"Flash oil" reference

[ScottishBoy]

"Flash oil" was what the guy who taught me used to refer to the fusile oils. Just for fun, I went and tried to look it up on the Internet and I cant find any reference to it. Im pretty sure it the fusile oils he was referring to as we always took them to the creek along with the starts. Anyone else ever heard of them referred to as Flash Oils? Better still, anyone know why they are called that?

[LWTCS]

"Flash" is monosyllabic, "Fusile" is multisyllobic.

Recon thats how he heard it spoken, or Flash may have been the closest his memory could recall?

They both start with F.........

Gotta respect first language learned. Communication is good.

What was the question?

[ScottishBoy]

Not sure...just wish I could have a handle on what he taught me. I think we were working with corn, but I cant really remember. Really just wish Choley's memory could be worth more than some folks thought. Good man.

Pretty certain he always called it flash and he did mention one time that was what his Dad called it.

[LWTCS]

Recon as long as he was able to communicate his teachings to you, and you were able to recieve his lessons,,,, it doesn't matter what word he used.

"You say toe-may-toe, I say toe-mah-toe. You say poe-tay-toe, I say poe-tah-toe."

Larry

[ScottishBoy]

I might just have to tell a few stories about the old goat...Folks around my home said he was a hermit and he didnt come out much, but I got to know him.

I ran out of gas on my motorcycle when I was about 12 and I was pushing the bitch by his house when I heard him laughing. He was sitting on his porch drinking water. I stopped ( mostly cause I needed to) and said "What you dont think I can get her home? " He smiled and raised his glass to me and said " I seen you hay. You'll make it. Im just wonderin if you can make it home by nightfall."
"You wouldnt happen to have any gas I could use, do you?" ( Hey Why not?)
"Tell you what youngin" he says" If you help me with a little chore, I might just have a little I could spare".
Alright I admit, I was freaking desperate. I was twelve miles from home. I was thinking about taking the pass through to get some gas and come back, but I didn't know that part of the ridge that well. I also didnt want to loose my broomstick ( nickname for a 250, bored, balanced and blueprinted then extended with dual carbs and few timing improvements.)
So I pushed it.

Well he had me park the bike, all the while giving it funny looks. I walked out in back with him and we walked through the barn into the older section where there was this "thing" that I didnt recognize. He looks at me and says "You fill me up and I'll fill you up". Back then, pedophilia was literally unheard of and I never got that sense from him, but I could not figure out what the hell he meant. He pointed to two stainless steel buckets that were probably 5 gallons each and then up to the top of this big tank. "My back aint what it used to and we don't have running water in this section of the barn, so I need you to fill that tank up with each bucket....20 times.
I did the math in my head each one would weigh 40 pounds plus the bucket so I figured 90 pounds x20...1800 pounds of water. The bike was 270 some odd pounds and pushing it twelve miles was...aw fuck it.
So I started lugging water. Cause it really wasnt that bad of a deal for a kid twelve years old.
About an hour later I was done and he came in with a gas can.
He filled it up while I was working.
"Okay Mr Johnson, Im done...so what is this anyway?"
He looked at me and smiled this big grin. He always had a great grin. He used it a lot when he shined. He always looked like he was getting away with something. I loved that smile, cause so few people got to see it.
"You like science, right? Your Daddy, he's a doctor."
"Yeah" I said " I like it a lot...why?" I was still baffled.
"Because this is where science meets the road. With a little love and a good deal of instinct, it can become even more." I was rapidly coming to the realization that Mr. Johnson was a lot more than he let on.
"Your Daddy and some of his friends asked me about this once. I didnt teach em, but I'll teach you."
"Im sorry Mr. Johnson, I dont get it." I was burning with curiosity and I kept getting the sense that this was a "man thing". At 12 , you really WANT to learn about "man things".
"Alright." He said kinda quietly " You wanna help an old man make some medicine?"
Sure, who wouldnt want to do that? I was thinking horse medicine or somesuch. He sat down on a stool and asked me if I liked to stay up late? I told him yes. He said he had heard me coast by on a few nights when the moon was high. I cant remember her name, but she liked to kiss in the moonlight. I think it was Jessica.
'The moon makes a man restless and you need something to keep you out of trouble. So you wanna learn something that could help you out?"
"Sure Mr. Johnson. What do you need now?"
"Well first off, you can call me Choley. ( No, I never did get a reason why) and secondly, you can go home and get some food in you. Do your chores and then come back about 8 or so."
"So what are you gonna teach me?" I asked cause I still didnt get it.
"Im gonna teach you about how you can bottle love." He said and started walking back to the house. I thought he was crazy, but I came back and I have always been glad I did.

It wasnt until a few years ago that I really knew what he meant, but I will save that for another time.

ScottishBoy

[Hack]

Great story. Thanks for writing it up for us.

[blanikdog]

Yairsss SB, a great story. Can't wait for the next episode.

blanik

[ScottishBoy]

I will write down everything I remember. It was a pretty cool time in a boys life. I have been digging pretty hard in the back of my mind for details, but it has been centuries it seems.
More to come I hope.

[ScottishBoy]

So that was my first real introduction to the man I would affectionately call "Choley". His actual name wasnt even close to that, and he never did tell me what it meant. He did mention once that his wife used to call him that. He lived in a neat little white house that was small and very functional. The barn was the best part of the property. He kept some of each livestock in there, but mostly pigs, a cow, two horses and chickens.
It was my second trip back after telling Dad I was gonna go visit my friend Rich. Dad had been divorced for two years at that point, he didnt really keep "good" track of me, but he always thought he knew where he could find me. It was summer, so it wasnt uncommon for me to not be home until 9PM or so since it was still light out.
This time I was back at the barn, exploring the deep recesses of the part that was supposedly unused. The back of the barn was covered in those really thick spider webs that are made by Grey Barn Spiders. He actually used leave them there and never even cleared above the stalls because they did such a good job taking care of any flies that came in. He always greeted them as "ladies". So past the bench and the wall covered with harness and collars and through a door was an even dustier part of the barn. It had a bunch of old stuff in it and most of it was covered in those brown/grey tarps. To touch something in this area was to come away with a lot of spongy brownish dirty dust.
In other words, it was the perfect hiding place.

A subtle trail wound between the first two pieces and directly into a hanging tarp which covered a horse drawn rake. It was a dirt floor, so it was always a little moist and it was packed pretty hard. He would push the tarp to the side and then you could walk right up to a really ratty looking tarp that took up an area about the size of a VW bus. This area was covered in what looked to be inch and half elm that had seen a few horses in its day. It was well swept and had that silvery gloss feel to it from being polished by many hooves. It was raised off the floor by about 10 inches, which was typical for horse stalls at that time and it had one on each side of it. The ledge kept them off the cold floor and allowed water to drain. We always used green elm, because it was so resistant to wetness and actually seemed to get stronger when it was wet. Under the tarp you would find a rocking chair, a small table, a pile of wood and a large assortment of odd looking pipes and pieces.
At first I thought it was a steam tractor with no wheels.
It was really dull brown and kind of brassy and it looked even darker in the light coming in through the plastic window covers. Back then they made this really tough mesh and plastic window stuff. It was pearly plastic white with a light blue tint to it and it made a wicked racket when the pressure in the buildings changed.
the space it was in was pretty intimate and I would later learn that this was a 3/4 box stall that had the semi-door removed. Still it was cozy and very private. I remember thinking this would make a great place for a secret fort or something.
Then he started taking some things off of the pile in front of me. A few odd pieces of pipe and a few lengths of stovepipe, some small barrels and a few boxes of nails, bolts and basic crap you would use for fences. This revealed a nice little thing that looked for all intensive purposes to be a steam engine that may have run some type of generator. It had a big flywheel on the side and a few odd looking linkages that were greased with old motor oil.
The thing looked like a piece of trash mounted on a base. The base was actual 1 inch plywood. Honest to goodness, 1 inch plywood that had the edges chewed up so it showed all the layers. It had been a chew toy for some animal at some point. But it added to the rattiness of the unit.
So he looks at me and says "Com'here and help. It's heavier than it looks."
He pointed to a spot that was reinforced with 2x4 which looked like it was supposed to keep arms from getting caught in the gears. He pointed towards the wall and then bent down to push the whole thing like a sled. So I pushed and we ran the thing right into the wall.
He smiled and walked over to the edge of the ledge and leaned over to look at the bottom of the squarish looking case. He opened the front and grinned as I saw a little door like the kind you would see on a boat or the side of a washing machine, but small and it didnt have any glass in it. It looked like a big nut with little bristles evenly spaced around it. There was a spigot too down at the bottom. The he motioned me to come over and stand next to him. He motioned me to grab ahold of the ledge and we both pulled. To my surprise the front part of the ledge came out to show the part of the ledge under the plywood. The ledge was still in the air and it reminded me of a sandbox, except that the sand area was occupied by what lloked to be a stove. Under the front panel of the case, under the floor level, was a door like the type you see on pot belly stoves except it was really wide and not too tall.
"You gettin it yet?" he asked. I had to say I was not until he opened the bottom door. Ashes.
Then it dawned on me. 'Oh shit. Thats a boiler.'
He chuckled and said that he had hid this from his wife for years. So now I had to look closer.
The bottom of the boiler slid over the bottom half of a camp stove. Round, about a foot and half wide, fed from the bottom. There was a gap where the floor was supposed to be. He grinned again and walked around to the back of the contraption and grabbed a handle that was attached to the plywood. I recognized it as a dump rake handle. He pulled back slightly to release it and squeezed the handle and then pointed to the boiler as he lowered it onto the bottom half of the stove. Once the boiler met the bottom of the stove, the rim of the boiler stuck out about an inch all the way around but it was a fairly decent seal.
Im figuring he used about four inches of travel.
It was the friggin most cool thing I had ever seen in my life. It was like the Batcave only real and even more mysterious. I knew right then that I wanted to know everything. For a twelve year old, that was the coolest thing ever. Then I felt his hand on my shoulder and he says; "Remember. Not a word to anyone."
"Okay", I said. That was just fine by me.
"Yer Dad is gonna want you home soon." he said. "I want you to come back Saturday afternoon if you can and I'll show you some more, but first I want you to think about two things. First is, whats missing from this? Second is if you can actually keep your yap shut about it. I didnt teach yer Daddy and Im not even sure why I'm thinkin about you. I need the help though and you seem like an okay kid."
I thought about this while he walked around the machine and pulled back on the rake dump, raising the boiler off the stove bottom. It clicked into place and he walked back around and motioned for me to help him push the ledge back into place. Then he grabbed a T pull and snaked it into a latch down near the front of the plywood and pulled the rig back to where it was before. We started replacing all the odds and ends and then placed the tarp back on it. Then he told me the oddest thing. "Go up to the loft and jump up and down for a minute. It wont take much. So I climbed the ladder and stood in the loft above the stall…and jumped.
"Okay" he said "C'mon down."
There was still dust in tha air and I saw that it was covering the tarp slowly. He was a wiley old fox.
In ten minutes it would look like it had been there for years.
So I drove home, thinking about the little quiz he gave me and determined to make sure I didnt spill the beans. It came to me when I went to bed that I didnt see any way for the stove to vent smoke. I went to bed pretty happy as I recall and the next day I convinced the librarian to let me have access to the research section because I was doing research on Prohibition events in our town and Appalachian migrations.

[goinbroke2]

AWESOME! I was around 14-15 the first time I saw a still and I was shooed away by the grown ups. I think it was the same one I saw when I was around 19 or so..and was shooed away again!

[vicrider]

Very cool. Thats got the makings of a book I would buy. I hate cliff-hangers.

[zorcy]

Wow, that is an amazing story. I am so glad I found this site, if just to hear this piece of history. Keep it coming. Following the machinery is a challenge for me, but still sounds great. If you are artistic, you should try to draw it out. He had vast knowledge to pass on, I hope you have done so at home.

[ScottishBoy]

Wow, that is an amazing story. I am so glad I found this site, if just to hear this piece of history. Keep it coming. Following the machinery is a challenge for me, but still sounds great. If you are artistic, you should try to draw it out. He had vast knowledge to pass on, I hope you have done so at home.

I have tried to revive it, but I dont have any sons to pass it to. But I may teach one of my kids. I just wanted to honor that man. I will continue the story sometime...when I get a little more time, but it seems like I remember just a little more every time I still. The UJSSM really brings it back...and his rice recipe.

[Nightforce]

Makin's for a good story. Now I can't wait for the rest of it. Hope you get the time to write some more.

[cluey]

Thankyouthankyouthankyou!! That is a pure joy to read. It is a story that would enjoyed by the masses I am sure. Please please continue. Then go find someone in publishing to represent you. The world would be a better place to hear this story.

[Slow & Steady]

Ahhh Haaaaa ScottishBoy... you grew up in the Appalachians.

You are a good writer and I can't wait to hear the next installment. That publishing was early December of last year... don't you think you have keep your audience waiting long enough? Come on... We are waiting!!!

S&S

[still crazy]

SB
Got to tell ya this writing is what I refer to as pure gold bro.
I grew up with a dad who stilled and I was probably in a crib first time in the still shed.
But he was a character being a Wyoming boy who came east to marry " the woman with the biggest boobs he ever saw".
Try writing that for your 6th grade teacher on the how mom and dad met writing assignment.
Write more

SC

[goinbroke2]

Imagine my boys...I said what drew me to the wife was big tits, blond hair and she loved to give head...notice I said loved and not loves...

[ScottishBoy]

A little more. Still trying to sort it out...


The next day was actually pretty fun as I looked at pictures of stills and such and got an idea that what I was doing (or intending on doing) was illegal and that Choley had been doing it all along. The pictures I looked at were all old and archivist stuff, black and white and grainy. I still like to look at pictures like that to this day. That wasnt water he was drinkin on the porch the first day I met him. Still I had to like the guy. He wasnt too tall, maybe 5'6" and he had one of those bodies that was kinda leathery and baked by the sun. Lots of hard work had seen that face and I bet he did more now than most people ever did in their prime. Sometimes he had a beard and sometimes not. Seemed like he shaved when he wanted. He was a cantankerous guy and he had a devilish smile when you caught him off gaurd. I pretty much always saw him in jeans and he had a collection of denim and plaid shirts. Not the wussy plaids, but solid workshirts. He wasnt hunched over like some of the older folks. He always stood straight, but relaxed at the same time. Sometimes he would tell me to straighten up and stand tall. He said his wife used to do that to him and it made him a better man. I had never met his wife. I guess she died when I was really young. You could always tell he missed her cause he always paused just a little when he said her name. Most of the time, he just called her "Babe". As a result, thats what I call my wife nearly all the time. It just seems right, especially since I had an Aunt Babe when I was young.
It was Babes death that brought him back to drinking on a scale comparative to before they met. I think the still was his way of getting away with something. He used to tell me that he would tell her he was going out to mend fences, usually with the neighbors, and he would be gone for the day. They would do some work and then drink for the rest of the day with his buds. I guess good fences do make good neighbors.
He always told me he was a heavy drinker before he met Babe. He had a wild streak in him when he was young. I think he said he was born in 1901. Seemed like it made sense. He looked that old. So I guess that would have made him a young stud in and around the prohibition era. He said he had "seen some things" and made a few references to it but the most common theme was he met Babe after the country "went dry". Babe was younger than he was I think, but not by much and he decided that he would be willing to tone down his life so he could be with her.
He said it was the best decision he ever made. So he kept it quiet and simple and used the techniques he was taught. He said at one point that he was "sorely tempted to sell some to make the bank" but he also said that Babe would have skinned him alive if she found out. Mostly he traded for other things and did it for himself and Babe after she found out he had the still. She liked a good drink now and then. His phrase for it was "she wasnt afraid to cradle a jug now and again" meaning she knew how to drink and she could do it properly. His respect for his wife was amazing. With my parents having been through a divorce, I was always pretty keen on seeing evidence of a long lasting relationship. I became an incurable romantic after my folks got divorced, but I always seemed to miss it. Choley seemed to understand. At that point in my life I was bedding a single woman who my Dad thought I was doing caretaker work for. I did do some work for her, but usually just the mornings. No love there, but some good affection and a good way for me to get some of my oats out. She noticed me one day after my shoulders started getting wider and decided to educate me. She would later become one of my covers for stilling with Choley.
Ms. B was always needing furniture moved and gardens planted. Hell, it took me two months to paint her bedroom. He was fond of Ms B, but we never actually talked about it. He was usually pretty quiet when it came to his nearest neighbor. But he always referred to her as a "nice girl". I think meaning she was too young for him or something.
Babe, on the other hand, was sacrosanct to him and I realized it right off the bat. He had one picture of her in the parlour and she was a stunner. Dark Curly hair and eyes that were big and soulful. It was a black and white picture next to an old car. He tried to quit drinking when he met her. Stayed on the straight and narrow for a few years. He nipped a little here and there and he did keep it from his wife for a while until she "sighed and told him that she wouldnt mind a drink of the old stuff". So he took her out to the barn and found a jug.
Then he showed the still. I remember this because he always started laughing when he told me this.
"She was so damned mad, she could have chewed fryin pans and spit nails. Actually threw a pitchfork at me at one point. I slept out here that night. But only after we drank some and she decided she was goin to bed. Next mornin she came out with breakfast and told me to keep it quiet and I could keep the still. She was a "practical woman"." he would always say. Now the thing I always wondered about was where Babe got her taste for it. Since she was a few years younger than him, she couldnt have been more than 18 at best when prohibition started. So she had exposure somewhere to bootleg whisky. I always wondered if maybe she was hiding a stint of "behavior" before she met him. Maybe they met over what he was doing. Either way, she had full knowledge of what shine was and wasnt afraid of it. I dont think this was in the same place as his current place of living so he must have made his still after they moved into that house. But I never did ask him how long he had been living there. He was just "always there". Unanswered questions. But she let him have the still and I suspect he built it into the stalls many years before I showed up. Maybe she was just appealing to his semi-private nature.
I guess she knew it was easier to keep him in line if she could predict him, so she let him have his indulgences. Plus, now that she knew, she could use it as trade fodder too. Apparently there were a few ladies in the area who made good pies, jams and other delights who liked a drink now and then too. Choley said that his "high life got a little higher after that". Even after the ban was lifted, the ladies continued to trade.
She died and he didnt see a whole lot of reason to not drink like he used to. I guess in the years after her death he withdrew a bit. I may have been one of the first folks he reached out to. Up until that point, I had always just thought of him as The old guy in the Farm. My experience with him taught me that the still can be your friend as well as a tool. You can sit up late with it when you cant sleep and get something out of it. It regulates your time and gives you something to focus on. I always look at it like a meditation on getting the best out of something that was so-so.
Looking back on it, I guess I was lucky.
He was drinking himself to sleep when he lost her and continued to do so for many years. He could have just as easily withdrew into the bottle and never come out. That was his Medicine. It was also his love, or at least his remedy to it. He was always satisfied with his makins. Im thinking it was easier to remember Babe with a good buzz. A hole like that in your heart may never heal. I asked him once how come he didnt find another lady. He told me he "had a few girls to visit, but no Ladies".
It took me a while to figure that one out.
Every once in a while he would be gone for a few days "visitin". He would always come back with a little spring in his step. I asked him where he had been when he came back from one. I literally met him in the driveway…mostly because I was the one who was taking care of his animals when he went away. He stopped his car and got out. It was a Nova with that strangely muted yellow toned paint if I remember right. He didnt say much, just grabbed his suitcase out of the back seat and started walking into the house. His step looked light, but he wasnt smilin. He seemed almost mad.
"Hey Choley! You have a good trip? Where did you go?". He gave me a half smile as he approached. He looked a little tired. "hey youngin. Ladies ok?"
'Sure" I said.
"You like Potroast?" he said as he walked by.
"Sure" I say. I thought this was a dinner invitation. Among other things, he did know his way around the kitchen.
"Ever eat one of those Frozen dinners?" he asked with a serious tone as he turned around. He lowered his eyes as he completed his turn back to look at me. Clearly he wasnt impressed.
"I had one once when I went to visit my Mom. It was pretty awful." all the while thinking to myself 'what does this mean?'. He sat down on the porch and dropped his suitcase beside him. He fished out a bottle and took a swig, offered me some, then put it away. Truth be told, most of the time, I placed my tounge over the end of the bottle and pretended to take a swig. Sometimes it just wasnt in me.
"I just had two days worth of frozen dinners named Mariette." he said easing himself up off the chair. The chair creaked a little as he rose. Sounded like the screen door on our house.
"Damn, I miss potroast." he said as he walked into the back door to the kitchen.
I guessed there was no dinner. Too bad.
Later on we would talk a little more and I confirmed that there was never anyone like Babe and there would never be again. I figured out a few things that afternoon while we did chores and exchanged words. The first was that love could last a lifetime and that not every marriage ends in divorce. The second was that it was possible to spoil yourself for anyone else. Im not saying he was spoiled, but there would simply never be another Babe. The next frozen dinner I would eat, with a girl I was dating when I was 17, would see me smiling and enjoying it too much. Because I was madly in love with this girl and I finally knew what he was talking about. We stayed together until I went to college, where I would lose her, my home, Choley and any sense of roots for a very long time.

[ScottishBoy]

Ahhh Haaaaa ScottishBoy... you grew up in the Appalachians.

You are a good writer and I can't wait to hear the next installment. That publishing was early December of last year... don't you think you have keep your audience waiting long enough? Come on... We are waiting!!!

S&S

I grew up in New England...
Well...I,m still in the process of growing up...

[stock doc]

SB
You're a great story teller.
I'm really enjoying this.
Thank you for sharing.

[Slow & Steady]

Holy Moly, I hope I don't have to wait another three months to read the next installment. Honestly ScottishBoy, if you aren't a published writer, you missed your calling.

Thank you,
S&S

[ScottishBoy]

Feel free to give a sample to a publisher if you want...(?)

I never thought my writing was anything too special.
But I'm glad you all like it.

SB

[blanikdog]

Imagine my boys...I said what drew me to the wife was big tits, blond hair and she loved to give head...notice I said loved and not loves...

blanik

[blanikdog]

What they all said SB.

blanik

[cluey]

Thank you for taking the time to give us the latest installment. I enjoyed it very much.

[ScottishBoy]

Alright, but just so you all understand that I have been through a lot since this time in my life...details may be conflicting in certain areas.. Im finding this to be mildy comforting...and I have broken a nearly 16 year long writer's block.
Here you go:

So now I had a really good idea of how this could turn out. The laws were pretty clear about one thing. ANY alcohol production beyond normal fermentation was to be regulated and taxed to the absolute maximum. Anyone who broke this rule, was generally in a heap of trouble. Some of the faces in those pictures told a tale of woe, but most looked like they had got caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Despite what some said, it wasnt about the morals, or the temperance or any such thing. It was all about the cash and the constant stream of revenue that came in from Alcohol. I mean, hell, they got Capone for taxes. Some things just shouldnt be messed with and this was one of them. After prohibition, the coffers were strapped for cash due to the total lack of revenue from alcohol. Naturally, once this revenue stream was flowing again, they wanted to makse damn sure it was protected.
Now about this time was when we were still in the energy crunch, and there was always someone who wanted to make a still to produce ethanol for fuel. The 70's were an interesting time and possibly a bit scary. I was always wondering where my next tank of gas was coming from. Folks bought smaller cars and Toyota made a huge push to become a brand name. People were trying to buckle down. Even then, the debate raged hot. I still remember my dad doing some calorie counting to determine if it actually saved any enrgy. At that time, the answer was No. Its very much like the modern Hybrids of today. Sure they have higher gas mileage, but ultimately the cost of the vehicle is weighed out in terms of calories to build and operate. Seems economical, but they dont tell you about the four acres they had to stripmine to get the materials for the batteries. Still, at least we are trying.
Sometimes progress must come in very small increments.
But a lot of people still stood curious and it was discussed at several parties my Dad attended. I __think__ thats what my Dad was after. But this was also the time when they had just made home brewing legal. I didnt know this at the time, but Dad suddenly developed a keen interest in brewing beer. My math is a little fuzzy, but Im pretty certain that he started making beer just after my mom left in late 1975. Since making beer wasnt made legal until 1979, I kind of have to wonder if he wasnt making it illegally. At that time, I dont think anyone cared. I remember a lot of John Bull Dark cans and the really sweetfeed smell of some of the things he used. Tough to say. My dad even let me try a batch or two, confident that I would not be able to make anything. Luckily, I surprised myself and made some good batches. I was allowed to drink anything I made, including my dandelion sparkling wine. Lager yeast and a cool dirt floored cellar made for a fine teen percentage wine that was dry and the gals loved it.
I ran through about 5 years of a magazine called Mother Earth News and got a lot of ideas but the underlying problem was that it was illegal. Nearly everyone said the same thing. If you applied for a permit, then the Law can come see you any time they bloody well feel like it. Seemed like a lot of the Mother readers were also pot growers so this was frowned upon. While I could never actually PROVE this, they seemed to bear all the marks of hemp farmers, including the love of privacy and wariness that came from having the law around. I do remember at that point that it was just beginning to be grown in our state. 20 years later it would be my states largest cash crop and have gained a reputation equal to that of Hawaii.
So the word of the day was "shhhhh…". For a while I didnt even tell my friend John. He never knew I shined until early in my junior year in High School. I remember I used to have customers call up and ask for "whatever I had" on purpose. Even when I had a batch I was about to clean up, they couldnt wait. But I kept it to a small circle of friends who I knew I could trust. I guess I kept it as quiet as possible.
At one point I got caught in my Sophomore year. I sold a 10oz bottle to a guy I __thought__ was cool. He went out back and split it with his girlfriend. I did warn him that it was strong and that they should only sip. There was still half a bottle left when they were brought into the principles office to rat me out. There were lot of locker searches, finger pointing, more locker searches, a pretty grueling question session and finally it was just their word against mine. They ended up taking their word and I got kicked out for five days. Dad made me rebuild 3 miles of dog pens for punishment and balled me out somethin fierce. I was too big to hit then, but he probably could have. The thing I remember most was him yelling at me about how I "must have watered down some gin he had in the cupbourd and sold it". I was so pissed, I opened the bottle and poured a four inch puddle on our butcher block table and put an Ohio Blue Tip to it. Then I flicked out the light.
There was a nice blue flame. Probably a little yellow.
I flicked the light back on and said "Watered down? Water doesnt burn, Dad."
He had to concede the point, but I got a huge lecture on how I was going to mess up my life if I didnt straighten up. I countered by telling him that his Grandfather did it too. He just looked at me and said "This isnt fuckin Scotland."
That was a point I had to concede. I think that was the last time I sold, except to friends who were in need and even then it was only to buy more supplies.
Fool me once, okay, your a rat. You dont get a second chance to fool me. Hard lesson learned well.
At a later point that kid would taunt me through a wire enforced window set in a locked door. I waited until he decided to press his face against it and make blowfish faces then smacked it with a hammer fist. Physics being what it is ( and me knowing my physics) all of the blow translated through the glass and into his face, minus the transitional energy. He was startled and bleeding a little. I remember thinking at that point that I was smarter than this and that I needed to use my head. I had already been thrown out of school twice and I needed to get on the ball with my life.
So I used his weaknesses against him.
He was a sucker for free stuff. When he came around the corner, I said I was kidding and that I would give him some more if he "left me alone". I prettied it up with a little pleading just to make him feel more powerful. My friend John thought I had wimped out. I told him that this was going to be worth the wait and the slight (temporary)loss of face. I arranged for him to get another bottle the next day, but of a "commercial nature". 80 proof Vodka bottle, filled with 120 proof, the cap super glued to simulate a fresh crack. Then I waited until he went out back, finished 1/4 of the bottle, and promptly notified the principle, his guidance counselor, and the local police. Oddly enough, I was in the study hall they walked him by on the way to the police station.
Fool me once…
When he came back, I had bodygaurds for hire waiting in the wings. Although I never had to use the threat, I had a few young men who would have gladly put him in the hospital for a pint. It was a simple contingency. If he messed with me, the first three people who beat the crap out of him, got free alcohol. The guys in the smoking area all knew I was good for my word.
We called a truce later in the year after someone threatened him in an attempt to collect. It was kind of a mean thing to do, but I needed to get myself clear of the bullshit and get my life on track. I had decided to go to college and study. Maybe even try to have a life. I had a lot of time to think rebuilding those pens, and I realized that I could do better with my life.

My Saturday trip to Choley's was actually fairly easy. Choley was out looking after his livestock. I got there and he took my hands in his and looked them over. Then he went over and got a pair of work gloves and tossed them to me. He nodded at my choice in boots. Timberlines with no steel toe. Only fools wear steel toes around draft animals. So we hitched up a horse to one of the light wagons and went off into the fields, eventually to come to an apple orchard. We got off and he told me to start gathering up the branches that had been pruned from the trees. Most of these you would not use as firewood because they were too skinny, but Choley had other plans for them. We gathered a bunch of 1-2 inch thick branches and packed them into the wagon. When they were well packed, he grabbed the chainsaw he brought and proceeded to cut 6 inch long slices off the whole bundle. When he got too close to the wagon, we stopped and pulled it out more and did it again. Last to come out was the twigs, which he dumped after he got me to move the wagon forward by a few feet. "You want to make sure you dont have a lot of sawdust around. Fresh sawdust without a fireplace makes people wonder. So cut in the field. If your boiler is small, you want to use apple if you can. It puts out better heat when its dry. Next up is maple, but it has to be really dry. You can use telephone poles that the company throws away, but its a chore to clean up and you have to watch it pretty close. They soak em in tar before they put em up to make sure they dont rot. Easy way to burn your stuff. Gets out control easily too. But you can use small pieces along with the rest of the wood to give it some kick. Just be careful. Tar burns hotter than lead."
So we gathered it up and brought it in and life was pretty okay for the afternoon. Another tarp which covered a long workbench was taken off. It was a ways from the still, a good 15 feet. The bottom was all faced out with wooden orchard boxes, which we immediately began packing with wood. These were the old style ones that were made of 3/4 hardwood and even had straps run around the outside of actual dovetail joints. When the end of the world came, these crates would still be here. "Get it tight and you wont have too many trips." he said. The wood we had leftover he placed nearer to the still, then dropped the tarp back over it. He always seemed to be keeping things under wraps. Old habit I guess.
"So did you figure out what was missin?" he looks at me and expects an answer. I squirmed a little under scrutiny. He was obviously looking for the correct answer.
"Stovepipe?" I said, wondering if that was what he was looking for. He nodded and brought me over to the back of the rig and kicked aside one of the tool boxes on the plywood. All that was there was a hole and the old flooring underneath. Now I was confused and he could see it. He made a motion with his hands that looked like he was pushing the rig over. Not even bothering to ask, I pushed it over myself and watched the hole align with an up pipe on the far side of the boiler. Now I understood why the stove pipe was also part of the rats nest of stuff he kept against it. He grabbed the three pieces of pipe and assembled the draft. Up six feet and then an elbow bend straight towards the back of the stall. He reached up and removed a coffee can to reveal the recieving end of a stove pipe that I had noticed on the outside of the barn, but had never seen used. I thought it was a leftover from a shop or something. Then, just as fast as he put it up, he knocked back down and watched as I jumped to push the rig back onto the other wall. He looked at me and said "You have to use the pull. First of all it keeps you from touching the cover, second if the boiler is full, then you will need two people. Plus, if you only have one person, you cant get enough leverage to move it right. The floor skid will catch on the wall."
"Wall?" I looked down and noticed that the whole rig was flush with the wall, stopped by the frame. I leaned around and saw that the plywood was actually coming out the other side of the wall. I hadnt even noticed this before, but it slid right under it in a space that happened to be as wide and the ply. There were a few old shaves of the ply on the other side of the wall as well. I guess more than just goats had chewed on that piece through the years. I was starting to like this.
"What about the fire?" I asked, cause I was pretty certain that sliding a piece of plywood over it wasnt going to do much. It had all the makings of a barn fire, which any country person knows, is a sure fire way to convert a barn to ash in a just a few minutes.
"When we get ready I'll show you." he said and gestured toward the tank I had almost filled earlier. It was up in the air and it looked like an oil furnace tank on its side. All it said on the side was KERO and it sat up above the area where the workbench was, except that it was on some really beefy post and beam. Then he walked over to another dusty bucket. It was one of those plastic ones that you kept animal supplements in. He picked it up and walked it over to the edge of the stall floor and proceeded to open it up.
The stench was incredible. I almost threw up when I smelled it. It burned my eyes and churned its way right into my brain with a smell that was sharp and knifish. Imagine the smell of a cow compost pile only magnified 100 times. He covered it back up and walked it back to where he picked it up.
"The last thing we do if we get a visit is to spill that bucket. Just take it and heave it over onto the dirt floor. That lid will come off." he said smiling.
"Whats in it?" I asked still wincing from the smell.
"A few handfuls of pig feed, a scoop of alfalfa pellets, a few vegetables and some sugar…banana peels…fish guts…Oh...and two eggs with water…and some gunpowder."
"What is it for?" I asked.
"To cover the smell of the fire." he said as we walked out the door and into some delightfully fresh air laden with manure. Seriously, this stuff was that bad. I have always hated cows ( love horses though! ) and their crap smelt better than that stuff by a long way. It was wretched. Later I found out that it also made pretty good rose food. His words to describe it were "the rose bucket", and true to its name it was used for rose food. He had two trellises of roses in the front of the house. He never did anything with em, just gave em food every spring. They were quite massive. I guess Babe had a fondness for Roses. I have since tried to cultivate Roses, but the climate is too cold for them here and the frost dives deep in Zone 3 areas. But I still try.
So we stopped for the night after Choley gave me some food and offered me a nip. I decided to decline.
"Smart boy" he said.
Then we had 'the talk'.
This wasnt the birds and the bees or anything awkward. It was a straightforward warning that if I screwed it up, he would come down on me like Heaven and that would be the end of it. In the end it came down to an agreement that I would learn, shut up and do what he said when he said. If I screwed up, then he talked with my dad and life became quite unpleasant for me.
I went home and parked my bike, gave the horses some hay, checked the water and went to the house.
Dad asked why I was late and I told him I got lost on the logging roads. For now that was good enough.

[Slow & Steady]

I couldn't believe it, another fantastic installment. I guess the monkey pulled the cork out of your... what did you call it? Oh yeah, Writers Block... It's all good ScottishBoy... keep it coming.

S&S

[Whitedog]

Wonderful literary composition, ScottishBoy! There was a certain part about getting in trouble that sounded strangely familiar to stories in my life! Thanks for sharing!

[Mud Mechanik]

Scottishboy, if your likker is as good as your writing skills, I need to get you my mailing adress, great job.