Welcome to the country… with a Kentucky twist.
So, you’ve decided to move to the country where you wonder if you may have just left civilization behind.
With this question in mind I’ve decided to take a look at how other folks in different parts of the country live their country life. If you thought we were a bit off our rocker’s here in Calaveras County wait ‘til you read what they are doin’ in Hazard Kentucky. Yup, Hazard. That should be your first clue right there.
Have you ever heard of a dry County? Me either – ‘til I came to Kentucky. With that said, let me explain a bit about dry counties. It’s not called dry for lack of water, goodness knows that’s everywhere and stagnant too I can assume by the size and abundance of their mosquitoes and greenery as far as the eye can see. No, dry means simply no booze. None. Zip. Zero. This dry county thing is not a good thing for me. I need my wine, Calaveras County wines preferably. I can, however, drive 20 minutes to the next county to get my wine at, of all things, a drive through liquor store. Yes, in one county I cannot buy even a single drop of alcohol, but in the neighboring county I can drive right up to a liquor window order my booze of choice and be on my way without the silly inconvenience of actually getting out of my car. Go figure.
Well, with the particular county Wyatt and I have the dumb luck to be staying in being “dry”, we found that the resourceful locals make due. And boy do they ever make due.
First I found out that while we in Calaveras County use barbed wire to hold our cattle in, these fine folks use it to keep the cattle out.
My curiosity got the better of me one day as I was watching a herd of cows attempting to get to some protected lush greenery. So being the sly information gatherer that I am I actually got up the nerve to ask a local why there was so much twisted barbed wire apparently surrounding a heavily wooded area within what was obviously a cow pasture. His reply, you ask? “Moonshiners.” Yup, the ‘I‟ll shoot you if you cross my barbed wire fence,’ moonshiners. As in, XX on old clay jugs moonshine. Of course that juicy little tidbit of information was delivered to me after the requisite “Ya’ll ain’t from around here are ya?”
Being the curious sort I managed to add that bit of information to my mental scrap book as a new wonderful Kentucky learning experience. I learned, unfortunately, the reason why moonshine is indeed called firewater. Upon merely opening the pickle jar (the container of choice for the discerning moonshiner) of this crystal clear, seemingly harmless liquid, I found the fumes alone can burn ones delicate little nose hairs. It’s not wine, not by any standards. However, those clever moonshiners, being of the entrepreneurial nature and wanting to break into the ever expanding woman’s cocktail market, came up with watermelon moonshine, strawberry moonshine, and my favorite, apple butter moonshine. (None of these, I might point out, burn any nose hairs at all, they are only about 80 proof instead of 500 proof!) The down side of apple butter moonshine is after a couple of sips you’re thinking this stuff isn’t bad at all, in fact this is pretty darn good, tastes just like apple cider. Then you wake up. The next day. You just lost ten hours of your life. Never to get it back. Hence my indoctrination into the wonderful world of moonshine. I drive the twenty minutes to the next county for my wine now.
Then there’s the ‘social club’ complete with pool table, juke box, overall clad bearded men, poker table, pickled pig’s feet, mullets, pickled eggs, and smoke, lots of smoke. At a social club in a dry county one can actually purchase drinks. Well, not exactly. Let me enlighten you. Upon my first visit, I bellied up to the bar and through the smokey haze and while coughing I politely ordered a glass of wine. The bartender took one look at me and said, “Y’all ain’t from around here are ya?” Gee, wonder what gave me away? My full set of teeth? Or maybe, just maybe, it was my phenomenal grasp of the English language. Whatever it was, I knew I was not getting any wine in this fine establishment. I went for my tough and rumble Sports Pub back up, Jack and Coke. Score! To my surprise they handed me a can of coke, a plastic cup with ice, and a whole bottle of Jack Daniels. Evidently, in order to get away with serving alcohol in a dry county, they cannot mix it, they just sell it under a “special” license. Of course with me being brought up as a proper lady and not wanting to be wasteful or rude, I managed to finish the whole bottle of Jack. Another ten hours of my life gone. Gee, I’m beginning to think Kentucky might not be very good for my health. Okay, I might be a little slow. Maybe the few sips of moonshine actually killed some brains cells, who knows, but that would certainly shine a little light on some of the more eccentric locals here.
I vaguely recall clicking my heels together three times and wishing for tumbleweeds and rattlers. Just give me rusty tractors and windmills. “There’s no place like Copper, there’s no place like Copper, there’s no place like Copper.”
P.S. It needs to be said, this particular part of Kentucky, really named Irvine, is without a doubt the most welcoming place I think I have ever had the opportunity to visit, even if “you ain’t from around here.” There really is such a thing as Southern Hospitality. You are not just a friend here, you are family.
Until next time…welcome to the country.
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