COLUMN: My days of running booze across state lines

Let’s see … how to start this story.

When I was young and went to my father’s tiny Tennessee River fishing cabin, not far down the road was James Franks’ hollow country store.  Behind that store was a rocky cold stream. In that stream were quart jars of “panther p***” or moonshine.

He was the local distributor and about six miles down the road was a shanty that had refrigerators wall to wall. Inside one cooler was all gin, the other ice box had bourbon, the other scotch and so on.  It was such cheaply-blended stuff that the labels peeled off in one’s hand.

As teenagers we visited there often. The area was protected by the local enforcement establishment and was a bonanza for the badge boys. About 15 miles down the road was legendary Sheriff Buford Pusser‘s county. So as you can see it was a rough region. Pusser tried to control his county but our county was outside his realm.  I loved the excitement.

James Franks, by the way, eventually was beaten up pretty bad by a pool stick one night for some kind of gambling or juice infringement. I remember one guy was gunned down outside a cafe in Counce, Tenn. Then another time I was sketching in a honky-tonk and heard a lot of commotion. I quickly left and while exiting out the door quickly stepped over a guy stretched out on the threshold with a blade sticking perpendicular in his chest.

Boy were those untamed times! But I loved the Wild West atmosphere. Most of the honky-tonk females had many front teeth missing and had a weight problem, but the chewing tobacco boys just loved them. They loved them even more the later it got.

You must understand those backwood joints were the country clubs and social clubs for those folks. The good, old-time religion, wooden churches and road joints were the social centers. I sat at the bars never even looking at a female for fear of upsetting a ladies beau. Besides, I was a city boy and did not want to end up as catfish bait in the Tennessee River. I always kept my mouth shut.

Later, when I traveled as a young salesman, I ran illegal booze from Memphis to Cullman County, Ala. (all surrounding Alabama counties were dry then and some are still like a desert). Anyhow, when I pulled out of the driveway, my station wagon looked like an overloaded hearse. The back fender was about three inches from the road and I always took the back roads. Stupid me, I never thought of it as a “federal offense,” just a bad state law.  But I supplied my customers and friends with liquid happiness when I pulled into Cullman.

I guess that’s why Robert Mitchum in “Thunder Road” was my movie hero. He was moonshine runner, and in the movie he cashed out and rolled over. I was somewhat more careful.

Only once was I stopped, not by the cops but by the Klan. It seems the Ku Klux Klan had a welcoming flag waving committee on Highway 157, and when I stopped they knew exactly what I had in the station wagon and asked for a contribution. I put a donation into the basket with a giving heart because I was not sure what was awaiting me over the next hill.

Next time, I’ll go into the wild and burly life of the river cat fisherman. However, it will be rough and for males only to read. I don’t even know if my editor will allow it!

Fair winds, matey.

Chick Huettel is a local historian, writer and artist. He lives in the Point Washington area.