February, 2019
Pappy's Brand
by Larry
My ol' pappy had a ready laugh and a bit of mischief about him. Everybody loved him. He liked to fish and hunt and could make a delicious gumbo out of what he'd catch or kill, so we never lacked for tasty vittles even in the worst of the Depression. He had a good, rousing voice too and knew a bunch of hymns. A religious man, he was well versed in his Bible and had it all marked up an' indexed and could turn to any part of it to make his point if there were an ethical debate. He always won after he'd quote the Good Book to underline what he was saying. My momma had less to say but just 
as much feelin' behind her words and could hold her own to make us tow the Christian line. She could fix mighty fine biscuits, fried chicken, or meatloaf and raised a good garden for salads, I'll give her that. Nobody could play the piano or Hammond organ better than her. There was always plenty of ice cold water in her house, no matter how hot it got on a summer's day. My sisters were as mean and spiteful as hungry ticks, but Momma and them could caterwaul like heavenly choirs when they took a notion.
One night, hours after all the Valentine's Day folderol was done, Pappy got me outa bed and had me pull on my dungarees, an' we went off into the woods without even a lantern for light. I could hear a couple owls, some whippoorwills, and the gurgling of a stream that ran not far from our little country house. I was as surprised as a fresh-trapped hog when in the moon's glow he took me to a little windowless shack and inside lit a candle with a long wooden match and showed me his still. It was time for me to taste my first liquid fire, he said, and promptly took out a cork and poured out a little from a big jug into a chipped cup. I coughed and sputtered, right off, but sure enough it was like a Hades furnace going down, and swiftly filled me with an excitin' an' relaxin' warm sweetness at the same time. Did I want more, he asked. I did and savored it like a miser enjoying his hoard of gold. Now you're a man, Pappy said, as we shared a second cupful of his hooch. This is our secret. The lady folk don't have to know, and it's just for special occasions.
As the years rolled by, maybe a dozen times we'd sneak out there and sample Pappy's liquid fire before one day out fishing he got pulled under in a flood of our stream. By then, I'd learned how to use the still too and now, twenty years later, it's only a year or two till time to help my boy become a man with our own latest batch, Pappy's brand of liquid fire.