The Education of Little Tree

by Forrest Carter

Granpa had a trade though. He said every man ought to have a trade and had ought to take pride in it. Granpa did. His trade was handed down on the Scotch side of his family for several hundred years. Granpa was a whiskey-maker.

  When you bring up whiskey-making, most folks outside the mountains give it a bad name. But their judgments are allowed at on what big-city criminals do. Big-city criminals hire fellers to run off whiskey, not caring what kind of whiskey it is, just so they run off a lot of it—and fast. Such men will use potash or lye to “turn” their mash quick and give their whiskey a good “bead.” They’ll run their whiskey through sheet iron or tin and truck radiators, which has all kinds of poisons and can kill a man.

  Granpa said such fellers ought to be hung. Granpa said you could make bad judgments about any trade, giving it a bad name, if you judged by the worst that was carrying on the trade.

  Granpa said his clothes suit was as spankin’ good as the day he married up in it, fifty-odd years ago. He said the tailor that made it had taken pride in his work; howsoever, there was tailors that didn’t. Your judgment of the tailoring trade was dependent on which kind of tailor ye went by. Same as the whiskey-making trade. Which is right.

  Granpa would never put anything in his whiskey, not even sugar. Sugar is used to stretch out the whiskey and make more of it; but Granpa said it was not pure whiskey when this was done. He made pure whiskey; nothing but corn in the makins.

  He also had no patience at all with aging whiskey. Granpa said he had heard all his life this ’un and that ’un mouthing off about how much better aged whiskey was. He said he tried it oncet. Said he set some fresh whiskey back and let it set for a week and when he tasted of it, it didn’t taste one lick-damn different from all the other whiskey he made.

  Granpa said that where folks got that at was letting whiskey set in barrels for a long time until it picked up the scent and color of the barrels. He said if a damn fool wanted to smell of a barrel, he’d ought to go stick his head in one and smell of it, then go git hisself a drink of honest whiskey.

  Granpa called such people “barrel sniffers.” He said he could put stump water in a barrel and let it set long enough and sell it to such folks, and they would drink it because it smelled like a barrel.

  Granpa was right put out about the whole whiskey barrel mess. He said the thing was likely started—if it could be checked out—by big shots that could afford settin’ their whiskey up for years at a time. This way they squeezed out the little man who couldn’t afford to set his whiskey back to git a barrel smell. He said they spent a creekfull of money to sell their whiskey as having a better barrel smell than anybody else’s, and so total fooled a lot of ’possum-headed idjits that they’d ought to drink it. But there was still sensible folks, Granpa said, who had not taken up barrel sniffin’, and so the little man could still git by.

  Granpa said that since whiskey-making was the only trade he knowed, and since I was five coming on to six, then he reckined I would have to learn that trade. He advised that when I got older, I might want to switch trades but I would know whiskey-making, and could always have a trade to fall back on in times when I was pushed otherwise to make a living.

  I seen right off that me and Granpa had a fight on our hands with the big shots that was pushing barrel sniffin’ whiskey; but I was proud that Granpa had taken me in to learn the trade.

  Granpa’s still was back up in the Narrows where the spring branch run out of the creek. It was set back in laurels and honeysuckle so thick that a bird couldn’t find it. Granpa was proud of it, for it was pure copper: the pot and the cap arm and the coil, which was called a “worm.”

  It was a little still as stills go, but we didn’t need a big one. Granpa only made one run a month, which always come out to eleven gallons. We sold nine gallons to Mr. Jenkins, who run the store at the crossroads, at two dollars a gallon which you can see was a lot of money for our corn.

  It bought all the necessaries and put a little money back besides, and Granma kept that in a tobacco sack stuffed down in a fruit jar. Granma said that I had a share in it, for I was working hard and learning the trade too.

  Our two gallons we kept there. Granpa liked to have some in his jug for occasional liquorin’ and settin’ in before company, and Granma used considerable of it in her cough medicine. Granpa said it was also necessary for snake bite, spider bite, heel bruises and lots of things like that.

  I seen right off that stillin’—if you done it proper—was hard work.

  Most people making whiskey used white corn. We didn’t have any. We used Indian corn, which is the only kind we grew. It is dark red and give our whiskey a light red tint … which nobody else had any like. We was proud of our color. Everybody knew it when they saw it.

  We would shell the corn, Granma helped, and some of it we put in a tow sack. We poured warm water over the sack and let it lay in the sun or in the winter by the fireplace. You had to turn the sack two or three times a day to keep the corn stirred up. In four or five days it had long sprouts.

  The other shelled corn we ground up into meal. We couldn’t stand the expense of taking it to a miller, for he would take out a toll. Granpa had built his own grist mill. It had two rocks set against each other, and we turned them with a handle.

  Me and Granpa would tote the meal up the hollow and the Narrows to the still. We had a wood trough that we stuck in the spring branch and ran water to the pot ’til it was filled three quarters full. Then we poured the meal in and started a fire under the pot. We used ash wood for ash makes no smoke. Granpa said that more than likely any wood would be all right, but there was no sense in taking a chance. Which was right.

  Granpa fixed me a box which we set on a stump by the pot. I stood on the box and stirred the meal water while it cooked. I couldn’t see over the top and never seen exactly what I was stirring, but Granpa said I done good and was never knowed to let a batch scorch. Even when my arms got tired.

  After we cooked it, we drawed it off through a slop arm in the bottom, into a barrel, and added the sprout corn which we had ground up. Then we covered the barrel and let it set. It would set for about four or five days, but each day, we had to go and stir it up. Granpa said it was “working.”

  After four or five days, there would be a cap of hard crust on it. We would break up the cap, until it was about gone and then we was ready to make a run.

  Granpa had a big bucket and I had a little one. We dipped out the barrel and poured the beer—that’s what Granpa called it—into the pot. Granpa set the cap on the pot, and we put our wood to fire under it. When the beer boiled, it sent steam up through the cap arm which was connected to the worm, the coil of copper tubing running around in circles. The worm was set in a barrel, and we had cold water from the spring branch running in our trough through the barrel. This made the steam turn back to liquid, and the worm come out at the bottom of the barrel. Where it come out, we had hickory coals to strain off the bardy grease which would make you sick if you drank it.

  After all of this you would think we would get a lot of whiskey … but we only got about two gallons. We set the two gallons aside and drained off the “backings,” which didn’t turn to steam, in the pot.

  Then we had to scrub the whole thing down. The two gallons we had, Granpa called them “singles.” He said they was over two hundred proof. We put the backings and the singles back in the pot, started the fire, and done it an over again, adding some water. This time, we got our eleven gallons.

  As I say, it was hard work and I never could figure how some folks would say that lazy, good-for-nothings made whiskey. Whoever says that without a doubt has never made any.

  Granpa was the best at his trade. Whiskey can be ruined a lot more ways than it can be made good. The fire can’t be too hot. If you let the workings lay too long, vinegar sets up; if you run early, it’s too weak. You must be able to read a “bead,” and judge its proofing. I seen why Granpa taken such pride in his trade, and I tried to learn.

  Some things
I could do which Granpa said he didn’t hardly see how he had managed until I come along. He would lower me into the pot after a run, and I scrubbed it out. Which I always done as fast as I could, for it was usually pretty hot. I toted ash wood and kept everything stirred up. It kept us busy.

  When me and Granpa was at the still, Granma kept the dogs locked up. Granpa said if anybody was to come up the hollow, then Granma was to turn loose Blue Boy and send him up the trail. Blue Boy, having the best nose, would pick up our scent and show up at the still and then we would know somebody was on the trail.

  Granpa said he started out using ol’ Rippitt, but ol’ Rippitt commenced eating the leftover backings and got drunk. He taken to it regular. Granpa said ol’ Rippitt might near turned to steady liquorin’ before he put a stop to it. Once he led ol’ Maud to the still and she got drunk too. So he switched to Blue Boy.

  There are many other things that a good mountain whiskey-maker must know. You have to be careful to clean up good after a run, because if you don’t it will smell of sour mash. Granpa said the law was just like hound dogs and had noses fer smell that could pick up a mash scent miles away. Granpa said he reckined that this was where the name “law dogs” come from. He said if you could check it out, they was all handed down from a special bred-up line, used by kings and such, like hounds to track folks. But Granpa said if I ever had occasion to see any of them, I would notice they all had a smell about them too … which helped folks some in knowing they was about.

  Also you had to be careful not to knock your bucket against the pot. You can hear a bucket striking a pot for maybe two miles in the mountains. This cause me considerable worry until I got on to it, for I had to dip my bucket in the barrel, tote it to the pot, climb up on the stump and box, and lean way over to dump in the beer. I shortly got to where I never struck my bucket.

  You could not sing nor whistle neither. But me and Granpa talked. Regular talk will carry a long way in the mountains. Most folks don’t know—the Cherokees do—that there is a range of tone you can talk in that when it carries will sound like mountain sounds: wind in the trees and blush and maybe running water. That’s the way me and Granpa talked.

  We listened to the birds while we worked. If the birds fly off and the tree crickets stop singing—look out.

  Granpa said there was so many things to handle in your head that I was not to worry about picking it up all at oncet; that it would come and be nature to me after a while. Which eventually it did.

  Granpa had a mark for his whiskey. It was his maker’s mark, scratched on top of every fruit jar lid. Granpa’s mark was shaped like a tomahawk, and nobody else in the mountains used it. Each maker had his own mark. Granpa said that when he passed on, which more than likely he would eventually do, I would git the mark handed down to me. He had got it from his Pa. At Mr. Jenkins’ store, there was men who come in and would not buy any other whiskey but Granpa’s, with his mark.

  Granpa said that as a matter of fact, since me and him was more or less partners now, half of the mark was owned by me at the present time. This was the first time I had ever owned anything, as to call it mine. So I was right proud of our mark, and seen to it, as much as Granpa, that we never turned out no bad whiskey under our mark. Which we didn’t.

  I guess one of the scaredest times of my life come about while making whiskey. It was late winter, just before spring. Me and Granpa was finishing up our last run. We had sealed the half-gallon fruit jars and was putting them in the tow sacks. We always put leaves in the tow sacks too, for this helped us to keep from breaking our jars.

  Granpa always carried two big tow sacks with most of the whiskey. I carried a little tow sack with three half-gallon jars. I eventually got to where I could carry four jars, but at that time I could only carry three. It was a pretty big load for me, and toting it back down the trail, I would have to stop considerable to set it down and rest. Granpa did too.

  We was just finishing our sacking when Granpa said, “Damn! There’s Blue Boy!”

  There he was, laying by the side of the still with his tongue hanging out. What scared me and Granpa was that we didn’t know how long he had been there. He had come up without a word and laid down. I said, “Damn!” too. (As I say, me and Granpa occasional cussed when we wasn’t around Granma.)

  Granpa was already listening. All the sounds was the same. The birds had not flown away. Granpa said, “Ye taken up your sack and head back down the trail. Iff’n ye see somebody, step off the trail ’til they pass. I’ll take time to clean up and hide the still and go down t’other mountain side. I’ll meet ye at the cabin.”

  I grabbed up my sack and throwed it over my shoulder so fast, it nearly jerked me over back’ards but I wobbled out, fast as I could and got on the Narrows trail. I was scared … but I knew this was necessary. The still come first.

  Flatlanders could never understand what it meant to bust up a mountain man’s still. It would be as bad as the Chicargo fire to the people in Chicargo. Granpa’s still had been handed down to him, and now, at his age, it was not likely that he could ever replace it. To have it busted up would not only put me and Granpa out of business, it would put me and him and Granma where it would be practical intolerable to make a living.

  There was no way at all of living on twenty-five cent corn, even if you had enough corn to sell—which we didn’t—and even if you could sell it—which we couldn’t.

  Granpa didn’t have to explain to me how desperate it was that we save the still. So I taken off. It was hard to trot with the three fruit jars in my sack.

  Granpa sent Blue Boy with me. I kept my eye on Blue Boy, walking just ahead of me, for he could pick a scent out of the wind long before you could hear anything.

  The mountains rose high on either side of the Narrows trail, and there was just room to walk on the bank of the spring branch. Me and Blue Boy had come maybe halfway down the Narrows when we heard a big racket break out down on the hollow trail.

  Granma had turned all the dogs loose and they was howling and baying up the trail. Something was wrong. I stopped and Blue Boy did too. The dogs were coming on, turning up the Narrows toward us. Blue Boy raised his ears and tail and sniffed the air; hairs ruffled on his back, and he started walking stiff-legged ahead of me. I sure appreciated ol’ Blue Boy right then.

  Then there they was. They come around the bend of the trail all of a sudden and stopped and looked at me. They ’peared like an army, though thinking back it was likely not more than four of them. They were the biggest fellers I had ever seen and they had badges shining on their shirts. They stood and stared at me like they had never seen such before. I stopped and watched them too. My mouth got clacker dry and my knees commenced to wobble.

  “Hey!” one of them hollered, “by God … it’s a kid!” Another one said, “A damn Indian kid!” Which, with me wearing moccasins, deer pants and shirt … with my hair long and black, I couldn’t hardly see no way of passing as anything else.

  One of them said, “What’cha got in that sack, kid?” And another one hollered, “Look out for that hound!’’

  Blue Boy was walking real slow toward them. He was growling low and showing his teeth. Blue Boy meant business.

  They started walking, cautious, up the trail toward me. I seen that I could not get around them. If I jumped in the spring branch they would catch me, and if I run back up the trail I would be leading them to the still. That would put me and Granpa out of business and it was my responsibility, same as Granpa’s, to save the still. I taken to the side of the mountain.

  There is a way to run up a mountain; if you ever have to run up a mountain … which I hope you don’t. Granpa had showed me the way Cherokees do it. You don’t run straight up, you run along the side and angle up as you go. But you don’t hardly run on the ground; this is because you place your feet on the high side of brush and tree hunks and roots, which gives you good footing, so you’ll never slip. You can make fast time. This is what I did.

  Instead of angling u
p the mountain away from the men … which would have taken me back up the Narrows … I headed up the side that led down the trail, toward the men.

  This made me pass right over their heads. They broke off the trail toward me, thrashing in the brush, and one of them nearly reached my foot as I passed. He did manage to grab the brush I had stepped on and was so close I might near knew he was going to kill me right off. But Blue Boy bit him in the leg. He hollered and fell back’ards on the men behind him, and I kept running.

  I heard Blue Boy, he was growling and fighting. He got kicked or hit, because I heard the wind go out of him, and he yelped, but he was right back fighting again. I was running all the time—fast as I could—which wasn’t too fast as the fruit jars was slowing me up.

  I heard the men clambering up the mountain behind me and about that time, the rest of the hounds hit. I could tell ol’ Rippitt’s growling and howling plain, and ol’ Maud’s. It all sounded pretty fearful, mixed in with the men yelling and hollering and cussing. Later on, Granpa said he heard it plumb over on the other mountain and it sounded like an entire war had broke out.

  I kept running as long as I could. After a while I had to stop. I felt like I would bust; but I didn’t stop long. I kept going until I was settin’ right on top of the mountain. The last part of the climbing I had to drag my fruit jars, I was that wore out.

  I could still hear the dogs and men. They were moving back down the Narrows trail, and then the hollow trail. It was a continuous squalling, cussing and yelling all the way; like a big ball of sound that rolled down the trail until I couldn’t hear it anymore.

  Though I was so tired I couldn’t stand up, I felt right good about it, for they didn’t go near the still, and I knew Granpa would be pleased. My legs was weak and so I laid down in the leaves and slept.

  When I woke up, it was dark. The moon had come up over the far mountain, nearly full and was bringing light to the hollows, way down below me. Then I heard the hounds. I knew Granpa had sent them after me, for they didn’t bay like they did on a fox trail; their voices sounded kind of whining, like they was trying to get me to answer them.