Moonshining and Moonshiners

Many people know about the term “Moonshining”. It conjures different images to different people. To some, it is a sinister group of thugs like in the movie “Walking Tall”. To others it is a glamorized version where the moonshiners are good ole boys just trying to make a dollar. They don’t mean anyone any harm.

Now, I have never seen a moonshine still or a moonshiner in the woods. I have traipsed around in woods all over central and north Georgia. I know I must have been where some were but wasn’t alert enough to see them, maybe. I do know some people that were involved in the business “back in the day”.

A former neighbor of mine never produced any moonshine but he drove for several different “moonshiners” and told me stories, some no doubt embellished, of his escapades in avoiding getting caught. He did not have a ’40 Ford with a Cadillac motor. He was not out trying to outrun the sheriff. He was trying to outsmart them. In his young days, he said he always had a girl in the car, snuggled up, and looking like they were on a date. On one such run he was actually flagged down by the local sheriff and asked for a ride. The sheriff claimed his car was broken down and he needed to go to a local “juke joint” where his deputy was waiting. He just happened to flag this guy down when he had a trunk load of moonshine!

As they were driving to where the deputy was waiting, the sheriff ask him if he was one of the guys who had been hauling moonshine in his county. The sheriff said he had heard that he was.
Of course my acquaintance said, “Oh no, not me. I wouldn’t think of hauling moonshine.” The sheriff replied that that was great and that he had better never catch him with any. My acquaintance put him out at the juke joint and laughed all evening about what an old fool the sheriff was. He had really pulled the wool over his eyes.

The next week, when my acquaintance was making a run through the county, he was stopped by the sheriff and his deputy. They arrested him, destroyed his load, and then worked him over pretty good. The sheriff said, “You didn’t get my message last week, I see. I knew you had a load of liquor in the car last week but I wanted to give you a chance.” The old fool was not as much a fool as the guy thought. This cost him a trip to the magistrate, a big fine and probation. He was warned that if the sheriff caught him again in his county there would be big jail time. He did not get caught again. He did his hauling in other areas.

The sheriff in the rural counties was a pretty powerful official back in those days. They also had to be somewhat practical in how they enforced the law. Arrest too many relatives and you did not get reelected. Arresting the drivers did not get rid of the actual moonshiners. Arrest no one and you did not get reelected either. So, who got arrested mostly were the drivers and the still workers. Usually poor black guys or poor white guys with no money for lawyers and no money period. The guys making the money were at the American Legion Hall playing cards or the First Baptist chicken social and putting money in the offering plate.
You could go by the sheriff’s house and see the cars they had confiscated carrying the moonshine that belonged to the big moonshiners. Souped up Fords and Chevy’s and Oldsmobile’s. Sometimes Studebakers and Hudson’s. All with modified engines or some Cadillac motor squeezed in to make it faster than the average sheriff’s car. Extra thick treads on the tires, and built to take the extra weight without squatting down too much in the rear. While some may think this was folklore, you could see them sitting at the sheriff’s house. And, most people knew the people that were building them. The car builders did not haul. They provided the cars. The producers, except the very poor independent operator, did not drive the car or work the still. The expendable low level guys did that. So it was a game of cat and mouse. It was when the “revenuers”, the federal law officers came that things were tougher. Tougher sentences, fewer walk away’s and more and heftier fines and sentences. And, they would arrest the producers when they could.

One night, before my wife and I were married, we were coming home from the movies in Macon. We were in Lizella, Ga. at about 11:00 and we came up on three or four cars stopped on the shoulder of the road. There were several young black men standing around one car that had a flat tire and they were trying to wave me down. I wasn’t sure that stopping was safe but the situation looked like someone with a legitimate need. I stopped, with the doors locked, the car in gear ready to go in a hurry if necessary, and I let my window down as one of the young men walked over to my driver’s side window. He was very nicely dressed and I recognized him as being from a well-known black family in the county.

He said, “Thank you for stopping. We have a flat tire on the car there and none of us has a jack that will work to lift the car so we can change it. We really need to get the tire fixed and get going. Do you by chance have a jack?” I did not feel we were in any danger so I got out, got my jack out and they made fast work of the tire change. He brought the jack back and put it in my car. Then, he asked if I would walk up to his car, he had something that he wanted me to see.
Thinking back, I guess I was not too smart but I walked over to his car. He opened the trunk and it was full of quart jars of clear liquid! He said; “Get you a couple of quarts! It’s the best moonshine you’ll ever see and I want to repay you for your kindness.” I thanked him, shook his hand and told him that I did not drink but I was glad I could be of help. With that, he waved goodbye and took off. A lot or really nice people, it seems, were moonshiners.

Now, in the 1920’s, my grandfather was having it tough. He was a farmer and my grandmother was sick. They had run up a pile of doctor bills, according to the story he told me, and he did not have the money to pay. His brother in law was also having some money problems. So they decided to become moonshiners. My grandfather said the plan was to go over to the Vining Place (Property my grandfather owned) and put up a small still. They would produce enough moonshine to make themselves enough money to cover the doctor bills and what his brother in law needed to catch up and that would be it. No long term career but a “short” venture to solve a “case of the shorts”. They weren’t being greedy.

So, they embarked on their venture. The still was constructed and fired up. They were at the still when my grandfather saw someone coming. It was the revenuer! Apparently, someone had turned them in and it was time to run and that’s what they did but my grandfather’s brother in law did not have good eye sight, did not run well and got hung in the barbed wire fence long enough for the revenuer to grab him. There was no shoot out, car chase or knock down drag outs! They were caught before they ever ran off the first batch. Things were not going well.

They were taken to the magistrate in Macon and since it was their first offence and they had not actually sold any, they were let off with a fine. The fines were $250!

Now, my grandfather had the doctor bills and had to pay back the $250 he had to borrow to pay the fine. So, they did the only logical thing they could do. They fired up the still, produced enough moonshine to pay back the doctor bill and the magistrate fines. They hauled it in a Model A Ford and it was not souped up. My grandfather said they broke the still down and his life of crime was over. He pointed out once where they had hollowed out a spot near the creek to locate the still. There was not much to see.

Note: the county sheriff when I was growing up was Lucius O’Neal, Sr. He served the county from 1941-1960. His oldest son, Lucius O’Neal, Jr. followed him and died in office. He served from 1961- 1983. And his youngest son, Kay, was deputy. They never seemed like tough guys but they seemed to do ok. On January 25, 1975 Kay stopped a drunk driver, a person he knew, late at night on a lonely stretch US 341 north of Roberta. Since he knew the person, he got out of his car, left the motor running, and approached the driver without strapping on his police revolver. He did have a small Derringer in his pocket as back up. A struggle ensued and Kay O’Neal was killed in the line of duty with his own gun. This was a sad time for the county.

Now, I have written about my grandmothers before. But I was asked today to comment on something that happened with my Grandmother Chapman, my cousin Jan Williams English and me. Jan was my younger cousin who is now deceased.

The site of this event was the old house that once stood at what is the now intersection of Eisenhower Parkway and Knoxville Rd. near Lizella, GA. At that time, there was no intersection there as old US 80, Columbus Road had not been relocated then.

If you stop at Eisenhower today, on Knoxville Rd. you will see several large oak trees and lots of houses. But at that day and time, the entire area around those trees was a farm. A farm with a big rambling house sat among several trees. (There were more of them then) It had porches on the front and side and several out buildings including a huge barn. This property was owned by Dr. Dixon who owned Dixon Drug stores in Macon.

My grandfather operated this farm for Dr. Dixon. He would stop by occasionally on his way back to the lake house they had on the back side of the property. Us kids were told to stay away from the lake house and the lake. We mostly did but my Uncle Buddy and I did sneak back there a few times and peak in the windows and go into the lake. Now, I have unburdened myself. I have been carrying that secret around way too long. Sorry, Uncle Buddy. Jan was too small to go back there so we never told her about the lake.

That barn was a swell place to play. It had a big green Chevrolet truck. About a two-ton truck, I believe. Since Jan was too young to drive, it was left up to me to do all the driving. We would have really gone somewhere but my grandfather was smart enough to hide the key.

The hay loft was great too. Jan never really appreciated me covering her up with the hay.

There was that darn Chinaberry tree. My Uncle Buddy never took to farming. He preferred, instead, to chunk chinaberries at me. I hid all the chinaberries when I saw him this week and I did notice that the relocation of US 80, Eisenhower Parkway had removed the chinaberry threat from the old Dixon Place. The tree is gone.

Oh, and there was that great horse saddle under the barn Apparently, at one time, someone had a horse there. There was no actual horse there when Jan and I rode in that saddle as it was thrown over a low wall separating the two sides of the barn: the truck on one side and the Farmall tractor on the other.

Jan was so small at the time that it was hard for her to get her foot in the stirrup and get on and she constantly accused me of hogging the saddle. But if I didn’t help her, she would threaten to “tell on me”.  Janice was born in 1947, so she was just a wee thing back then. And, I might add, the last time I asked her she had no recollection of the tragic events about to unfold at that old farmhouse one afternoon. Nor, of walking down Knoxville Road with me to Hamlin’s store in the forks of Knoxville and Old Columbus RD. to get some slices of bologna and bread. There was a sawmill there, then, too.

The farm house, barn and all the structures (and I guess the saddle) were destroyed by a major tornado that also killed several people n Warner Robins in 1953. Fortunately, for my grandparents, my grandfather had left the farm and farming behind and moved into Macon in 1951. He had started to work at Robins Air Force Base.

There was another feature about the old house: the well, where water was drawn with chain and bucket, was on the back porch. Really convenient!

But, I have gotten off track. About that tragic day.

My grandmother (she was also Jan’s grandmother) was slow to anger. So slow, in fact, that I don’t know if she ever really did get to a full-blown angry state in her almost 97 years. She was born November 3, 1899. She died peacefully on May 15^th, 1996. A few months short of her 97^th birthday.

I don’t know that she was really angry at me when I bit her on the arm when she was trying to get me ready for bed when they lived at the old Hogan place. My grandfather, however, took issue with that and came after me with his belt. But, without any clothes on, I was pretty fast. Under the bed I went,

That didn’t stop my grandfather from giving me a whack or two under the bed. I was urged to come out, or else. The matter ended somewhat peacefully. My grandmother forgave me as soon as the teeth marks disappeared. I think.

Oh, my. I’m off track, again.

Jan, it seems came down with strep throat. After a visit to the doctor, my aunt Helen came home (they were living there at the time) with some blue liquid in a medicine bottle, I don’t know if it came from the Dixon Drug store or Chichester’s. But it had to be applied inside her throat with something resembling an 8 inch “Q” Tip. It goes without saying that Jan (Janice) did not like this AT ALL. For a 3- or 4-year-old, this was pure torture.

It fell our grandmother’s lot to apply this a couple of times a day as Helen was at work. And, our grandmother chose to do this by the screen door that went out onto the back porch on the west side of the house. The same side with the well, as it turns out. Afternoon sun and all that. Better to apply the blue liquid to a screaming child’s throat with the 8-inch swab.

So, now you have it in your mind: a grandmother in a cane bottom chair, seated by the screen door, a screaming child with strep throat in her lap that was trying with all her might to run away. How could the situation be worse?

Enter a grandson, standing outside on the porch watching this important medical procedure. That was me, of course.

As I heard the loud wailing, I had to see what was going on. To see better, I pressed my face against the screen in the door so I could see the entire operation and I had no trouble in hearing Jan or seeing my grandmother in the wrestling match. She was  trying to hold Jan, dip the swab into the bottle, and apply it all at the same time. Jan: well, she was screaming at the top of her voice.

I thought, “Why not join in on all the fun?”

So, without regard to any potential consequences, I started mimicking Jan’s wailing. Just as loud or louder. It was more than Grandmother Chapman could take. A woman, slow to anger, if ever, and not one to ever lift a hand to a grandchild, she reacted with a powerful right backhand to the trouble maker whose face was pressed against the screen wire door. That was me, of course.

I can’t honestly say if it hurt or not. I was so startled by the unexpected and uncharacteristic reaction that I was silenced and just stood there with the screen wire imprint on my face.

My grandmother managed to finish the medical treatment on Jan and then came to see if I was injured. Nothing but my pride, it seems, and the evidence soon disappeared so no child welfare people would have had anything on my grandmother.

Yes, she got away clean. But, you might say she made an impression on me.

As for Jan, she got cured of the strep and years later did not remember the event at all. But I did. And my grandmother did. But we kept it low key and sorta between us, Helen, my mother, my father, my grandfather, and, of course, now, you.

I loved ‘em both. My grandmother and Jan. Both gone now, but not forgotten.

 

JC

2021

 

Picture Credit:

Copyright: <a href=’https://www.123rf.com/profile_gidney’>gidney</a>

 

 

Grand Canyon by Air

The Grand Canyon is quite a place to see. About six million people a year go there to be inspired, amazed, awed and to enjoy the vistas and colors of this natural wonder from the rim or the canyon floor. Wild animals and cracks and crevices and beautiful formations.

Some do this in a pair of hiking boots. Some with walking shoes, some on horses or mules and some by boat. Some by helicopter. Some do rafting trips.

All are likely to get a lot of memories from whatever route they use. Over 20,000 do rafting trips down the Colorado. Most, of course, never see it all as it stretches 277 miles. This is twenty-three miles longer than the State of Georgia.

I am reading a book about two adventurers that attempted the trip by boat in 1928: Glen and Bessie Hyde. (Sunk Without a Sound, by Brad Dimock) Glen was about thirty and she was about twenty-three. Recently married.

They decided to take a trip from Green River, Utah down the Green River over 175 miles upstream from the canyon and on through the over 277 miles of The Grand Canyon on the Colorado. They would gain fame and fortune and Bessie would be the first woman to do the Grand Canyon float. By the way, they would do this in a wooden skow that Glen would build on the banks of the Green River. A home-made boat, referred to as a sweep boat, to tackle the toughest river in the US. And, they would do it in the winter. (The area south from Green River, Utah is now obstructed by Lake Powell and other impoundments like Flaming Gorge.)

Bessie thought of herself as a poet, artist and creative person and weighed about ninety pounds. Glen was a smart, adventurous, and hardworking Idaho farmer. They thought this was an adventure of a lifetime. In fact, it was. Opinions vary of the pair and their dispositions. And, about their actual motivation for the trip.

Now I have never done the Colorado in a raft and I have not done it on the horses or mules. Perhaps the reader may have done one or all. If so, you are ahead of me in the been there done that department. And, I am envious.

I have been through portions of the Canyon by helicopter. It was awesome in itself. The pilot took off from the helipad and gained speed to about seventy miles per hour before we reached the rim of the canyon. He never got over about fifteen feet above the ground.

We reached the rim and it was as if the earth just fell away and we were left instantly suspended in the air as he brought the helicopter to a stop in the air, hovering several thousand feet above the Colorado and the bottom of the canyon. My stomach may have dropped a few feet, too. I think the pilot may have done that before.

Then, we swooped down through the beautiful colors and hues of the canyon walls. An amazing sculpture on the surface of the earth. An amazing flying experience.

We ended up on a sandbar beside the river where motor boats awaited and we then motored up stream for some distance and back. No pulling on the sweeps of a sweep boat or the oars of a canoe, kayak, or raft were required. Speaking as one who has wrapped a canoe around a rock in the Chattooga River section IV. And, by the way, I have also walked the Appalachian Trail, end to end. (I walked about a mile of the beginning in Georgia and a mile of the end in Maine. The miles in between were covered by car and airplane.)

So, many thousands have done what I’ve done at the Grand Canyon and lots more. I hold no special place in history, so far. And, likely, there will be millions more.

But I may have had an experience there at the Grand Canyon that only a select few have enjoyed. The day I was there, there were a couple of hundred people there with me. The day we I saw the entire 277 miles of Grandeur.

Beginning about 1997, I traveled to Las Vegas on business with my company once a year. Our major supplier participated in a national trade show there usually in February. I made that trip to Las Vegas on business ten times. In addition, I traveled there on my own about three times. Four of those business trips were made before 9/11 2001. Travel was less complicated then.

On this particular morning, it was bright, sunny and a perfect day for flying if there is such a thing. No doubt you have seen those days. Looking out the window, with smooth air flowing over the wings and the steady hum of the jet engines, the view is miles and miles. About six miles high. An occasional vapor trail of a passing airliner in the distance. Cars that resemble ants in miniature on highways miles below. An endless sky above. Five hundred miles per hour plus with a good tailwind if you happen to be going in the right direction.

The landscape changes as you leave Atlanta with lots of houses and trees. Roads and cars. Other airplanes in the approach patterns in the distance coming and going. People plugging in earphones to turn on some sound or device or other and to signal to you sitting beside them that they really don’t want to chit chat.

Once you cross the Mississippi River the landscape changes as you move westward toward higher and drier ground. More crop circles marking out an area of crop producing land in an otherwise unhospitable environment. Houses more spread out and ranches and farms of wheat and alfalfa and corn.

Mountains are really mountains of four, five and six thousand feet. Not the Stone Mountain or Kennesaw Mountain variety.

Off in the distance, at some point, you become aware of the approaching spectacle of the Grand Canyon but at 30,000 feet and twenty-five miles in the distance, it just loses something in the vapor of space in between. It is hard to see the 6000 foot walls of the deepest part of the Canyon from this perspective or to experience the eighteen mile width of the widest part. It is impossible to imagine Glen and Bessie Hyde going through there on the Colorado in 1928 in a wooden boat that looked like a mortar box used by brick layers.

You are likely to hear some comment like, “If you look close out this window you can see the Grand Canyon.” The response might be, “Really? We plan to visit there one day.” Not many ooows and aawws are invoked.

On this day, the pilot of the huge 767 airplane came on the intercom. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a great day for flying. The visibility and flying conditions are as good as you can ask for. Those of you on the right side of the aircraft will soon be seeing the start of the Grand Canyon in the distance.

I have just contacted flight control and asked for permission to lower our altitude to 14,000 feet and to let me change our route slightly so we can go directly over the canyon. If they allow me to do this, you will see a spectacular view of the canyon.”

In a couple of minutes, he came back on. “We have been cleared to alter our route and altitude. Don’t be alarmed as we start a descent to 14,000 and turn to carry us over the Grand Canyon. Once we are leveled out, I will slightly roll the plane wings up from side to side so that both sides of the plane will get a great view. Don’t be alarmed.”

In a moment the huge plane went almost silent. The power had been reduced and the 767 seemed more like a giant glider with two hundred plus passengers. In fact, it was now a sight-seeing tour bus but at 14,000 feet. Now we started hearing the ooows and aaaws.

Many people on that flight no doubt flew a lot and had seen a lot from their passenger seat. I had not flown extensively but always was on a plane several times a year including European travel and Hawaii. But, I’m certain, few had experienced such a flight as this.

We went the 277 mile length of the canyon and out over Lake Mead and Hoover Dam before the engines were throttled back up and we started our approach into Las Vegas. No doubt this itself was a once in a life time experience for most of us on board. If a pilot requested that today, they would probably scramble F-16 fighters.

Glen and Bessie never made it past the 232 Mile Rapids. Not as far as we know for sure. Their empty boat was found downstream, intact and ready to complete the journey. But they were never seen again. We think. (They had traveled over 400 miles by water)

Many stories have evolved since 1928 about the Hyde’s and what happened to them: Murder or accident. If murder, who murdered whom? If an accident, what kind? Did the boat just get away from them? Did she leave the river and become someone else? Did he? We only know they came short of concluding the trip in the skow. The mystery remains unsolved.

Unlike Glen and Bessie, my group made it down the canyon safely. And, I’d do it again!

So, maybe the horse and mules, kayaks and canoes are not to be for me in the Grand Canyon. Hiking is likely out, too. I guess I will have to settle for the helicopter, power boat and 767 tours. Ooow. Pretty cool! And, I may have one up on a few of you.

HJC 2021