940's and the 1970's, while in Hart County, the figure was even more startling: from less than ten percent to nearly 50 percent. Anderson County fared best of all, perhaps because its economy industrialized earlier than the others. In the late 1970's, the labor force in Anderson County was more than twice the size of the workforce in the other three counties combined. First textiles, then other manufacturing solidified the county's economic base.

With the start of construction in 1976 of the Richard B. Russell Dam, life changed quickly and dramatically in some parts of all four counties. The Federal Government bought 52,000 acres along a 28-mile portion of the river and its tributaries. Eventually, 26,650 of those acres would be under water. Farmers and others in the path of the new Russell Lake that would form when the floodgates closed had to move, along with those occupying other land designated for road and railroad relocations and recreational areas.

Among the most dramatic relocations was the water transport of Blackwell Bridge. From its location over Beaverdam Creek in the southern part of the reservoir, the bridge was to be moved to Coldwater State Park, which was created as a result of the dam. The Corps of Engineers managed the unusual feat with help from two U. S. Army combat engineer battalions from Fort Stewart. The soldiers participated as part of a training exercise.

Engineers had deemed Blackwell Bridge worth saving because of its distinctive architectural value. Built around 1917, the bridge has a single span design and important features of the "American System" of pin connections. As a result of its significance, Blackwell Bridge was placed on the National Register of Historic Places.

Moving the bridge without any damage presented a rare engineering challenge. Crews first carefully measured its dimensions, then considered various transportation alternatives. After much deliberation, experts decided to dismantle part of the bridge deck and attach flotation devices to the main structure because that was likely to cause the least stress on the materials.

Guiding the bridge up water to its new spot was scheduled to coincide with and take advantage of the rising of the new Lake Russell in late August and early September 1984.

After attaching steel dredging pontoons and styrofoam floats beneath the bridge, workers detached the entire structure from its granite abutments. Then Blackwell Bridge was ready to go for a ride. Soldiers towed the floating bridge behind new jet exhaust bridge boats, which were receiving one of their first performance tests.

When the remarkable convoy reached Coldwater State Park, 20-ton cranes took over, hoisting the bridge out of the water and into its new resting place over a stream in a secluded cove. A new deck was built, and Blackwell Bridge was ready to serve exclusively as a foot crossing for visitors passing along a hiking trail.

Regrettably, people sometimes were less favorably affected by the changes the new dam brought. Speaking about the loss of his family's homeplace, the Alexander-Cleveland Farm, Windell Cleveland explained how painful the experience was: "It's not takin' your life, but in other words, it's the same as takin' your life-takin' something you've worked for years to build up.... Land is precious, I tell you, people just don't realize what it means."

Today, the Richard B. Russell Dam reaches wide and high across the Savannah River, capturing, using, and controlling its powerful flow as the water generates hydroelectric power for the surrounding area. The barrier is a human accomplishment that would have stunned observers not so long ago who knew the river when little could be done to avoid its floods except to get out of the way.

On clear days, the big lake on the dam's north side looks blue and inviting; and, as expected, many come from both sides of the river to enjoy swimming, boating, and fishing in its cool, deep waters. The landscape is now protected by the Corps of Engineers, who work to preserve a wildlife habitat and to safeguard the environment, including thousands of trees. There are many public spots for recreation, including three state parks, one named Calhoun Falls, and another called McCalla State Park, commemorating two names long prominent in the area.

But as time passes, fewer and fewer visitors will recall the buildings and other landmarks that once existed beneath these waters. And fewer still will remember the old tales of Indians and conquistadors, pioneers and slaves, revolutionaries and farmers, who once spent time by the water's edge.

Camping in parks along the lake shore is popular, and when night falls, people gather around fires that send sparks flying into the darkness, just as other distant fires did so long ago.

View the timeline showing the cultural sequence in the study area (Figure 205- 154.7 KB)

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