All Entries in the "Soft News" Category
THE MOONSHINER’S SONG
In 1925 Ouray was still unmistakably a mining town. There had been ups and downs but the mines were still employing hundreds and yielding almost immoral tons of precious ore. There were plenty of churches and plenty of brothels. The Utes had long gone, replaced by new immigrants from Italy, Ireland and Eastern Europe. Most were thirsty fellows and ladies.
The only thing missing were the boisterous saloons of frontier living. The temperance folks had had their way. Prohibition was in full swing with ax-wielding do-gooders saving the population from the evils of demon rum. They had failed to convince the thirsty and the great unwashed as to the moral implications of boozing, so they simply legislated them into dusty submission. The noble experiment doomed to failure.
One man, set on making a living in his hometown, saw a window of opportunity. His family had made what they called mountain dew, or hooch since coming to the San Juans in the late 1880s. Then they sold it more out in the open. Today’s whiskey runner would have to be more careful. Although the authorities generally turned their backs when it came to the sins of the populace, one never took that benefit for granted. Only last spring the police had reluctantly arrested two Montrose men for selling bootlegged whiskey. Now the two were in jail and their families were hungry. What good did that do?
Abe Morrow had served in France during the war. He was convinced that the teetotalers had conspired against the doughboys during a time of national emergency. They had stabbed them in the back with all this Prohibition. If men in France forgot the horror of war with a good bottle (or three) of French wine what harm was done?
By 1925 the nation had settled back into what historians call the Great Dry Spell. Morrow, now approaching 3o years of age had a thriving business. His stills ran all day and he ran around all night satisfying the needs of his customers from Silverton to Dallas. It always amazed him how happy they were to see him. Very little sales work. Just a good sense of public relations and jugs of excellent souma, white lightning or poteen.
Most of his elixir was safe enough to drink and varied in quality and barter capacity. It was rumored that he distilled a sort of kosher whiskey and some powerful bailie, distilled from sorghum, that he sold to the Chinese in town and even up n Silverton, when the opportunity presented itself. He had to be careful not to step on the toes of other moonshiners who did not appreciate the intrusion into their territory and often met Asian customers at the top of Red Mountain Pass.
But most of his customers were miners, good hard working people in need of a good whistle wetting after a long shift underground.
He was looking good, but he needed to take on a partner, someone who could run the operation when he got too old. A bachelor, Abe had no kids to bring into the business. His prospects must know about hard woods and where to get them for a smooth taste. They had to study his bottling procedures. They had to be good in the woods at night. They had to shut their mouth about this and that. They had to be aware of what cops were also customers and which ones would be trouble. Most of all, they had to be honest…yes honest, with the customers and with Abe too.
Since most of his potential associates were employed, he would have to search the ranks of newcomers, or teach some kid the grist mill and mash trade before he embraced some other profession. The population of newcomers was peppered with a sad assortment of ragamuffins and scalawags and that was on a good day. He didn’t want to hook up with his competitors, the Carlson Boys, down valley because then he would have more than a partner, he’d have a boss. The same would go for alliances in San Juan County.
One afternoon as he was headed up to work up Hayden Mountain he noticed a young man coming out of the miner’s union. He knew the kid. His name was Richards. The two had stopped and talked before. His father had been killed at Belleau Wood in 1918. His mother had died of scarlet fever a few years later. Like many of the town’s younger men he had been rustling a job at one of the local mines. At present he said he had few prospects other than nipping at the Old Maid or tending to cranky mules up at the Camp Bird.
There were always jobs in the coal mines but that was far more dangerous work and besides, he had hard rock mining in his veins.
Morrow told Richards he was on his way to work and that he might be looking for some help later in the week. He was afraid to say more, but he needed to start somewhere. He felt like a high wire performer, sans net at his first practice session.
“I know what you do,” said Richards. “I see you coming and going. I don’t drink myself or I might have sampled your wares.”
Abe was dumbstruck. He thought he had covered his tracks better than this. He always took the back roads and never even drove his empty delivery wagon into town. He figured that the miners thought he was a rancher and the ranchers thought he was a miner. He hauled around an assortment of serious-looking tools that he had no use for simply to keep nosey sniffers off the scent. This kid was paying attention.
“So what is it that I do?” he finally asked.
“You deliver milk,” was the answer. “Mother’s milk, I suspect.”
Both men laughed. Abe carefully cross-examined Bobby Richards, attempting to sort out opinions on the morality of the liquor business.
“You looking for a job?” he asked.
“Yeah, I’m getting tired of sweeping up and hustling newspapers at the brothels. I think I’m ready for a new career, something stable, with a future.”
“Have you checked at the bank?” smiled Morrow, looking Richards square in the eye.
“No money in that,” said the younger man. “Is this a job interview?”
“Maybe, but I’m having trouble with where to start,” said Morrow.
“Got some deliveries tonight?” asked Richards. “I can drive, you can drop.”
“I’ll think on it,” said Morrow without sharing further secrets.
Although his recent successes were closely aligned with keeping his business to himself, Morrow knew his prayers had been answered. The next day he approached Richards on the street.
“Still want that job?” he asked.
“Sure, except for the fact that I start my policeman training on Monday.”
Abe’s heart stopped. Was the kid serious? Nobody was smiling. Here in his first attempt at expanding his services he had just hired a cop, or at least a rookie one. He froze.
“Don’t worry about me, Mr. Morrow. Everyone knows about your war record, how you were a hero and all. Even my dad talked about you in his last letters from France,” he said. “I have no problem with you. Even a cop takes a drink once in a while, illegal or not. Ain’t none of us voted for this Prohibition business anyway.”
Abe began to sweat. He had been so careful and yet this kid knew all about him.
“Lot’s of people know who you are and what you’re doing,” said Richards. “As far as they’re concerned you’re not hurting anyone…You’re just providing a needed service. The marshal and a lot of others don’t want anyone else coming in here upsetting the cart, no matter what the cargo.”
“So you won’t turn me in?” he choked.
“What for?” laughed the kid, “and if my new job doesn’t work out I might consider going to work for you. I think I’d be good at it.”
“No doubt,” thought Abe as the two parted ways. “I’d better move my copper kettles nonetheless,” he mused as he headed out of town.
As he made his way up past Ironton Park, Morrow took time to reevaluate his security procedures wondering how many other people knew his business. The money was too good to stop smuggling booze but he might have trouble sleeping from now on. Prison was not a part of his agenda.
He was far too afraid to conduct any more job interviews. He would remain a one-man enterprise, at least for the time being.
From time to time over the next few years Morrow would watch a young railroad cop walk his beat in Montrose. It was Richards. The new job had worked out fine but neither felt comfortable to resume earlier conversations.
Life goes on.
On February 20, 1933 a Lame Duck session of Congress passed the Twenty-first Amendment to the Constitution, repealing Prohibition. It ended an era of gangsters and widespread disregard for the law. It also killed Abe’s moonshine operation and he was forced to find another, more suitable occupation. One place he didn’t look was in the area of law enforcement.
– Uncle Pahgre
The importance of cutting national intelligence quotients prioritized
When told by a reporter that the Oval Office was actually a rectangle, orange trump vacantly replied “I know that. We’re transparent and covert around here. There are no corners for deadbeats to hide in,” he said*.
“You know, malcontents on food stamps and Democrats playing the system is the big drain. It’s costing us billions!” he ranted. “Even massive tax breaks to the rich won’t solve this “wicked transgression of racketeering and gangsterism”, he deflected.
“Shapes don’t matter to me, he continued. “I have designed over 40 offices, built resorts and made millions through my business deals. I have strengthened our alliances, saved the failed Biden economy through my very popular tariffs, protected voting rights for white American citizens and killed socialist wind energy so we can all go back to watching television 22 hours a day.** In addition I have single-handedly reduced our reliance on National Intelligence, cutting the veteran spook staff by at least 1/3, maybe even 1/4, he bragged.”
“That orange thing is the president and he doesn’t give a tinker’s damn about you or I.” – reporter on oval and rectangular
* The AP Stylebook, Merriam-Webster, The American Heritage Dictionary and The Chicago Manual of Style have sanctioned the use of the world lie as a valid and more precise substitute for the word said when quoting trump or anyone associated with the current administration.
Noting a humorous aside, the exacting language cops topped off this phraseology with a vague reference: “How can you tell he is lying? His mouth moves.” In addition, the embrace of the new verb called “long in coming” by communist detractors certain that trump has never read these reference sources despite “finishing first in his class at University of Pennsylvania,” (or so he said.)
“He reads the wrappers on fast food delivered to the back door of the White House,” said one strawberry GOP congressman. “Otherwise, I have yet to see anything resembling a book in his possession. At least he’s white.”
**It is clear to these nincompoops that since wind energy is not a fossil fuel it is not powerful enough to operate common household appliances such as televisions, riding mowers and home air defense systems and therefore should be demonized, delegated to and designated as a shithole enterprise.
– Fred Zepplin
Congress Reschedules Colonoscopies Until After Midterms
(Warshington) The United States Congress today rescheduled a group colonoscopy for three days after the coming Mid-Term election. The sudden shift affects 50 senators and over 80 representatives.
“We have been on hold here since Obamacare was destroyed, so what’s another few months?” asked Winnie Kampachi (Unitarian-MT).
The reason given for the cancellations was quite vague as has become customary within the governing body. Some say the simple surgery will conflict with last minute campaigning while others expressed concern that their medical results may get lost in the mail now that the USPS has been downsized.
“Considering the scope of things here most of our “leaders” don’t want to be on-camera until they can better analyze the polls in the days preceding homecoming at their designated Electoral College,” she whinnied.
Politicians in the loser’s seat after November remain in heated debate over what constitutes a pre-existing condition and what is clearly cranium-rectal disorder, often treated with overpriced robber baron pharmaceuticals.
The Congress will not be in session on the day of the colonoscopies despite the fact that the intrusive checkup is an outpatient procedure.
– Hal A Butt
****
In keeping with federal regulations and the continued validity of our FCC, OMG, KFC, LSMFT status the contents of this rattlesheet turned website must contain at least .03% useful information to our reader. We therefore take this opportunity to embrace public service by including this spit of data within the quakey walls of justice and eternal reams of our consciousness:
Saint Donald (also known as Donald of Ogilvy) is an 8th Century Scotish poet, remembered for living a holy monastic life alongside his nine daughters, who are known as the Nine Maidens. His feast day is celebrated every year on July 15.
trumps’ attack on Head Start is being investigated as a hate crime
donald trump’s attempt to dismantle Head Start, a successful federal program for children living without a basic emotional and educational environment, has been perceived and discerned in a myriad of ways. The empathetic GOP cries foul as funds are spent to give these kids a shot (while they bank millions through their ubiquitous, albeit shady dealings.). Shortcut liberals pat themselves on the back but do nothing to protect what they have created. The reality is that countless low-income children have been prepared for success in school with the kind of help inherent to the program. Considering the chain of poverty and the culture of losing, most would not get the assistance and encouragement at home, especially in single-parent households.
We better be damn sure we know what we’re doing when we give a leg up to one of these baby victims. If we don’t watch it one of them could grow up and be President one day.
Critics claim the program is chucked full of corruption while supporters say the proposed cuts punish poor children while trump and his darlings buy islands and yachts and jets and governments with money brazenly stolen from struggling Americans.
Police are investigating trump’s racist and hostile targeting of Head Start as a hate crime which carries with it increased penalties and prison time.
– Pepper Salte
I probably shouldn’t be telling you this but…
There is this magic island. No cruise ships, no golf, no television, no umbrellas on the beach. Natural island life without the hoards, the yachts, without the traffic, just fresh fish for lunch and reggae at dusk. Authentic delights of the Caribbean without the plague of trampling tourism. Just rolling green hills and peaceful, winding island roads taking one from beach to beach.
It’s called Providencia or Old Providence – It’s deliriously beautiful, drifty and breezy. Coconut palms, Indian corral, mango are indigenous, and Ceiba trees flourish up on the mountain, post hurricane. Volcanic rock, unlike it’s bigger and noisier neighbor San Andres, which is coral and a drooling example of mindless tourism.
After the November, 2020 hurricane everything must be brought in except the sand. Even the coconuts are struggling to make a return. But the fish are still here. What a time to go to this chilled island and what a better time to spend a few dollars with these mellow people whose world just recently collided with near devastation. The big news: Providencia is back.
The island is increasingly vulnerable to hurricanes and climate change. Over 2000 homes were destroyed by Iota and the government response was typical. Rebuild what were once classic structures with cheap housing that all looks the same. The lodging, however, has come a long way toward reclaiming Eden.
“The hurricane only lasted a few hours and destroyed the lives of many residents,’ said Wily Robinson, a fisherman who has seen over 4 such storms in his 68 years on Providencia. “The government went through the motions of helping us but in the end dropped the ball one again.”
He added that the Colombian government would rather they weren’t here. The people are more closely linked to Jamaica, some 600 sea miles away. Jamaican Patois, is likely to be heard far more than Spanish or English.
And last night I found what I believe to be the legendary Catbird Seat of 30’s radio sportscaster Red Barber and humorist James Thurber. It was located on the falling away porch of the Sunrise Vista, a small barraca bar perched precariously seaside at Rocky Point. If this ain’t the famous Catbird Seat then it is easily the Caribbean Catbird Seat.
The Caribbean, just below the Catbird Seat
“Lean over too far and you’ll crash off yonder rocks and end up in the sea, said a fisherman and world traveller named Michael. You’d take this rickety old couch with you too! Let’s go for a ride on my boat instead. I’ll need a hand if the engine craps out…There’s Wahoo and Yellow fin tuna off in deep water just waiting for us pay them a visit.”
After countless pulls and a few quiet curses the engine starts and here we go…Michael knows what he’s doing. We take a spin to try the engine and soon it runs smoothly. Tomorrow he will head out on open water toward Jamaica in search of his catch. After a few more turns I must leave to have dinner at my friend, Idonna’s, who just could be the finest chef on the island. She might be cooking Red Snapper, Grouper or Barracuda or maybe she’s grilling Horse-eye Jack. They all live in the waters near the island.
She promised Black Crab Soup but we ran short of time and I had to settle for a bowl of the iconic Providencia delicacy elsewhere at Divino Nino at Southwest Bay. Her Rondon, a seafood and pork stew with root vegetables is known all the way to Panama. She vowed to make the dish for me when I return to the island in 2027.
In Providencia – sweet food doesn’t have anything to do with sugar it means homemade and delicious. Grilled fresh Pompano, patacones, coconut rice and ice-cold Aguila beer make the statement on the pretty wooden porch or at a table in the sand.
YES, we have no bananas
Lo siento pero no hay mangos hasta el barco llega de San Andres viernes.
Ah yes the proverbial Friday boat.
Mangos are harder to come by here, when years ago they ruled the place in abundance.
“Come back Friday in the morning,” she said in a mix of Patois, Spanish and English.
I left the little store disappointed. I climbed into my Mule and started the engine intent on purveying a fat little papaya or even a slice of pineapple. Then I heard her yell—
Wait! I found two!” She came running out of her store…
I very had secured the last 2 mangos on Providencia!
She was happy. I was happy. I offered her one of the mangos but she said she could wait unto her ship comes in from San Andres. For a moment in time we were both in mango heaven.
The last 2 mangoes till Friday. Wow! I guess I should feel guilty but I still don’t. I was so jealous of my pillaging the I went back to Rocky Point and ate one entire Mango with a few shots of rum and a can of beanie weenies that I jumped on while in town. Just because one is visiting an exotic culture does not mean he should skimp on healthy repasts.
Damn these people are big. It’s a damn good thing they are smiling most of the time. My host at Posada Ashanty, Killy was 6’4 and at least 230. Uncle Cab driver was big and skinny at the same time. Wily was big too as I recall. Even the Rastas were giants, and why shouldn’t they be.
Lovely Caribbean people——Musicians, pescaderos, exceptional diving and snorkeling, semi-guided fishing trips, ridiculous sunrises and sunsets, excellent food and music. Another paradise to see, feel and remember forever. The notorious English pirate Henry Morgan, would agree. He claimed sister island, Santa Catalina, as his redoubt for more than 20 years. It is said there is buried treasure there but no one has found anything. Maybe he took it with him when he passed.
Closer to the Corn Islands of Nicaragua than to the Colombian mainland, fishermen used to pass Las Islas de Maize from Providencia frequently but today there is no traffic due to disputes of island ownership and chaotic pettiness on the part of both sovereign nations …It’s basically the same Patois, bound by the salty centuries and by the horrific legacy of slavery.
Sadly one of the the last vestiges of traditional life on a Caribbean island – a culture at risk – is threatened. Residents here are keen to preserve it and juggle eco-tourism with daily family life on this rock. Go there and spend your money. The human value is phenomenal while your tarrying footprint is still washed out to sea.
– Kevin Haley
Fear of Frying
“Artificial Intelligence has no heart, no soul, no sense of humor…the very things that separate humans from lower mammals. We are quite willing to give up our freedoms and happy to take the easier path to the demise of our species as we now know it. It will creep into your bedroom and GET YOU while you sleep!”
