Out of the Frying Pan

Sweet Spirits of Cats-a-Fighting

TV gets folks confused, so I thought I’d clear this up: a bootlegger is a person that sells illegal whiskey and a moonshiner is a person who makes the whiskey illegally. And depending on where you’re at, moonshine has many names. Here’s a few: corn liquor, white lightning, sugar whiskey, skullcracker, popskull, bush whiskey, stump, stumphole, ‘splo, ruckus juice, catdaddy, mulekick, hillbilly pop, panther’s breath, blue john, wildcat, and my favorite... sweet spirits of cats-a-fighting.

You also had to be careful when you were out in the woods, just in case somebody was a-making it. I’ve even stumbled on a few. I’d hear somebody call down at me, “Where ya goin’, boy?” I knew I’d better answer them back quick-like for I knew there was a rifle-bead on me.

“The fence broke down, I’m looking for strays,” I’d say.

Then the voice would answer back, “None up here, no need to look. We’ll send ‘em back if they do.” I’d go back the same way I came, stepping easy-like.

These entrepreneurs had to have a safe place to store their product. It wouldn’t do to get caught with 500 gallons of shine right after an explosion shook the hills.

As for Cec, he would be home sitting on his front porch a-whittling while echoes of his still going up could be heard. Why, there was no way a man with braces on his legs could move so quick, right? Of course, nobody ever thought of looking under the hood of that old truck – he didn’t put his money into the paint job, he put it in the engine, and that Ford could move faster than you’d imagine.

Sheriff Howell figured Cec had a tank hidden somewhere on his property. I don’t know how many times they checked his place and went away madder than a wet hen. But Cec was always a good host, even offering the lawmen coffee if they wanted. Sometimes the Sheriff would show up by himself to visit and ask Cec a few things, just to see if he could get him to slip, and to let him know he was watching him. Why, they even whittled together.

Sheriff Howell would hint things, like “Did you hear that blast?”

And Cec would say, “Yep, I heard it.”

The Sheriff would nod. “Another still blew up, sooner or later I’ll find them.”

Cec, looking concerned, would ask if anybody was hurt. The Sheriff would eventually get frustrated and leave. You’d think by then he’d figure out that there was just no use because Cec would hold his ground whether it was his still or not. That’s the code amongst shiners. You mind your own business and never say nothing about another man’s whiskey.

Now Cec wasn’t like those gangster types you have seen and heard about, he would help anybody out if he could.

Down at the corner church (and that’s what it was called, “The Corner Church”), the preacher was a-whaling away on the podium, a-preaching hellfire and damnation, when a jar fell out from behind the pulpit. The preacher never missed a beat, told the congregation how he removed those evil spirits and set the man on the right track. Cec caught wind of that and confirmed to anyone that asked that yes, the preacher-man had removed it from him, alright, in exchange for a dollar.

Cec wouldn’t have ever said nothing if the preacher wouldn’t have accused him of something he wasn’t. He wasn’t evil, he was just making a living. Cec was pretty smart for a country boy. He’s the one that made a code. For example, if a man were to ask about the hunting or fishing up at Big Bend, Cec would say, “Yup, the fishing’s good up there.” Then the man would make mention that he needed to stop and get a quart of bait, and Cec would give him specific directions to the best fishing spot, and the man would pay Cec for the information. No liquor was mentioned or exchanged during this transaction, it was just an innocent conversation with a buck or two for the information.

Later, though, a quart of shine would be found at that exact location that’d been described. And that’s how people got their shine.

But one thing was sure, nobody could figure out where Cec’s supply was kept. Only Cec knew that.