During World War I, while so many of our men were overseas fighting, the “drys” were able to add the 18th Amendment to our Constitution.The Volstead Act prohibited “the manufacture, sale and transportation of all alcoholic beverages”
My father had emigrated from Sweden when he was 27 and was 45 in 1919 when Prohibition started. He was employed by the New York Street Railways as a woodworking machinist repairing damaged trolley cars. His wage was $30 a week, and we lived in a cold water walk-up flat on East 57th St. in Manhattan. The rent was $20 a month.
I was 8 when my father started making bathtub booze.
My mother, who, as a young woman, had also emigrated from Sweden, took me to the movies every Friday night. It was a real treat for both of us. Those were the days of the “silents” and I remember well “The Perils of Pauline,” “Janice Meredith” and “Orphans of the Storm.”
Friday night was special for my father, too. When the Volstead Act was passed, my father decided to take things into his own hands and make his own whiskey. He and his friends liked their occasional “schnapps” when they had their friendly poker games on Saturday nights.
Like so many immigrants from Europe, my father had passed through Ellis Island to enjoy the liberties America offered. He saw no reason to stop a weekly pleasure. Rum runners and bootleggers were thriving. Some of the stuff was good, but there was always the dread of literally being poisoned by wood grain alcohol and perhaps going blind.
While Mom and I were at the movies, Papa would set up his still.
Our narrow kitchen took on the appearance of a professional high school lab. On the gas stove stood a huge round glass bottle. The large bottle would be filled with a “mash” that Papa had been nurturing in a big pickle crock for a certain number of weeks until “ripe.” The gas would be lit, and a rolling flame would start the process of evaporation.
Soon steam would start to make its way through the bent tube until it came to the quart bottle where drops would fill it to the brim. Papa had a measure — it looked like a thermometer. I can remember how pleased he was when it registered 180 proof. Pure alcohol!
This he would dilute with water until it reached 90 proof, and a molasses coloring would be added. He had made what was known as “rye whiskey.”
Meticulous man that he was, this had to age in an oak barrel in the clothes closet for several months. He would sell small amounts of this pure product, leaving enough for Saturday night poker.
As a good and proud naturalized American, Papa knew that the Volstead Act was not good for the country and saw it as an infringement of his right to “Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.”
Calla Jones Corner
The author lives in Montecito.
