Some of my earliest memories, and some of the best days of my childhood, began here, at a place called War Eagle Mill, just outside Rogers, Arkansas, the small town where I was born.

If you look at the photograph, you’ll see an old red mill sitting beside a river, with an iron bridge stretching across the water.

I spent a lot of summer days here when I was a boy. I used to fish along the river, and I always looked forward to walking across that old bridge to visit the mill.

My mother would bring me here for the annual craft fair. There were people selling handmade goods, food, and all sorts of things that kept me entertained for hours.

But for me, the best part was always inside that red building.

There was a restaurant, a bakery, and a gift shop. All interesting enough, I suppose. But what really fascinated me was the enormous red milling machine.

War Eagle Mill used the power of the river to grind corn and wheat into fresh flour and cornmeal.

But what fascinated me most wasn’t the flour. It was the machinery.

Inside that old red building was an enormous system of spinning wheels, pulleys, and leather belts. The river turned a waterwheel outside, and all that mechanical energy was transferred through those belts and pulleys to the heavy millstones that did the actual grinding.

I could stand there watching it for ages.

There was something remarkable about seeing the power of a river put to work like that. No electric motors. Just water, machinery, and a little ingenuity turning ordinary grain into something people could take home and use in their kitchens.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but that idea stuck with me.

And now, all these years later, I have a mill of my own.

Mine is considerably smaller. It runs on electricity instead of river water, and there aren’t any enormous grinding stones turning beneath the floor.

I don’t make flour or cornmeal, either. I grind herbs and spices, work with different textures, and combine ingredients to create seasoning blends inspired by the regional foods I grew up eating across America.

The machinery is different. The ingredients are different. But there’s something familiar about taking simple raw ingredients and turning them into something useful, something that belongs in somebody’s kitchen.

And that brings me to the name.

My name is William. My father’s name was William. My grandfather’s name was William, too.

Three generations of Williams.

When I started thinking about what to call this little seasoning company, I kept coming back to those childhood visits to War Eagle Mill. The river, the bridge, the sound of the machinery, and the days I spent there with my mother.

William’s Mill.

It connects my family, the place I came from, and the work I’m doing today.

It’s funny how things turn out.

Back then, I was just a boy in Arkansas, excited to go fishing and watch an old mill grind grain. I had no idea those summer days would eventually help inspire a business some 8,000 kilometers away, in Finland of all places.

But here we are.