Love Letter to a Moonshiner
It was a brisk autumn morning the first time I drove into the graveled yard of Ivy Mountain Distillery in Mount Airy, Georgia. I walked into the warehouse and you grabbed my hand, shaking it aggressively as any good mountaineer would do. Then, Carlene [your daughter] told you who my daddy was, and suddenly, the handshake became a hug, and the story became so much more. It was only later that she told you I was a writer and had come for an interview. Your turned all gruff-like, ordering me to put away my recorder; you didn't care who my daddy was at that point. I ignored you like any good Southern gal journalist would do, and we talked. That was the first of 87 times I pressed "record" on my little machine.
For the next three years, I listened, and we walked into your past, a journey for you (I believe) was a long time coming. It had been years since you revisited (in your mind as well as physically visited) the old home place, the rickety bridge that led to the fields, the barn where you magically made mason jars disappear, the field where fox hounds yelped and heralded dinner time. Oh, what sweet memories of a life so rich in family and mischievousness. It was time to remember; for as we both know, time is fleeting.
I never told you this, but I remember my mama telling me about "those Lovells. They make ‘shine. You stay away from them." Yes, my devout-to-the-core Southern Baptist mother would have never approved of our journey together but she would have been tickled pink at the book that was born. The story, the content - well, that was just wrong. I can't help but laugh because I see similarities in you and my parents. Strong mountain people. Hard-nosed. Stalwart. Unforgiving. Speaking your mind. Once in a blue moon, letting emotion trump common sense. What a generation you are! I already miss you in my life.
And your family . . . what a joy meeting your brother Fred and hearing stories about birthday parties with Ted Turner; your brother Dub and his fishing with governors Jimmy Carter and Lester Maddox; your sister Judy, mastering fox hounds as well as your mama’s sweet potato pie. And your daughter Carlene. It’s not often we, as adults, make new friends, share old memories, and celebrate identical passions. She is my most coveted surprise in this writer’s journey; I have a new friend, proving that surprises still are possible when you think the surprise world has given up on you.
Yes, North Georgia Moonshine is about moonshine, about making it, hiding it, toting it, and bootlegging it. You taught me about sour mash and that using the best white or yellow corn is paramount. Water, however, good spring water is the most important ingredient followed closely by your ability to keep your mouth shut. And then, there’s the element of trust, for if you didn’t trust someone, you didn’t do business with them. You didn’t have conversations with people you didn’t know, and for sure if you did, you watched what you said. You would do anything to take care of your family. Feeding the family was more than bottom lands full of corn or creek beds filled with trout; it took ingenuity and taking matters into your hands when the cupboard was getting empty, when school shoes were needed for the winter, when taxes needed to be paid or mattresses needed to be purchased. It was important to take risks, and if they turned out any way other than the way you wanted, don’t regret anything. Don’t look back. Move on.
You learned all this from your daddy, Virge Lovell, and you never forget the lessons he taught. You might have deviated from his word when you thought you knew better, but you always came back. He would be proud of what you have accomplished, making his illegal brew, legal.
I never thought about how my life would change in the writing of this book, the lessons I would learn, the truths I would discover. For that matter, how would the reader feel? What about young ones reading the exploits of an old moonshiner, taking risks, and yes, doing what was illegal? What is your message – my message – to them?
As an old English teacher – someone who is firmly rooted in the power of words and literary might – here’s my criticism. In layman’s terms, here’s the lessons learned:
Daddy is always right. Shortcuts make sugar liquor and sugar liquor makes money, but it doesn’t make good whiskey. Never take shortcuts.
Do what you love. Even at 86, you knew what you loved and you did it. You’re never too old to follow your dreams.
Everything real is rooted in trust. Whether it’s making ‘shine or making friends, you must trust the person in front of you. And yourself.
Never be sorry. You admitted that some of the things you did might not have been right, but you did them anyway because you had to survive. Take ownership of your actions and move on.
You can go home again. Remembering is healthy and going home is essential. There are stories to be told and places to revisit, if only in those stories. No matter how much time has passed, take that journey. Family is the most important thing. Period.
I cannot thank you enough for the time you have given me, the lessons you have taught me, the confidence you have instilled in me. You – Carlos Lovell – might simply be a liquor maker, but in my book, you’re superman. Shine on.
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An excerpt from Chapter 3, North Georgia Moonshine: A History of the Lovells and Other Liquor Makers
“Whatcha going home, son?” Virgil asked Carlos in the fall of 1940. It was about dinnertime on the first day of Carlo’s seventh grade year.
“I ain’t going back. I don’t like nothin’ about it.”
“You gotta go to school,” replied Virgil. Listening to his father, Carlos returned but spent a total of only two days in the seventh grade at Providence School in Batesville; he had had enough.
He wanted to make liquor. He wanted to make money.
“You’re going to have to earn your keep.” Virgil laid the ground rules.
Since Carlos has been old enough to balance a sugar sack on his shoulders, he had been toting and walking ingredients to and from the shacks. “There wasn’t no fun about it,” he bellows. “I made liquor to make money.” Just like his daddy.
It wasn’t that Virgil Lovell was a big liquor maker; it’s that he was a good liquor maker. “Some people’d make more in one day than he’d make in ten years,” according to his son Dub. Supply and demand governed production. And when the demand was high, production and profits soared. He told them, “Boys, if you make liquor and put it in a fifty-gallon barrel and take care of it and don’t let the law get it, it’s like putting money in the bank,”
And so they did . . .
In the early 1900s, moonshine was a way of life, and nearly every resident lived it. Out of the woods of North Georgia and Habersham County came Virgil Lovell, his boys, their recipe and their legacy. The family went from illegal to legal, and their product stands today as a testament to the determination of a region to hold on to its roots. Joining their story were hundreds just like them . . . liquors makers like Glenn Johnson . . . all professing theirs was the best. Through firsthand accounts from the Lovells and extensive research, author Judith Garrison revives the story of liquor making and a Georgia legacy.
