He who goes to bed, and goes to bed sober,
Falls as the leaves do, and dies in October;
But he who goes to bed, and goes to bed mellow,
Lives as he ought to do, and dies an honest fellow.
-John Fletcher, The Bloody Brother. Act ii.

My grandpa is amazing! Even when in ICU he still manages to tell me some of the funniest stories. Here's a new one about my... umm... great-great-aunt Lena and her husband, Uncle Shell. :D I'll call it...

Uncle Shell was a drinker, and like many other alcoholics of his day and age, moonshine was essential. It was bread into his Kentucky blood. He loved it. Worshiped it. The stuff was vital. He needed it to give him the pa-zazz to survive the pressures of running a large farm. A still large enough to supply the whole county (proven fact) was located a good distance behind the house, guarded faithfully by a large clump of bushes.

Anticipation haunted Uncle Shell as the day that his moonshine was ready to be rendered off drew near. Nevertheless, there was one problem: his wife. Standing approximately five feet tall, Aunt Lena was fierce. She was a bible thumping, good-hearted Christian who was extremely strong in her morals. One of those beliefs was that the “demon alcohol” should once again be banned. To her, drinking was a sin. A curse to man-kind.

Besides his insatiable desire for his own mixture, Aunt Lena was Uncle Shell’s only weakness and his greatest fear. Once she put her foot down, that was the end of it. He knew it because she had done it before, the last time she found him in his drunken stupor. Therefore, it would be near impossible for Uncle Shell to render off his brew. The stench could be discerned from an incredible distance, and Aunt Lena would, with out a doubt, smell what he was up to. If that were to happen, obviously it would mean that the mixture he was so famous for and proud of would only be tasted by the undeserving ground. He knew the only day he could get the job done safely would be on the approaching Saturday when she left for town to do her monthy shopping. She would most assuredly be gone from dawn until dusk. It was a perfect scheme.

With a ray of hope, Uncle Shell waited impatiently and, as planned, Aunt Lena left him all alone with his still and her hungry chickens. His brother arrived at the first sign of light and the pair of them spent the following morning separating the moonshine from the mash (or the fermented corn or meal that produces the firewater for those of you unfamiliar with the stiff). After the task of bottling the new stock was complete, they left the unwanted mash spread carelessly on the ground, and went off to accomplish other mandatory chores such as testing the moonshine, and drinking themselves into a coma.

Later that afternoon, more than likely in a state of the uptmost glee, Uncle Shell went to the scene of the crime to dispose properly of his excess mash and any other visual evidence that could possibly endanger him with the tea-totaler. If he was a bit tipsy at the time, I know he sobered up instantly. Scattered randomly about his murderous still were roughly twenty lifeless chickens. Panic seized Uncle Shell (just imagine the horror) and he grasped the animals firmly by their grotesque feet and flung them brutally over the back fence.

That mash must have been strong!

Now, once again, and without guilt, Uncle Shell would have to think of yet another way to deceive his wife. After much thought, he concluded the only thing to do was to tell her that he abruptly decided to sell the darn things. Of course, he would have no choice but to spend his money (I'm sure he had money from his side boot-legging buisness) and buy new ones. However, if it kept him from Aunt Lena’s wrath it was worth buying Ol’ McDonald’s Farm.

She returned at twilight, laden with packages and talk of town. They sat down to dinner just as usual. It was then Uncle Shell worked up the nerve to tell her of the chickens’ departure. She took the news as he expected- far from happy, but fairly reasonable. At bedtime he breathed a sigh of relief. He was in the clear.

Well…so he thought.

Aunt Lena went to lock the back door as she did every night, and to her utmost horror, out the window, she saw her precious chickens staggering clumsily up the hill. They were drunk!

Needless to say, Uncle Shell was hen pecked! He never heard the end of it, I’m sure. He was so wounded from the attack that it drove him from drinking.

At least until her next trip to town.