Down but not out

ZEKE'S PLACE

 

The Appalachian Hills are not all the verdant green that one sees on tourists maps in fancy brochures. There are tough places, lots of waist high dry underbrush, trees stripped naked by strong winds. All kinds of wildlife, much edible, are available if you are armed and your hand is steady. Lots of rattlers call the hills home so you have to watch your step. The most fearsome people who live under these conditions are mocked as 'hillbillies.' Just don't address any that way or you won't have a chance to use that name again.

 

Zeke is a long time resident. He and his wife, Abigail and their ten children call it 'home sweet home.' She is fruitful and has a child a year for eight years and twins once. It is said that Abigail has no schooling. Her children learn from seeing, listening, following orders. Devious trickery and Zeke's rifle keeps away truant officers. The children have a lyrical twang to their speech and their love of singing drivel.

 

There are a few standard requirements for the family. They must each wash their hands and faces every day in the galvanized tubs that Zeke empties and refills from the cold nearby stream. Zeke gets first dibs each day to wash his scraggly graying beard. He also keeps the fires burning for his mash.

 

Tires crunch, give warning. Abigail gathers up her youngest. The twins each pull, push the siblings into the wooden shack. Zeke struts out into the road, a big smile on his face and his rifle ready in his hand. Three cars swing around the road loop and stop right in front of Zeke. He knows these guys, these revenuers who have to bring some of his juice back to the station house for appearances sake. Always ready for such emergencies, he hands over eight gallons of gin. Captain Larkin has his men put them in their open cars, still holds his hand out to Zeke for a couple of bottles for himself and his boys. 'See you next week, Zeke,'  he says and off they go. Everybody is safe. The children come out of hiding. Abigail is angry again, storms right into Zeke's face. 'Why didn't you shoot 'em? That's our stuff.' Her husband tries to calm her down, 'Shut up. You don't do the work. The boys and me, we do. Put some wood on the fire, woman. We have to make another batch. Tomorrow's Tuesday, ain't it? The Wilson's, the ones who have the drug store in Langston, are due Thursday and they don't mess around. We better have their order ready. Those big city dwellers love our stuff. Damn, while you were shivering in the house the captain  told me old Doc Wilson charges his customers twice what he pays us. What do you say, Abigail, should I raise our price again?' 'Try it, Zeke. Anybody who won't give us what we want, gets nothin'. Show 'em the lead in your rifle. They'll pay.'

 

Before Zeke gets a chance to try what Abigail says, the loud sound of tires crunching up the dirt road sounds again. The revenuers stop. Machine guns come out of their windows. Zeke hollers to the family to run, to hide. The men get out of their cars and zap, zap, rat a tat tat the entire still. Mash flows everywhere. The whole place smells of it. Zeke's rifle is useless. He stands and watches his hard work flow into the ground.

 

When the machine guns cease, the captain apologizes. 'Zeke, we had to do that. The Mayor ordered us to stamp you guys out of the area or lose our jobs. Prohibition is over. You can come into town and get a license to make your gin. Do it, Zeke. I'll stop by in a month or so and see how you're doing. Have a bottle or two for me.'

 

All is still. Abigail and the children come outside to try to clean up the broken glass, take away the tin vats that are full of bullet holes. Zeke goes to his stash of new, shiny three gallon  cans, gets the fire going. Customers are waiting.