Having been led blindfolded through the house and into the basement, Leta followed her husband Albert’s instructions and opened her eyes, quickly adjusting to the dim light given by the bare hanging bulb beside her.
“Oh my!” she gasped and grabbed Albert’s hand.
Three feet in front of her was a still.
Almost instinctively, Leta looked over her shoulder to be sure they hadn’t been followed. After all, a still to make alcohol of any kind was illegal, and one in their basement came with a number of dangers.
Once she felt safe, she released Albert’s hand and stepped gingerly toward the metal contraption.
He seemed to be holding his breath, giving her a few moments to take it all in.
“Well, darlin’, what do you think?” he finally asked.
“How in the world…?” she stammered.
“We talked about it,” Albert answered. “You said—“
“—I know,” she interrupted, “but I never thought….”
She knew he had been involved in something in their basement all week, but she didn’t think much of that. Since they had no shed, it was the only place he had to be alone, and men, she knew, needed some personal domain to keep tools and tinker with projects and whatnot. For women, it was the kitchen. Because they liked to be together, Albert occasionally would work on a project at the kitchen table, but usually Vivian was busy with homework there, where could be near her mother. So Albert needed some workspace of his own.
However, she had no idea that he was constructing a still for making their own alcohol, even though they were both tired of what had been available and was usually offered to them. This alcohol was little more than homemade moonshine that tore at their innards. For her friends, she would make wine from the wine blocks, but neither Albert nor she much cared for it. Occasionally, they would get rum or go to a speakeasy, but both of those options were costly, but with two children to feed and a household to maintain, they couldn’t afford those options more than once a month. Besides, there were frequent arrests.
She circled the still the way she did her nine-year-old son when he had obviously been in some mischief but was reluctant to tell her. At the center of the multi-pieced contraption was a large tin canister with a funnel soldered to the top. It sat on a small barbeque grill. From the top of the funnel a copper tube extended into a barrel sitting on a small platform, and from the barrel one tube snaked into a metal bucket and another into an old pickle jar. Beside it on a new shelf he had installed were a collection of clay containers and Mason jars.
“Where did you get all this?” she inquired.
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