We Americans have been making and drinking liquor since, and before, we were a United States. Lots of liquor was made legally and quite a measure more illegally.
Growing up in the late 1930s and 40s, by the time I was 12 years of age, I was aware of at least a half dozen men who made illegal corn whiskey in Dorchester County.
There were a heap many more that I didn’t know.
Many sermons were preached regarding the perils and damnation association with corn liquor and its consequences. A true story that I heard years ago tells of a lady who lived north of Ridgeville near Four Holes Swamp.
Apparently one Sunday, this lady had been saintly moved by one of those fire and brimstone preachers telling of the pitfalls and everlasting risk to any soul associated with the making and selling of liquor.
She resolved from that moment on that she would take a stand against her corn liquor-making husband.
The next Friday, as was his custom, her husband brought his wagon load of corn liquor covered with an old cotton sheet from the still to the house and parked it there in the backyard. He wanted to have everything in place in time so that when the sawmill paid off their hands that evening he could accommodate the rush he knew would be coming. Unbeknown to him, there was one more rock in the road. His wife was still fired up from the hellfire sermon given last Sunday.
With the spirit moving her, she came a-tearing out the back kitchen door, grabbed an old ax handle and busted up every last bottle of liquor on the wagon. The only living beings drinking liquor that evening were the dogs, lapping up what they could from the ground.
The next week after things cooled down a bit, the lady was beginning to have second thoughts as she realized that the $40 lost income was desperately missed. As a compromise, she accepted her husband’s offer to hereafter always park the wagon out of sight behind the barn.
I have a long-time friend and acquaintance who I knew had fired a still for a number of years after taking over the process from his father. Knowing they had never been caught by the sheriff, I assumed that it was inevitable that some sort of pay-off existed. I was wrong in that suspicion.
When asked why, my friend responded, “First, we were just small potatoes and only ran off about 12 gallons a week, and secondly, we did not transport it. It you wanted our liquor, you had to come to our house and buy it. Sometimes, the sheriff’s deputies would park down the dirt road and stop people after they made a purchase.
“I think that was done due to the occasional complaint by local people. However, we found out through gossip that most complaints came from other still operators. I guess they were trying to reduce the competition.
“Now I will say this, when election time came we would always be called on to make a little donation to help the campaign. But, they asked everybody so I guess that was fair. We certainly didn’t make any big donations. In addition, our operation was busted up a couple of times over the years.”
When asked about the mechanisms necessary to make liquor, my friend gave me a rough outline of how things were done. He states, “First, you need a good site, preferably not on your own property and a good piece away from your house. However, you had to tote good, dry wood to fire the broiler and the further away you went, the tougher it was. You had to dig a well until you had adequate water, usually six to eight feet would give you enough.
“You needed the still itself, which we had made out of copper. It was primarily two pieces, first the boiler and second, the circular spiraling cooper tubing. In addition, we had three 55-gallon oak wooden barrels where we placed our corn meal, sugar and water. These barrels were allowed to ferment and it was ready in about a week to run off.
“Fermentation was slower in cold weather. We made containments around the outside of the barrels and packed pine straw tightly inside as insulation, which allowed fermentation to progress by holding its natural heat.
Inside the barrel had been placed 50 pounds of sugar, two foot tubs of corn meal and enough water to bring the level to about five inches from the top.
“Once the mash was properly fermented, you placed the appropriate amount into the still boiler and closed it tight. The still needed to be airtight or you would lose steam (potentially liquor) into the atmosphere.
“At the top of the still was a small outlet for the controlled steam. The copper coil was placed atop this outlet and sealed with a wad of flour and water mixed into a biscuit like dough. As heat was applied, the dough would rise, swell, and seal the connection and make it air tight.
“The other end of the circular, spiraling coil ran through barrel of cool water where the steam was quickly condensed into a liquid, alias corn liquor. The liquor would slowly drip and run out the end of the coil and we caught it in a two-quart jar. When everything was working correctly, you could expect to fill the jar in about ten minutes.
All of you liquor drinkers know that “proof” is important if you are interested in a little “kick.” Well, the first liquor out of the run has the highest proof and it diminishes as it continues.
One of the duties of a good liquor maker is to mix the run in such a way as to have an equal proof across the entire batch. Theoretically you can determine proof after years or experience by shaking the jar and observing how big the bubbles are and how long they last. I find that hard to believe, but then I ain’t never run a jar of liquor in my life, or at least not yet.
My friend continues, “Once the run was completed, which for our operation was 12 gallons, you had to tote the liquor back to the house. At times I hauled it out when it was a half-mile one way. That’s a tough job getting that liquor out. Once the still was cool I would take the boiler and copper coil and hide it in the underbrush somewhere away from the worksite.
“I always hid these two expensive items at a different place each time, thereby preventing a recognizable pathway. Although we were busted up a couple of times, they never did find the copper still itself. And that’s the truth.”

Jim Way is a life-long resident of Dorchester County and a member of the Upper Dorchester Historical Society.