THE WAY IT WAS
(as an 18-year old bootlegging moonshiner)

Most New Year commentary efforts look forward at what might be coming down the road in the near future; or, just focus on making pious resolutions about doing better and the right thing for it, etc. I’m taking a different approach here, putting off national issues and problems for a later effort. Not so much because of nostalgia for – the good old days – but  because a recent piece by Jesse Ellison in Newsweek about a new, and now legit, resurgence of a good old American tradition and spirit called -MOONSHINE- brought back a fond memory. As they say in French…plus ca change plus c’est la meme chose.

It was 1947 (and if some of you think that’s way too ancient history for you, sorry about that), and I was receiving the Chemistry Award at my high school graduation ceremonies, the Principal humorously explaining I was getting it because of my regular attempts to destroy their lab with explosive explorations of a substance called – Toluene -, and my odoriferous experiments with –Fractional Distillation -. As I came forward to get my diploma and award, my classmates cheered, and everyone else chuckled.

It also happened that among family members attending that event was the uncle of a classmate, and best friend at the time. The old gentleman was renowned as a distiller of very high quality spirits, not just ordinary rotgut “moonshine”. No sirree! The elixirs produced from his still were finely crafted, well aged “whuskey”, highly regarded all up and down the Eastern Shore of the DelMarVa peninsula of the Chesapeake Bay. He was the last of his line, from a family that had been producing that fine product since Colonial times before the Revolution. And true to his Scots ancestors old Mr. C. was still using the family’s original recipe and a very ancient cast-copper pot still. A huge onion-shaped rig, with a large alembic to match, it could produce several hundred gallons at a time. It was a priceless 200 year old working museum piece (which the Smithsonian would have gobbled up in flash, if it had known of its existence).

Well, when the old boy heard my name called, and the remarks about my “distillation” experiments, that piqued his interest because he was looking for a helper. His nephew, my best friend, wasn’t much interested in the family’s distilling heritage, so that made me a viable alternative candidate for the job.

Introduced to him after the ceremonies, he then discovered that not only was our farm close by on the other side of the “neck” from his place, but that I also had a sail boat and was notorious for sailing off in it, without any kind of notice, lord knew where, down the Bay. The upshot of all that being I found myself offered my very first grown-up job, while still wearing my cap and gown. I was thrilled! (as was my father whose attitudes about money were very simple ….earn it).

So on the following Monday, as instructed by him, I sailed my 18 foot craft over to his place arriving on the dot at the appointed time. Mr. C’s approving grin and nod of welcome made me even more eager to get down to the nuts and bolts of the job’s requirements. It was very simple. During the coming summer months, I would load my boat with jugs of his “whuskey”, sail down the Bay, and deliver them to his various clients all up and down the Shore. I would be paid $1 for each jug safely delivered. The more cruises I made, the better for me.

Naturally, our first order of business was to determine how many jugs my craft could safely carry per trip. Old Mr. C. had prepared to test that by having a stack of jugs (filled with water) waiting there on the dock. He was a bit dubious about things, at first, till I explained about my boat. It was homemade out of heavy local pin oak and cedar.  It was flat-bottomed, with a beam that made it look more like a raft than a boat. So it was quite stable. In fact it took a near gale to make it go. And with its simple yet ingenious dagger-board and sailing rig (which could be quickly put up or taken down) I could safely cruise both the deeper waters of the Bay, as well as gunk-hole up its smallest and shallowest creeks besides. Since most of his clients had some kind of shore access, there was little doubt I could reach any of them. Besides…who would ever look twice at a teenage sailor in a dumpy looking craft like mine? It was the perfect cover for a bootlegging operation.  By the time we’d gone over these matters, and then found that careful stowing would let me handle a cargo of 25-30 jugs at a time, we were both grinning from ear to ear, and jumping up and down with great anticipation.

So that summer I cruised the Bay and just about every creek of its Eastern Shore delivering my cargos of Mr. C’s elixir to his clients. By the time we were ready to start the production phase for that year, there was well over a $100 in my stash. I had become a successful bootlegger at age 18.

Then, it was time to start the production part of the deal, helping him harvest the grain, hand cob it, help with the malting, prepare the mash, and finally, the distillation itself. I was paid $5 per week for that, for about 5 weeks. Mr. C. was a kind but tough task-master, very, very meticulous about every aspect of the process. He had a long tradition and reputation to uphold, with his clients paying a premium for what came from that ancient still of his (at $20/gallon jug of it….it was more expensive than the store bought stuff). So, I experienced and learned the finer points of making good booze from him. And working with a fine old craftsman like him I was well on the way to becoming a good “moonshiner” besides. It was not easy work, but Mr. C’s acid comments and razor wit at my goofs made it all just plain fun. So, my first season as his “apprentice” came to a happy and prosperous end, as I got ready to go off to college.

But by now fully hooked into the “business”,  I wasn’t too happy having to wait a whole damned year before the next season came along, and was seriously tempted to forego college; but, Mr. C. chewed my ass for being an idiot about that, threatening to fire me if I didn’t go, so I went.

And the following year, we did have another good season of it, as once again I cruised the Bay delivering cargo, and helped with another production of that fine “whuskey” of his. By this time I was quite “expert” with the process, so we had even more fun doing the work, even getting a $20 bonus this time when it was all done. My teenage mind was thus filled with visions of launching a grand “whuskey-making” career, with sailboat-bootlegging as a fringe benefit on top of it.

But, it was not to be. The Draft reared its ugly head, so, to beat it, I chose to enlist in the Army instead. When I came to say goodbye, the old boy bade me follow him down to the underground aging and storage cavern they had built years ago, with its four familiar old oak barrels, the racks of old gallon jugs (they had a tradition of keeping a half dozen of them from each year’s production. There were even still some dating back to 1798), along with the ancient ledgers, where everything had been recorded since year one).

Rummaging around, old Mr. C. finally drew out a very dusty jug, carefully unsealed it,  pulled out two silver dram cups, and a small silver flask, filling all of these with a wide grin on his face, we then toasted each other. I had never actually sampled any of his brew before, so this was a significant honor and treat. Smooth, doesn’t begin to describe that elixir. Almost like forty weight motor oil in color and texture it literally glowed….as it flowed! Back above ground again, we shook hands, he wished me luck, then handed me that silver flask as his parting gift, saying: “Gonna miss y’a, son. You done good by me, so, keep your head and butt down, stay safe, and come on back when y’re finished being a soldier boy, heah?” I drove away, as old Mr. C. waved a casual last farewell.

Sadly, by the time I had returned from Korea, he was gone. My friend, his nephew, had sold the farm, and I never found out what ever happened to that grand old still. A fine “whuskey” making tradition had come to an end. But to this day, I can still taste that last drop of it we shared. It had come from one of those very old reserved jugs of “moonshine” produced way back in…. 1802!

Well, that’s the way it was as an 18-year old bootlegging moonshiner. Now, let’s hope these newbies of the genre will all do right by this great American tradition.

Long live….MOONSHINE!

CENTURION