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SENIOR CATCHES JUNIOR
Your daddy ever arrest a NASCAR icon? No? Well, advantage then to reader Paco:
My pa was one of them “thieving gummint revenooers”, and was the man who arrested Junior Johnson (as he said many times afterwards, “I’m the only man to catch Junior Johnson, but I had to do it on foot”).
“Howdy there, Officer Paco Sr, sir! Very pleased to meet you!”
UPDATE from Paco:
Years after the arrest - but before Junior and my father “reconciled” - Junior was driving through my home town. It’s a small town in a rural district, and everybody knew my father. Junior goes into a restaurant, orders his meal, and when he pays the check, he says, “Ma’am, you know a guy named Joe [Paco]?” she says, “Why, sure. He’s in here all the time”. Junior says, “Next time you see that son of a bitch, you tell him Junior Johnson says ‘go to hell’”.
True story. Years after the arrest - but before Junior and my father “reconciled” - Junior was driving through my home town. It’s a small town in a rural district, and everybody knew my father. Junior goes into a restaurant, orders his meal, and when he pays the check, he says, “Ma’am, you know a guy named Joe [Paco]?” she says, “Why, sure. He’s in here all the time”. Junior says, “Next time you see that son of a bitch, you tell him Junior Johnson says ‘go to hell’”.
YeeeeeeeeeHawwwwwwwww…lol.
Couple of other things one should know about Southern Boys.
If you stop at a back country bar, like for directions cause the GPS ‘find my ass system’ is screwy on the BMW and some one says…You ain’t from around here are ya’?
The answer is NO SIR.
OR, if you are in that bar and you hear, Billy, Hold my beer...get the hell out of the way, cause someone is about to go through a door, head first BUT if they insist, feet first….:).
Still here, Paco. Just had a FRIGHTFUL run-in with a drama queen at work, too upset to post anything even remotely amusing or pissed-off.
Well, good to see you back. We were about to put out an APB (although who knows how useful those things are; Huck Holey still hasn’t turned up). I can relate to your drama queen problems; we’re about to get one back as a Board member after we thought we were finished with him for good.
#5: Actually, Paco senior deserves the medal. He did, I report, you decide.
What’s the count-down on the commencement of your R&R, now, Texas Bob? My son’s shipping out for Marine Corps basic training in October, aims to be a combat engineer. Ahhh, Parris Island; sounds like a paradise (except for the drill instructors, the sand fleas, the 10-mile hikes, the obstacle course and latrine duty).
Paco-my grandfather was Sheriff of Mitchell county, NC from 1946-66 (he won election after returning from service in WWII as an infantryman in Italy and he held on for 20 years usually running unopposed in an overwhelmingly Republican county-when he passed away I wrote an online obituary at Free Republic here.
I don’t think he ever chased any high profile bootleggers, but I know he busted up many stills. He also only had one deputy and never carried a gun (cause it was buried beneath his golf bags in the trunk of his squad car-which he had to pay for out of his salary).
Mitchell county was never a hotbed of crime, but he was very well respected. I miss him a lot.
Cool story, paco! Thanks for sharing.
And the same to you, 91B30. That’s a very nice obituary. I can see why you miss him.
Posted by The_Real_JeffS on 2006 07 13 at 02:57 PM • permalinkMy Grandfather used to make shine in the north Georgia mountains during the 1930’s.
Many of his customers were from the train going to Warm Springs. The train would make a stop on the way down and the way back.
Finally he tired of paying the local Sheriff a hefty “commission”. The result was that he spent a year in the federal penitentiary during which he found religion. Afterwards he was ordained a minister in the Church of God - Holiness.
A group that makes Baptists seem like pagans in comparision.In reflection I wonder if he gave up selling one type of shine - illegal, for another type that wasn’t.
Posted by joe bagadonuts on 2006 07 13 at 03:25 PM • permalink#11: Thanks so much for sharing that bio. It really brings back memories of my father’s law enforcement days. He started out as a deputy sherriff, then was a town policeman for a while, before finally linking up with what, in those days, was known as the ATU (Alcohol & Tobacco Unit of the Treasury, n/k/a the ATF).
Your grandafther lived a full life and a useful one. I envy him.
#1 Heh. There must be some mistake, Mr. Johnson, sir. My name is Wronwright.
Well hey, I tell you what. There’s a whole heap of Wright folk in North Carolina. And Virginia, and Kentucky too. (West Virginia also but we don’t like to talk about them). You tell them youse know wronwright, and that will mean something.
Probably.
Posted by wronwright on 2006 07 13 at 04:04 PM • permalinkMy great grandfather got stuck with me for a week, when I was 9. The great grandma made sure I followed him around no matter how hard he tried to shake me.
Anyway we was walking his land one day, and up a hill in some trees was this old still. I asked him what it was and what moonshine was etc. He told me that during the depression there was no jobs, and people were hungry. He had like 10 or 11 kids, no joke, the family reunions would double the small towm of Smithville Okla.
Anyway he told me he had mouths to feed and no work to be had, couldnt even sell lumber, as there was no local demand. So he started selling moonshine. From what I gathered over time, he would use mules to carry it across the border into Arkansas. Like once a month. Said he had to be careful of revenuers but that since he did not showoff or throw money around, and did not race around the roads, no one really bothered him. I think he also alluded to making sure the local sheriff had a jar close to hand if he ever wanted it.
And I think he just sold it to some other guys who woul do all the fancy road running.
He also told me that, he wasnt proud of it, but that when I was older and had mouths to feed I would understand.
Only thing is, when I was older, I remeber what he said, and admired him for raising such a large family during the epression. He later got religion too, which was why he was not proud to tell me all about it.
But that old still I saw at 9 in 1975, as I recall, did not look like it had been unused for 40 years, maybe 20 but not 40. heh.
#13: There is an embarrassing side bar to the family history; my great uncle Jesse got caught making moonshine (wasn’t in my father’s jurisdiction, I feel the need to add).He actually kept his still in his chicken coop, just like the cartoon character, Snuffy Smith.
One more story and I’ll leave off. My dad arrested another bootlegger in North Carolina who did a stint in the federal pen. Dad ran into him many years later and found out that he had been awarded a permit to manufacture ethanol. When Dad asked him if he was selling it all for fuel, he didn’t answer, he just smiled from ear to ear.
#6. Paco. I can’t stand these Drama Queens. She was going off, and all I could think was, “Whyn’t you go to Israel and tell them about this big stupid problem of yours? I’m sure they’d sympathize, you dumb twat.”
I don’t know if this will cause any envy, but my uncle, who lied about his age twice to serve in WWI and in WWII, was one of the original guys at Hershey, and he took my cousin and me on a real tour of the chocolate factory, not the animated pretend one, way back in the day. The smell of concentrated chocolate is still with me.
Also, he had a helmet he took off a dead “Hun” he showed me. And a couple of really old guns. This guy was a crackerjack—he went on the rollercoaster with us, and he was 81! He served in the Pacific theater in WWII and gave my brother a Japanese helmet with a couple of bullet holes through it.
Dave S.
That is where my grandfather Louis also bootlegged; no stills, just Canadian whisky over the border. He was my mama’s dad, they lived in Buffalo during Prohibition, and there were 9 kids in the family. He is known throughout my mother’s side of the family as Louis the Bootlegger. This moniker made my mother furious. He was not a bootlegger, she said, he just had a few bottles which he sold from time to time to people who were having parties…yup, umm… Bootlegger!
Well, it’s true I’m an urbane gentleman from Ohio, a truly sophisticated type, all in all. But I’m from humble roots, with my father hailing from Bonanza Holler, Kentucky. We are talking backwoods Appalachia.
One summer my father took us for yet another journey to his home area. We walked through woods along trails that I couldn’t discern. Through creeks (or cricks as my father would say), and over trestles with slats spaced so far apart I swear a 12 year boy could easily fall through. (What were you thinking dad?).
I thought at the time I sure hope this is worth all this walking. Because I ain’t exactly having much fun. Finally we walked up to a cabin with a warsh machine on the front porch. I thought to myself “good lord, maybe we should run away while the getting’s good”. Unbeknowst to me, my father’s uncle and aunt lived there, which technically made them blood relatives.
While the older generation was talking and have a good time, my brothers and I walked around the home place, looking for anything interesting. And we found a still. Asked my dad what it was and how did it work. My great uncle explained the fundamentals and showed me a room filled with Mason jars, each brimming with what looked like water. Pure clean water. I asked him “does it taste like water, you know, the kind from your well?”. My dad answered for him “you be the judge”.
Hells afire. If you could bottle up the sun and sell it as liquid, that’s what it would taste like. Pure hell fire.
Posted by wronwright on 2006 07 13 at 07:14 PM • permalinkWronwright
I had a similar experience at about 13 or 14.
A friend had a jug of that stuff and I asked if I could try it. My father said sure and I took a swig. Nothing really. The friend just smirked at me. About 10 seconds later-holy .......!!!! I thought I had been transported to the Nevada testing grounds. I don’t know how anyone who drinks that stuff on a regular basis has any stomach left.Regarding “Paco”: Whether the story is true or not, he is most certainly a real Southerner. All good Southerner’s know the truth is much less important than how good the story is and how well it’s told.
And it’s true. I couldn’t care less if Junior Johnson really had it out for his daddy or not, nor whether Junior roared by a police block with a cop light, ‘cause I sure did smile when I heard it. It sounds right and true and in the best Southern way. And that, my cousin Aussie friend’s, is what counts for a Southerner.
Posted by mencken_cynic on 2006 07 13 at 07:43 PM • permalinkDon’t spoil my film addled perception. That can’t be Junior Johnson because this must be the real guy.
Posted by Pat Patterson on 2006 07 13 at 08:18 PM • permalink#23—
a warsh machine
Bet it’s Warshington, DC, too, isn’t it? Uh-huh, just what I was afraid of - you talk like the Hoosier I married! There ain’t no ‘r’ in ‘wash’ unless you’re from that part of the country.
My granddad & his brothers (born ‘round Iron Mountain, Ohio but raised in northeastern Montana) supposedly were bootleggers, crossing the Canadian border in Alberta & Saskatchewan. Grandmother’s Norwegian Lute’ran teetotaling never let much be told about it…not so sure about the fast cars, but a mule is possible & I’m pretty sure there was an old airplane in there somewhere, too, as one uncle just loved to fly & did so all his life. (HE told a story about flying frm Montana to DC shortly after we went to war (WWII), that was nearly as much fun as this one with Junior Johnson.)
Thankfully, he wrote many of his memories down before he passed.
One last quick story: a few years before he died, my grandfather took one of my uncles-who was running for school board-out politicking.
They went to one old man’s house and stayed for several hours. At one point the man made a joke out of some reference to my grandfather having arrested him at one point back in the 1950s.
My uncle really enjoyed the visit and casually asked my grandfather what he had arrested the man for on the ride home. Pawpaw replied-“murder”. Seems the man had killed another man and buried his body up in the woods, until he had confessed to my grandfather under questioning where the body was and had shown them where to find it. He got some consideration for cooperating, served out his sentence and came back home. I think my uncle may have been shaken by the story though-he lost the election.
Casting doubtful veracities about? Nah! I’m saying in the best Southern tradition it’s much *better* than true- it’s good. Telling yarns and making true stories into great ones is our way. I’m not insulting him sideways. There was no ironic content or hidden smear in my praise. I actually meant it. Sometimes, a cigar is just a cohiba.
Wow we live in an ironic age. People now can’t even imagine someone might mean what they say.
Posted by mencken_cynic on 2006 07 13 at 11:50 PM • permalinkMy grandpa was from Deeeeep East Texas born in San Augustine in 1901. He and my grandma lived in little house in Piney Point, Texas (11 miles down a dirt road from the nearest paved highway). When I was 12, me and one of my cousins set out to find this mythical log cabin my grandpa had told us stories about. It was owned by a family named Tick and they had run moonshine until the mid-30s when they fought the revinewers and were killed. I really didn’t believe it but cynicism gave way to curiosity. Grandpa had given us some directions that included landmarks such as a big sycamore stump, a well, and the ruins of an old barn. It took the better part of a day on horseback, but we finally came upon the outline of an old road. You could make out the narrow ruts clearly, even though there were now tall pine trees growing all along it. We followed this road until it came into a clearing with three log cabins. I felt like we’d found the Emerald City. The cabins were completely intact, furniture and all. We found the rusting remnants of a Ford Model-T, the destroyed still, broken jugs and jars, and lots of brass shell casings. Up to that moment I really thought my grandpa was pulling my leg about the Ticks. We arrived back home that evening triumphant explorers showing our other skeptic cousins our treasures of shell casings, old bottles and a pair of brogan shoes. Several weeks later, now thoroughly convinced of my grandpa’s sincerity I followed him into the woods to go on my first snipe hunt, but that’s another story.
Ya’ll sound like characters from The Dukes Of Hazard. Am I the only one here who hasn’t run moonshine or bayoneted a Jap?.
Posted by Daniel San on 2006 07 14 at 03:57 AM • permalinkPaco, I disagree completely. But that’s just because I’m from Texas. Whereas the rest of the South feels the need to embellish their tales to make up for their inadequacies, everything really IS bigger and better in Texas. So when I say that I had a steer 47 hands tall, 3 oil wells in my front yard, and made passionate love to a wild mountain lion, I mean just that. You can and should believe it too.
#36: Oh, I do, I do believe. If anything, I’m sure the modesty for which Texans are renowned has probably caused you to engage in understatement.
And I can vouch for that business about everything being bigger is Texas. In December 25th of 1992, my family and I were driving through Texas on the way to Arizona. My wife happened to be driving at the moment in question, and got pulled over by a state trooper, who proceeded to give her a speeding ticket. When she pointed out that she was only doing the regulation 65 mph, he said, “Ma’am, in this section, the speed is reduced to 50; sign’s posted right back there.” Well, we looked back down that arrow-straight, flat highway, and there wasn’t nothin’ there but a lot of geography. We figured it out later, though; that speed limit sign must have been so tall that the business part of it was hidden behind a cloud somewhere.
See yojimbo? I KNEW Paco wouldn’t take offence. I just frickin’ KNEW it. Southerners know precisely what counts. And that, son, is how I know he’s a real Southerner and you’re not; only he would get what a compliment I gave him.
Oh, and Daniel San? “Y’all” is spelled with the apostrophe after the ‘y’.
Also, just so y’all know: Y’all is singular. All y’all is plural. All y’all’s is plural possessive. Yes, there is actually proper Texan.
Help speaking Texan (for those who might want it. For the rest: well don’t read it, ain’t nobody makin’ ya)Remember boys and girls from the UK and Oz speaking Texan, flatten your i’s into a’s! For instance, “Hi” is pronounced “ha”. And, paradoxically, so is “how”. So you can actually say “Ha, ha yew doin’?” to mean “hi, how are you doing?”
For further pronunciation help: The Texan ‘i’ is flattened out into an ‘a’, not jerked there, so it’s pronounced as a really long “ha”, almost in two syllables. You sort of let it spill out of your mouth instead of forcing it out. An exhalation, if you will.
The ‘i’ is what also gets most non-Southern speakers trouble when they try the accent.
The flattened ‘i’, when you try to speak Texan, is the same as the German trilling sound: most people not born into it can’t pick it up. It’s what will trip you up and keep you from sounding like a native. The flattened ‘i’ is ex-XTREME-ly subtle, keeping mouthed inflections of the original word and never really letting go of the original structure. You have a faint mouthed structure of the original word in its proper American pronunciation.Also, Texans have their own iambic pentameter of a sorts. It’s three-two count, three-three count. So, here’s a beginner’s conversation:
“Ha yew doin’?” accent on the last. “Doin’ good?” accent on the last. “Well that’s good” accent middle. “The kids’r fine” (rolling over the “are” and absorbing it into the word “kids”).
Posted by mencken_cynic on 2006 07 14 at 09:12 PM • permalink#29 & 44: Yojimbo was just coming to the aid of a fellow RWDB (for which I thank him for his good intentions).
BTW, yojimbo, true fact: it might seem counterintuitive to people not from there, but the absolutely nicest people I have ever known - and their number is not few - actually come from New Jersey (your state, I believe?).
#45 paco, I’ll second that. I met some of the most wonderful folks during a short visit I made to New Jersey a few years back. I can also say the same for the many folks I met in upstate NY. Apparently, Southern Hospitality doesn’t end at the Mason-Dixon. Of course, any state connected to Texas (even by extension) couldn’t be all bad.
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Heh. There must be some mistake, Mr. Johnson, sir. My name is Wronwright.