Prohibition Days on a College Campus(Cont)
Screen 2 of 3Even though the recipe for making home brew was simple and quite clear at the time, I remember none of its details now, except that it called for some potato peelings, yeast, sugar, and water, among other things--how much of each and how they were put together I don't recall. We just followed the instructions, and as the project finally turned out, our product was rather tasty--and very potent.
As old home brewers will remember--if indeed there are any of them still around--the mixture must be left in the crock "to work" for several days, in order to get the proper balance between taste and potency. To consume the brew before it reaches that point, the recipe emphasized is not advisable: "Green beer," it added, "may cause gastric disturbances and mental aberrations." As I now write in 1981 about this experience, I am reminded of the current television ads about Paul Masson wines, in which the actor, Orson Welles solemnly declares, "We will sell no wine before its time." Home brew, too, had "its time."
When we finished mixing the concoction, we covered the crock with a garbage can top we found in the garage. Then as we were pushing it across the dirt floor to a corner behind an old love seat, "Ham" remembered the instructions had said to cover the container tightly--a requirement the uneven and slightly bent garbage can top did not meet. At that moment, I spotted an old dust-covered picture of the First Baptist Church hanging on the wall. When "Ham" looked up at it, he smiled. We both knew what the other was thinking: the picture's front glass would make a tight fit over the crock. So we took it down, wiped off some of the dust with an old knitted night cap I found packed with some other clothes, turned it face down, and laid it carefully over the top of the crock, making a snug fit. I remember thinking at the time it was probably not right and proper for the church to be protecting that illegal home brew, but that ethical question did not bother me for very long. And after putting things back where they were before we began our little secret operation, we closed the garage doors and left.
All was quiet and peaceful for a day or two. No publicity, no trouble, not even a suspicion about what was going on in that garage. Fortunately, my mother had left Bowling Green on a recruiting trip for the College the day before "Ham" brought in the crock, and she didn't return until after we had bottled and stored the home brew in an upstairs bedroom--but I am getting ahead of my story.
Each day, "Ham" and I would check what was going on in the crock, not knowing what to expect but hoping for success. The second day a peculiar smell was apparent--one similar to that of an apple beginning to rot. Also, we noticed a thick, foamy layer was forming on the top of the liquid. Not knowing what to do about this, I rode my bicycle one afternoon to the shack where my Negro friend lived and asked his advice. I was relieved to find he was not surprised at this development. Just scoop it off with a kitchen strainer, he told me, adding that I might have to do that two or three different times. I reported this information to "Ham," and we continued to watch how the brew "worked" in the crock.
But trouble was ahead. Somehow, the news leaked out that "there's home brew in Travelstead's garage!" How the other students--not only freshmen but sophomores, juniors, and seniors as well--learned this, "Ham" and I never knew. But they certainly found out, and on the afternoon of the third day, I came home to find a long but orderly line of them streaming in and out of the garage--just like ants at an ant hill. The ones waiting to get in seemed to be concerned that the brew might be all gone before they could get to "the source;" while those coming out were grinning stupidly and obviously not at all anxious to leave. In fact, some of them got in the entering line again to repeat the process.
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