Hobo’s comment in the comments section of Wouldn’t a Beer Go Good Here about moonshine we made has brought back a flood of memories. And it makes me wonder why about a dozen of us aren’t dead now. Or brain dead.
It was in Powell River in 1970 in a smelly old shack we called home, and many days and nights were spent creating a mash and then cooking it in an old pressure cooker. There would be no hillbillies from the Ozark backhills who would make a finer moonshine than what we were making. Because I don’t know what they put in their’s, but in ours we had cigarette butts, pot, beer, bread, banana peels, apples, and maybe a few household appliances too.
We made enough moonshine to fill a large crock, and you could hear it making noises if you put your ear to it. And it smelled as bad as it tasted. But what parties! Powell Riverites wanted to get to know the Orillians because we had the best parties and the strongest moonshine.
It almost makes me weep with pride.
A couple of months after that I came down with mononucleosis and the doctor said I probably got it from living in filthy conditions. Eventually I made my way back to Orillia.
Below, in this grainy old photo, some of the Orillia boys pose in front of the dump we called home in Powell River. That’s Hobo in the front with the jean jacket and long red hair. I’m not in this photo for some reason. Maybe I was busy stirring the moonshine mash.