Moonshine and me . . .

It is fair to say or so I believe that I am the only Dixie Diva who has ever gargled with moonshine.

This is probably one of the safest assumptions of my life. Especially knowing the propriety and ladylikeness of the others. Particularly in remembering that many of them are Baptists.

Besides, I am quite sure that none of them consort with the kind of folks who would know anything about moonshine or where it comes from.

However, since I am one to share advice and spread the news of what I know will work, I must tell you: If you have a bothersome throat, particularly one that is croupy and impairing your voice, a good gargle with a little moonshine will cure you right up.

It will also make you light as a feather. Then, it’ll make you sleep like a log. When you awake the next morning, you will be well rested and well healed.

Forget warm water and salt. Never mind the lemon and honey. Just take a mouthful of moonshine, gargle for 30 seconds then swallow it and throat woes will evaporate like summer dew under a hot morning’s sun.

I recommended this to Aunt Selma Mae the other day when she was suffering terribly with laryngitis. She primly stuck her Baptist nose in the air and croaked, “I shall take nary drop of the devil’s brew. There’s no tellin’ of the number of men who’ll bust Hell wide open because of their participation in such an evil. Why, I’d rather go to meet the good Lord right now than to have my body defiled in such a sinner’s way!”

When I realized that Aunt Selma Mae was well enough to deliver a sermon that indicted me yet again as a sinner in her eyes, I decided she could just suffer from now forth. It will be the last time I offer her any of my moonshine.

“Where do you get moonshine?” Karen asked. She’s very naive about such things but she’s always interested in knowing what lurks out there in a world so foreign to her.

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

She looked puzzled. “Well, if you have it, how come you don’t know where it comes from?”

Because, once a year, a quart of it just appears on my front porch. I open the door and there it is with a label that says moonshine on it.

It usually comes with instructions, too, that read, “Put a match to it.” This is moonshiner lingo. It means, “Mighty proud of this batch. It lights blue. That indicates that it’s pure and strong.”

“You don’t know who leaves it?” Karen can never leave anything alone.

Nope. But there are many candidates, I suppose. I know a lot of renegades.

Lest you get the wrong idea, I don’t drink moonshine. It is strictly for medicinal purposes. In fact, I don’t know how anyone could drink it on a regular basis. Some of that stuff is 150 proof.

Until I started gargling with it, I had only tasted it one other time. Harry Hyde, the legendary NASCAR crew chief that was the inspiration for the Robert Duvall character in the movie “Days of Thunder,” had some once that he had gotten from another legend, both of NASCAR and moonshining fame, Junior Johnson.

“Best stuff I ever tasted,” Harry declared, handing me the Mason jar. “Take ya a swig.”

My stomach burned for three days.

As far as I’m concerned, moonshine isn’t a pleasure. It’s the same as cod liver oil. It’s meant to either heal or kill. No in-between.

But as the mountain folks would say, “I’m not agin’ it. It’s good medicine.”