In Alabama in 1948 the only place you could legally buy whiskey was at a special store operated by the Alabama Alcoholic Beverage Control Board. Not all counties had ABC stores because counties could vote whether to be “wet” or “dry.” We lived in a “dry” county, so anyone living around Coffeeville would have to travel many miles to buy legal alcohol.
Every time an election to go “wet” came around the bootleggers and the preachers would join forces and go to work campaigning against the issue. The bootleggers did it for the obvious reason—to maintain their flow of tax-free profits. The preachers wanted to save people from temptation and they would revive their sermons on the evils of alcohol, all the while taking huge donations from the bootleggers, and an occasional bottle of whiskey.
In most rural counties, the “drys” always won, and even though it was illegal, a person could buy a bottle of whiskey with greater ease than in a county where it was legal. There were only two things a bootlegger had to be concerned about: an honest sheriff being elected, and the protection of his identity. On the totem pole of society, a known bootlegger was barely above dirt; therefore, it was always a deep dark secret of who he really was.
This is why I was so astounded when I heard Poudlum say, “I found de place where Old Man Cliff Creel makes his whiskey.”
“You what?!”
“I knows where his still is.”
“Are you telling me Old Man Cliff Creel is a bootlegger?”
“Uh huh.”
“How long you been knowing this?”
“Tomorrow will be two weeks.”
“You told your momma and daddy?”
“Naw, I ain’t told nobody—I be too scared.”
I still could hardly believe what I had heard, but if it was true, it was good news indeed. I knew that old man was evil, and now I might be able to prove it. “Poudlum, that’s a great secret. Don’t tell nobody. Did you see that old man at the still?”
“Sho did. Saw him box up bottles of whiskey and tote ’em away through the woods.”
“Tomorrow then. You’ll show me where it is tomorrow?”
“See our cotton house way over yonder, close to de edge of the woods?” He pointed.
“Yeah.”
“We’ll meet behind it a little while after dinner.”
“All right, around two o’clock. I’ll see you there. Now, I got to go.”
“Bye, Mister Ted.”
“Just Ted, okay? Bye, Poudlum. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Back out on Center Point Road, I was thirsty and thinking about getting to Miss Lena’s and wrapping my hand around a cold longneck Nehi. But first, I had to walk back by that intimidating house. Old Man Creel’s new Chevrolet was in his car shed. Another car that hadn’t been there when I passed by earlier was in the driveway. Squinting my eyes against the glare of the sun, I made it out to be Brother Benny’s car. What could the preacher be doing there, I wondered. I could hear voices coming from the back yard but couldn’t make out the words. And I sure was curious to know what they were taking about.
There was a wire fence grown over with vines and bushes towards the back of the house. I figured if I could crawl up next to it, then I might be able to hear what Old Man Creel and Brother Benny were saying.
I walked on far enough to get out of sight, crossed the road and entered the woods. I stashed my Grit bag at the base of a big loblolly pine tree then started back toward the house. I dropped to my belly at the edge of the woods and crawled through a strip of tall brown grass until I got to the fence. Then I began working my way toward the back of the house under the cover of the grass and vines. The voices grew louder and clearer and I knew I was close enough when I heard Old Man Cliff Creel say, “That was a mighty fine sermon you preached last Sunday, Brother Benny.”
I slowly parted some of the thick vines until I had a small peephole. They were sitting at a table in the back yard under the shade of a chinaberry tree covered with clusters of purple flowers. It didn’t seem right to me that those two men should get to sit under such a beautiful tree. I liked to watch chinaberry wood burn in the fireplace, where it kicked up red and green sparks. Brother Benny snapped me back to reality when he responded, “Why thank you, Mr. Creel. I plan to expound on it tomorrow by preaching about the listless drunken habits of the whole lot of them.”
I licked my dry lips when I saw them raise their glasses and heard the clinking of ice. I figured they were drinking sweet tea until I saw Old Man Creel take a brown pint bottle and pour a portion into both glasses. Whiskey! There sat the preacher drinking whiskey and plotting against the Robinsons. Jake had been right.
“Good, that’s real good, Brother Benny, but don’t forget their nasty habits of stealing and not paying their debts. That bunch down the road tried to weasel out of paying money they owed me, but I didn’t let ’em get away with, no sir. I went and took their cow which they had signed over as collateral. Hell, I’m a businessman, not some fraternal nigger-loving organization.”
“Serves ’em right—the slackers,” Brother Benny replied. “I suppose I should be going, need to work on my sermon,” he said, draining his glass and rising to his feet. “I’ll look forward to seeing you in the house of the Lord tomorrow.”
“I’ll be there, on the front row. Before you go, here’s a donation. Wouldn’t look right if I put this in the collection plate.”
Old Man Creel also stood, dug deep into his pocket, came out with a big roll of money, and handed it to the preacher. Then he reached under the table, pulled a fresh bottle from a cardboard box and said, “Take this along with you too—just for medicinal purposes, of course.”
That’s when my luck ran out. It hadn’t been my day for dogs. I saw a big mean-looking red bulldog come around the corner of the house. He had a huge head and strong square jaws, with a big stocky body. His nose was up in the air, sniffing. I knew right away that this dog was no bully and no coward. He was looking straight at the spot where I lay hidden, then he started trotting toward me with a menacing growl deep in his throat. I started crawfishing backwards as fast as I could without giving myself away. I wanted desperately to stand and run, but I knew I would be seen.
That dog hit the fence snarling and snapping. I knew I was in bad trouble if he got through.
As I was turning myself around on my belly so I could crawl forward, I heard Brother Benny say, “Looks like your dog has scared hisself up a rabbit, Mr. Creel.”
“That ain’t no rabbit. He wouldn’t be acting like that. I’m going to get my shotgun and see what the hell’s on the other side of that fence.”
When I heard him say that, and heard that dog ripping at the wire with his big jaws, I figured I was a goner. But I just kept crawling and crawling until I was finally back into the woods where I could stand up and run. Snatching up my bag, I exited the woods and hit the road running as hard as I could, my feet kicking up puffs of dust behind me. I didn’t stop until I got to Miss Lena’s store.
I sat on the front steps for a while, catching my breath and counting my blessings, before going inside to purchase a much-needed Nehi.
I hid the empty bottle in the woods on the way to the sawmill. Empty soda bottles were money in the bank to me. I had about fifteen hidden near the store, each one worth a penny. I knew they were there if I needed money. Anxious for my rendezvous with Jake, not only to find out what happened last night, but also to tell him about the conversation I had just overheard, I hurried out of the woods straight toward his shack. There he was, sitting on his bench, whittling on a piece of wood. Looking up, he saw me, smiled real big and waved me over toward his bench.
I noticed he was brewing coffee in a big empty can. “What happened to your coffee pot?” I asked.
“It got busted up last night. Gots to get me a new one..”
“They didn’t harm you last night, did they?”
“Naw. Only thing got harmed was my coffee pot. How you know about anything happening last night?”
After I told him my story he said, “I appreciate you trying to look out for me, but don’t you worry cause old Jake been in some tight spots before, and I done learned how to look out for myself.”
“What did they do?”
“Oh, they just come driving down here all liquored-up yelling for me. When dey couldn’t find me dey busted my coffee pot, yelled a few threats, den dey just went on off home.”
“How come they couldn’t find you?”
“’Cause I have learned to anticipate what folks might do and to be prepared if dey do what I anticipate.”
When he saw me looking at him questioningly, he went on, “I done loosened some boards on de back of de shack in case I don’t want to come out of de front. So when I heard ’em coming I just slid out my back door and hid in yo’ favorite place until dey left.”
“Where?”
“Why, dey sawdust pile. I just burrowed myself down in it until nothin was showing ’cept my eyeballs.”
We both laughed for a while, then I told him, “I’m proud nothing bad happened to you, especially since my daddy was one of them.”
“You can still be proud of yo’ daddy, ’cause he done come by and apologized to me dis morning. He say dey been drinking, done figured out de sawmill gon’ close by de decrease in de flow of logs coming in, and some of dem done overheard Mr. Blossom talking ’bout it. Some of dem be upset ’cause I gon’ have a job after it closes and dey ain’t. Once I told ’em Mr. Blossom only pay me five dollars a week, dey say none of ’em want de job nohow.”
I was glad to hear that about my father, but I didn’t understand why Jake was getting paid so little, so I asked, “How come you only get paid five dollars a week? That ain’t even half what the other men get paid. You do the same work they do.”
“You tells me the answer to dat question.”
“I don’t know, that’s why I asked you.”
“I thinks you really don’t know de answer, Mister Ted. I thinks dat ’cause you is innocent, so I gonna tell you. It be ’cause dey knows I has to take whatever job comes my way, no matter what de pay. So since some folks know dat I have no choice, den dey takes advantage of me.”
“How come they can get away with that?”
“’Cause of folks like dat preacher and Mr. Creel making folks believe dat all black folks is lazy, shiftless, and dishonest. Dey wants to make folks believe dat just ’cause of de color of a person’s skin, dat dey all be de same.”
“That ain’t right.”
“Lawd, I wish you wuz a grown man. I believes you is enlightened.”
“I need me a good stick, Jake.”
“What you talking about?”
I told him the story about the coachwhip and the lesson my father had taught me about bullies and cowards.
“Dat’s a good lesson, but sometimes you might need more dan a good stick.”
I tended to agree with him after the near encounter with Old Man Creel’s dog, but that would come later. I had so much to tell him, so I started at the beginning and told him about the milk and butter I had taken to the Robinsons’ where I had been accosted by Buster.
“You is a charitable child, and yes, a good stick would’ve come in handy. I knows old Buster, and you is right about him.”
I had thought about it for a while and decided to keep mine and Poudlum’s secret, at least for the time being. At first I was suspicious that he had made the story up just to get me to come play with him, but that was before I had overheard the backyard conversation. Now I believed Poudlum; but I wanted to see the moonshine still before I even thought about talking to Jake about it.
“That’s not all, Jake. Listen to this.” I proceeded to tell him about sneaking up behind Old Man Creel’s house and the conversation I had overheard between him and Brother Benny. “So you see, Jake, you were right about why the preacher said what he did in church and who put him up to it.”
“Yeah, and it sound like he gonna be spouting out more poison come tomorrow.”
“Wait, there’s more,” I said, then I told him about that big mean red dog.
“Lawd, have mercy,” he said. “De angels wuz looking after you today. I seen dat dog through de fence. Ifen he got a-holt of you, he would’ve torn you to pieces. Now, dat’s an example of when you would need something more dan a good stick.”
“Like what? I ain’t got no gun. Couldn’t walk around with it even if I did.”
“Yo’ momma got any dried hot peppers?”
I thought about the big bunch of dried hot red peppers hanging by a string on the wall behind her stove. I remembered seeing her snatch one from the bunch and crumble it into a pot of soup or chili. “Yeah, she’s got a lot of them.”
“Get yo’ self one of dem little empty tin snuff cans. Plenty of ’em laying around on de ground up by de store. Take some of dem hot peppers and mash ’em up real fine. After mashing ’em up, don’t touch yo’ eyes or yo’ privates until you wash yo’ hands real good wid soap and water. Fill dat snuff can up wid de hot pepper and put it in yo’ newspaper bag. Den, if any dog dat you can’t handle wid a stick come after you, you use de pepper on ’em.”
“How would I do that?”
“Say dat big dog had a gotten through de fence, den just fo’ he gets to you, you toss de pepper in his mouth and face.”
“That would stop him?”
“Sho would. He would start choking, snorting, whining, and scratching at his eyes.”
“How you know all that?”
“Trust me, child. I been chased by some real bad dogs. In the meantime, let’s find you a good temporary stick.”
We rummaged around in the scrap pile until Jake found a stout piece of hickory about as long as I was tall. “Dis’ll do until I can make you a proper stick.”
I knew it was time to go. I had three papers left. “Do you want a paper, Jake,” I asked.
“Sho do. Gotta see what’s going on in de world,” He said as he fished a nickel out and flipped it toward me. I caught it and said, “You don’t have to pay. I’ve made plenty of money today.”
“Oh, no. You has shared wid me and I gonna share wid you. I think one reason we understands each other so good is that you is just about as po’ as I is.”
As I entered the woods I could hear the music of Jake’s guitar and him start singing, “Got dem old sawmill blues . . .”