Alva Taylor. He was a great spirit. He was a man that inspired his
students to get out into things that were happening. He taught the
Christian ethics course. I majored under Alva Taylor. I wrote my thesis
under him. My thesis was the result of a study I made, a personal study
over in east Kentucky on Quicksand-Troublesome Creek Hell Fer Sartin.
Then, the most remote area of the mountains that we could find. I spent
three months over there in that place. There was no paved road. No
roads, no cafeterias, no motels or anything like that.
Page 18 I rode a horse. I stayed all night somewhere and slept
somewhere and ate my meals for the three months with different people. I
never paid for a single meal and not for a single night's lodging. It
was very strange. I'd never been in that part of the mountain. I
sometimes think of this when people talk about the mountain people being
unfriendly and suspicious of strangers and all this kind of stuff. Now,
I was a mountaineer. I knew about mountain culture and all that kind of
thing. And I knew better than to be too prying about what some of the
people I stayed with did. Some of them made blockade liquor, you know.
As long as you tend to your own business and don't get too inquisitive
about theirs, why you're all right. They don't like a reporter. On the
tv at Beckeley they wanted me to give a series of discussions on
mountain moonshining and I've been doing some of that. I was remembering
some of the code of the mountains. It was a very interesting thing. When
I was a kid there in north Georgia, for example, my dad never did make
liquor at all. My granddaddy, on my daddy's side, was supposed to be one
of the best moonshine liquor makers there was in the mountains. He made
pure corn. None of this diluted stuff. No potash or lye or anything like
that. Real corn. Made his own malt. Sprouting his corn and grinding it
up and so on. And my uncle, the one I mentioned that we took back to the
mountains to bury after he died down in the low country, he was always
making it and he was good. But my dad didn't make it. But nobody would
report on a neighbor. If a neighbor was making it, no other neighbor
would report him to the officials. I remember
Page 19 one
morning my dad took me out. Our house was up on a knoll and we had a big
range of mountains, of hollows going up, and he showed me smoke from
seven different places going up that morning. You could see it going up
through the air. And each one was a still. And he knew the name of every
person that was running each still. Numbers of times I remember he was
arrested and taken down to the county seat. And my grandpa would have to
go his bond and so on. I remember one time they found some kegs of
liquor stashed in our fence corner. We used to fence our fields with
these rails, you know. And we'd turn our stock outside, on the range,
and they'd eat chestnuts and acorns and so on. But this neighbor had
been making liquor across the mountain on a branch on our place. He had
stored in the fence corner some of his kegs. Now hardly ever did the
revenuers get up there because we had a system there in the mountains
from Ellajay. See, Ellajay was fifteen miles down the river and our
community was [unknown] on Turkey Creek. And if the
revenuers started out from Ellajay we had a community phone. We'd
developed a cooperative telephone system. We'd nail the brackets on
trees and put up posts and so on. We all had different rings. Ours was a
long and a short and a long. Some would be two shorts. Everybody had a
different ring. But there was one special ring that was the revenuers
ring. And when the revenuers started out from Ellajay, the first one
that saw them would ring the revenuers ring. Seven longs was the revenue
ring. When that revenue ring sounded everybody was on the line… see,
that was
Page 20 fifteen miles away. People would be on
the line. Where are they? How are they traveling? By buggy or horseback?
There were two roads up the way. (One was by Dyne, one was by Cantecay.)
Which way are they coming? By Dyne or by Cantecay? They'd get all the
information. When the revenuers got up to our place, everybody was
innocent and clean and smiling and welcoming. They'd got their jugs out,
their stills out, their barrels out. Hardly ever did they find anything.
But once they did get up there and find these kegs in our fence corner
and came on down and arrested my dad. I was just a kid. I remember I
heard him say to mama "Well, I'm not a bit worried. Your dad will go my
bond. And when the time comes, Arthur will come out and take it off of
me." It belonged to Arthur Lowen. Now those revenuers knew that that was
not my dad's liquor. They knew that he did not make it. But they knew
the one sure way of catching the man it belonged to was to take my dad
to jail. So they took him. And when the time came, Arthur Lowens went
down and said "West had nothing to do with that liquor. He didn't know
it was there. I put it there. I take full responsibility." This is the
kind of a code of ethics that existed there. No self-respecting
bootlegger would let any innocent neighbor suffer because of his doings.
And no neighbor would report on another. The most despicable character
imaginable would have been a reporter. That came in in the McCarthy
period, you know, when we had so many stooges, witnesses and
informers.