Christmas Liquor (standard:humor, 3550 words)
Author: casio1933	Added: May 02 2008	Views/Reads: 3174/2103	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Two older brothers conspire to make a batch of "Christmas Liquor." A true store from the perspective of Pablo (my old cat - and that's another story).

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

and that old McCormick reaper, no telling what you could get for it.” 

Dolphus just grinned and said, “Yeah, this farm has been in my family
for over two-hundred years.  I don't think anybody ever got rid of 
anything.  I guess I don't want to start now.” 

After exchanging a few pleasantries about the weather, crops, fishing
and the fortune rusting away under the old shed, Dolphus told Grandpa 
that he planned to make five to six gallons of “shine” with the corn 
Grandpa had brought.  He would keep three gallons for himself and give 
Grandpa the rest.  It should be ready the last week in October. 

This arrangement suited Grandpa.  Two gallons of Christmas liquor should
be enough for himself and Stanley, with some left over for their close 
friends. 

Now, Grandpa had always been a little paranoid about his association
with “shine”.  He went to great lengths to avoid any overt connection 
to the making, transporting, or storage of moonshine liquor – he did 
like a drink of “good liquor”.  He seemed to think he was being watched 
by the “revenuers”.  If he had any illegal whiskey in his car, he made 
sure someone else was with him, (to “break the bottle in case they were 
chased by the LAW”).  I think that in his younger life he may have had 
some experience “running” moonshine – he was an awesome driver, having 
started at the age of ten. 

With these precautions in mind, Grandpa convinced Dad to, “Go downtown
to Bailey-Spencer hardware and buy a two gallon charred oak keg.  Take 
it down to Stanley's, he's goanna get it ready for our Christmas 
liquor.” 

After gently chiding Grandpa about his paranoia, Dad decided to humor
him.  He bought the keg as requested and delivered it to his Uncle 
Stanley.  Dad stayed a while talking to his Uncle.  Stanley took the 
new keg and pounded the bung into place.  Stanley then put the keg in a 
tub of water and placed three cinderblocks on top to keep it completely 
submerged.  He explained that by the time the Christmas liquor was 
ready the keg would have swollen tight and the liquor could not “leak 
out”. 

On the third Friday in October, Grandpa got a call from Dolphus – the
Christmas liquor was ready.  Grandpa told Dolphus he would see him the 
next day.  They agreed to meet at the old barn around noon on Saturday. 


Dad had been dreading the expected phone call from his father.  He did
not want to be traipsing around the country with a load of moonshine 
liquor in the car. 

Grandpa was insistent, he even wanted Dad to use his own car for the
seventy mile one way trip to the lake near Dolphus' farm.  Dad was 
adamant, his car would not be used to transport illegal liquor and, 
“Why can't Stanley go with you?” 

“Dolphus don't know Stanley, he's not going to let a stranger see him
with “shine”.  Grandpa replied. 

Dad could certainly understand any reluctance on the part of Dolphus to
conduct this type business in the presence of any stranger, much less 
his Uncle.  Stanley was almost a giant at six feet six inches tall.  He 
had a thirty-six inch waist and a forty-eight inch chest.  He weighed 
close to three hundred pounds and carried no fat.  Intimidating in any 
circumstance, he would be doubly so as witness to an illegal 
transaction of this type. 

At ten-thirty the next morning, Grandpa sat in his car in Dad's driveway
and honked his horn.  He was anxious to get the Christmas liquor. 

Little was said on the trip to the farm.  Grandpa, for the umpteenth
time, reiterated, “If the law gets after us, you gotta break the jugs – 
just throw them down on the road.  That way there's nothing they can 
do”. 

Dad was not willing to argue the point – littering was also against the
law. 

As Grandpa pulled near the barn, they could see Dolphus standing near
his old pickup.  He was grinning broadly as he motioned them over.  
Reaching into the open door of the pickup he removed a pint fruit jar 
of a clear liquid and said, “Boys, this is the best you  have ever 
seen.  Tell me what you think.” 

Taking the small jar, Grandpa gave it a shake and watched the circle of
bubbles as they formed at the surface around the perimeter of the jar.  
“Now, that's what I call a damm fine bead.”  He commented. 

Like a seasoned connoisseur, Grandpa removed the lid of the jar and
sniffed the clear liquid.  “Smells right.”  He said.  Taking a small 
amount into his mouth, he swirled it around on his tongue and said, 
“Now, that's what I call good liquor.  Dolphus, you aint never gonna do 
better than this.”  With those words he tilted the jar and took a long 
drink. 

The look of the connoisseur's pleasure remained on Grandpa's face as he
passed the jar to Dad.  “You know I don't drink hard liquor.”  Dad 
said. 

“You just never had any real good liquor”.  Was Grandpa's reply.  “Just
give it a try.” 

Reluctantly, Dad tilted the jar to his lips and let a small amount of
the cool, clear liquid trickle into his mouth and down his throat.  As 
the innocuous looking concoction burned an acid path down his throat,  
Dad wheezed and sputtered.  Hot tears ran from his eyes.  His face 
contorted in pain and turned cherry red as he bent double from the 
shock of the “good liquor” hitting his stomach. 

“God-damm, that stuff is lethal.”  Dad said, tears still streaming down
his face. 

Dolphus and Grandpa were also bent double – laughing.  “Seems like that
boy don't know nothing about good liquor.”  Dolphus exclaimed, between 
spasms of laughter. 

“Obviously not.”  Grandpa replied as his whole body shook in glee. 

“Dammit ,” Dad said”, I ought to shoot both of you – that was a mean
assed trick you two pulled.” 

“Warnt no trick,” Dolphus drawled, “that's the best liquor I've ever
made.  It's just a little hot, probably hittin close to a hundred and 
twenty proof.  Mix in a little branch water and you'll like it fine.” 

“Branch water my ass” Dad said, heatedly “mixing it with anything,
including gasoline, would have to be an improvement.  No thanks, I 
think I'll just leave it to you boys with the cast iron guts.” 

Dad's temper cooled in direct proportion to the pain in his stomach as
it subsided.  He could begin to see some humor in the situation as he 
began to realize the two old men actually believed what they were 
saying about the Christmas liquor. 

After a little more conversation about the art of making good liquor and
Grandpa's expressions of appreciation for the job Dolphus had done in 
making the Christmas liquor, it was time to head home.  Dolphus placed 
a heavy cardboard box in the backseat of Grandpa's Olds.  It contained 
two one-gallon jugs and two one-quart fruit jars.  All contained the 
fiery liquid.  Grandpa and Dad covered the box with their coats. 

On the way home Grandpa again admonished Dad to make sure all four
containers were broken if it looked like they may be stopped by the 
law.  He then began to talk about how he and Stanley were going to put 
the final touches on the Christmas liquor.  It was obvious to Dad that 
a lot of planning had gone into this project. 

First, they were going to add a box of dried apricots to the charred oak
keg and then add the two gallons of moonshine.  The apricots would add 
a little flavor and would go far in taking some of the “fire” out of 
the liquor.  After making sure the bung was tight, the keg would be 
wrapped in an old blanket and placed in a burlap bag.  The keg would be 
buried so that the Christmas liquor could “age” until Christmas.  
Stanley had already dug a hole in the woods near his house. 

Dad and Grandpa arrived at Stanley's house in the late afternoon.  No
time was lost in “sampling” the product.  One of the quart jars was 
relieved of about half its contents before Grandpa and Stanley decided 
it was time to get the keg buried.  Dad strongly resisted any sampling. 


Dad carried the keg as Stanley led the way through the thick woods to a
spot about three hundred yards from his house.  There, Stanley had dug 
a hole that looked like a grave.  Stanley said that he had to dig it a 
little oversize so he could fit inside to get the depth he wanted – 
about three feet.  Dad was just glad they had reached the spot.  The 
dammed keg was awkward to carry and was getting heavy. 

As instructed, Dad placed the keg on its side at the bottom of the hole
with the bung pointing up (in case it leaked).  Dad and Stanley took 
turns filling in the fresh “grave”.  Grandpa had a severe heart 
condition and was not allowed to participate in what was to become a 
ritual. 

In the weeks following the burial, Grandpa and Stanley saw each other
several times a week and spoke on the phone daily.  The main topic of 
their conversations was the perceived progress of the Christmas Liquor. 
 There were also some concerns expressed, that a hunter may stumble 
across the fresh grave in the woods behind Stanley's house.  The fact 
that Stanley had POSTED his land and was checking on the gravesite 
several times a day did little to allay their concerns.  It would be a 
shame to have to dig up their Christmas Liquor to prove that a body did 
not reside in the grave. 

There was no concern about possessing illegal liquor.  By this time it
would have taken on the color of store bought liquor.  It would be easy 
to convince authorities the liquor was legal and had been hidden from 
wives, while it was taking on the flavor of apricots. 

The weeks went by slowly.  Paranoia reigned supreme: 

“Did somebody find the grave, dig up their liquor one night and steal
it?” 

“Did the keg leak – was a lot of the liquor, if not all, gone?” 

“Was a new charred keg going to ruin the taste?” 

By the week of Thanksgiving, the pressure was too great to bear.  On the
afternoon after an anxious Thanksgiving dinner, Grandpa drove to 
Stanley's house for a serious meeting to decide if they should check on 
the Christmas Liquor.  The meeting lasted only long enough for Stanley 
to get a shovel from the tool shed. 

It had rained several times during the previous weeks and the burial
site had settled somewhat.  With the freshly fallen leaves, it was 
almost indiscernible from the surrounding terrain.  Obviously, the 
grave had not been disturbed.  While somewhat comforting, the sight of 
the undisturbed resting place of their Christmas Liquor did not allay 
the need to “check” the status of their prize. 

Stanley quickly began to scrape away the leaves that covered the shallow
hole and started to remove the lightly packed earth that covered the 
buried treasure.  In only a few minutes, the shovel uncovered the damp 
burlap in which the keg was wrapped.  He continued working until enough 
soil had been removed to allow removal of the Christmas liquor keg. 

Lying on his stomach, Stanley gently rotated the keg until it was
standing upright on the bottom of the excavation.  Gingerly, he lifted 
it from its resting place and lay it on the ground beside the open 
hole. 

Grandpa remove a small wooden mallet from his pocket and began to
lightly tap the sides of the bung while pulling on it with anxious 
fingers.  After a few moments the bung popped free of the keg.  Stanley 
inserted a small twig into the bunghole of the keg and quickly 
determined that little, if any of the precious liquid had been lost. 

Sniffing the twig before placing it on his tongue Stanley announced,
“Rabbit, we sure screwed this up, it's not fit for company”. 

Grandpa said, “What the hell are you talking about?”  He grabbed the
twig from his brother and sank it into the bunghole.  As he removed the 
twig from his mouth a broad grin broke across his face.  “You  ole 
shit, you were kidding me”. 

Stanley's face was wrinkled in mirth as he drawled, “Yep – that's about
as good as it gets.  I don't see how, but by Christmas its gonna be 
even better.  Lets give it a sample”.  He withdrew a wide-mouth pint 
fruit jar from his jacket pocket. 

Grandpa held the jar under the bunghole as Stanley rotated the keg, 
allowing the light amber colored liquid to nearly fill the glass 
container.  After setting the jar on a  nearby stump, Grandpa began to 
reinsert the bung into it's opening and pound it in place with the 
small mallet.  He told his brother he thought it best to rebury the 
Christmas liquor before someone saw them. 

Relishing the thought of “sampling” the Christmas liquor, the two
brothers quickly re-interred their prize and took seats on adjacent 
stumps a short distance from the burial site.  Passing the glass 
container back and forth between them sipping the amber liquid, they 
commented on the quality of the liquor and the virtues of a good 
bootlegger. 

“A lot of the fire has already gone.” 

“The color is coming along nice.” 

“By Christmas, it'll be just perfect.” 

“Damm – that Dolphus sure knows how to make good shine” 

“Think he'll make five gallons for us next year?” 

Two hours passed gently as the two brothers sat basking in the glow of
Christmas liquor.  They reminisced about their youth, the hunting, and 
fishing trips taken over the years and some of the problems that came 
with getting older. 

“Old age sure as hell was not for sissies.” 

”Mother Nature was a Bitch.” and 

“Screw the Golden Years”. 

It was the Sunday following the week after Thanksgiving that Grandpa and
Stanley met at Stanley's house.  During the previous ten days, they had 
spoken frequently on the phone with each other.  They had decided it 
was imperative the Christmas liquor be “checked” again. 

As on Thanksgiving, the keg was quickly exhumed.  The bung was removed. 
The glass jar was filled.  The keg was reburied.  The brothers sipped a 
sample of their Christmas liquor and agreed it was aging nicely. 

With Christmas approaching, the sampling was accelerated – Wednesday and
Sunday, then Wednesday, Saturday and Sunday.  The Christmas liquor was 
indeed getting better.  All the fire was gone.  It went down as smooth 
as a “baby's ass”.  The brothers knew no one had ever tasted anything 
approaching the goodness of the nectar they had spawned. 

Christmas eve morning had been designated as the time for retrieval of
the Christmas liquor.  Grandpa and Stanley followed the beaten path to 
the burial site and quickly retrieved their treasure.  They had brought 
only s single one-gallon jug with them.  They knew some of the liquor 
had been sampled and some had probably evaporated.  If the jug would 
not hold it all, they would just let the remainder age some more. 

Grandpa held the funnel inside the opening of the jug as Stanley turned
the keg to let the prized nectar pour out.  The brothers looked in 
amazement as the thick syrup ran slowly from the keg.  Small pieces of 
apricot fell into the funnel, blocking its opening.  The Christmas 
liquor was only a small quantity of apricot liqueur. 

After their initial shock, the brothers were undaunted.  They still had
about three pints of the original stock.  It should mix well with the 
remaining contents of the keg and would go far in “rinsing” it out. 

The Christmas liquor, though in somewhat short supply, was a hit with
cronies and fishing buddies.  Some said it was a mite sweet.  Some said 
a mite hot.  Everyone agreed it was “damm fine shine”. 

Grandpa grinned at Stanley and told them, “Just wait till next
Christmas.” 

The next Christmas there was no Christmas liquor.  Grandpa had died of a
massive heart attack the previous June.  Christmas was a sad affair.  
Dad was glad that the two brothers had at least had one adventure with 
their Christmas liquor.  He smiled at the thought. 

Postscript: 

A couple of years after Grandpa died, Dad was talking with Dolphus.  The
subject got around to the time Grandpa talked Dolphus into making the 
Christmas liquor. 

“You know, I always thought a lot of your old-man.  He was a good
friend, quite a character and really set in his ways.  I've felt a 
little bad about something ever since he died.  I misled him about the 
Christmas liquor.  I didn't know anyone with a small enough still to 
make the liquor the way he wanted it and I'm not even sure it could 
have been made that way.  I added thirty pounds of sugar to the mash.  
It ran off about twenty-five gallons of the best shine I ever tasted.  
It may have been from the sprouted corn.  Anyway I feel better you 
knowing about it”. 

Dad patted the old bootlegger on the shoulder and shook his hand saying,
“He thought a lot of you too.  I'm sure Dad would have appreciated the 
joke and I know he forgives you for it”. 


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