Sipping Whiskey
Revia Perrigin
Buzzy was my best friend. He was not only my best friend but my only
friend. He never stayed home. He said his mother was a painted lady. I wanted to ask him what he meant but I only
knew she had many visitors.
My name is Ashford Van Cunningham
but everyone calls me Ash. Mama says
we’re kin to the rich Cunningham’s in Natchez.
She says that to make herself feel better. Everyone knows ma was raised
on Tolliver’s Mountain. Her pa was a
poor coal miner and married her to pa in trade for a mule. I don’t know where
pa got a mule. The only work he ever did was making sipping whiskey-the best
sipping whiskey that ever came from the hills of Holmes County, Mississippi.
Buzzy was thirteen. I was man grown at fourteen. I had been helping pa make moonshine since I
was big enough to hold a scoop. Pa said
everything had to be measured. Maybe
that’s why pa’s white lighting was the best sipping whiskey for miles. I don’t know why it’s called sipping
whiskey. Most of pa’s customers lapped
it like a prairie dog finding an oasis in the desert.
Pa’s still was a conglomeration of
copper tubes and two old T-model radiators.
The whiskey dipped slowly into a metal barrel.
Pa didn’t use shine haulers. Men in beat up cars with souped up engines
trying to outrun the law usually ended in jail. Pa just sold his at the still. The ones that came to the still brought
their own fruit jars, tin cans, coffee pots, molasses buckets or anything they could
salvage.
Buzzy and I sometimes hauled mash
and corn to the still behind Jake, mama’s mule.
The corn squeezing mash was in burlap sacks marked seed. Anyone who saw
us would think ma was planting a garden.
While pa smoked and drank, we
kept the fire going and watched the gauge.
One of pa’s friends let his tank get too hot and parts of him were never
found.
After getting enough dried wood for
the fire, Buzzy and I played in the woods.
Pa’s still was deep in the swamp and a big pipe was used to scatter the
smoke. I didn’t know much but I knew pa had an
arrangement with the sheriff. Several
gallons of his best sipping whiskey were sent every month to Sheriff
Brady. Pa always knew when the revenuers
came to town hunting bootleggers. Pa
would shut his still down till they left the county.
There were a lot of gullies and ditches
in the woods. Buzzy and I would make hideouts and play pirates, outlaws and
army. Once we put a tin can on top of a
stick and pretended we were singing in Nashville, Tennessee. Running out of games to play, Buzzy said, “Let’s
hunt buried treasure. Huck Finn found
treasure. Remember that story, we read
in school. If we don’t find gold we’ll find something.
“Let’s go to the shack on Walton’s
hill.”
Ash, I heard ghosts live there.”
“We’ll
take a shovel to conk them with. I’m not
scared of any old ghost. Let’s go get
ma’s shovel.”
The
old shack was overgrown with weeds. The roof
had sunk. The old house was scary even in the daytime. The house was built on the ground. It was said to have been a hideout for the
Beaver gang, bank robbers and murderers.
Buzzy, let’s go in”.
“You go. I’ll start digging near than old gnawed tree
stump. Everyone knows treasure is buried
by trees.” Picking up the shovel, Buzzy
headed for the tree. I went toward the
house feeling less courageous. Creeping slowly in the house, I stopped to
listen. A field mouse came running out
of a boot in the corner. All was quiet.
The quietness made the shack even more frightening. Bottles, old cans and garbage littered the
floor. Spying a broken pocket knife, I went toward it. There was a cracking sound and I was
falling. Dust was saturating the air
getting in my nose, throat and eyes.
When my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I found myself in an alcove under
the house. Boards had fell on the
opening-there was no way out.
I was scared. I started yelling for
Buzzy hoping he was still here. Realizing no one could hear me, I knew I had
to conserve oxygen. After a long time, I
heard voices and scraping noises. Buzzy
running to the still had found several men smoking, drinking and passing the
day with daddy. My heart was pounding
out of my chest as one man said, “The whole thing fell in. Buzzy run get more help. Ash is buried
alive.”
Hearing a lot of commotion, I knew
they would get me out. Throwing board
and debris off the house, they finally reached me. While several men were pulling me out, one
man said, “These old houses had an outside door to the root cellar. Let’s
look.”
The padlocked door was half buried
under pine straw and dirt. Using Buzzy’s shovel, Sheriff Brady broke the
rusty lock and used the shovel to ease the door open. He was
taking no chance on finding a rattler.
Everyone gasped. We were looking
at a skeleton. Claw marked faintly
showed on the inside of the door. Someone had been locked in to die. Everyone stared in shock until Sheriff Brady
said, “This place can’t be touched. I’ve
got to notify the F.B.I. in Jackson. Someone
stay and watch.” No one moved. The corpse had more watchers than an angel
coming from heaven. Darkness fell as
several agents arrived and had the skeleton removed to an undisclosed
destination.
An old chest was found in the cellar
containing old newspaper of bank robberies.
Was this the hideout of Pretty Boy Floyd or Bonnie and Clyde? The town
was buzzing with weird notions of outlaws and criminals who might have stayed
in the old shack.
____________________________________________________________________________
Buzzy and I were at the still
helping daddy. Daddy was sitting on a stump drinking out of a tin can. We heard something. Walking up on a man’s still will get a person
killed. Sheriff Brady said, “Easy men,
I’ve always known where the still was."
Daddy replied, “Howdy Bob. What brings you here?”
I was hunting Buzzy and Ash. Seems they did find treasure. The man was identified by his ring. He was CIA from Washington. A reward of $5,000 was posted for his
whereabouts.”
“Buzzy, we’re rich.”
"Not so fast. Neither one of
you have dependable guardians. The money
will be put into a trust fund until you are eighteen. Maybe you both can go to boarding
school. You will be very rich young
men.”
Buzzy and I looked at each other. We knew if that was what it meant to be rich,
we would just make sipping whiskey. Pa
and Sheriff Martin took long swallows out of two fruit jars while Buzzy and I
started running through the woods to make another hideout for our make believe
robbers, pirates and cowboys.