Back in my newspaper days, shortly after Lee Surrendered to Grant at Appomattox, it was my good fortune to be invited on moonshine raids in the swamps and woods of south Georgia. I was the honored guest of intrepid deputies and revenue agents, who chased crafty veterans of the illegal booze trade through wood and marsh. It was always a cat-and-mouse contest with each trying to outsmart the other.
“Don’t ever drink this stuff,” Sheriff John Cook told me once, “not unless you know for sure who made it. It can kill you. Make you blind.”
“Do you ever squirrel some away for yourself?'“ I asked.
“Off the record, very rarely but if I know the feller that made it is a real craftsman, well, I might take a gallon back for home use.”
Years later I did acquire a bottle of trusted manufacture and felt safe enough to have a go at it. I invited a doctor friend over to share the experience and he and I imagined the taste to be a cross between “essence of landfill” and after-shave lotion. I remember sitting in my favorite chair across the room from my buddy after making the decision to risk another little taste. That was the last thing I remembered.
I woke up around eight the next morning, still in my chair, half-empty glass still in my hand, sun beaming through the front window, no friend in sight. It was my sole experience with self-administered general anesthesia.
The taste of moonshine was once described as a cross between lighter fluid and Carolina sheet lightning, the liquor itself being variously called “skull pop” “lights out” and “mountain dew”. I found it icky sweet and smooth but am now completely in favor of not doing a second experiment. My guess is the stuff I had was probably around 160-proof which likely explains the “light switch” effect.
These episodes took place a long time ago, when moonshining had yet to become accepted as the colorful enterprise of lovable, Appalachian bumpkins on TV. No, these distillers were typically of a low, mean character for whom paranoia was simply what you did while you were awake. They didn’t take kindly to publicity or eye-contact.
On one of these expeditions I found myself riding in Sheriff John Cook’s cruiser shortly after midnight, being briefed on the suspects he sought to arrest out there in the inky Georgia wilderness.
“We know this old boy,” said Cook, his face lit by the dashboard lights, “name’s Junior Webley. He’s about thirty. Partner’s Milledge Timberlake, an old feller. Junior makes pretty decent whiskey but he ain’t makin’ it after tonight. Not for awhile.”
In my mind I imagined Junior as a lanky, bearded, throwback sort of guy, festooned with a long barreled pistol in his belt and a Bowie knife in a boot, his chin stained with tobacco juice, and a facial expression daring you to get closer than 12 feet.
“Is Junior dangerous?” I asked.
“Junior? Naw, hell. Not unless he’s drinkin’.”
It turned out that Cook had attended high school with Junior and subsequently had arrested him multiple times for making whiskey.
We pulled off the two-lane blacktop around 1:30 in the morning, followed by another cruiser carrying a couple of Cook’s law officers and Deputy Sam Weaver plus a state revenue agent. It wasn’t exactly a road. It was a wide, dirt pathway winding darkly through moss-draped oaks. Cook had turned off the headlights and was barely creeping along with just the parking lights on.
“How did you guys ever find out they were making whiskey way back in here?” I asked.
“Junior’s ex-girlfriend,” Cook replied, “she had a bad case of mad from him dumpin’ her. Got himself a new bedmate so she got him back. Don’t run that in the paper, though, ‘cause Junior’s probably still clueless.”
The plan was to creep the car close to the narrow trail that Junior and Milledge were using to get down to the still on a stream bank. Then, with lights out and radio turned off, everybody from both cars would creep through the woods up to the site without making a sound. When they got within striking range, they’d fire some shotgun blasts in the air and charge in.
As he got out of the car, Cook whispered “stay here.” I felt a willingness to comply.
Maybe 15 minutes later a shotgun went off two or three times and you could hear a lot of shouting and cursing and the crashing of metal barrels into the rocky creek. A little bit later they all got back, captives in tow, flashlights scattering light through the darkness.
“Junior, meet Bob. He’s gonna put you in the paper,” Deputy Weaver said. I shook Junior’s hand. Nobody was in handcuffs.
“You write about me and Milledge makin’ good whiskey, okay. Best anybody’s gonna ever get in Georgia, I tell you that. Don’t say we’uz makin’ no crap moonshine.”
I agreed not to disparage Junior’s handiwork. Junior then turned to Sheriff Cook.
“Tell you what, Cook, y’all wouldn’t never’a caught me if I’d’a got two steps on you.”
“That’s a bunch’a crap, Junior. Try me. Go ahead and take them two steps. See if you make it. Hell, take three steps, maybe five or six. I’ll take you flat down.”
“Heh, heh,” replied Junior.
We got over to the jail near Waynesboro as the sky was just getting light. The jailer and his wife, both in bathrobes, welcomed us all into the kitchen where they made a big pot of coffee for everybody, Junior and Milledge included. Milledge, who hadn’t spoken a word since his capture offered Sheriff Cook and Deputy Weaver an observation:
“Y’all aint ever had no whisky good as me and Junior make.”
“That a fact, Milledge?” asked Weaver.
“Why’nt y’all take a little taste and see for yourself?”
“Against the law, that’s why.”
“The law don’t know a damned thing, sir. I wouldn’t lie to you.”
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