Moonshine and Music, part one

I was dis­charged from the Marine Corps in 1957.  I was hired as a sales­per­son by a major cor­po­ra­tion.  I sold the “morn­ing paper” (north­ern Bathroom Tissue).  I was quite suc­cess­ful as a sales­per­son and was soon pro­mot­ed to dis­trict man­ag­er and moved with my fam­i­ly to Grand Rapids, Michigan.

I got on well with my clients and oth­ers in Grand Rapids.  I always inject­ed my moun­tain humor into my work, so every­one knew I was from the Kentucky Mountains.

When I announced that I was going to Kentucky on vaca­tion, sev­er­al clients and friends made the same request. “Bring me some moon­shine.” I promised that I would get some on this trip. I knew that if I could deliv­er some moon­shine, it would cer­tain­ly enhance my sales.

At that time all of Eastern Kentucky was dry. The boot­leg­gers and Baptists always vot­ed it dry but for dif­fer­ent reasons. 

I knew it wasn’t going to be easy to find any moon­shine with­out some­one to vouch for me. I had left the moun­tains when I was in my teens. I still knew some peo­ple but not the kind who would admit that they knew any­one who had any­thing to do with moon­shine.  At that time all of Eastern Kentucky was dry. The boot­leg­gers and Baptists always vot­ed it dry but for dif­fer­ent rea­sons. I need­ed to find some­one who would vouch for me as a buy­er and also vouch for the sell­er as a dis­tiller of safe moonshine.

I was sit­ting on the front porch of my fam­i­ly home on top of the moun­tain when Wolly Booger rode up on a mule. Wolly — who was home­less — got room and board wher­ev­er he could. Mountain folks con­sid­ered it their oblig­a­tion to feed and shel­ter the home­less. He was most always wel­come wher­ev­er he went.

The mule was skin and bone. He was cre­at­ing a cacoph­o­ny of bray­ing. My moth­er walked out and said, “What’s wrong with your mule, Wooly?” 

“I guess he’s prob­a­bly hun­gry. I ain’t had noth­in’ to feed him in a few days.”

My Mother said, “Take him to the barn and feed him some corn.”

When Wolly threw his leg over the mule, he fell to the ground dead. Wolly looked him over and said. “Well, I’ll be dog gone. Hit’s the first time he ever done that.” 

 “I reck­on it’ll be the last time he’ll do it, too,” my Mother said.

We per­formed what­ev­er cer­e­mo­ny was nec­es­sary for the dead mule and har­nessed our mule and hauled him off to the boneyard. 

Wolly was admir­ing my com­pa­ny car, a new Chevy sedan.  “Has that car got that there air con­di­tion stuff?” 

“Sure does,” I said.

“I ain’t nev­er rode in one of them,” he said.

I imme­di­ate­ly saw my oppor­tu­ni­ty for some­one to vouch for me to get the moonshine.

“Wolly,” I said, “If you can take me to some­one who can get us a gal­lon of moon­shine, we’ll take a ride in air-con­di­tioned luxury.

“I can shore do that — Willard Burke lives right down at the foot of the hill. He keeps good moon­shine all the time. He’ll shore know where we can get some.” 

We got in my car and turned the air con­di­tion­er to full blast. Wolly reared back and motioned to go down the dirt road. Willard lived in a two-sto­ry log house that was at least a hun­dred years old. The house had two large rooms on each floor and a kitchen that was sep­a­rat­ed by a cov­ered walk­way. Many hous­es were built this way so that a kitchen fire wouldn’t destroy the entire house. He had raised a big fam­i­ly in that house. His wife had died, and the chil­dren had all mar­ried off.

Otis Estep was stand­ing in the yard when we pulled in. Otis lived in the head of Pine Fork, but he spent most of his time with Willard. They had a sym­bi­ot­ic rela­tion­ship: Otis had a place to stay, and Willard had a handy­man. Otis wasn’t the sharpest tack in the box, but he was a nat­ur­al gui­tar play­er. He always car­ried his gui­tar and loved to play. 

He said, “howdy boys” as we got out of the car.

Then we heard anoth­er “howdy boys.” Willard had been asleep on a bench in the yard. We had woke him up when we closed our car doors. He looked at me and said, “I know you, you’re Walker’s boy.” He and my father had been best friends and worked in the mine and drank a lot togeth­er for years. I knew then that I was on sol­id ground with a poten­tial sponsor.

I said “Willard, I need to buy a gal­lon of moon­shine to take home to my friends in Michigan.

“I can shore help you find it. I get the best right from the man that makes it, and I get it whole­sale; nine dol­lars a gallon.”

“I bet if we got in your air-con­di­tioned car and rode around a lit­tle, we’d find a gal­lon before long.”

I hand­ed Willard a ten-dol­lar bill and said “let’s go.”

Read the con­clu­sion of this excit­ing sto­ry!