When the Scots-Irish poured into America in the 1700s, they brought with them both the knowledge of whiskey making and a contempt for government taxation. Their protests about taxation were loud and angry. In the rugged regions of Kentucky, Virginia, Tennessee, and North Carolina, the moonshiner practiced his ancient art long after it had died out in other parts of the country.
When national prohibition was passed in 1919, the moonshine trade increased considerably. The price of alcohol rose dramatically after Prohibition, and this brought criminal elements into the industry, ruining the reputation of the proud old-time mountain moonshiner. The newcomers, often lacking know-how or concern for their customers, sometimes produced bad whiskey. Dad always spoke with scorn about people who would do that for money.
Dad, his brothers, and Grandpa all made moonshine, primarily to sell for cash, but they also drank their own product. The Saylor men all had good reputations as moonshiners. They did well during the years before and after World War II. It was said they made the purest and best-tasting moonshine of anyone in Bell County.
Mama, however, grieved that Dad made whiskey and sold it to people who would then get drunk. She felt he was breaking two laws, that of the land and that of God. But Dad could make more money selling moonshine than any other way, and we needed the cash. He could sell a bushel of corn for $2 or $3; but he could take a fourth of a bushel, turn it into mash, and make a run of moonshine, which would bring in about $100.
Dad’s still consisted of two main parts, the top and the bottom. After he put fermented mash in the bottom part, he’d seal the top with a flour-and-water paste. He never sealed the top tightly because he wanted it to blow off if necessary. This was a safety measure in case the fire got too hot and built up too much steam.
A copper pipe, called an “arm,” projected from the top of the cooker and over to one side, where it tapered down to about an inch and a half wide. It needed to be the same diameter at this end as that of another copper pipe called a “worm,” which met it at this juncture. The worm was made by taking copper pipe about fifteen to twenty feet long and filling it with sand, stopping up both ends, and wrapping it around a fence post to make it coil. The sand kept it from kinking in the wrong places. The worm was then cleaned of sand and attached to the arm in such a way that the rest of the coil ran down inside a barrel. The barrel was kept full of cold, running water. Dad said it was best to have the water running in at the top and out an opening at the bottom of the barrel; this way it circulated around and over the copper worm.
To make the moonshine, Dad took a peck of shelled corn and put it in a cotton flour sack. He poured warm water over the corn to wet it, then put the sack in a warm, dark place. Several times a day he wet the corn with warm water. In just three or four days the corn sprouted, but he would let the sprouts get about two inches long before he spread them out flat to dry. After the sprouted corn was dry, he ground it up in the meat grinder and added it to twenty-five pounds of cornmeal and twenty-five pounds of sugar. He added boiling water and mixed the dry ingredients into a mush—which he called mash. After letting the mixture cool down, he added one-third of a pound of yeast to a gallon of lukewarm water and poured this into the mash. Last of all, he added enough water to make thirty gallons of mash. Fermentation could take up to ten days without yeast; Dad’s adding yeast shortened the process to four days. When the mash had fermented and then settled down it was ready to be run. At this stage the mash was very sour.
Dad’s moonshine still was hidden in the hills near a running spring or stream of water. It was no easy job getting the still set up, the mash poured into the cooker, and a run of moonshine started. The fire had to be carefully tended all the while so that it did not burn too hot or too slow. The heat caused the spirits to rise in the vapor along with the steam. It went into the arm and then on to the worm, where cold water caused condensation. This liquid was collected into a container.
The first runoff was weak and impure and had to be redistilled to rid it of water and oils. The cooker was cleaned out in preparation for the second runoff. The first run was then put back in, some water was added, and the liquid was turned to steam, condensed, and collected again.
The first quart of the second run was always far too strong—about 200 proof; toward the end of the run it was too weak—about 10 proof. This was where the skill of the moonshiner was called for: to mix the two to make ioo proof whiskey. Dad always knew when to stop a run: if a tablespoon of moonshine did not burn when tossed on the fire it meant there was not enough alcohol to burn and therefore not enough to continue the run.
Dad tested for the right proof by putting some moonshine in a quart jar, covering it tightly, and shaking it a few times. If the bubbles rose and sat half above and half below the top of the liquid he had the right proof. After the right proof was obtained, Dad, being a good moonshiner, always filtered his product through charcoal to improve the taste.
Other moonshiners were not always as careful with their whiskey as the Saylor men were. Sometimes very bad whiskey was sold in the mountains, and we would hear of someone getting deathly ill. We knew this was one of the reasons why moonshine was illegal according to the laws of the land and also why the revenuers were so diligent in searching out and destroying moonshine stills. They never found ours, but their presence loomed over us with an impending threat.
It became a matter of pride and took skill to outwit the revenuers. We lived at the head of the Stoney Fork Valley, and we’d often hear from the grapevine that revenuers were on their way. One time Dad was away from home after he had run a still of moonshine. Mama walked about, wringing her hands and saying, “Lord-a-mercy, Sidney, what are we going to do?” But after a few moments she figured out the answer to her question and told me to get her a hoe.
We had just planted a big garden with a dozen or more cucumber hills, each rounded with a smooth, flat top. Mama carried the jars of moonshine to the cucumber hills. We made a hole in each hill and buried a jar there.
The revenuers did not come that day, but I wished they had. I wanted them to look but never find where my clever Mama hid the moonshine.
First Christmas Tree
When I was young, nobody on Stoney Fork put up Christmas trees. The first decorated tree I ever saw was at the one-room school when I was eight years old. I thought it was the most beautiful thing in the world. I begged Mama to put up a tree, but she said there was no room in the house. Our home was a three-room log house with a front porch, and there were five children living there at the time.
But I was determined to have a Christmas tree. I took the axe and went up on the side of Pine Mountain to look for a small tree. I found several small pines and cedars, and selected a cedar to cut because it had the prettiest shape. Dragging it down the hill got the branches muddy, but mud could be washed off.
Positioning the tree on the porch by the side of the front door, I drove a nail into one of the house logs and tied the tree so it would not blow away. The other children helped me make paper chains, wrap sycamore balls in silver paper, and string popcorn, all of which we tied to the tree. We loved our first Christmas tree!
Every year before Christmas, Mama warned us ahead of time that Santa Claus might not make it this time. But we hung up our stockings just the same and hoped for the best. The spirit of love never forgot us, however, and we awoke each Christmas morning to see our stockings bulging with apples, oranges, English walnuts, and hard candy.
We celebrated Christmas, New Year’s, and the Fourth of July by shooting off firecrackers and other kinds of noisemakers. The men and boys could not always afford firecrackers and larger fireworks. But Dad, his brothers, and Grandpa made their own. They got baking-powder cans and punched holes in the bottoms. After putting a few grains of carbide in the can, they sprinkled in drops of water and pressed the lid down firmly on the top. (Clabber Girl baking powder cans always had nice, round lids for the covers.) When a carbide light ignited the wet carbide, the lid was blown off wi
th a loud noise and flew several yards away.
Besides setting off fireworks, the men enjoyed drinking and playing cards, and having shooting matches. Sometimes a chicken, turkey, or ham was put up as a prize. The men would take turns shooting at a tin can. The best marksman got the prize for the day. There were shooting matches at other times of the year, but especially during Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays.
For holiday dinners the women cooked whatever they had on hand. When Mama and Dad were young there would be wild turkey and venison for holiday meals, but in my day it was more likely to be ham, or simply chicken and dumplings. Sometimes just the immediate family gathered around the table; at other times there would be six to eight distant relatives and neighbors.
Mama never drank a drop of whiskey in her life; neither did Grandma, Aunt Betty, or Aunt Laura. But Granny Brock loved her hot toddies made with moonshine whiskey, and she always fixed a special Christmas drink. She would fill a half-gallon canning jar with oranges, sliced very thin. After adding a cup of sugar on top of the orange slices, she would pour moonshine in to fill the jar. She did this a day or two before she planned to drink it. When the liquid had been drunk down to about halfway in the jar, she would refill it with more moonshine.
The Christmas when I was twelve, Granny Brock invited our family to spend Christmas at her house. Granny’s last husband, Andrew, and his adult son, Judge, were there. Granny had prepared most of the food the day before and left it pretty much up to Mama to get Christmas dinner on the table. Granny stayed by the fire in the front room, talking and drinking with the men.
We ate ham, baked sweet potatoes, canned corn, shuck beans, cornbread, and sweet pickles. For dessert there was dried apple stack cake.
Judge gave me a sip of Granny’s Christmas drink, and I liked it. During the afternoon I managed several more sips. During one trip to the kitchen I found Judge. He knew I’d come for another sip. He put his arms around me and gave me a half kiss on my lips (it was a half kiss only because I was startled and turned my head). Judge looked just as startled as I felt. I hurried back into the front room. Granny looked at me and frowned, and Mama said it was time for us to go home.
View from the front porch of the cabin on Coon Branch, 1935.
The earliest picture of me. First row, left to right: Andrew Brock (Granny Brock’s husband), Annie Farmer (Granny Brock’s daughter), and Granny Brock; second row: Green Hoskins (Minnie Hoskins’s first son) and I; third row: siblings Della, Hazel, Clara, and Jeems; fourth row: Minnie Hoskins (Andrew Brock’s daughter), Rachel Saylor (my mother), and Susie Saylor (my paternal grandmother).
My maternal grandfather, Willie Saylor.
My paternal grandparents, Solomon and Susie Saylor.
Sarah and Dewey Saylor. Dewey was my mother’s brother.
My paternal grandfather, Solomon Saylor, and all of his brothers, the sons of Squire and Margaret Saylor (l to r): Will, Lloyd, George, James, and Sol.
My youngest sisters (l to r) Sharon Rose, Lola, and Minnie.
Newly wed, I am standing next to my friend, Matilda Swain. The woman on the porch of my house is Hazel Richter, a missionary from the Red Bird Mission.
Leon Lawson.
Reverend Herman Siedschlog, Leon, and I, 1958.
Sidney Lawson, age eighteen.
My parents and my brother Lee Roy, 1964.
Pregnant with Bruce, 1962.
Leon and I with our sons, Dennis Wayne and Bruce Alan, 1964.
At work with Bill Richardson (l) and Thomas Parrish (r), Council of the Southern Mountains, 1968.
The Reverend Don Graham pronounces Grant and me husband and wife, 1970.
Grant’s parents, Jeanette and Mack Farr.
Sidney Farr, 1972.
Grant and our dog, Taylor.
Posing with one of my first books, More than Moonshine, 1983.
My sister Hazel Saylor, who died in November 1984.
My brother Jeems, 1991.
Jeems, my sister Sharon Rose Clark, and my brother Fred.
My son Wayne, my mother, and my grandson Richard, 1985.
Richard Lawson, 1975–1990.
Tom Sawyer and I at a book signing, 1993.
Friends and colleagues: James Still (front row, seated) and (back, l to r) Lee Smith, me, and Silas House.
The New Opportunity School for Women Writers, 2003.
Berea College Archivist Shannon Wilson and I, November 2006.
15
Snake-Handling Saints
And these signs shall follow them that believe.
In my name they shall cast out devils; they
shall speak with new tongues, they shall take up
serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it
will not hurt them. They shall lay hands on the
sick, and they shall recover.—Mark 16:17, 18
My dad, grandpa, and various other relatives used to sit on our front porch or around the heating-stove in the living room and critically examine the subject of snake handlers in our community and in other parts of the mountains.
History tells us that snake handling as a religious practice started with a man named George Hensley in 1909. He was “searching the Scriptures for a text for a Sunday sermon,” he told people. He came across Mark 16:17, 18. He read the verses again and again, and testified that it was like a bright light being turned on in his head. Could a person, filled with the spirit of God, actually handle deadly serpents and not be harmed? He decided to test (or confirm) the Word. Various people told us Hensley’s story. Grandpa and Dad knew these reports by heart.
I listened to my elders’ talk with horror and fascination. I never actually witnessed a snake-handling service, but my imagination made it seem real to me.
George Hensley climbed up White Oak Mountain in Tennessee and returned with a big, black rattlesnake. He handled the snake during services at his church. Soon other members began to handle snakes also. Eventually one man was bitten and nearly died. The church members then became doubtful and hostile toward Hensley; he left Tennessee and came into Bell County, Kentucky, where he started a church at East Pineville. Soon people in this church were handling snakes, and the practice grew and spread.
Hensley handled snakes for many years, until he was finally bitten and died in Florida in the 1950s—”which goes to show you that if you play with fire long enough you’ll get burned,” Dad said when he and Grandpa talked about Hensley’s death.
The Holiness Church people I knew when I was young did not necessarily handle snakes, but they did believe in glossolalia (speaking in tongues) and various other gifts of the spirit. Some of this group did in later years go across the mountain to Blue Hole in Clay County and join a snake-handling group. A favorite saying among some of these Holiness people was “We are in the world but not of the world, children, praise God! We’re not long for this world, little children; we’re just strangers a-passing through.”
The snake-handling sect has proven itself to be a durable one. It has been outlawed repeatedly in many places only to spring up somewhere else. New devotees are drawn in frequently. At the present time there are snake-handling churches in Kentucky, Tennessee, Virginia, West Virginia, North and South Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, Florida, Ohio, Indiana, and Michigan. (Snake handlers in the last three states mentioned are probably former residents of Appalachia.) In an age when there is ever-increasing skepticism and secularization, the faith of these people who say that they are “confirming the Word of God” is remarkable.
When the mining and timber corporations came into the mountains in the early part of the twentieth century and strip-mining operations began, the mountaineers engaged in a head-on collision with them. In addition, a large number of mountain men were active participants in World War II, and thus encountered some aspects of technology they could never have imagined back home. When these soldiers came home it was inevitable that they would feel marooned, abandoned, and perhaps God-forsaken. When faced with such conditions, people tend to d
evise religious practices that will dramatically prove that God is still with them, that he will still protect them. Scholars tell us that snake handling did not arise until mountain culture was in decline.
Since 1910 dozens of people in the United States have died from snake bites received during religious services. Scholars see snake handling as an aspect of what is called crisis theology, and find similarities to the Ghost Dances of the American Plains Indians in the late nineteenth century and the cargo cult science of the South Pacific Islanders, both being cults that arose after the natives’ initial contact with the superior technology of the West.
Perhaps as a result of the encroachments of modern civilization on the mountain people’s way of life, several new practices took hold in some churches, including handling poisonous snakes, talking in unknown tongues, and sometimes handling fire and even drinking strychnine. Although these practices have received widespread attention and much media coverage, only a very few mountain people participated. Those who did held services in different places with others who held similar beliefs.
My Appalachia Page 13
