White Lightnin' Still Strikes in the South

Because February is an ornery, cold-hearted month, usually the coldest month of our Southern winters, it seems appropriate to offer up the hottest of the hot toddies—moonshine. Its internal combustion punch will burn the throat, sear the stomach, and possibly fry the brain. That’s powerful and potentially dangerous antifreeze, but it’s long been a fact of life in the South and is still going strong; so strong that it’s close to 100 proof or more.

For those untainted by moonshine or the bootlegging subculture, a moonshiner makes illegal whiskey (a.k.a. corn liquor, squeezin’s, white lightnin’, rotgut, panther’s breath, mountain dew, ‘splo, and other metaphoric names.) Brewing and distilling takes place covertly by the light of the silvery moon, glittering merrily off copper tubing used in the process.

Moonshine is made at a homemade distillery, nicknamed a still, depriving the government of tax revenues collected from the legitimate production of alcoholic beverages. The word “bootlegger” was coined in colonial America to refer to unscrupulous colonists who stuffed bottles of “spirits” in their boots, covered them with their pants legs, and traded or sold whiskey to Native Americans. Bootlegging became the job description for transporting moonshine from its place of production to the marketplace—all in a tax-evasive fashion, of course. Often whiskey production was (and still is) a family affair: Pappy makes it, Junior sells it, and Ma keeps watch for nosey revenuers (pronounced “revenooers” as in the “Snuffy Smith” cartoon strip) who are government agents determined to make moonshiner and bootlegger cough up money owed to their avaricious Uncle Sam.

Bootlegging became the job description for transporting moonshine from its place of production to the marketplace—all in a tax-evasive fashion, of course.

Throughout moonshine history, stories of crafty whiskey makers and daredevil bootleggers outfoxing and outrunning revenuers have reached mythic proportions. Bootleggers gave birth to the stock car sport that evolved into today’s NASCAR by modifying cars to increase their speed, allowing them to round hairpin curved mountain roads at a breakneck pace and elude revenuers. Case in point, Junior Johnson, originally a skilled bootlegger, took to the track and developed the “bootleg turn,” jamming the car into gear, jerking the steering wheel to the left, making the car spin 180 degrees and spewing off in the opposite direction. This apparently worked wonders for Junior when revenooers were in hot pursuit. But it’s no myth that the government is serious about getting its cut. The current penalty is five years in prison and a minimum fine of $5,000, not to mention the  grief of seeing the fruits of one’s labor literally going up in smoke.

Ironically, it was the government that made illicit brewing and sales profitable. Early immigrants came to America with necessary equipment like pot stills, family recipes, and methods for producing whiskey. When the United States was a fledgling nation in 1791 without money to fund an empty treasury and pay off major Revolutionary War debts, an excise tax of seven cents per gallon was put on homemade whiskey. To avoid the tax, distillers were forced to conduct business under the cloak of secrecy. Then thirsty colonists and natives got restless; so restless, in fact, that the Whiskey Rebellion erupted in Pennsylvania when some five hundred farmers incinerated the tax inspector’s home and tarred and feathered revenue officers. George Washington (who, by the way, had a nice little still of his own) sent out the militia and squashed the rebellion, but illegal production of whiskey continued and was instilled as part of early American life. The potent potion fueled the building of America and its expansion westward, providing the faint-hearted with bravery and stamina. Of course, we might’ve made it to the west coast sooner without recuperative time for hangovers.

The potent potion fueled the building of America and its expansion westward, providing the faint-hearted with bravery and stamina. Of course, we might’ve made it to the west coast sooner without recuperative time for hangovers.

In the agricultural South, corn replaced the rye used in Pennsylvania distilleries, and making and selling corn liquor became booming business in the eighteenth century. In liquid form, corn’s value increased 300 percent per bushel as a voracious market slurped up the stuff. And, unlike fresh (and then not-so-fresh) produce, corn liquor didn’t spoil but improved with age. Besides, it was easier to haul over rough, rutted roads than bushels of bulky ears of corn bouncing around en route to faraway markets.

The South took to illegal brew like a duck to firewater. After the Civil War, however, there was a leaning toward temperance, at least as far as appearances were concerned. To appear morally enlightened, two-thirds of Southern counties voted themselves dry by 1910. Then came the Eighteenth Amendment and national prohibition, making all liquor illegal from 1920 to 1933, no matter where and how it was made or sold. The South made acquiescent noises and voted against the anti-prohibition presidential candidate in 1928. Will Rogers put the issue into perspective when he said Southerners “will vote dry as long as they can stagger to the polls.” Rural stills still perked merrily along with their joy juice gratefully received throughout the South and beyond. Human beings are stubborn by nature, and when they’re told they can’t have something, they want it more fervently. Prohibition gave moonshining a shot in the arm by eliminating any legal competition and whetting the national appetite for wetting whistles. The Southern moonshine industry was aglow with success.

Common traits of moonshiners and bootleggers are adaptability and discretion. They’ve their own jargon, speaking in codes to avoid detection. To evade the hawk-eyes of government agents, stills are usually concealed by bent saplings or set up in dug out underground caves. In truth,  most helicopter-borne government agents look for illegal drug crops rather than illegal hooch, but a still’s still vulnerable if ‘copters fly over.

The most common form of still is a simple pot belly version—an airtight kettle where mash is placed, and a cap with a cooling coil, or “worm.” Stainless steel makes the best distiller, since glass breaks and copper now has too many poisonous impurities, but the original copper worm is infamous. Modern home brewers have options ranging from plastic jugs and fountain drink dispensers to pressure cookers, and there’s the freezer method using a freezer big enough to hold a five to ten gallon plastic jug filled with mash for about two days; water freezes before ‘shine does, and the pure, desirable stuff remains unfrozen. Just chip off the ice, and distillation’s complete without any danger                  of explosion—an ever-present occupational hazard in other distilling methods and a blatant oops if you’re trying to escape notice by revenuers.

Typical ingredients are sugar, water, yeast and grain, but recipes vary. Different crops, like corn, rye, sugar cane, or potatoes, produce different liquors. Each brewer’s ‘shine has a distinctive taste since some add a special ingredient or use a certain method to achieve a unique flavor. One Florida rum runner’s shine was so superior, for example, that it became known as “the Real McCoy.” The danger is that, without government regulation, any little old ingredient can be added, like lye, pesticide, arsenic or embalming fluid, and any equipment can be used, like car radiators and soldered lead pipes. One of the dead giveaways for moonshine consumption is lead poisoning and symptoms of mental confusion, anemia, ulcers and organ failure.

Obviously, there’s a caveat when it comes to sippin’ squeezin’s: Know thy ‘shiner. Old time panther’s breath is available out there, despite health warnings. It’s still cheap and served at “corn houses’ or “shot houses” in metropolitan areas like Atlanta for $1.25 to $3 a shot, double on Sunday. But instead of inviting white lightning to strike, maybe ’twould be better just to rent Thunder Road or watch a NASCAR race while sipping a legal beverage to get into the spirits. v

Lucile, who tried “Blue Flame” white lightnin’ years ago in south Georgia, admits it kicked a certain part of the anatomy and left a lasting impression, but out of respect for her internal organs, to which she’s become attached, and out of hope that some of her brain cells are still alive and well, she now limits herself to alcohol produced under strict guidelines.