The Fire at Alexander‘s Mill (Ode to Willie Joe) My daddy’s daddy was a mountain man; he had a sawmill up in the hills. He sold his lumber and he drank moonshine from the best of the hillbilly stills. The Great Depression of twenty-nine was hard on the mountain men. The mill couldn’t turn enough lumber to feed all of Grandpapa’s kin. So, he built himself a big shinny still, deep in the North Georgia pines. He hired good ole boys with hot rods to run his moonshine lines. Daddy had an older brother; his name was Willie Joe. They say he was the fastest of the ‘shiners on the road. He had a souped-up Chevy with the back end jacked up high, so the load wouldn’t weigh it down, and catch the revenuer’s eye. One stormy night in April Willie Joe was at the wheel, running from the sheriff who had raided Grandpapa’s still. Nobody knows what happened to make Willie’s Chevy swerve; he had driven the road so often, he knew every turn and curve. They found him at the bottom of an overgrown ravine, in a pool of blood and liquor; it was a horrible scene. They say Grandpapa went running when they gave him the awful news. He drove out to the sawmill, in just his overalls and shoes. He cursed the Lord in heaven; he cursed the devil below. He cursed himself for causing the terrible death of Willie Joe. Then he piled the scraps of lumber in a corner beside the saw; he drenched it with corn liquor, and tossed a match into it all. And the only words he uttered as he stepped into the flame; “Lord tell my boy I’m coming; and Willie Joe is his name.” Shirley Alexander © 2007Return to BalladsThis is a work of fiction. My grandfather Alexander died of a heart attack in his bed at home. He did have a still at one time, but it was only for his own supply of ‘shine during the prohibition years. It was never raided. I do have an Uncle named Willie (no Joe), and he is alive and well and living here in Georgia. As far as I know, Uncle Willie never worked in the still my grandfather owned. ~S.A.A.~
