Looking back through time from Whiskey Holler

One morning last week I went down to the big woods to dig some holes. The day before I had dropped off a shovel as well as my big camo backpack filled with 13-13-13, 10-10-10, 9-16-12 and 15-9-12 plant food. As soon as the wife left for work, I headed out, crossing a half mile of planted pines before getting to the paved road. Down in my neck of the woods, there is not a lot of traffic, but I still sat in the bushes a full 120 seconds listening for a car before slipping across the road into more planted pines.

Heading south through those trees, just far enough off the road to not be seen, I retrieved my pack. This land is family land, belonging to my 3rd cousins. They live a few hundred miles away, but are avid hunters with a taste for high end game cameras. The old ones would have a flash of red light to let you know you are being recorded. Not so with the newer ones. So as soon as I crossed the road, I slipped my turkey mask on. With my {heavy ass} pack strapped on and my shovel in hand, I set out northeast, trying to steer clear of the many food plots planted for the deer.

Zigging and zagging, I walked close to a mile to cover the half mile I needed to go to get down into the swamp. From here I felt pretty safe from the game cameras. The woods are so thick it would be hard to shoot down here, so there shouldn't be any cameras. But I kept the mask on, just in case.

Going into the swamp, I looked for an old logging road I had seen when I was out scouting locations for this year's patches. It went in a north/south direction, and was just about the halfway point of the land. To the east there is a house {with dogs} and to the west it gets too swampy for growing because of flooding. Luckily the water is pretty high right now, so I can see if the spot I had in mind is too low.

I walked north on the logging road until I came to a huge Magnolia tree.



It was my turn sign for the spot I had seen before. Now I had to dig my compass out. {I try to dig holes when it's cloudy, so no sun was shining through the canopy to guide my way} Sticking as close to due west as I could, I hiked a quarter mile deeper into the swamp. You can't see very far, so if I was off just a degree or two, I could have missed the down tree I was looking for. But my aim was true.



In the thick woods, you can't get enough sun without finding where a big tree has come down. And it helps if it's pointed in the right direction, which this one wasn't exactly. I will be able to get three holes dug with enough southern exposure. And a hundred yards away there is another downed tree that will work for three more holes.

Just heard the dinner bell ring. Let me eat, then I will get back to my story.

Larry

Sorry for the interruption. I got the high sign to go eat, so I had to hurry or I might not have got any. Now back to my walk in the woods.

I have a habit of doing a hit for every hole I dig, so I was sitting in the underbrush packing a bowl when I noticed several rusty steel bands from old wooden barrels mostly covered with leaves. That is when I realized I was near Whiskey Holler, where my Daddy's Daddy had made some of the best drinking whiskey in these parts. Before my scouting trip, I hadn't been in these woods for 12-15 years, and it had been longer than that since I had been to this spot.

I remembered stories my Daddy had told me about working all night making whiskey, then farming all day. I knew the actual site of the old still was hard to see until you were right over it, so I started looking around. Over toward the other down trees I could see a few of the square five gallon lard cans, slashed down the side and rusted to the point they were loosing their shape. A closer look in that direction reveled a few bricks, busted 5 gallon jugs, more barrel hoops and an old 55 gallon drum, so slashed up it would not hold a gallon of water.



When I did spot the holler, it was smaller than I remembered as a kid, about ten feet across and three feet deep. The stories Daddy had told about three of the brothers working in that tight space when they were teenagers returned to me. I could imagine the heat from the furnace reflecting off the thick brush. Today all that is left of the furnace is a pile of broken bricks, a testament to the fact this still was busted up by the revenuers back in '51 when Pa {my granddaddy} got a year and a day in the state pen.

I sat on the edge of the holler and finished packing my bowl. If my memory is intact, I was smoking Side Tracked: CP/DA {chicken pen/deer ate} that day, grown last season on Uncle Jim Bob's old place. (if CP/DA had not have been topped by the deer, she would have been named CP1, but since I don't name {or number} my plants until they go into flower, she was not the tallest girl at the party anymore} I don't guess I have mentioned up to now that I recently started growing {Side Tracked: my BIL's strain} and smoking after a 10+ year break, and it is kicking my ass. So with me sitting and smoking, thinking about the old days and Mamma with a baby on the seat beside her, making a whiskey run through noontime traffic on a very overloaded car. not digging holes, cutting roots, trimming trees, and counting days frontward and backward from the Winter Solstice with a compass and small framing square in my hand.

My dry mouth forced me over to my pack, and the bags of plant food that still hadn't been used. I had spent so much time lollygagging that the sun was getting on across the sky. I quickly decided on spots for three holes using the compass and square. Though the counting backwards and forwards from the Winter Solstice was much harder now. {How do you think Side Tracked: got it's name?} I got my three holes dug, after much cutting of roots and some quiet cussing. {There is dogs not too far away} But the whole time I was digging, I was thinking about a family story I was raised hearing. So I guess I will tell it now.

Daddy's 1st cousin was named Bernice, and she got attached to a Georgia boy nick-named Swift. He liked to tell funny stories, and often took a long time doing it, thus the name. He was in the Army back then {1945} and was home on leave. This was when they were engaged, but hadn't got married yet. Even back then, Pa had a bad heart. It didn't kill him until the mid 60's when he was in his mid 60's, but it slowed him down for a long time. Everyone around always ask if there was anything they could to help out. This was before Daddy got home from the war, and all except the youngest of his brothers were either in the Army, or away from home working.

Anyway, Swift ask Pa if there was anything that he could help with, and Pa said there was a little chore that needed doing. They walked down to Whiskey Holler, where there was a stack of about 35 five gallon square lard cans filled with liquor that had to be carried up to the edge of the field. Pa could only carry one can at a time, but Swift being the strong young man he was, balanced one on his shoulder, and grabbed up a second one in his hand. Back then the woods were a lot closer to the road, where Pa's house was, than they are today, so the walk from the still to the field was a lot longer than that walk would be today. I can't find the spot today, but when Swift would tell the story when I was a boy, he talked about the resting point halfway like it was paradise. They would set the cans down and catch their breath before going the rest of the way up the hill to the filed.

After about the 9th trip Swift changed to just one can at a time. He was in that place where you go when you have done a long, tiring task until you are only thinking about putting one foot in front of the other. The stack at the field was getting bigger as the one back at the still got smaller. Each trip was taking longer, and they were stopping to rest twice a trip now. Then they got down to the last three cans. Swift got to thinking about that long walk that he would have to make back to get the last can, so he toughed it up. With a little help from Pa, he swung one on his shoulder, then grabbed the other and took off up the trail. When Pa ask if he needed an extra rest break, he just shook his head, not wanting to waste the breathe to say no. The sun was sinking low, and he wanted to get done with this chore and still have time to take Bernice to town.

They took their rest at the usual spot, but only until they stopped blowing. Swift would have gone sooner, but knew that Pa couldn't overdo it with his heart. So when they neared the stack at the edge of the field, Swift was getting light-headed. He focused on the stack of cans ahead, not paying attention to anything else. He was almost staggering when he got to the stack, and was getting ready to roll the can off his shoulder onto the stack when he saw the Sheriff's car pulling up.

His knees buckled, he fell into the stack, landing on the can in his hand while the one on his shoulder banged him in the head. After a couple of minutes he opened his eyes. Looking between the scattered cans of whiskey he saw Cicero ######, the County Sheriff get out of the car and walk toward him. He could see himself facing a court marshal with the Army and then doing time in the state pen after that.

Cicero walked up to Pa and ask, "Feddy {his name was Fred, but everyone called him Feddy}, what's wrong with that boy? Is he touched?"

Pa said, "no, he just got a little too hot. He'll be alright in a little while."

"If you are sure. Here comes the truck now. It was good seeing you. You look after that boy, you hear?" With that, the Sheriff shook Pa's hand, got back into his car and drove away. Pulling into the spot was a flatbed truck, coming to pick up the whiskey.

Swift ask, "what just happened?"

"Cicero was nice enough to show this new driver the way in here. Now get up and let's get these cans loaded before dark."



I can not do it justice, but this was always one of Swift's favorite stories to tell about Pa. All those old timers are gone now. Maybe Swift wouldn't mind me doing a little gardening on his kid's land. Producing high quality drugs in this swamp is a family tradition.