Bryson City Secrets: Even More Tales of a Small-Town Doctor in the Smoky Mountains (20 page)

Sitting back in my chair, slowly drifting off to sleep, I had a most unusual thought. I actually sensed that I was in a lap with gentle arms holding me in a tender embrace. I remember wondering, just for an instant — before casting off the thought as a silly, childish consideration — if I might not be in the arms of an angel.

As I edged into an early-evening nap, I felt something softly fall onto my cheek. At first I had no idea what it was. When I wiped my cheek, it felt wet. Only later would I learn that what I felt
was
a tear, one of many that fell that evening from the eyes of a special guardian — one who was appointed to care for me, one who was holding me, one who was crying with me, one who was there with me, even though I didn't open my eyes to see him.

chapter nineteen

MAKIN' MOONSHINE

T
he Mountain View Manor Nursing Home was located on the top of a rather large hill not far from the city limits of Bryson City. As the name indicates, it featured a gorgeous view of the crest of the distant Smokies.

Dr. Bacon was the facility's longtime medical director who took care of most of the residents. However, each of the doctors in town, including Rick and me, had some patients in residence there. Harold Bacon, M.D., was the oldest of the county docs, and although supposedly retired, he continued to see patients. He; Dr. Paul Sale, an excellent general practitioner in his fifties; and Dr. Mathieson had their offices in separate small buildings — all of which were formerly private homes and located just across the street from the hospital.

My main reason for visiting the nursing home one Saturday morning was to check on Carl Walkingstick and see how he was doing in rehabilitation after his below-knee amputation. When I approached the nursing station, no one was there, so I picked up Carl's chart and walked to his room. When I entered the room, I was surprised to see that his bed was made and unoccupied. The bathroom wasn't occupied either. For a moment I almost panicked, wondering if something terrible might have happened.

However, just then I heard a group of men laughing in the sunroom at the end of the hall. I instantly knew where I'd find Carl. As I walked toward the men, the laughter erupted again. Sitting with Carl were two ancient men with clownish, ear-to-ear smiles.

Carl saw me first. “Howdy, Doc. Come sit a spell.”

“Not sure it's healthy,” I kidded.

“Why shore 'nuff 'tis!” exclaimed one of Carl's companions. “We ain't got no germs.”

“I'm not commenting on your health, gentlemen,” I said, pulling up a chair. “I'm talking about the health of my reputation. If I'm seen with you guys, my reputation may suffer.”

“Not a chance in the world, Doc,” the other man observed.

“Why not?” I asked.

He was smiling a toothless grin. “'Cause I done checked around, and you ain't got no reputation 'round these parts anyway. Caint lose what ya ain't got!”

I smiled sheepishly as the men erupted in laughter.

When he quit laughing, Carl introduced me. “Doc, this here's Tom Kirkland and this here's Henry Styles. Gentlemen, meet Dr. Walt Larimore.” Handshakes were exchanged.

“Carl,” I commented, “best be careful of the company you choose. How are you doing?”

“Well,” he replied, “the vittles up here ain't as good as Eloise's at the hospital. But I'm losin' some weight and my sugar is well controlled. And my stump's doin' real good.”

I squatted down to examine the wound from Carl's amputation. It
was
healing very nicely. “Dr. Cunningham did a fine job,” I commented. The men watched as I re-dressed the stump.

Henry commented, “You younger docs sure seem ta have a lot different training than the older fellas. I don't think I've ever seen one dress a patient's wound. They leave it to the nurses.”

I smiled as I continued my work. “Just makin' some extra money, gentlemen,” I kidded.

Henry continued. “You youngin's also bring new ways out to these hills. And I think that's good — 'cause changes from the world move real slow into the back hills in
both
our professions.”

Henry Styles had retired from what had been called the Alcoholic Tax and Tobacco Division. He complained that the pay had been low, the hours dreadfully long — leading, according to him, to two divorces — and the work potentially life threatening. He once said that if he had wanted a popular or glamorous career, he would have been an FBI agent or “a T-man tracking down them narcotics smugglers.”

Tom Kirkland was in his eighties and had spent most of his life making and selling illegal moonshine whiskey. He once told a writer, “I done made it o'er seventy year. Since I war nine or ten. My granddaddy and then my daddy showed me the business, and over time I jest got the habit. Didn't take me long ta learn. My granddaddy started me out a gatherin' wood and a carryin' branch water, and when I growed a bit, he learned me on being a lookout. From thar, I jest learnt the remained of the family business.”

During their prime, Kirkland and Styles had been contestants on opposite sides of a lifelong war, combatants in an ancient, dangerous tug-of-war; as the Lord would have it, both men had become two of the most unique residents at the nursing home — and in the process they'd become, unpredictably, fast and furious friends.

As I finished wrapping Carl's stump, I pulled off the latex gloves I'd been wearing and sat down. “Tom, exactly where did the term ‘moonshine' come from?”

“Well, it come from the fact that my ancestors in the trade limited their whiskey makin' to the nighttime, especially when there war plenty of moonlight.”

Tom spit some juice from his snuff and continued my lesson. “'Nother term of the trade is ‘bootlegger.' My pa tolt me it come from men during the prohibition what hid bottles of the liquid in their boot tops. ‘Blockade's' 'nother term you'll hear. It's only used here in the Smokies. My pa said it come from the Irish who had the habit of runnin' the English blockade in the early days of our country. So men in my trade are often called ‘blockaders,' and our wares are called ‘blockade' or ‘blockade liquor.' ”

Henry continued the story. “It's been a practice here in the Smokies since white folks first began farmin' these hills. Those pioneers found it a bunch easier to transport the moonshine made from corn and rye than the grain itself. Back then the roads were downright pitiful. And the moonshine was much more profitable for a man and
his family.”

“Shinin's all I ever knowed,” Tom continued. “Now, deep down I done suspected it war wrong — at least when it warn't
made
right — but it war a livin'. Put food on the table and clothes and shoes on the babies of my granddaddy, my daddy, and me.”

“Didn't the preachers ever look down on the practice?” I asked.

Tom's faced turned serious. “Now, Doc, the Baptist preachers 'round the mountains, why they're pretty rough on this topic. And my preacher used to git all over me every time he could. But I didn't pay no attention.”

“Why not?”

Tom flashed his toothless grin again and answered, “'Cause I knew that preacher nipped some hissef!”

All four of us broke out in good-natured laughter.

“Kirkland,” Henry inserted, “your daddy was shore 'nuff known in our office.”

Tom laughed. “Well, my daddy were lawed by the revenue a number of times. But here's the truth. He always had a feeling before he'd git caught. One time he tolt me, ‘Something tolt me not ta come down here today.' ”

“He never did stop, did he?” Henry asked.

“Nope. My pa went right back to it, every time. Like he said, you government agents should have spent more time chasing robbers and other people that really done wrong. Pa learned me to be careful —
extry
careful. And I war too!”

“Sure wish I could have caught you more than I did,” Henry commented.

“How does a revenuer train for his job?” I asked Henry.

“Well, the young agents nowadays have a lot of trainin' as criminal investigators. They've got themselves college degrees. And they've got lots of newfangled spy equipment.”

“But more'n all that,” Tom added, “them new revenuers gotta learn every trail, gully, and ridge.”

“And,” Henry added, “they have to become tireless branch walkers. If you can't climb like a mountain goat and track a man as good as old Carl here, then you'll be of no use in these woods. You see, it's not the college degree that counts, nor the trainin' in criminal investigation, as much as it's the branch walkin' — the patience you've gotta develop — and the understanding that mountaineers are the hardest people to deceive and that the best way to play the game is, as they say, ‘far and squar.' ”

“I'll tell ya this, Doc.” Tom added. “Most of them agents is good men, and that's a fact. Most of 'em war truthful men and honorable — and none more so than this man here. I never did have nuthin' against him.”

Henry nodded. “Our war with the shiners was more a battle of wits than firepower. For me it was fascinating work, and I admired the mountain man. Kirkland, don't you think there was a respect between the moonshiner and us revenuers?”

Tom thought for a moment. “Well, that war true for most.” He looked at me. “Doc, we war constantly testin' each other over the years to determine whose skills were better. Styles here war as good as they come. He war book educated. Had degrees in agricultural economics and law. And he loved the mountain folk. In fact, after the second world war, he taught on-the-farm subjects to vet'rans who returned to the Smokies. But worst of all fer us, he was mountain bred — he knew our ways and how we thought.”

Henry laughed. “Kirkland, I wasn't sure you
ever
knew how to think!”

Tom became serious. “I done outsmarted you more times'n you can count.”

“True enough, my friend,” Henry conceded, still laughing.

Tom continued. “Doc, we could always tell a wet-behind-the-ears agent — wearin' that government-issued suit. But not Styles. He always looked more like a mountain man than a revenuer. When he left the office ta come chase us, he favored worn denim clothes and scuffed boots. Not only could them boots o' his outwalk most mountain men; his costume made 'im
look
like one of us.”

“Costume!” Styles chided. “Those were just my regular clothes. I never did favor a fancy suit, I'll tell ya that, even though I had to wear one when I was in the office.”

“Was that in Bryson City?” I asked.

“Nope. Our office was in Asheville — in a dark corner of the basement of the old federal building. Me and my partners didn't have secretaries. We had to type our own reports.”

“Why didn't you have secretaries?” I asked.

“The main reason was we liked answerin' the phones ourselves.”

“Why?”

“'Cause they'd want cheats to call 'em direct!” Kirkland explained.

Henry smiled. “We called 'em ‘informers.' And we'd answer the phones ourselves because the informer would usually only call once.”

“Who would call?” I wondered out loud.

“One time it might be a jilted woman, who in a fit of spite would turn on her former boyfriend or husband. The most unusual calls would come after election time. We'd get calls from ex-sheriffs or ex-police chiefs or ex-county commissioners — hoping to punish his or her political foes. But most commonly it'd be one moonshiner double-crossin' another.”

“Them war low-life snakes, I'll tell ya that!” Tom exclaimed angrily. The room was silent for a moment, and then Tom's toothless grin reappeared. “Styles, I guess it's time to fess up.”

“Confess what?”

“Well, I done calt your office a bunch. I'd call in a false lead 'cause I'd want ya to hunt hither and yon in the hills on a wild goose chase while I war makin' a delivery.”

Henry smiled knowingly. “I knew it was you, Kirkland. Your voice is as ugly as your face.”

Tom smiled at me. “Doc, he ain't tellin' the truth. I had lookouts watching 'im take off on a wild goose chase after I calt in them false leads.”

“Well, for every call that led to a wild goose chase,” Henry commented, “we'd get a call with some information that helped us. Informers were vital to our work. And the best informers were men in the moonshine business.”

“Is that how you caught ole man Crawford?” Carl asked.

Henry laughed. “Naw. That one really
was
an accident. One day I was walkin' a branch when I heard a beatin' and bangin'. I looked up and saw a little smoke in the woods. I reckoned it was a still and nabbed me ole man Crawford and his son red-handed.”

“What'd he say?” Tom asked.

Henry laughed. “As I was cuffin' him, he asked, ‘Who set me in?' Kirkland, he was more upset about being ratted on than being caught.”

“Thar ain't nuthin' worse than a cheat!” Tom repeated.

“Well,” Henry continued, “I looked him square in the eye and told him, ‘The man who set you in is makin' more liquor than you are!' You see, every time I caught me a moonshiner, I'd make him think somebody turned on him. That was one of my best tricks for keepin' my stream of informers.”

Tom stared at Henry with his mouth open. “Well, I'll be tarred and feathered. You ole coot! That don't sound very honest.”

Henry turned to me. “Doc, I had lots of opportunities to take a promotion and go to the east part of the state and chase down big-time moonshine operations. But I preferred it out here. In these hills, what we called the
western mountain districts, most of the moonshine operations were small operations, averagin' fifty- to sixty-gallon capacity. These shiners out here were more appealin' to me.”

He added some snuff to his lip and then continued. “Out here the moonshiner has lived out of the mainstream of history for generations. And of interest to me too was the fact that to most of these men morals and religion weren't quite the same thing. I remember one moonshiner tellin' me about another and explained that he knew him to be an honest, churchgoing man. ‘How do you know that?' I asked him. He told me, ‘'Cause I got to know him well when we war in jail together.' ”