5 August 2012
My neighborhood is stuffed with interesting history. Some of it obvious in the names, like Bull’s Hell. (A cliff down the street from me still appears on state maps as Bull’s Hell. The story goes that Henry Clay’s cousin, Cassius, let his legendary temper get the better of a bull he had a hate on for. Cassius pushed the bull over the cliff.)
Some of the history more touching in the seven old graveyards of the tenant farms that have turned to ghosts among the new homes.
And some of it really unique. Like what I found on a winter morning walk when I detoured to explore. I circled around the pond below the townhouses and headed up the hill to see why there was a pipe draining into the pond.
I found the remnants of a still. The tiny ruined shed held nothing more than an improvised cooker (an old water heater) and some pipes. The roof was gone, but what was left was the hardscrabble genius that marks Americans.
Individual enterprise. Someone made moonshine. Made their own liquor, for an additional cash crop?
In the summer there’s no clue what molders behind the pond. From the hidden location, I’m certain this was not an enterprise the government got their tax claws into.
Kath, who due to her defluffing/diet and surety that whiskey is NOT diet food, won’t give ‘shining’ a try. Although going back out on the Bourbon Trail to test bourbon balls at the various distilleries is an option and maybe a duty of an adopted Kentuckian.