Moonshiner's Son by Carolyn Reeder

Author:Carolyn Reeder
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster Children's Publishing
Published: 1993-09-05T04:00:00+00:00

17

“Too bad you ain’t makin’ whiskey no more, June,” Hube Baker said slyly as he eased himself into the rocking chair on the porch the next evening. “If you was, you could be a rich man.”

“That so, Hube?” Pa’s hands were busy with the chair seat he was weaving from white oak splits, and he didn’t bother to look up.

“’Deed it is, June. ’Deed it is.”

Tom watched Hube slouch deeper into the chair, wondering how long it would be before the wiry little man told them the news he was bursting with.

Hube pulled a bottle from his pocket and took a long drink. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he put the bottle away and said, “Just you wait an’ see, June. A lot of folks ’round here are gonna be gettin’ rich.”

“That so, Hube?” Pa asked.

“That’s so, June.” Hube waited until it was obvious Pa wasn’t going to ask him more, and then he said, “A stranger down at the store said he’d buy all the whiskey we could make. An’ he said he’d tell us how to speed up makin’ it. Said the offer’s good for all my friends, so if you want, I might could ask if he buys fruit brandy.”

Tom glanced at Pa, wondering how he liked being included as a friend of Hube’s. Pa was frowning. “Did I hear you say you was gonna speed up makin’ your whiskey? It won’t be half as good if you do that,” he objected.

“But I’ll be makin’ more ’n twice as much, you see,” Hube said. “Besides, I’m gonna age that whiskey two years in three days, like the man told me to.”

“How can you do that?” Tom asked, forgetting that he didn’t want anything to do with Hube Baker.

Hube turned and looked just past Tom’s left ear. “I char me some oak chips and put ’em in the whiskey and it turns a golden-brown color. Just like it was aged in oak barrels, the man said.” Hube paused to let them digest that before he added, “An’ he told me how to speed up the stillin’.” Leaning forward he said, “Bet you didn’t know addin’ a bit of potash an’ some ground-up taters will speed things up an’ git you more whiskey, too. An’ addin’ lye gives a sharper flavor. What do you think of that, June?”

Pa’s hands gripped the edges of the unfinished chair seat. “I think it’s a crime, what you’re fixin’ to do. Ain’t you got no pride?”

Hube shrugged. “I don’t see nothin’ wrong with bein’ modern. Like the man said, why should we still be makin’ whiskey the same way our grandpappies did?”

“’Cause it’s a family tradition,” Tom said.

Pa began weaving the white oak splits again. “’Course, if a man never had no reputation to uphold, I can see why he might not care about the quality of his product,” he said bluntly.

Tom glanced over at Hube, but the man didn’t seem to realize he’d been insulted. “Wal,” he said, getting to his feet, “lemme know if you change your mind, an’ I’ll find out if that feller buys fruit brandy.

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