Once Upon A Lifetime In Baker County, Florida: The Moonshine Legacy, Part One (file 1/2)

                     By La Viece Moore-Fraser Smallwood
                              Copyright © 1995

File contributed for use in USGenWeb Archives by La Viece Smallwood, through
Carl Mobley, cmobley@magicnet.net

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           Copies available from the author complete with photos:
                   Rt 2 Box 543 Macclenny, Florida 32063

    Permission has been granted by the author for posting to this page.


   * Moonshine Legacy
   * Marcus Gene Thrift
   * E. W. (Junior) Crockett
   * Jimmy Lyons
   * The Londa Thrift Family
   * Jenell Rewis Heath (in file 2/2)
   * Glen Johnson (in file 2/2)
   * Hamp Register (in file 2/2)
   * Edward Clifton "Catfish" Stokes (in file 2/2)
   * Odis Yarbrough (in file 2/2)
   * Reverend Wilford Lyons (in file 2/2)


Dear Readers,

     This volume in the Once Upon a Lifetime in Baker County series is
different. It's subject is very sensitive, one that evokes strong emotions.
For many, these stories have aroused pain, regret, remorse, and even shame,
but still, for most, if they had it all to do over again, they would.

     I think perhaps, to understand why this subject spurs such sensitive
emotions, you would need to understand the history, the people, the times.
This is the logic as to why this book has been written. It is for this
reason, unlike other volumes in this series, that anyone using any portion
or portions of this book for commercial reasons or for any other purpose,
at any time, must have written permission from me, my heirs, or those
individual persons who have signed their names to these stories, or their
heirs.

     I shall forever be grateful to the persons who contributed their
stories to this book, for they have done so hoping to leave a glimpse of
our history that otherwise would have developed into nothing more than
myths, legends and fables.

     Perhaps it was fate that I grew up during the '40's and '50's in the
moonshine heyday, because it helped me to be sensitive to the interviewees
and their situations.

     I'm not saying that I advocate breaking the law, then or now, but what
I am saying is that in that day and time, moonshine had been an inherited
way of life. In the beginning, it was a way for families to survive, and
somewhere along the way, it became a means of pulling oneself up by the
bootstrings after a great Depression and two terrible world wars.

     Prior to the '50's, you will read stories where men and woman felt
fortunate to make 50 cents a day pushing a plow behind a mule from sun-up
to sun-down. What illegal whiskey they made at night, down by the creek,
still did not provide them with necessities. Some of them were grown before
they were able to have their first pair of shoes.

     There is an old adage that goes, I cannot feel my brother's pain,
until I walk a mile in my brother's moccasins.' it is my sincere hope that
this will be your analysis should you be tempted to pass any judgment.

     It is realized, however, that at the end of the moonshine era, when it
was considered more than just a way of sustaining life, the profession
became marked by recklessness and turn-coat betrayals; it became a selfish
and dangerous business. And I, along with the community, changed views from
tolerance to unacceptacle and so an illogical moonshine, bootlegging, and
fast-car era -- thankfully -- came to an end.

     As you read these stories, I believe you will understand the evolution
of the moonshine era, and you will also empathize with a group of men and
women, who, despite the stigma, were basically honest, upright, God-fearing
people, whose stories will not only warm your heart, but bring a tear to
your eye, and sometimes even a chuckle to the soul.

     To those whose unique stories and experiences appear within these
pages, I would like to say that the expression of gratitude I desire to
relate to you goes beyond my ability to describe. The privilege of having
many of you gather in my home, on various occasions, seeing some of you
meet socially for the first time in your lives, and others of you unite
after decades, has been an advantage and remembrance I treasure. To those
who were not already my long-time friends, I value your trust and
confidence and genuinely appreciate the friendship and goodwill that
developed between us.

     May God's richest blessings be bestowed upon each of you.

     Most respectfully,
     La Viece


                             Moonshine Legacy
                    By La Viece Moore-Fraser Smallwood

     No one is certain when illegal whiskey was first ,made in Baker
County, but it was probably long before anyone living today was born. The
industry is not just a backwoods affair. it has a history that extends all
the way to the White House.

     As early as 1794 there was a whiskey rebellion in America brought
about by a federal tax imposed in 1791. The rebellion was led by angry
farmers who found it more profitable to turn much of their corn and rye
crop into whiskey which, they contended, was much easier to ship to markets
than bulky grain. After several people were killed, President George
Washington sent in troops to stop the rebellious farmers who protested
arrests made by federal marshals trying to collect whiskey taxes. The
Whiskey Rebellion was an early 'testing ground' on the use of federal power
to enforce a federal law within a state.

     During the 1870s an association of whiskey manufacturers and high
government officials formed a whiskey ring and banded together to cheat the
government of taxes imposed on distilled liquors. The 7 Whiskey Ring was
one of the great political scandals of the Ulysses S. Grant administration
because the chief clerk in the Department of the Treasury and President
Grant's personal secretary were among the conspirators. The Treasury
Department lost millions of dollars in liquor revenue, but eventually
traced and convicted many of the ring leaders.

     As settlers ambled into Baker County they hoped to make an honest
living sustaining their families by growing crops and raising livestock,
but mother nature, the boll-weevil, hookworms, and the Great Depression
were among the stumbling blocks the settlers faced. As time advanced, the
making of illegal whiskey afforded the farmers food for their tables and
clothes for their backs. The people who worked in the art and profession
became known as moonshiners. By day most farmers plowed their fields and
planted their crops and by the light of the silvery moon, they made
moonshine. This is their story.

     In the '20s,'30s, and '40s, moonshine was primarily made by hard-
working farmers who supplemented their livelihood by crudely brewing
homemade whiskey with river water and homemade cane syrup or honey when
sugar wasn't available or affordable. it wasn't considered immoral, but was
recognized as illegal, and no more so than some folks, by today's
standards, who'fudge' a little on their income tax.

     Moonshine was made to drink and to supplement income, in the
beginning. it was usually sold around turpentine camps and local bars. The
term bootlegger emerged when it was hauled out of the county, first by
horse and wagon, river travel, or on horse back. The industry grew and
expanded over each decade and with each new generation.

     World War II changed the industry. Most farmers quit the business when
state and federal lawmen began to invade the area and destroy their
primitive stills. However, after the war a new generation found ways to
speed the illegal industry and advanced to a more elaborate system of
making shine. it was hauled from Baker County in semi trucks and the
county's reputation spread across the state and north and south. Things
began to get out of control.

     By the 1950s, some Baker County citizens banded together to find a way
to clean up the county and end the notorious reputation it had acquired as
the 'Shine Capitol of the State'.

     In a Florida Times-Union article on Wednesday, March 24, 1954,
headlines that blazed across page 25 screamed to the public,

     'Baker County Sheriff Given 30 Days to Clean Up County'.

     After a five-hour public hearing in Tallahassee, Acting Gov. Charlie
Johns, charging neglect of duty, had issued an ultimatum to the county's
sheriff, Asa Coleman. "You have thirty days to clean up the county or be
suspended."

     Governor Johns told the Baker sheriff, "Sheriff, I've weighed the
testimony very carefully. I'm convinced you're honest but you just let law
enforcement go in Baker County. As you know, I've tried to see that the
people are protected. I want to tell you right now -- I'll give you 30 days
to clean up Baker County. If you clean up in 30 days and don't let (blank)
and (blank) run the county -- I won't remove you."

     The article continued, 'Sheriff Coleman, who was appointed to office
by Gov. Spessard Holland in 1942 and since has won four elections, told
Johns at the hearing that 'I thought I was doing a good job ... I have had
no complaints.'

     The Governor asked Coleman, 'Don't you think that you can get out and
get some of those moonshine still operators?' Coleman answered, "if you
give me a chance I'll do my best, but I'll have to put on more men."

     Former State Rep. B.R. Burnsed of Macclenny wound up the defense
argument by mentioning the maxim, 'The least governed is the best governed'
in saying to the Governor, 'I do not think you believe in the overthrow of
local self government."

     State Rep. John J. Crews, Jr. of Baker County took issue and said, "I
resent the fact and intimation that the people of Baker County favor
notorious bootlegging and gambling."

     Crews, who did not testify, but was asked for remarks, said it was
"tragic that a group of notorious bootleggers and bolita peddlers have
caused a strong-hearted man to be called before you. I hope the governor
instructs the sheriff to take a more active part in law enforcement."

     The acting governor said he was in favor of self government, "but when
self government breaks down and law enforcement is flaunted in our face, it
is time for the governor's office to do something about it."

     Frank W Watt of Jacksonville, a federal beverage agent, testified that
Baker County in 1953 accounted for 47 percent of the stills seized in the
15-county Jacksonville district. The figures, he said, were 114 stills in
Baker County and 241 in the district.

     In four days last January, he said, the federal government destroyed
21 moonshine stills.

     Another state witness, Beverage Dept. Agent Phillip Y. Tomberlin, said
he swore out a warrant for one law violator and Sheriff Coleman did not
arrest the fugitive for almost a year.

     Baker County Judge J.C. Lyons testified that the man was in Baker
county, that he made a tobacco crop during the time the arrest was pending
and even came to the courthouse for purchase of an automobile tag.

     The county judge also said the sheriffs office, located down the hall
in the courthouse, "is not kept open regularly." In response to a question,
Lyons said, "I do not believe it is kept open at all during the week. It's
open maybe two or three times a month."

     Asked if there had been any gambling arrests in Baker County recently,
the county judge said, 'About three years ago they arrested a darky and he
posted $ 100 bond and estreated it.'

     Charles Ross, a Beverage Dept. investigator, said the sheriff's
records showed that his office had made a total of eight arrests for
moonshining during 1953. He said he was in Baker County five days and never
saw the sheriff.

     Other investigators had similar reports.

     Asked why they and other Alcohol and Tax Division agents did not
include Sheriff Coleman in their raids, investigator Spinks said, "We do
not call on the sheriff because we are afraid the information would spread
and the violator could not be apprehended."

     State Trooper Ralph L. Hays told of the arrest of a Negro, Curtis
Bones, in Baker County. In the trunk of Bones' car, he said were six
five-gallon jugs. He pulled the stopper on one and determined by smell that
it contained moonshine.

     He took Bones' car key, jailed the Negro and left the locked car
within a fence around the Baker County jail. When he and a beverage agent
examined the 'evidence' the following morning, he said all six jugs
contained water.

     He testified that Bones, when arrested, told him 'to call Mr. Coleman
or Mr. Barton (later identified as Deputy Sheriff James A. Barton) and they
would say he was all right."

     In his own defense, Sheriff Coleman testified that he was from a small
county, with 5,300 people and 375,000 acres. His income last year was
$5,500 from the sheriffs office, he said.

     "My wife keeps my set of books at the Macclenny Cash Store," he said.
I am in and out of the office all week. I have a two-way radio system and
can be contacted at all times. I am on call 24 hours of the day."

     Coleman said that, "in the last six or eight years no beverage agent
has asked for aid. I have no facilities to locate stills, but I am willing
to cooperate."

     As for the year-long fugitive, he testified that the county judge had
informed him the paper's were outdated and 'not to bother.' During the
testimony, Gov. Johns asked him, "Why is there so much moonshine in Baker
County?"

     Coleman replied that the area was "thinly populated and full of swamps
and ponds. You can't keep them out."

     Witnesses testifying as to the sheriffs character and law enforcement
efforts were Deputy Barton, Macclenny Chief of Police I.J. Hudson, Arthur
Raulerson of Sanderson, former Macclenny Mayor B.J. Padgett, and Ray
Dinkins, Macclenny oil distributor.

     In the final arguments, Hodges, one of the sheriffs attorneys, said
that "The grand jury is the remedy if law violations are open and
notorious. The true remedy is at the polls, not here," he said.

     And to the polls it was. The citizens turned out in droves in 1956.
The race was on to elect either a political newcomer, Ed Yarbrough, a
county native from Taylor, or deputy sheriff James Barton, serving under
the present sheriff, Asa Coleman, who did not seek re-election.

     Yarbrough took to the backwoods with a fiddle in one hand and a
campaign promise in the other, to 'clean up the county of illegal
activities.'

     During the campaign a circular was distributed to the county citizens
days before the election. (See copy at end of this article. [graphics
omitted]

     Yarbrough won the election, not by a landslide, but nonetheless, he
won. A January 11, 1957 Florida Times Union article reported the
30-year-old sheriffs election and goal: 'He hopes to rid Baker county of
its reputation as 'the moonshine capital of Florida'.'

     The new sheriff announced the appointment of Wilbur Mobley as deputy,
James A. Shuler and Lawton Connor as jailers, and Mrs. Margaret Sharman as
office secretary.

     On January 14th the Florida Times Union reported,

     'Baker County Sheriff Ed Yarbrough today announced the seizure of
three moonshine stills and the arrest of two men during his first week in
office.

     Yarbrough was assisted by a county native who was now a State Beverage
Agent.

     In February the Jacksonville Journal touted a photograph of the new
sheriff and headlined,

NEW SHERIFF USES LIGHT SHOES TO CATCH MOONSHINERS ON THE RUN.

     "Don't make me sound like a crusader," said Yarbrough. "Just say that
I am a member of a progressive group of citizens who are determined to
clean up the reputation of Baker County."

     The article reported that Yarbrough felt his major problem was the
rehabilitation of the citizens engaged in moonshine operations.

     "I sincerely feel that moonshine in Baker County was overestimated in
the past. It was going on all-right but not to the extent that Baker County
was the operating base and capital of the moonshine industry, as it was
called by law officers and newspapers throughout Florida.

     "I don't think Baker County is entitled to that reputation when the
figures of the State Beverage Department indicate that, in capacity, the
Baker moonshine operations were not as large as some other Northeast
Florida counties. Even the beverage investigators of Florida and the
Internal Revenue Service know for a fact that the situation has been more
serious in some sections of South Georgia.

     "The good people of Baker county have had more than their share of
embarrassment from the reputation given their county."

     The Journal article reported Yarbrough's chasing a 'fleet-footed
moonshiner' dashing for freedom, with Yarbrough in pursuit.

     The sheriff had one big advantage over his opponent, reported the
article, 'He was wearing his canvass basketball shoes.'

     Yarbrough told the Journal reporter, Harry Crown, that on the day of
his election, word got around Baker County that he would have to catch the
stills within the next week or 10 days or he wouldn't catch them at all.

     What the moonshiners meant was, that as soon as the mash now
fermenting was ready to run, the liquor would be run off and the stills
moved out of Baker County, he said.

     Yarbrough said hunters came to his office giving directions to stills,
but by the time he reached the locations, the stills had vanished.

     He said that most of the operations were being moved across the St.
Mary's River in the Big Bend area (that part of Georgia which penetrates
into North Florida).

     "Traffic in moonshine is avoiding Baker County like the plague."
Yarbrough said.

     In July of 1957 The Baker County Press headlined,

     TAKE ANOTHER LOOK AT BAKER COUNTY.

     It was written by a Journal correspondent Sam McGarvey. The article
reported that the county, long known as the 'moonshine capital of Florida,'
shackled with a bad reputation, was now growing and prospering. Moonshine
has been virtually wiped out, the school system reorganized, a hospital is
nearly completed, FHA insured homes are being built, a recreation program
is planned, construction started on a big state hospital--and lots more.

     One of the leaders in the reconstruction campaign, former Senator Ed
Fraser, sums it up well, the article read.

     "Baker County has taken a big step forward. Some things which were
only a dream a few years ago are a reality now. And there's more to come."

     City Manager W.F. Wells stated that the big change in Baker County
just didn't happen. It was planned that way. He said that a few years ago,
a group of responsible citizens met to analyze the situation and plan a
campaign for community betterment.

     "The law abiding citizens were concerned and determined to wipe out
the moonshining and make their county a better place," said Wells.

     Continuing, the article quoted Baker County Representative John J.
Crews as saying, "One road block to the goal was that bootlegging and
moonshining were an accepted part of the county's economy. The county was
held down a number of years under a group of law violators, until it was a
syndicated moonshine operation and the people accepted it under the false
idea that illicit liquor traffic was contributing to the livelihood of many
persons. But you cannot build a community without the foundation of decency
and strict law enforcement," he said.

     In the original meetings held by citizens to 'clean up the county',
the article explained that the people and their leaders took a critical
look at Baker County and Macclenny.

     "They saw that they had other problems, in addition to a lack of law
enforcement. We decided to clean house from top to bottom, before trying to
interest industry and new residents." said Wells. "we needed better
schools, adequate medical facilities, zoning, recreation and FHA financing,
or, in short, just what people look for when they inspect a city as a
future home," he added. Clean up of the moonshine operations was basic.

     The article reported that the election of a new sheriff and the
beginning of clean- up operations was a big step. A startling factor of
success was the convictions of moonshiners by juries.

     In the first trial, States Attorney T.E. Duncan, in summing up to the
jury, said quietly: "The question for you to decide today is whether you
are going to believe the defendant, or whether you are going to believe the
sheriff."

     Eight minutes after the jury retired, it returned with a verdict of
guilty as charged.

     Sheriff Yarbrough, World War II Air Force veteran, married an father
of two children, credits state and federal agents with complete
co-operation in his drive to wipe out illicit whiskey, the article stated.

     He praises the public, too: "The people have supported me moraly," he
said.

     The sheriff also credits the law making possession of over a gallon of
moonshine a felony, instead of a misdemeanor, as one of the factors his
successful drive. The bill was sponsored in the '55 Legislature by Ed
Fraser and Rep. John Crews.

     (An interview with former sheriffs E. Ed Yarbrough and the Asa Coleman
can be found in Volume I of once Upon A Lifetime in Baker County Florida.
The two men admitted their past hatred of one another and recanted how
their conversions to the Lord turned that hate eventally to one of love and
respect In 1979, on the shores of the south Prong of the Little St. Mary's
River, the Rev. Asa Coleman baptized his former rival, E. Ed Yarbrough.)

     The following interviews are the personal accounts of a few of the men
and women who were directly involved in the controversial moonshine
industry of Baker County. Permission for the use of most names of
individuals mentioned in the accounts have been obtained unless the names
appear in a news article that has been previously published.

"IT HAPPENED THIS A WAY"


                            Marcus Gene Thrift
                                 1934-1955

     If ever there was an all American boy, it was Marcus Gene Thrift. If
ever shock waves traveled throughout Baker County, it was when he was
tragically killed while returning home one night from hauling a load of
whiskey.

     What made this outstanding, intelligent, respected, and popular young
man resort to something he really didn't stand for or believe in? We may
never know, but this is his story as told by many who knew him best and
loved him most. After 40 years, memories of Marcus Gene Thrift continue to
live on for many, and it's like one of his classmates said recently, "His
memory is so vivid that it is just as if we had been together yesterday."

     Marcus Gene Thrift's watch stopped on April 8, 1955, at 12 o'clock
midnight. So did his heart.

     As mangled as the car he was driving, so were the hearts in Baker
County. The close-knit community had watched the All-Conference Wildcat
Quarterback prance out onto the lighted football field for four years amid
glaring lights and screaming fans. The team's co-captain was their hero.

     As he dribbled the ball for four years up and down the slick, polished
floor of the Macclenny-Glen High School gymnasium, every hair on his head
was in place, and it stayed that way, as the All-Conference, point guard
basketball player thrilled fans with his winning streak.

     Just as effectively, he played shortstop on the school's baseball
team.

     "Marcus Gene was a very special person, well-loved by everyone who
knew him," said Ann Piatt Tharpe, a classmate. "He had a great personality
always smiling and fun to be with. I never heard him put anyone down, or
knew him to drink alcohol, use tobacco in any form, or use profanity in any
way. He was just a good all-round guy who had a lot of friends. I still
miss him today, and I never knew of anyone who didn't like him. I couldn't
believe it when I heard about it, and even today, it's hard for me to
believe it happened.

     "And I can't help but wonder," she said, "what kind of person he would
be today, and what he would be doing. I think he would have done a lot of
good had he lived."

     Marcus was born August 9, 1934, to Earl and Doris Combs Thrift who
farmed in the Georgia Bend area. For the first two years of Marcus's life,
he and his parents lived with his paternal grandparents, Jode and Caroline
(Raulerson) Thrift.

     By the time he was in the fifth grade, WW II was raging in Europe, and
school teachers were scarce in Georgia. His parents, concerned about his
education, boarded him in Macclenny with his aunt and uncle, Josie and
Daisy Thrift, who sent him to school under the watchful eye of fifth-grade
teacher Gladys Crews. Their only child's absence from their home grew too
hard to bear, so the couple moved to Macclenny and never returned to
Georgia. They eventually built a home on Highway 228 North where Marcus
lived the rest of his life.

     Earl Thrift was one of 13 children born to Jode and Caroline during a
time of mounting poverty that climaxed with The Great Depression era. The
family turned to brewing moonshine to help with necessities. Doris's
father, Joel Combs, sustained their family of seven children by making
moonshine. And Doris remembers those times well.

     "The Sheriff used to call and let daddy and all that bunch out there
at Taylor know when the revenuers was coming. I was about 11 or 12 years
old and since I was the fastest runner in the family, Mama would always
say, 'Run, tell your daddy that they're coming.' Then all the men would
gather at the Taylor store and be looking for them when they rode by," she
said.

     "I used to pump water for daddy to keep the coil or something or other
cool. Me and my sister-in-law, Daisy, used to go with the buyers in the
woods to show them where the shine was hid. They'd load it up and tear out
with it. People wasn't scared to make it, back then, and to us it was just
an exciting thing to do."

     While Marcus was growing up, his father worked at local service
stations and occasionally hauled some shine to supplement his income.

     By the time Marcus was in the sixth grade, he was showing signs of
being industrious. He came home one day and announced to his parents that
someone down town had a shoe shine business and they wanted to sell it for
$12. His mother remembers the incident well.

     "He said, 'I'd like to buy it but I don't have the money' so Earl's
mama called him over to the side and said, 'Come here, son, now don't tell
the rest I gave you this,' and she gave Marcus the money. He was adored by
his grandparents,." she said.

     While 12-year-old Marcus shined shoes in front of Lautice Dugger's
Barber Shop on Main Street, he would also sell boiled peanuts to
passers-by. When the Greyhound Bus stopped at Power's Sundry, Marcus was
standing there to sell bags of peanuts to passengers.

     "He did real good and made enough money that he seldom ever asked us
for any," said his mother.

     As he grew older, he worked afternoons and on weekends at the local
pool room owned by Dolice Rhoden.

     He excelled in sports, and was a popular player on the Wildcat team.

     "His daddy had never seen a football game until he went to see Marcus
play," said his mother. "I had seen one once when my daddy moved our family
to Jasper and I was a cheerleader. I remember Marcus only weighed 110
pounds and I didn't think they'd put him in the game, but they did. He made
a touchdown that very first time, but me and Earl didn't know it. We saw
him lying out there on the field and Earl jumped the fence to go to him. I
remember Mike Gazdick told Earl, 'He's not hurt, he just got the breath
knocked out of him, he'll be alright.' And he was."

     In 1950, Doris Thrift gave birth to a baby girl, Vicki. Marcus was
proud of his sister.

     When he graduated from high school in June of 1953, he was elected
'Most Athletic' and 'Most Popular' by his classmates. His father made a
down payment on a new Chevrolet and gave it to his son. Hugh Griffin, owner
of the local Chevrolet Dealership, gave Marcus a job, but soon business
became slack and Marcus was out of work. Hugh even took him to Jacksonville
trying to help him find work, but jobs were scarce, especially for the
untrained. For a while he worked in the office for the railroad in Baldwin,
but once again when business was slow, he was laid off. He finally found a
job in Jacksonville working for an oil company inspecting service stations
in need of repairs or painting. But that job was not steady either.

     With regular employment a problem, the prospect of making a few extra
dollars by hauling an occasional load of moonshine was enticing, explained
his mother. After all, his father did it, as did many of his relatives,
friends and neighbors. And his car payments had to be made.

     In March of 1955, he married his high school sweetheart, a popular
senior at Macclenny-Glen High School. Until her graduation in June, and
until he could find a steady job, they made their home with his parents.
While he was out of work, he hauled a few loads of moonshine for Jule
Rhoden. He told his mother he needed the money.

     In March of 1955, he and his new bride gave his sister, Vicki, a
birthday party to celebrate her fifth birthday. on that occasion, he
presented his sister a little gold chain with a heart. Then he told his
mother to take some of his money that she kept for him, and take Vicki to
town to buy her an Easter outfit.

     'Buy yourself one too, Mama,' he told her.

     On the afternoon of April 8, after hauling a load of whiskey for Jule
Rhoden, he told his mother that he could make more money hauling whiskey
for himself instead of someone else.

     I'll be back about 9 p.m., he said. He left while his wife of three
weeks was attending classes, and headed up through Georgia.

     "It was his first load for himself," said his mother. "I didn't want
Marcus to do it, but he said he needed the money."

     No one may ever know what really happened, but out there on the dark
and nearly deserted stretch of Highway 441, three miles south of
Homerville, Marcus Gene Thrift met a semi head-on as it rounded a curve. He
died instantly.

     'I think Marcus went to sleep," said his mother. "He had on an ID
bracelet and maybe that's how they identified him. I really don't know, but
the Georgia authorities phoned Sheriff Asa Coleman, and since we didn't
have a phone, he phoned our neighbor Wallace Dupree, whose wife Dorothy is
kin to me. They got some of our neighbors together and they came over about
three o'clock in the morning to tell us.

     "I heard them call and went to the door. I heard Dorothy say, 'Open
the door, Aunt Doris.'

     "When I opened the door and saw them, I said, 'Oh no, don't tell me,
Marcus Gene got killed didn't he? And that's the last I remember."

     The days that followed are blurred for Doris and Earl Thrift. They
brought their son's body home, where he lay before his funeral service on
Easter Day. The First Baptist Church in Macclenny was filled to overflowing
and crowds of friends stood outside. The funeral procession to Taylor
Cemetery was one of the longest in Baker County's history. Grown men and
women mourned, classmates and friends wept openly. Vicki, wearing her new
dress from her brother and the cherished little gold necklace, nervously
bit the little heart during the funeral service and it left two tiny teeth
marks, a reminder 40 years later of her grief.

     "Losing Marcus was like losing a member of my own family," said his
longtime friend, former teacher and coach, Mike Gazdick. "He played
outstanding sports and was the recipient of many awards. He never missed
practice and was a role model for all the students. Marcus never used foul
language, was an above-average student. He was always willing to assist
anyone in need. He was always well dressed and well groomed. He never
criticized others, never used alcohol or narcotics. He was always
considerate of others and had respect for his teachers, coaches and fellow
students. I'll always miss Marcus," he said.

     Fellow classmate Maurice Prevatt remembers playing sports with Marcus
from 1949 until their graduation in 1953. "He was one of the most gifted
athletes that ever came out of Baker County," he said.

     "Not only was he talented on the playing fields, but he was also
well-respected by his team-mates and the people in the community. He was a
clean-cut guy with a winning personality and always had a smile for
everyone," he said.

     Marcus's life was cut short at an early age, but his team-mates and
class-mates will always remember him and the joy that he brought into
everyone's life that he touched, like his team-mate and class-mate,
Kingsley Tharpe.

     "Marcus was my closest friend. We had no secrets from each other. His
death was a very traumatic experience for me and left a big void in my life
that I feel even today.

     "We played football, baseball and basketball together in high school
and dreamed of playing professional baseball. I have so many fond memories
of him, playing sports together, going to the movies at the Edray Theater,
eating lunch at the Custard Shoppe, dragging U.S. 90 in Mr. Earl's
Chevrolet pick-up, double dating -- so many memories."

     And for many, Kingsley's closing sentiments are chorused: "I lost my
best friend, and the world lost one of its best."


                          E. W. (Junior) Crockett

     January 29, 1953. Headlines in The Florida Times-Union blared, 'SHINE
KING SUSPECT NABBED'. U.S. Agents, long on the trail of E.W. 'Junior'
Crockett had at last fulfilled their quest and captured their man. They
thought that anyway. Like always, the Robin Hood of Baker County got away.
And did so legally.

     Junior Crockett was never reared in poverty like most of the people in
Baker County's rural backwoods, but he had an affinity for those who were.
When circumstances beyond his control invaded his life, he used his genius
and enterprising qualities to assist the poor and become a Robin hood
legend of the people, not only of Baker County, but throughout the south
Georgia backlands and other areas where struggling Americans dwelled as
well.

     When Crockett's father, Dr. E.W. Crockett, Sr., was senselessly
murdered by his third wife, Ella Dykes Crockett, Junior Crockett was a
17-year-old-lad from a broken home (See Dr. E.W. Crockett's story in Volume
V of Once Upon A Lifetime).

     Dr. Crockett owned valuable property in downtown Macclenny where he
maintained an office and a sundry store. His son worked in the sundry
store.

     "After daddy's death, I wanted to keep the Sundry Store, and since it
had perishables, such as ice cream, fountain drinks, etc, a public auction
was quickly held to settle the estate," said Junior. "I remember that
several successful businessmen wanted the store and had planned to bid on
it, but when they found out I was trying to keep it, only one of them made
a bid, and fortunately, I outbid him."

     He soon discovered that the local bank had permitted loans to be taken
out on his father's property by his estranged wife, Ella, whose name did
not even appear on the deed. Young Crockett quickly sought a way to block
bank officials who said they would have to foreclose on the buildings.

     Dr. E.W. Crockett had developed a friendship with a man from
Thomasville, Georgia, who often stopped by the sundry store when in town.
Junior told his father's friend about the problem.

     "He asked me how much I needed and when I told him, he was more than
willing to make me a loan."

     To the shock of bank officials, Crockett paid the mortgage off in the
nick of time and saved his only inheritance.

     That incident set the scene that would change his life forever and
launch him in a direction that he had never considered or even thought
about.

     "The way I got started in the moonshine business was, in a way, a
necessity," he said. "I needed to pay back the significant loan to the
friend who had helped me salvage what daddy had worked so hard for. Despite
what some people thought, I did not inherit any money when my daddy died.
Times were hard and commodities were short. People couldn't always pay
daddy for his services and he never sent them a bill. He never kept books
and never refused to attend a person who owed him for a previous service.
That's just the way daddy was," he said.

     "The only way some people in the county could put food on their tables
and clothes on their backs in those Depression years was from a small
income they could earn from making and selling moonshine when they couldn't
find work doing something else. One day some of them were in the sundry
store talking about how they couldn't get sugar, syrup, etc to make the
'shine, so I told them about the people in Thomasville who had helped me. I
knew that was their business, so we drove over there and found out that a
lot of the farmers were selling their syrup to the big Roddenberry people
for 50 cents a gallon. I saw how poor these people were and I offered to
buy their syrup for 65 cents a gallon. The people in Baker County were glad
to pay me a dollar, so I made 35 cents off of every gallon I bought and
sold. One of the most pleasurable things that can happen to you is when
people need you and you are able to help.

     "As I became more acquainted with my friend in Thomasville, I saw a
chance to make some money for myself to repay the loan and help the people
in south Georgia and Baker County as well. Most of the farmers made from
1,000--1,500 gallons of syrup a year. Pretty. soon those farmers would not
talk to anybody but Crockett. I'd go up there 2-3 o'clock in the morning,
load up and go right back for more. Those old people would be up at all
hours with long tables set up in their kitchen. While we loaded syrup, they
were cooking a meal for us regardless of the hour. I think we started
hauling syrup in November and news got around like wildfire: 'Don't sell
your syrup to Roddenberry, this man we know down in Florida will come get
it and pay you more,' they'd say. I didn't have the money to finance their
crop like Roddenberry did some of them, but I told them 'if you got to have
your money, tell me and I'll come get the syrup from you instead of making
the rounds, so you'll have your money when you need it.' And it didn't take
long before they knew I'd do what I told them I'd do. They'd have dinner or
breakfast ready for us when we'd get there. I'd go for days on days that I
didn't pull my shoes off.

     "That brought in good money for me, hauling and selling syrup. Then I
found out that the farmers had a hard time selling the whiskey. They'd get
caught on the road and lose their haul. Some didn't have transportation to
even get out and sell what they'd made. And the revenuers would come along
and bust up their expensive stills while they waited for a buyer. So I got
the idea, well, if I'm in this part of it, why not help these people sell
their whiskey. I found reliable people that would come here and buy the
whiskey from the people I had sold the syrup to. Then the people could pay
me for the syrup and that happened the same way with sugar. I made
connections right there in Jacksonville at Winn Lovett for sugar. They had
a big warehouse and I used to buy it and haul it out by the truck load.
Most people had to have ration stamps back there during the war, because
there was supposed to be a shortage, but I found out there was plenty of
sugar, the government was just mishandling it. I went as far as New Orleans
to buy sugar and hired people to drive trucks to Florida with it. Their
warehouse floors were sagging with it stacked to the ceiling. Just tons of
it! There was no sugar shortage. Those people didn't know what to do with
it, they had so much of it, so I didn't have any trouble supplying the
people with sugar or syrup to make the 'shine.

     "In Macclenny, I rented the old Walker warehouse and had it full and
stacked to the ceiling on the porch with sugar. When I started helping the
people to move their whiskey, I got paid for the supplies and they got to
work more. This was good because it was always a matter of time before
their stills were raided and the more they could use the stills and make
more shine, the more profitable for them. We all worked well together. They
sold more whiskey, made more money and no one was trying to take advantage
of them. The revenuers didn't know at the time what was going on. I didn't
figure what we were doing was immoral, just illegal.

     "Later on, as things got bigger and bigger and more people got
involved, it got to the point where I had to make more contacts with people
all over the country in order for these people to stay in business, so it
kind of boomeranged. It really made me feel good to pay those real poor
people more money; they didn't have anything and the moonshine industry was
helping them have something.

     "I'll never forget how happy they were when they'd see me come up
there. Whole families would be involved. I especially remember one night
when a little boy was helping us load syrup in Jennings. He couldn't have
been more than four years old and he was carrying those heavy gallons to be
loaded on the truck. Then someone would take it from him and put it on the
truck. Afterwards I gave him a dollar. I said, 'Now remember, this is the
first dollar you ever earned.' Years later I met him as a successful lawyer
in the Miami area and he showed me that first dollar he earned. He had it
framed.

     "What ever the moonshiners needed to make whiskey, I got it for'em.
Sugar, syrup, automobiles, etc. I was their supplier. I'd find surplus
supplies, get good prices for 'em, and pass it on. We all worked so good
together and I can't even remember one case where anyone got tricked by an
undercover. There was just a trust during that time with people. That's how
it all got started," he said.

     "Pretty soon the industry grew so big that I had to start looking for
people to help me. I had people coming from as far away as Illinois to buy
shine. They made their own shine in the summer time, but in winter, that's
when we usually sold so much of it. It was like a steam roller, it just
kept going, and I felt very fortunate when the money started rolling in. I
don't feel I was doing anything wrong, or influencing anyone for bad.

     "During the war when cars were scarce, I found cars and tires for
people. I found out where they were and I'd go get 'em and make a profit.
If people got sick, or in trouble, and needed money, they'd seek me out for
help and I'd try to assist with whatever it was they needed. I liked
helping people and they knew it.

     Crockett said he had no respect for some of the professional law
makers involved because they were fooling the people and were not
trustworthy.

     "In fact, they used the moonshine industry in order to gain votes when
they were corrupt themselves. You lose respect for those kind," he said.

     "One state trooper lied and said I shot at him, but later he was fired
when it was noticed the window of his car was fired on from inside the
vehicle and he was just trying to set me up."

     Crockett is talking about Florida Highway Patrol Trooper Hershel
Owens, who was stationed in Baldwin at the time. Headlines screamed out
from the front page of the Florida Times Union on Sunday, November 18,
1954, that the investigation of the fray was being made by Lt. J.W. Jordan
of the FHP. He reported that the driver of the Cadillac, who shot and
struck the windshield of Owens' car, was positively identified as Junior
Crockett of Macclenny. Owens claimed that he was struck by a piece of
flying glass as four bullets hit his windshield and a fifth bullet entered
the hood of his FHP car.

     The article stated, "Crockett, who is scheduled to appear in Federal
court here Nov. 29 for trial on charges of conspiracy to violate internal
revenue liquor laws, has been giving troopers and beverage agents trouble
for several years.

     "One of the wealthiest men in Macclenny, Crockett has long been called
by beverage agents a king-pin in North Florida's leading industry, the
illicit manufacture of whisky."

     The article further stated that the gunfire came from Crockett's
Bootlegger car after it crossed into Georgia during the 90-mile-per-hour
chase.

     The Lake City Reporter headlined,

     'Murder Attempt Charge Sought in Georgia for Alleged Bootlegger'.

     Crockett said that Trooper Hershal Owens was fired from the FHP when
it was proven that he made a false report.

     "Owens actually shot his own FHP car windshield out which was verified
by Columbia County Sheriff Ralph Witt," he said.

     At the time, the Crocketts lived comfortably in a modest home on SR
121 in North Macclenny, but one day someone knocked on their door. He said
he had come to buy their house.

     "My daughter attended a shower here last week, and she liked your
house. I want to buy her a house before I return to my home in California
and this is the one she wants," he said.

     "Well, you must be mistaken," said Doris, "This house is not for
sale."

     But a good deal was struck and Doris moved out immediately so Paula
and John Crews could move in. That's when they built what some citizens
called, "the mansion on the hill." It's still known as the Crockett house
today and one of the finest in Baker County. It is situated on a hill
between Macclenny and Glen and is bordered on the west by the St. Mary's
River. Today it is surrounded by a subdivision of houses, instead of the
140 acres of green, rolling pastures and grazing horses that once cast a
picturesque spell. Still, it's aged majesty reflects the affluence the
Crocketts attained.

     "I didn't just deal in moonshine supplies," said Junior. "I also owned
the Dodge/Plymouth Dealership and Doris and I built the EdRay Theatre with
Lucy and Ray Dinkins. We ran it until television came in. And we ran the
Sundry Store."

     During the time the Crocketts owned the sundry store, most of the
businesses that served food or drinks offered curb-side service. The Sundry
store was no exception.

     "We sold cokes for five cents. People would drive up in their car and
toot their car horn and we'd go out to take the order, whether it was one
person or more. We would attach a little tray to the car window and put
their order on it. When they finished, they would toot their car horn again
and we would have to go back out and get the dirty glasses. All for a
five-cent sale. Can you imagine?" said Doris. "It was really work running
back and forth four or five times for just one sale and then having to wait
on customers inside, too."

     When Doris arrived at the sundry store each morning, she had to sweep
and clean up. The ice man brought ice in blocks, which was stored in an ice
box. She had to chip pieces of it with an ice pick, then grind it by hand
for the soda fountain drinks. In addition, they sold milk shakes, vanilla
cokes, lime sours, cherry cokes, root beer floats, etc.

     After the war Junior sold the Sundry Store to his friend, Paul Rhoden,
who had been hired years before by Dr. E.W. Crockett as the sundry's first
soda-jerk. The name was changed to Paul's Rexal Drugs and Paul soon after
became the county's first pharmacist (See Paul Rhoden's story in Volume V
of Once Upon A Lifetime).

     Junior Crockett carries fond memories of his Baker County friends,
especially those with whom he dealt with in the moonshine industry.

     "I will tell you real quick that the moonshiners I knew were the
greatest people I've ever known in my life. I never lost a penny dealing
with them. After I moved away and met affluent people who belonged to the
fancy country clubs, I quickly found that I couldn't say that about them,"
said Junior.

     Crockett eventually moved to Valdosta and successfully went into the
coin- operated machine business. He has constructed a luxurious 105-bed
nursing home, owns apartment houses and other real estate.

     I have met people from all over the United States, but I was never
obligated to them for anything. We were loyal to one another when we needed
help or favors, but we didn't expect anything in return. We just couldn't
do enough for one another. We still keep in touch with all those wonderful
people who are still good friends," he said.

     Although he was characterized by the law as the notorious kingpin
moonshiner, Crockett was never convicted in a court of law for breaking
liquor laws.

     "I never made a drop of moonshine or had a drop made," he said. "I
never let anyone work for me that hadn't previously worked in the whiskey
business. In other words, I never hired anyone that wasn't already in the
business. I never got anyone started in the business or influenced them to
come in, in fact I discouraged anyone wanting to come in," he said.

     Crockett said his activities in the moonshine enterprise consisted of
buying and selling to the moonshiners. He freely admits the action brought
him financial gain; however, he wisely invested in other lucrative business
ventures as well.

     "At one time, we owned a private plane and have taken trips to
entertain our friends, as well as professional people like lawyers, judges,
politicians, sports figures and business acquaintances. We flew to places
like Las Vegas, Mexico, South America, Washington and California. It's been
a full life, one that brings back many fond memories," he said.

     "I don't know of any enemies I have in Baker County. I feel I have
many close friends here and it will always be home to us. We've led a very
interesting life, and it has made me feel as though I was on top of the
world," he said. "I remember with fondness all of the great people I have
known, especially the honest folks that were 100 per cent true and loyal to
their word. They are still true friends now, as they were 40 years ago. I
feel very fortunate to have been born and raised up among the people in
Baker County," he said.

     In 1978, the Crocketts purchased the first of many motor homes and
have since enjoyed their myriad travelling adventures, including visiting
every one of the United States but Hawaii. They have travelled through the
Canadian Provinces, including the Nova Scotia and the Maritimes.

     "The most fun was driving Old U.S. 50, called the loneliest road in
America by Life Magazine," said Doris. "We've been from the east coast to
Carson City, Nevada; old western ghost towns and been on The Oregon Trail
from St. Louis, Mo., to Salem, Oregon."

     The Crocketts say their love of travelling will keep them on the road
in the future. However, they won't go too far, or stay too long, because
their greatest interest is still their family. Their son, Edward Wray III,
and his wife, Pam, have two children, Crystal and Austin Edward Wray.
Edward Wray launched his own very successful coin- operated machine
business in Valdosta.

     The Crockett's son, David, and his wife, Kay, also live in Valdosta
where David is affiliated with the Lincoln-Mercury Dealership.

     More than half a century has passed since the tragedy occurred that
changed the life of Edward Wray Crockett, Jr. He had planned to be a
physician like his dad, but a turn of events, and fate, cast him in another
direction. Misfortune? I doubt it. He holds a distinction in Baker County
that belongs only to him. Like his legendary father, the immortal sphere of
his era of time is cast in history. His quest as a humanitarian was simply
woven into the trail of events that occurred in his lifetime and his legacy
will be around for as long as there is a Baker County and a history to
remember.

NOTE: Read the life of Dr. E.W. Crockett, Sr. in Once Upon A Life Time
Volume V.


                                Jimmy Lyons
                            Macclenny, Florida

     Sitting in his office behind his desk at North East Florida State
Hospital, Jimmy Lyons feels sheltered and unscathed. He has been there for
34 years working his way up through the ranks from aide to supervisor of
the laundry department. Reaching back to an era that is surely a time of
reflection for Baker Countians, Jimmy speeds through it almost as fast as
he once did on the highways and by-ways of Florida and Georgia. With a
memory sharp and keen, he is an endless reservoir of stories reflecting the
age of the moonshine days of Baker County.

     Born in the neck of the Georgia Bend in 1934, about five miles from
Moniac, he was next to the youngest of seven children born to John Westly
and Pearlie Thrift Lyons.

     The family toiled to make a living on their farm. There were the usual
plowing, hoeing, planting, reaping, canning, preserving, hog-killing,
beef-butchering days. Down by the branch, the family's crude moonshine
still offered a supplemental income to buy shoes, clothes, and some
household staples.

     "It was just a way of life and I grew up thinking that was what you
were supposed to do," he reflected in a recent interview. "We all helped
from the time we could. I can still remember being barely big enough to
carry a gallon of cane syrup to the still for daddy to make the shine. It
was as common to me as hoeing the corn growing in the field," he said.

     In time, John Westly Lyons was caught by the revenuers and served time
in prison.

     "Mama had a nervous breakdown. I went to live with my Aunt Lula
Thrift, who was already like a second mama to me, and the other younguns
were scattered around somewhere. I think it was too much for mama, with
daddy being sent off, and she was left with all of us younguns to take care
of. She was in Milledgeville for about two years," he said.

     When the family re-united, they moved to Macclenny. John Westly Lyons
took a job in Jacksonville and left the farm and moonshine behind.

     "But me and my brothers continued working in it," said Jimmy. "That's
the only way we knew to get an income. I didn't ever own a still, but I
always helped my brothers."

     Eventually he quit school. "I got to thinking I knew everything in the
world. You know how some young people are, you just can't tell them
anything. I was a teen-ager and I wanted me a car. I'd growed up in it, I
knowed there was money to be made in it."

     When he was 16 years old, a revenuer by the name of Spanks raided a
still in Taylor. He was there. He was lucky. He received probation.

     "Me and another guy were coming out from the still with a full load of
liquor. Them revenuers watched us until we got through and loaded it on an
old cut-down Model-A truck. We had started out to the main road and that's
when one jumped on the truck on one side and one on the other. The old
truck didn't have a top on it. They took us to Jacksonville to jail and we
made bond easy.

     "I dropped out of school and continued working for my brothers. Then I
got to hauling it for them. Eventually, I hauled for Dub Sands and a few
more. Dub was an expert mechanic, he could build them old cars, and make
them go so fast they'd out-run anything on the road. I loved it. I spent
most of my money going to the races in Daytona when I wasn't hauling. It
was during the time when they raced on the beach over there and they'd let
us race cars if we wanted to. I was so young and foolish, I don't know how
I lived through those days. Sometimes I hauled as many as two loads a
night, but always on the average of nine or ten loads a week. I guess if I
was going to work in it that much I should have done it for myself instead
of working for someone else, but I just never did.

     "My brothers had moonshine stills in Baker County as well as places
outside the county. One of their stills was on a lake in Winter Haven. We
boated our sugar and supplies over to the still and boated the shine back.
When it was raided, one of our still workers had to escape by swimming the
lake.

     "There are just so many experiences that happened during those days. I
remember one night me and my first cousin were working at a still up there
on the Santa Fe River near Branford. We were always careful when we drove
by the state's truck-checking station. We had hauled a load of liquor up to
Thomasville this particular time and were bringing back a load of sugar.
Sugar had become very scarce and was getting critical because the law had
so many people scared to sell it to us.

     "We were supposed to store the sugar in an old tobacco barn, so when I
passed by that weigh-station that morning, there was a trooper there and he
motioned me to stop. Well, I had no intentions of stopping with that load
of sugar, so the race was on. It started about 10 a.m. that morning and it
had been raining just a little bit, just enough to wet the road. I had
outrun him and got away, but I had peeled a tire, so I turned to get off
the road because I knowed I was having tire problems. It had rained just
enough that he seen where I had turned, so he backs up and comes in there
behind me. So we have another race until the tire finally went flat. I
reached a dead end and went straight out through the pines. I was driving a
New York Chrysler and I told my cousin I'd just tear it all to pieces
before I'd let them have it. I knocked down several trees before it
stopped. I told my cousin to grab the turpentine in the glove compartment
and run. Well, the state trooper called the sheriff and they put the dogs
on us. We could hear them. I knew the Fort White highway was only a couple
miles over from us, so I told my cousin that when we got to the highway we
needed to quickly stand on the shoulder of the road and douse all of our
clothing and shoes with the turpentine, then cross the road to the other
side. That way the dogs would be unable to trail us, the turpentine would
throw them off. So that's what we did. We crossed the road and hid in the
woods. We were looking at'em when the dogs stopped at the road. We heard
one of them say, 'Well, they've been picked up,' so it worked just like I
thought it would. In a few minutes we were picked up by my brothers in the
car trailing us. They knew something had happened and it didn't take long
for them to figure it out.

     "During those times we had our own little codes. Wherever we were
hiding, we would put a little bush or something heavy enough on the edge of
the highway that it wouldn't get blown off and they would just drive until
they saw it. It was really a cat-and-mouse game.

     "Another time, I was up in Albany, Georgia. Apparently, someone had
tipped them off that we'd be coming up there. For some reason that night I
felt like taking another road. I had to go over an old one-way wooden
bridge. I didn't know it but I had come out on the road in front of where
the sheriff was supposed to cut me off. I eased up on the bridge, and there
was a deputy who had been stationed on the other side. When he saw me, he
headed up on the bridge from the other way. When I saw that, I started
backing off, but the deputy's car started bumping me. The Georgia state
revenuer who was on the passenger side of the deputy's car jumps out and
starts shooting at my front tire on the left-hand side of the car. It
bounced off and hit the right rear instead, before I got off the bridge.
When I went around him, he was shooting. I had the flat tire or I'd have
outrun the bunch of 'em, but after they chased me about 10 miles, I was
down to the hub; the rim was gone. I don't know how many times they shot at
me, and I never have figured out how they could shoot so many times and
never hit another tire. I was scared, anyone in their right mind would have
been.

     "By this time, they had notified the sheriff and he was trailing me.
Flying pieces of metal from my car had beat the grill out of the sheriff's
car and metal was flying everywhere. I finally decided to abandon the car
and run, so I pulled up by an old fence and by the time I got out of the
car, I was over the fence, running. I was young and I knew it would have
taken a race-horse to catch me.

     "I was out there in the woods all night, not knowing where I was, but
finally about 10 o'clock the next morning I came up on a feller's house. I
didn't no more than get out of his sight when he'd done called the sheriff,
and they jumped the dogs back on me from there. They finally caught me, and
the old revenuer from back at the bridge grabbed me and was cussing. He
said, 'You old S.O.B., you're the one who tried to run over me.' I told him
all I was doing was trying to get away. The sheriff was nice. He asked me
if I was hurt. Georgia makes their own law, at least they did back then in
some places, and all he was seeing were dollar signs. I knew that's all he
wanted was money.

     "I asked him if I could make a phone call and he said I could. I told
him I needed to know just how much it was going to cost me. He said, 'Well,
it will be $1,000,' and if I wanted the car back, it would be another $
1,000.

     "I only had about 15 jugs of liquor in the car, because I had already
delivered some. I asked him if I was going to have to stay in jail, and he
said, 'No, you call someone to bring the money and I'll have the judge
standing by.' So I did and I never will forget it. The judge had one of
these old, long, wheel-barrow mustaches. He was skinny as a bean pole and
looked like he was about six foot and a half. He was all drooped over and
the old codger said, 'Mr. Lyons, the county has got you charged with
possession and transporting of illegal moonshine. How do you plead?" I
said, 'I plead guilty, judge,' and he said, 'Well, it's going to be $250
for possession and $250 for transporting.' The sheriff spoke up and said,
'No, No, judge, you got it all wrong,' and he goes up to talk to the judge
and the judge looks at his secretary and said, 'Strike that! It will be
$500 for possession and $500 for transporting.' They meant to get $1,000
from me and they did.

     "The next time I was caught, me and my brothers were delivering some
liquor to an undercover man, but we didn't know it. It was a set up. We had
been regularly delivering to a black man by the name of Red. We learned
later that he had been caught and told if he'd help them catch us, he
wouldn't have to serve time. Actually, they didn't care about me, they
wanted the man I was working for.

     "Well, they knew we were coming, but they didn't know exactly how.
They knew who we were, but they didn't know what we were driving, or what
route we were coming. It was up around Pearson, Georgia, where they set up
a road-block on the bridge. We never stopped at filling stations on our
hauls; we always took along our own gas in cans, so we had stopped on the
side of the road to gas up. We had two cars loaded with more than 45 cans
of liquor each, a total of 95 gallons. My brother was driving the lookout
car ahead of us.

     "While we were pouring the gas in the car, a state trooper drove up
behind us. We jumped in the cars, throwing the gas cans down. There was a
sheriff's car across the bridge and I was running so fast I couldn't stop.
I was probably going 120 miles per hour, or more, in one of them cars Dub
had built. I just picked the biggest hole I could see and tried to go
through. I hit the police car and it went spinning around. My brother was
driving the car behind me, and he hits it, too, and goes down an embankment
about 20 feet. The impact had knocked the frame out from under my car and
it had no control. My first cousin was with me, because earlier that
evening I had been visiting my dad in the hospital because he had cancer,
and for some reason I had fainted. So my brothers thought I ought to have
someone ride with me, just in case, and that's why he was with me. We both
jumped out of the car and went running off in the woods together. One of
the deputies up on the bridge, who had a sawed off shot gun was shooting at
us.

     "Meanwhile, they caught my brother and beat him so bad he had to have
several pints of blood and something like 160 stitches in his head. They
called in the dogs to put on me and my first cousin. We ran for about an
hour and we could hear the dogs coming. We didn't know exactly where we
were, but we knew it couldn't be too far from Douglas. Then, it come the
damdest flood you have ever seen in your life and it rained on us all night
long. We were just drenched. Can you imagine how miserable we were with no
cover, soaked through and it in the winter time? The only good thing was
when it stopped, the dogs had not been able to track us because of the
rain.

     "We finally got over to the road and caught a ride with a farmer into
town. I got to a phone and called the Amoco station in Macclenny and a
friend answered the phone. I told him I was in Douglas and to get airborne
and come get us. He was there an hour and a half later. Even though I got
away, they knew who I was. We had lost two loads of liquor and two cars in
the skirmish.

     "It was a week or so before Wilford was even able to leave the
hospital and come home. The law told my other brother that they knew who I
was and started trying to negotiate with him. They told him they knew who I
was, and if I'd come on up and plead guilty, they would charge me $2,000
and Wilford $2,000 and that would clear it up and I wouldn't have a record
or outstanding warrant there.

     "When my brother came back and told me, I said, 'No! I ain't going
back up there to Pearson where that sheriff is.' So they told my brother to
bring the $4,000 and Wilford could plead for me, too. So, when they tried
me, they found me guilty. They fined me $2,000 and they ain't never put
their hands on me. I never seen any of them. Then the sheriff told my
brother he could come back through there with loads for the next three
months to make the money back for the lost liquor and cars, but he said
that each time we came through we'd have to pay him something. He said that
after the three months we would be subject to arrest again. But we didn't
go back up that way again because there was just no way to trust the law.
Our motto was, 'When you see it, out-run it.'

     "One night I had gone out about ten miles in the woods to pick up some
liquor to haul. It was a full moon, not a cloud in the sky, so after I
loaded up, I said, 'I'm just going to ease out of here with my lights off.'
I don't know why I felt that way that night, but I was just riding along
there when I saw a light pop on up ahead, like a car light or something.
They had backed up there in those woods, waiting on me. I was working for
Dub that night and he and his partner had already gone out before me. I
guess the law knew just a little more than I thought they did about us, so
when I saw the light, I turned my lights on and popped the fuel to it and
started on by them. One of 'em run out there in the road and started
shooting. I knew they had hit the car at least twice. I out-ran them and
went on up to find Dub and them. We looked the car over and found where one
bullet hit. If it hadn't hit where it did and bounced off, I would have
been shot right through the back of the head. The next morning Dub looked
the car over and the second bullet had gone right up the tail pipe. He must
have shot a dozen times and never hit the car as big as it was but twice. I
don't know what he thought he was shooting at.

     "It wasn't hard for us to get away from them. Our cars just were
faster. Back then, we had them old cars fixed where you could turn out one
headlight, or you could turn out both headlights; you could turn out one
tail light, or both; you could open the door and not turn on the car light.
We could just switch 'em all on, or all around or off. We didn't have stop
lights. We had one little light that would just shine down on the white
center line in the middle of the highway to keep us on the road while they
were chasing us. If they were chasing us, they couldn't see it, but we
could tell where we were going, and we always 'cased' out the area and knew
where the curves in the road were. We got familiar with where we were going
most of the time.

     "You could tell a loaded moonshine car from anything else. It would
roar and biller. I've been through many of them little old towns at night
and have to stop at a red light while trying to ease through. You could
actually hear them plate glass windows rattle just from setting at a red
light and the car idling. Anyone at all who knew about automobiles knew
when they saw you what you were doing. We got more attention when we were
trying to slip through a town than on the highway running a 100 miles per
hour. I learned how to go all the way to Tallahassee on a dirt road, just
crossing the highway, never driving on it.

     "Dub Sands was the man to be with in this business. He was a genius
building the cars we drove. Each morning when I'd come in from taking a
load, Dub would want to know if the car was running right or needed any
repairs or adjustments and I'd discuss this every morning with him. If it
did, he would make them during the day before I went out again that night.
He got to where he liked to go with me in the escort car.

     "One such night, he wanted to test this Dodge, so he and his partner
got up to 140 miles per hour and Dub wanted me to pass him. I got in all
the wind that happens sometime when you get in back of a big truck and it
actually blowed the floor boards out of that old Dodge. It had an old
wooden floor board. Now Dub was shook up, and it took a lot to get him
shook up because he didn't get shook up easy. He said, 'I bet you it won't
blow up out of there anymore,' so he went and got some sheet metal and he
welded it down, and we never had any more problems. That little Dodge was
something.

     "I stayed with my brothers sometimes, but mostly I stayed with Mama. I
let her drive that Dodge with the Chrysler engine, and you just could see
her peeping over the steering wheel. It was my personal car and she loved
it, but she'd say, 'Son, that thing's just got too much power. You need to
get something done to it,' and I'd tell her, 'Mama, I want all that power,
I might need it.' It had two four-barrel carburetors with a Chrysler
engine. Mama would squall them tires every time the gears changed.

     "She knew I was into shine. She'd say something to me about it all the
time. Daddy knowed it, too. They both wanted us out, but they had raised us
in it. Daddy never got into hauling it, he just made a little bit, but we
just kept right on.

     "Right after Ed Yarbrough got to be sheriff, there was a Florida
Highway Patrol Trooper named L.B. Boyette that was stationed in Baker
County and he loved to run us more than anything. I think he would have
taken a load just for the experience, if he could have. He would aggravate
us to death; he was never out there on Highway 90, or places for normal
traffic. You never caught Boyette anywhere else but up there on the Fargo
Road, that's where he stayed, always trying to catch us with a load of
shine.

     "G.W. Rhoden was Ed's deputy and he talked Ed into buying one of them
big Chevrolets with a 454 engine and three two-barrel carburetors. It was
supposed to fly. It was a time when everyone was really impressed with big
fast cars. I told Dub, after G.W got this car, that we needed to try him
against one of our cars while it was empty and not wait until it was full
with a load. So Dub said maybe we'd run up with him and check him out.

     "About a week or so later, no one had tried G.W. with that car. One of
our buyers up in Georgia called and said he needed some liquor right then,
So Dub said we needed to run the liquor up there. He went up to the Fargo
Road to see if the law was on the road. Well, G.W. and L.B. Boyette were up
there that night, so Dub said, 'Well, we're just not going to go because we
just don't know how good that car of G.W.'s will run; we haven't tried it,
so we had better call this off.'

     "They went back to check one more time and came back and said,
'They're gone,' I said, 'Well, get out of my way and let me go.' I was
sitting there loaded, just across the Georgia line over there by Moniac, so
I took off. When I came out and made my turn there was G.W. and the race
was on. Boyette was with him. It was a cat-and-mouse game; they were having
as much fun with it as we were ... it was a man's game, like, who
out-smarted the other wins. "G.W. told me, after the race, that Boyette
said, 'We got him now.' Well, that old Chrysler that I was in was slow
getting wound up even though I had stomped it to the bottom. Anyway, they
whipped right around and were at me for four or five miles. They were not
close enough to shoot, but I think they would have if they could have
gotten a little closer. Anyhow, I just knew he was going to run up there on
me. I never thought that Chrysler would take off and it loaded; in fact I
think I had 47 cans of liquor and two cans of gas with me too.

     "I crossed the railroad, which is a bad bump running wide open, and
the old car kept a-moaning and a-groaning and gettin' it. There came a
little rain and I was going so fast the windshield wipers were blowing away
from the glass. All I could see at one time was the white line. Pretty soon
they started falling back and I could tell the lights were not as close as
they had been. Something was wrong with my car, the carburetor had been
jerked wide open. I wasn't sure I could make the up-coming curve so I
switched the car off to slow down and almost lost control when I got there
anyway.

     "When I drove into Fargo, I knew I needed to hide until I could get
the car fixed, so I drove into the negro quarters and hid behind a house. I
knew Dub would be coming behind me and know where to look. When he got
there, he told me that G.W. and Boyette had stopped him, and Boyette had
said, 'Well, we thought we had him, but we ain't got nothing to catch that
car. Just tell Jimmy we'll buzz him again tornorrow.' And he would, he'd be
up there every night.

     "Boyette thought he could out-run that old Chrysler I had and one
night we had a race on the Taylor Road. We started at the Griffis curve and
when we got to Cedar Creek I just eat him up. Next night, he'd be right up
there on the Fargo Road to try and catch me again. He'd give the revenuers
all the information he could.

     "Boyette once took two big army blankets and sewed them together to
drape over his car. Then he took a machete, cut down some trees and stood
them up in front of the car to camouflage himself. Dub had gone up there to
a place Boyette liked to go, called Little and Big Moccasin Swamp, to see
if he was backed up there in his car waiting for us. He didn't find him, so
when I got there he was waiting for me. When I came by the race was on, but
I out-ran him.

     "The following night, he was back up there with his car covered up
with that blanket and all those trees and Dub made out like he didn't see
him. We'd gone back up there and found where he had cut the trees down so
we were on to him. Dub came back that night and said, 'Well, he's in the
same place, what are you going to do?' I said, 'Well, I'll fix him,' and he
said, 'You're not going back up there knowing he's going to come out, are
you?' But I told him I'd be all right.

     "So I went up to the weight-checking station and when I saw these two
big trucks pulling out, I pulled in between them and was going about 50
miles per hour with my lights off. The truckers knew what I was doing, I
guess. When I got up there to the curve where I thought Boyette would be, I
switched my lights on. I saw Boyette standing up there beside the road
listening for the sound of my car. When my lights popped on him, man, he
run for his car and he slipped down and I was totally gone when he got up
and got to his car. He tried to drive out so fast his car got stuck and
later I found out someone had to go up there and get him out. He never did
come after me and I wondered what happened until they told me.

     "I have out-run Boyette more times than I got fingers and toes. He ran
me more times than any man to be the same man," he said, smiling.

     "There are so many stories. It was hard work and dangerous. One
morning, me and Dub were coming through Fargo just before daylight and a
feller pulled right out in front of us. He had a mule in the back of his
truck. There wasn't much to Fargo, just a couple of filling stations there.
This old feller pulled right out in front of me and I ran into him. The car
I was driving ended up 50 yards up the road, turned upside down. We knocked
the mule out of the truck, and the old man was injured pretty bad. So was
I, but we had seat belts, those regular airplane kind and I'd say they
saved us. They carried me to the hospital in Homerville. I had a guard the
whole time I was there. If the old feller had died, I probably would be in
the penitentiary today.

     "Being who we were, we had no insurance on the car and it wasn't in
anybody's name. We had to come up with the money to pay the man's hospital
bills, and mine. We had to buy the man another truck to replace his. I was
driving for Dub and he was responsible, him and his partner, but I think
Dub ended up paying most of it. Dub was faithful to do all he could do, he
bent over backwards and he would have done what he had to do even if he
would have had to sell his home. His partner was a little different. It was
always understood that if you were working for someone and something
happened, they would be responsible to pay the bills. I think that incident
cost about $15,000 and that was a lot of money in those days.

     Things finally came to an end for the Lyons' brothers one day up
around Adelle, Georgia. "We got a call from this man saying he needed us to
haul him a load. We hauled it up to him and he paid us fine, but I felt
something was wrong, that he was a crook. But it was one of them times when
liquor was moving slow and we were needing to move it, so on the second
trip, the law was there with badges. They got me and Wilford at the same
time. They tried us by jury in Valdosta. We tried to get off by saying the
federal man had tricked us by trying to get us to come up there and party
with women and money. We tried to convince them it was entrapment, but they
didn't buy it. The old Judge sentenced me and Wilford to 15 months apiece.
He said, 'Son, I'm going to do you a favor,' and he sent me to federal
prison in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania.

     "When I got up there, the people said, 'Well, what in the world are
you doing up here?' and I said, 'I don't know, the judge said he was going
to do me a favor and sent me here.' I tried to transfer to Tallahassee, but
I never did get there. I spent a few days in Atlanta. If you ever go to
prison in Atlanta, you never get through hearing all the doors close when
you're in there. They sent me from Atlanta to Lewisburg on a Greyhound bus
with a guard in back and a couple of guards in front. The guards had
machine guns in Atlanta. They had me handcuffed and shackled and that's the
way I rode the bus. I was about 25 years old at the time. They kept me in
minimum custody on a farm. When they discharged me, they wouldn't do it
before midnight, but my family was there waiting for me. That was the last
of my moonshine career. I had to report to a parole officer in Jacksonville
after prison. I got a job in Jacksonville with a water company. I didn't
care about that, so I put in an application with NEFSH and went to work for
them."

     Jimmy married Lois Smith of Taylor. They have two lovely daughters.

     "If I had to go back and live the life over I wouldn't do that. I
think I'd rather be racing on a race track. I did it because I love to
drive the fast cars. I blew the money partying.

     "There is one thing for sure in my life I'd do differently, if I had
it to go over. I'd have me an education. If I'd had an education, I could
have been no telling what out here at NEFSH. As it was, I started out in
1961 as an aide for $185 a month and I've worked up to department head in
the laundry, but that was having friends help me up the way. Many
opportunities had to be passed up because of the lack of an education.

     "I remember once my daddy said to me, 'Son, you're making a little
money, why don't you invest it.' And I said, 'Invest in what?', and he
said, 'Son, I'm going to tell you, bootlegging ain't going to be here
forever.' And I said, 'Daddy, there will be bootlegging here as long as the
world's here. It's been here all your life,' and he said, 'Yes, but
everything changes.' And I said, 'Well, this ain't going to change, there
will be bootlegging from now on.' And he said, 'Son, see that big oak tree
out there?' and I said, 'Yes,' and he said, 'Does it stay the same all the
time?' I said, 'No, it grows, sheds it leaves and puts more on,' and he
said, 'it changes,' and I said, 'Well, you talk about investment, what am I
going to invest in?' He said, 'Buy land up there in the woods,' and I said,
'Daddy, ain't nobody ever going to want that old land up there in them
woods.' And I didn't think they ever would.

     "That was back in them days when lots of that old land up there around
Taylor didn't even belong to anyone; I think you could homestead it. I
thought it would always be worthless. I could have bought land right here
in Macclenny for two to three hundred dollars a lot and almost all of 221
for nothing. But who had the insight for that?

     "My money was usually always on me, or stashed away somewhere. I
didn't use no bank, I mostly kept it on me or in the car. I really never
had more than eight or ten thousand dollars at one time. I partied a lot,
and I gave mama some, whatever she wanted. As I said, I was young and
foolish. I was hauling shine every night all up in Georgia or down in south
Florida, east and west, north and south.

     "The law wasn't always honest, either -- especially those in Georgia.
One night, the law raided one of our stills up there in Stattenville,
Georgia, and run the boys off working it. They hauled the liquor and
condenser, water pump and an old jeep off and locked it up in the jail
yard. That night, Dub's partner went to see the sheriff up there and he
gave him the key to the jail and we went over there and hauled all that off
from the jail yard. It was in the papers that they had raided the still and
the bootleggers had stolen it back from the sheriff. But it was a payoff.
So many of them were interested in was what they could get out of it and
not so much sending you off for doing it. All they could see was dollar
signs.

     "I would never get involved in this dope and stuff that ruins people's
lives. Anyone that wants to can go right down to the corner and buy a
bottle of liquor. All I was doing was giving them a cheaper drink and it
was just as good a liquor, maybe better. In other words, if I was the only
one producing liquor, it would be different, but the government is in the
business, the state is in the business, and all I did was cheat the
government out of taxes, no more than when some people today cheat the
government out of taxes. I was raised up thinking there wasn't anything
wrong with it. Either you did it or you starved to death. Jobs were not
available and when they were, you didn't get paid enough to live on. Things
changed when the times changed, but I don't regret it at all. If it came
back down to those choices and I had no other way to make a living, I'd do
it again."


                          The Londa Thrift Family
   of North Macclenny With Lillie Thrift, Willard Thrift and Kaye Thrift
                                  Warner

     The Londa Thrift family lived on land that was once occupied by their
forefathers on Rt. 1 in north rural Baker County, five miles from
Macclenny. The family is not sure just when Londa began making moonshine or
manufacturing moonshine stills for boot- leggers, a term meant to evade
legal prohibition to avoid payment of taxes. They aren't sure if their
grandfather Jim Thrift made 'shine', but they remember that he regularly
carried a long barrel pistol that was consistently visible hanging from his
back pocket.

     During the Depression, Londa worked for the WPA (Works Progress
Administration) for three dollars a week and watched his children go to
school dressed poorly while he grubbed a scant existence from farming in
any spare hours of the day and night. At some time, Londa and his wife
Lillie (Pierce) grabbed an opportunity to have a better life by making a
little moonshine to supplement their meager income. They joined a legion of
Baker Countians who did the same thing. Making moonshine from necessity, to
survive those lean years, touched almost every family in the county in some
way.

     "I remember I was in the Seventh grade when I first became aware of
the way I dressed," said the couple's son, Willard. "It seemed like all the
other boys had jeans to wear, and I can remember I only had two pairs of
old overalls to my name. I would wear my shirt on the outside to cover my
overalls hoping they would think I had on jeans," he said. "We were real
poor and things were real bad back there when I was born in 1933."

     Londa passed away in 1992 and left his family heart-broken. The man
who built and supplied moonshine stills of every size and make to Baker
County bootleggers was their idol. Making moonshine in the creek back of
their house was a way of life they now see as a legacy and they recall with
pride how they once banded together to protect their enterprise.

     "We knew to shoot the gun three times, or blow the car horn, if
strangers came around," said Willard. "If anyone in the area was working at
their still they would scatter until the danger of being raided was over,"
he said.

     "I've shot that gun three times many a time," said Lillie, smiling
smugly.

     "Daddy gave us a good life," said his doting daughter, Kay. "We, never
thought anything about the moonshine then and we don't today.' The things I
remember about my daddy are priceless. I never heard him say a harm's word
about anyone, I never knew him to drink an I never heard him and mama argue
or have a cross word between them. Daddy never said bad words-, oh, he
might grumble if someone got his fishing place, but nothing bad. He never
gossiped and his word was his bond. If he told you he'd do something he
would stick by his word. And anyone could count on daddy to help them if
they needed it" she said.

     During the war, Londa went to work for the Jacksonville Shipyards.
That's where he learned to weld, said his family. The trade gave him the
skill and experience he would need to manufacture the moonshine stills to
be used by bootleggers in his shed at home. "I started working in the
moonshine business my senior year of high school," said Willard. "I drove
the shine car. I enjoyed that part of it. I can remember the stress of
going with a loaded car or truck, and after delivery the exhilaration
returning home. I felt like the wheels of the car were off the ground and I
was driving along on air," he said.

     "I knew all the back roads and could drive all the way to Macon,
Georgia, without going through one red light. We'd take cans of gas with us
so we wouldn't need to stop for gas while our car was loaded with 'shine'.
Sometimes a follow-up car would come behind me. We had a signal between us
that at certain check points I'd leave a pile of gallberry sticks and if
something happened they'd know how far I'd gotten and they would be able to
back track and see what happened. I usually hauled 'shine' several times a
week and received about $50 a load, depending on the size. Sometimes it was
more. I remember telling someone once that I was making more money than I
could ever spend. "We didn't keep our money in the bank. We hid it,
sometimes in the freezer and sometimes we'd bury it. Daddy buried some of
his and we could never find it," he said. "Silver dollars were plentiful
back then and someone paid me with a big bag of them once, so I drove up to
a bank window in Jacksonville to cash them in. The cashier left and went to
the back of the bank and when she returned she said for me to drive around
and come inside. I got scared and left," he said.

     The family remembers an occasion when one Friday afternoon in 1953 the
revenuers came calling.

     "I was in the house watching Howdy-Doody on TV," said Kay. "I was
about five years old and Willard came running in the house for the shotgun
and told me to stay in and not come out," she said.

     "The two revenuers didn't have proper warrants to come on the
property," said Willard. "Daddy wasn't home and I wouldn't let them come
past the gate to search so they looked over at my sister and said something
about taking her with them. That's when I went in to get the gun. They left
right after that," he said.

     An account in the Florida Times Union concerning the incident that
happened in 1953 reported that warrants were issued on Monday charging
Londa with possession and failing to register a distillery. Five other
persons, charged with 'resisting, opposing, impeding, intimidating and
interfering with' the agents, 'by force of arms, to-wit, with a shotgun and
hammer did oppose, impede, interfere and intimidate,' the officers in the
execution of their official duties.

     The article stated that the agents had parked their car on a paved
road and carried dynamite to a still they found behind the Thrift's farm on
Friday. After using up all explosives carried to the still, the agents went
for more to finish the job. They found a road leading out of the still area
to a gate near the Thrift's house. When the agents returned to the gate in
their car with intentions to return to the still, they were met by the
Thrift's and two of their cousins. The agents reported they were told they
would be killed if they entered the gate.

     The Thrifts were taken into custody without a show of resistance, and
later released that day. Nothing ever evolved concerning the incident. The
news clipping failed to mention that the agents had threatened to take one
of the Thrift children with them, which had started the whole fray.

     Londa Thrift was from a family of seven children born to Jim and Nancy
Thrift. He never had an opportunity to attend school and learn to read and
write.

     "He could write his name, though," said Kay, proudly. "I used to take
him to the doctor and I'd always fill out the necessary papers and he'd
sign," she said.

     In 1964 Londa made a still for someone introduced to him by a friend.
That night he told his wife and son, 'I believe I made a mistake today-' He
was right. The following day, he was arrested by federal agents who had
photographed the whole deal from a cornfield across the road from the
Thrift's farm. He was sentenced to prison.

     "Daddy sold some of his land to provide money for us while he was
gone," said Kay. "Mama got a job at North East Florida State Hospital. What
money he had saved went for lawyer and legal fees.

     "I drove him into Jacksonville to the courthouse and let him out the
day he was to begin serving his time," said Willard. "We didn't say a word
as we drove in and when he got out of the car I watched him walk across the
street and disappear from my sight. It was a pretty sad time. A few days
before, me and him went out in the back yard and set out a few orange
trees. That was our way of saying good-bye. Over the years, we had
travelled many miles together in silence. Daddy wasn't a man that liked to
talk and I didn't talk much either. We'd drive all the way to places like
Macon and neither one of us would say a word to each other, but we knew
when it was time to stop and get a drink, but we'd never say a word. We
didn't even play the radio.

     "When daddy worked in the fields with us, he didn't talk to us except
to tell us just what he wanted done. It was just his way and we never
thought anything about it. He just liked everything quiet and peaceful,"
said his son.

     In March, 1964, registered under the number 21860-TF, Londa began
serving a year and a day in the Federal Correctional institution in
Tallahassee in the shadow of a huge moonshine operation he helped to set up
on a large farm in sight of the area. Later, he was transferred to the
Federal Prison Camp at Eglin Air Force Base, Florida, under number 558-EF.

     "Daddy learned to read and write in prison and I got my first letter
from him while he was there," beamed his youngest daughter. "He may not
have spelled all the words right but I cherish that letter," she said. "The
only time I ever remember him going to church was when we'd go over there
and go to church with him."

     Londa was paroled on September 22 of the same year after serving only
six months.

     "My brother Jimmy, Mama, and I went to pick daddy up in Pensacola,"
said Kay. "I remember they gave him some clothes and a $20 bill. I never
felt embarrassed over that incident, ever. In fact, the same day my daddy
left to serve his time, my best friend's daddy was sentenced to prison,
too.

     Londa never dealt in the moonshine industry again, said Kay. Instead
he plowed the land of his heritage and began a chicken farm. He found quiet
time to walk in the woods behind his home and fish with his son-in-law,
Marvin, in the near-by river. He spent quality time with his family while
he nursed an ailing heart.

     When he died April 9, 1992, his family was devastated.

     "He had been plowing corn all day," said Kay.

     Today, the same house where Londa and Lillie reared their family still
stands, but it has been moved to the back of the field down a peaceful
country lane and renovated by Kaye and her husband, Marvin Warner. And when
an empty five gallon wooden barrel with a faint trace and aroma of aging
moonshine chips was found in the attic after Londa's death, a flood of
memories befell the family. Undaunted in their convictions, the barrel
reflected the life and times they lived in the specter of the moonshine era
and surfaced as an historical monument.

     Today, Willard lives close by with his wife, Mary Sue (Crawford), and
tends the long string of gleaming white chicken houses where his daddy once
quietly labored with him. Kay has honored her father's wishes never to let
the land stand idle. She and her husband and 15-year-old daughter, Loni,
named for her grandfather, have planted 91 peach trees.

     "I just couldn't stand to see the land barren and idle because daddy
always had something growing," she said.

     Stashed away in a decorative trunk in the bedroom of her home where
she grew up is a small revered box. Inside, tied with thin red ribbon is a
nostalgic stack of cherished letters that her father wrote her from prison,
the sprawled handwriting a constant reminder to her of what life is really
all about. It's respect for the memories and a legacy that will not come
their way again.

                  LETTER FROM LONDA THRIFT TO HIS DAUGHTER KAY
                               June 14, 1964
                             Macclenny, Florida

Dear Kay
I am fine and hope you ar too. Kay I wont you to plosh my black shews for
me and i will think you and help bess with the hose work. Well the sun is
going don and it look prety . Maby befour long I will be home. I think we
all will have a good time. I try to rit more next time.

     Londa