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During the Prohibition era there were many famous bootleggers: Al Capone, Lucky Luciano, Bugsy Siegal, even Joseph Kennedy got his start by selling bootleg liquor. It is reported that all these men made $100 million dollars a year by running illegal moonshine. Even Dolittle (Mooney) Lynn supported the coal miner’s daughter by running a little bootleg alcohol before she put them on country music’s map. I once knew a bootlegger who made and sold his own moonshine, although he never became as famous as those previously mentioned or made anywhere near a million dollars. Let’s give him a hypothetical name: Bob – yeah, Bob the Bootlegger! (Actually, he’s my daddy.)
In our Grazierville back yard, we had a small barn. Sometimes it was filled with pigs, sometimes chickens, a few calves, or a pony. But in one corner, behind a mound of hay was dad’s special place. My sister and I never went back there, but we often peeked through the boards. Oh yeah, there were all kinds of tubes and kettles, piles of corn meal and yeast, and bottles galore. What for? Shucks we didn’t know. As long as I had food in my belly and cowboy boots on my scrawny little feet, I didn’t care what was behind that haymow. Besides it looked like someone killed and dismembered the Tin Man in there; too scary for us.
The clear liquid that dripped from that coiled tubing must have been good stuff because we had a steady stream of visitors, some well-dressed business types and a few unsavory characters. Okay, probably more of the unsavory characters than any. Whatever. They were always looking over their shoulders and so was Bob the Bootlegger. I remember the words G-men and Revenuers spoken more than once at my house. Whatever the heck that meant.
There was even a time that one angry woman showed up at our house and chewed on my dad for inebriating her husband. Yeah, like dad poured it down the guy’s throat. He was no longer allowed to sell to that man. Even so, I’d see that man slinking around the bushes and into the barn. Must have been something one hundred proof going on in there.
I clearly remember the day that it all ended; it was the summer of 1960. I was swinging on the swings at the Grazierville School playground. I think Gary DiDomenico was wailing apples at Sherry Myers and me, when we heard the explosion. It sounded as if WWII just broke out in Grazierville. The continuous popping sounds were like machine gun fire. Then I noticed the smoke. Huge billows were rising like thunder clouds above the hill near my house.
“Susie,” Sherry shouted. “I think your house is on fire!”
I leaped on my bicycle and sped to the top of the hill. (Yes, back then I could pedal UP hill. Don’t even suggest I do that now!) I could see down into the back yard. It was not the house, but Dad was frantically tossing buckets of water on the barn. I saw my mom sweating as she madly worked the handle on the well pump.
Suddenly, movement from the bushes behind the burning shed caught my eye. Two little blonde kids ran toward the path in the woods behind our place. They ran right up the pathway and into me. It was my little sister, who was about seven or eight years old at the time, and the neighbor boy.
“Pam,” I shouted. “Were you and Denny in the barn?”
“What barn?” she said innocently. (Like they didn’t know which barn!)
“The barn burning in Sinking Valley, you dumb-head!” I pointed to the twenty-foot high flames.
“Oh, you mean that barn. Nuh uh, not me, we weren’t playing in the hay.”
Denny stood there, nonchalantly scraping the dirt with his foot, “we didn’t have any matches either!”
Well, the fire got so hot that all mom and dad could do was watch it burn.
The next day, all that was left was a pile of smoldering ash. I helped dad comb through the ashes. We found bottles, many of them burst by the heat, boards that were now nothing but charcoal, a few melted scraps of metal tools, pick heads, the end of the pitch fork, and the remnants of the Tin Man. Sadly, that ended our extra income. Did dad ever dream up a new endeavor? What do you think? (tee, hee, hee)
Oh yeah, and leaning against the back of the barn was our iceboat which was now deduced to only the skate runners. Darn it!
And that’s another story!
In our Grazierville back yard, we had a small barn. Sometimes it was filled with pigs, sometimes chickens, a few calves, or a pony. But in one corner, behind a mound of hay was dad’s special place. My sister and I never went back there, but we often peeked through the boards. Oh yeah, there were all kinds of tubes and kettles, piles of corn meal and yeast, and bottles galore. What for? Shucks we didn’t know. As long as I had food in my belly and cowboy boots on my scrawny little feet, I didn’t care what was behind that haymow. Besides it looked like someone killed and dismembered the Tin Man in there; too scary for us.
The clear liquid that dripped from that coiled tubing must have been good stuff because we had a steady stream of visitors, some well-dressed business types and a few unsavory characters. Okay, probably more of the unsavory characters than any. Whatever. They were always looking over their shoulders and so was Bob the Bootlegger. I remember the words G-men and Revenuers spoken more than once at my house. Whatever the heck that meant.
There was even a time that one angry woman showed up at our house and chewed on my dad for inebriating her husband. Yeah, like dad poured it down the guy’s throat. He was no longer allowed to sell to that man. Even so, I’d see that man slinking around the bushes and into the barn. Must have been something one hundred proof going on in there.
I clearly remember the day that it all ended; it was the summer of 1960. I was swinging on the swings at the Grazierville School playground. I think Gary DiDomenico was wailing apples at Sherry Myers and me, when we heard the explosion. It sounded as if WWII just broke out in Grazierville. The continuous popping sounds were like machine gun fire. Then I noticed the smoke. Huge billows were rising like thunder clouds above the hill near my house.
“Susie,” Sherry shouted. “I think your house is on fire!”
I leaped on my bicycle and sped to the top of the hill. (Yes, back then I could pedal UP hill. Don’t even suggest I do that now!) I could see down into the back yard. It was not the house, but Dad was frantically tossing buckets of water on the barn. I saw my mom sweating as she madly worked the handle on the well pump.
Suddenly, movement from the bushes behind the burning shed caught my eye. Two little blonde kids ran toward the path in the woods behind our place. They ran right up the pathway and into me. It was my little sister, who was about seven or eight years old at the time, and the neighbor boy.
“Pam,” I shouted. “Were you and Denny in the barn?”
“What barn?” she said innocently. (Like they didn’t know which barn!)
“The barn burning in Sinking Valley, you dumb-head!” I pointed to the twenty-foot high flames.
“Oh, you mean that barn. Nuh uh, not me, we weren’t playing in the hay.”
Denny stood there, nonchalantly scraping the dirt with his foot, “we didn’t have any matches either!”
Well, the fire got so hot that all mom and dad could do was watch it burn.
The next day, all that was left was a pile of smoldering ash. I helped dad comb through the ashes. We found bottles, many of them burst by the heat, boards that were now nothing but charcoal, a few melted scraps of metal tools, pick heads, the end of the pitch fork, and the remnants of the Tin Man. Sadly, that ended our extra income. Did dad ever dream up a new endeavor? What do you think? (tee, hee, hee)
Oh yeah, and leaning against the back of the barn was our iceboat which was now deduced to only the skate runners. Darn it!
And that’s another story!
Great story! My mother, Donna Bonsell, attended Grazierville School from about 1956-61. She has been looking for some photos from her school, particularly the ones taken on the front steps. Any idea how I might be able to help her out?
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