Moonshine Battle in the Ozarks
WITH the planting finished and the fences around the pasture built, Dad grew
restless. That's when he decided to set up his own still in a cave and make moonshine,
or homemade whiskey.
He led me down the narrow trail across the rocky interior of our small farm to
his newly hidden still. At the tender age of five, I led the pack mule, which carried the
supplies. Dad sang a drinking song that he said reminded him of simpler days with
jamming and drinking to make you numb and take you to happier places. His plan
involved hooking his friends on his moonshine and then developing the market for
profit.
Once the supplies were unloaded, he hoppled the mule. We started moving the
brush covering from the entrance to the cave when we heard a familiar hissing. Dad
grabbed his rifle and shot the head off a big rattlesnake, coiled at the entrance. I didn't
make a move until he tossed the dead snake aside. After a thorough investigation
assured him of our safety, we climbed down a ladder into a cavern where a fresh
spring of running water awaited us.
Dad lit the lantern, and we brought the supplies into the cave and went to
work. I handed him gallon buckets of spring water to mix up the mash in a big
wooden barrel. He whistled as he explained to me the fine art of making a superior
home brew. He put the lid back on the barrel; it would be bottled later after aging. We
climbed out and replaced the covering over the entrance.
I set out to do my chores when we got home while Mama fixed supper. This
gave Dad time to smoke his pipe and do a little reading of some Western, or he might
write or sing if he was in a really good mood.
Once the moonshine aged, the darker side of Dad began to return. He sat at
the kitchen table brooding with a bottle of moonshine when I got up the morning of
the shooting. I figured Mama must be working down at Markel's Tomato Factory, and Dad would probably take us down to Grammy's after the other kids got up. He glared
at me when I walked by him to feed the chickens and milk the goats.
I came back and poured the warm milk into a gallon jar and stuck it in the
icebox. "Do you want me to go back to the spring and rinse out the pails and bring
back some fresh water?" I asked. "This way I could walk back with Mama from
work."
He checked his pocket watch out of his bib overalls and abruptly pushed back
his chair, spilling his whiskey. "No!" He picked up the bottle quickly to prevent a
larger spill. Then he pulled down his rifle from the wall, loaded it, and began pacing
up and down the floor. This made me so nervous I wanted to hide under my bed or
in the closet, but couldn't see any way around him.
"Are we going squirrel hunting?" I asked.
"Mind your business, Boy," he growled and moved toward me. Grabbing my
arm, he jerked me back into the house and ordered me to sit.
Then he cocked his rifle, aimed, and fired at Mama as she came up the hillside
trail. She crumpled to the ground, and I screamed, and lunged at him with both fists
flying. He sat his gun down, contained me with one arm, and cupped my mouth with
his big hand. "Shut up before you wake your little sister and brother," he said. "Can't
you see that your mom's hurt?"
He hung up his rifle and went to help Mama. I prayed silently as the tears ran
down my cheeks.
She moaned when he laid her on the old army blanket that covered the sofa. I
ran to hug her, and she pulled me close to try to quiet my fears. The smell of sour
whiskey on her breath surprised me. It made me uneasy that she had been drinking
without Dad. That must be why he was upset.
"Son, it's time to run down to Grandma's while I doctor your mom," he said
and pulled me away from her. "Don't say anything about the accident because it
would just worry her. Have her send you home in a couple hours."
"Mind your daddy. I'll be better when you get back," Mama said.
Trudging down the hillside to Grammy's, I felt sad and confused. I ran to meet
her, and she gathered me up in her arms and carried me to her rocker. She rocked and
held me close while I cried. Her caring action said everything I needed to hear. Softly
she sang, "Jesus loves me, this I know" until I stopped crying. Then she gave me a
bowl of oatmeal and raisins and a warm biscuit covered with butter and blackberry
jelly.
When I climbed back up the hill to the house, Mama hobbled about the
kitchen with a crutch, drinking a strong cup of coffee. I helped set the table. Dad
stirred a pot of ham and beans on the stove and ran his fingers through my hair when
I walked by. My little sister, Peggy Jean, chattered in her high chair about one thing
after another, and baby Jerry enjoyed his warm bottle of goat's milk from his cradle. I
squeezed Mama's hand when Daddy went out to the burn barrel with her bloody
dress.
WITH the planting finished and the fences around the pasture built, Dad grew
restless. That's when he decided to set up his own still in a cave and make moonshine,
or homemade whiskey.
He led me down the narrow trail across the rocky interior of our small farm to
his newly hidden still. At the tender age of five, I led the pack mule, which carried the
supplies. Dad sang a drinking song that he said reminded him of simpler days with
jamming and drinking to make you numb and take you to happier places. His plan
involved hooking his friends on his moonshine and then developing the market for
profit.
Once the supplies were unloaded, he hoppled the mule. We started moving the
brush covering from the entrance to the cave when we heard a familiar hissing. Dad
grabbed his rifle and shot the head off a big rattlesnake, coiled at the entrance. I didn't
make a move until he tossed the dead snake aside. After a thorough investigation
assured him of our safety, we climbed down a ladder into a cavern where a fresh
spring of running water awaited us.
Dad lit the lantern, and we brought the supplies into the cave and went to
work. I handed him gallon buckets of spring water to mix up the mash in a big
wooden barrel. He whistled as he explained to me the fine art of making a superior
home brew. He put the lid back on the barrel; it would be bottled later after aging. We
climbed out and replaced the covering over the entrance.
I set out to do my chores when we got home while Mama fixed supper. This
gave Dad time to smoke his pipe and do a little reading of some Western, or he might
write or sing if he was in a really good mood.
Once the moonshine aged, the darker side of Dad began to return. He sat at
the kitchen table brooding with a bottle of moonshine when I got up the morning of
the shooting. I figured Mama must be working down at Markel's Tomato Factory, and Dad would probably take us down to Grammy's after the other kids got up. He glared
at me when I walked by him to feed the chickens and milk the goats.
I came back and poured the warm milk into a gallon jar and stuck it in the
icebox. "Do you want me to go back to the spring and rinse out the pails and bring
back some fresh water?" I asked. "This way I could walk back with Mama from
work."
He checked his pocket watch out of his bib overalls and abruptly pushed back
his chair, spilling his whiskey. "No!" He picked up the bottle quickly to prevent a
larger spill. Then he pulled down his rifle from the wall, loaded it, and began pacing
up and down the floor. This made me so nervous I wanted to hide under my bed or
in the closet, but couldn't see any way around him.
"Are we going squirrel hunting?" I asked.
"Mind your business, Boy," he growled and moved toward me. Grabbing my
arm, he jerked me back into the house and ordered me to sit.
Then he cocked his rifle, aimed, and fired at Mama as she came up the hillside
trail. She crumpled to the ground, and I screamed, and lunged at him with both fists
flying. He sat his gun down, contained me with one arm, and cupped my mouth with
his big hand. "Shut up before you wake your little sister and brother," he said. "Can't
you see that your mom's hurt?"
He hung up his rifle and went to help Mama. I prayed silently as the tears ran
down my cheeks.
She moaned when he laid her on the old army blanket that covered the sofa. I
ran to hug her, and she pulled me close to try to quiet my fears. The smell of sour
whiskey on her breath surprised me. It made me uneasy that she had been drinking
without Dad. That must be why he was upset.
"Son, it's time to run down to Grandma's while I doctor your mom," he said
and pulled me away from her. "Don't say anything about the accident because it
would just worry her. Have her send you home in a couple hours."
"Mind your daddy. I'll be better when you get back," Mama said.
Trudging down the hillside to Grammy's, I felt sad and confused. I ran to meet
her, and she gathered me up in her arms and carried me to her rocker. She rocked and
held me close while I cried. Her caring action said everything I needed to hear. Softly
she sang, "Jesus loves me, this I know" until I stopped crying. Then she gave me a
bowl of oatmeal and raisins and a warm biscuit covered with butter and blackberry
jelly.
When I climbed back up the hill to the house, Mama hobbled about the
kitchen with a crutch, drinking a strong cup of coffee. I helped set the table. Dad
stirred a pot of ham and beans on the stove and ran his fingers through my hair when
I walked by. My little sister, Peggy Jean, chattered in her high chair about one thing
after another, and baby Jerry enjoyed his warm bottle of goat's milk from his cradle. I
squeezed Mama's hand when Daddy went out to the burn barrel with her bloody
dress.