MOONSHINE & COW BOOGERS   

North Carolina rides the edge of technology. Whether it is the latest life saving breakthrough at Duke Medical Center or a cell phone the size of a graham cracker from Research Triangle Park, North Carolina makes the world spin faster on certain days. Then there are days like today.      

Today the history of the Old South bubbled up from the bottom of a kettle of sour mash in the middle of a Lillington cow pasture.      

Today I was filling in for the Fayetteville photographer who was out with a cold. I was supposed to head to Fayetteville at 2:00 this afternoon, about 30 minutes earlier than the start of my regular work day. Reporter John McDonald and I were scheduled to cover a Martin Luther King Jr. celebration in the early evening.      

Directions from the assignment desk for rural North Carolina are always fascinating.

"Take 401 south to 210, 210 south to Bethel Baptist road, about two miles from the turnoff will be a mobile home next to a dirt road with the name McCoy on the mailbox. Turn down that road and there will be the bust."

Any idea how many mobile homes next to dirt roads there are along that two mile stretch of Bethel Baptist road?   By the way, it was not a mobile home at all, it was a double wide. But sure enough, at 1.8 miles, there was "McCoy" on a mailbox, so I turned on to a so-called-road. It was actually some dried up mud ruts leading to a cow pasture. I could see a fleet of white and tan Crown Victorias with no chrome parked near a barn, the alcohol agents were inside. About half way between Bethel Baptist Road and the barn housing the still was a "hot wire". I don't know if that is what they call them here, but that is the terminology used in my homeland, rural New Mexico. A hot wire is an almost invisible wire with an intense electrical current running through it stretched across a piece of land to keep cattle in and people out. Being a country girl to the core, I knew to look for the little yellow handle to drop the wire to the ground. As I let it coil up next to the passenger side rut, I could hear the electricity crackle from the friction of the wire against itself. I drove my Chevy Lumina into the overgrazed cow pasture and put the wire back as a stampede of cattle headed for what they hoped was a four door sedan made out of hay. The big, fat, friendly cows nuzzled my car as I jumped out with my camera and tripod and headed to the barn.       

ALE agents (Alcohol, Liquor and something that starts with "E" that I keep forgetting to ask about) and sheriff's deputies were throwing milk jugs of white corn liquor out of a U-Haul trailer and lining them up in military style rows of twenty. The agents were very friendly. One came over to me and let me know they were about ten minutes away from smashing the still and I should get any shots of it I want before sour mash starts running all over the place. I walked inside the small barn and there was the contraption I assumed was the still. It looked more like minimalist '70's art: two big copper pipes sticking out of a blue wooden box with a rusting orange steel drum on top. Definitely not what I envisioned. But the vats of mash were very impressive. The 500 gallon white plastic water tanks full of brown goo sat there fermenting before my very eyes, the little yeast organisms bubbling away, completely unaware of their impending doom. A very cordial grandfather-like man sat on a steel drum watching me shoot the mash vats. One of the agents settled down next to him and asked him what the recipe was for this concoction. He walked the agent through the process of gathering the perfect mixture of molasses, corn meal and yeast, "sweating it in the still" and packaging it for transportation. I quickly realized this was the owner of the still. Here he was about to be hauled off to jail or some other form of southern law enforcement, yet he was so happy to have all these visitors to his party barn. An agent tapped my shoulder and informed me they were going to start outside. "Start what?" I wanted to ask him, but I figured I would find out soon enough.          

I shot a quick interview with the lead agent. He informed me this was the biggest bust in Harnett County in the last 20 years. This was also the first time is 15 years he had seen that kind of still, it was very old and used outdated liquor making technology. As I was wrapping up the interview, my pager went off.

ADAM IS AT THE ELECTRIC FENCE AND THE COWS ARE CHARGING THE LIVE TRUCK, GO HELP HIM, HE IS SCARED

I show the agent the page, "City folks" he laughs. I tip toe through the julep (okay, definitely not a julep, more like 'here's mud in your eye') around the barn and sure enough there is our live truck inches from the hot wire with the big fat cows gathered at the front bumper. I quickly go to my car and put my camera and tripod inside and run to the live truck. I make my way through the barrier of cows, smacking them on the rump or patting their heads to make them mOOoove. Adam, our live truck technician, decides to leave the big van outside the electric fence after he sees how friendly the cows are to vehicles and does not want to make hamburger on the hoof with a live truck. About that time, John McDonald pulls up behind Adam and jumps over the electric fence. The three of us walk down to the barn to see how the agents are doing. The scene now looks like Saturday morning at a college fraternity house, empty milk jugs sinking into intoxicated mud, spilled sour mash wafting into the air, two little old men sitting on slashed steel drums being written citations for producing and distribution of untaxed liquor. My recipe man from earlier jokes with the agent as he writes out the citation. The other man hangs his head in shame. Suddenly it all comes together.        These two men of another generation were not looking to make a fast buck on others' addictions in the beginning. They were living out their history. They were using the knowledge and skills they had spent an entire life refining, the art of 'shine. It appeared greed and demand for their old school product was the demise of their cottage operation.  

Much like the mournful act of underage college kids forced to pour out their illegally obtained beer into the dorm room sink, the two men realized the party was over. There was something admirable about their regret. I feared for their punishment. We walked over to the lead agent and asked him what would happen to the two men now. The agent smirked, "They are charged with production and distribution of untaxed liquor, 3000 gallons of finished product, 9000 gallons of mash, it amounts to a speeding ticket."          

As we walked back to the car and the live truck to go write and edit our story on the big bust with small consequences, the cows were looking in my car again.   I got closer and discovered the cows had left more on my car than just a little lovin', the windows, the hood, the trunk and the windshield were covered in cow snot. They had wiped their runny cow noses all over my car, like high school kids shoe polishing the principals car windows on the last day of school.          

They meant no harm, they just wanted to join in the fun but ended up making a big mess. Just like the two old moonshine men.

Behind the Viewfinder - A Year in the Life of Photojournalism
http://www.digitalstoryteller.com/YITL
This site is protected by United States Copyright Laws
Website Design Copyright 1998, 1999, 2000 F.R."Fritz" Nordengren Digital Storyteller