There was a time when liquor making was considered just about as important as putting a garden. Maybe more so, because a family could get along without garden sass. Once a well-known citizen who spent his lifetime in the county was elected sheriff. One of his first acts was to call into his office all the moonshiners of the county, and at the appointed time, they came.
The sheriff stood behind his big desk, pushed his hat to the back of his head, hooked his thumbs in the armholes of his vest, so the shiny new star would show in all its glory, and gave forth with words of surpassing wisdom:
“Fellers,” he said, “they elected me to be sheriff of this here county and I’ve swore to do my duty. No I know you boys make moonshine and that put me in one helluva spot. I’ve knowed you fellers, man and boy, since we went fishin’ and swimmin’ together upon on Snowbird. I know ever’ one o’ you by name and I know where you stills are”.
“Now I’m willin’ to do my part if you’ll do yours. If you just keep on a makin’ wildcat for yourselves and your friends without infringin’ on the life, liberty and pursuit of happiness of anyone else, you can keep on a makin’ wildcat till hell freezes over, as far as I’m concerned. That’s all boys!”
The peace and quiet of that regime are still the talk of the hills. If a moonshiner got out of line, he had to answer to his fellow moonshiners.