When I was in Vietnam, clinging to a dusty ridge, the adjutant brought over a new corporal. "Where you from?" I asked. "Glasgow, Kentucky," he replied. "My family's from there," I said. "Thought so. Lot of Grinsteads there." "What'd you do before you came in?" I asked. "Ran moon." Local entrepreneurs, he continued, made corn whiskey high up wooded draws, putting it in Mason jars, stacking cases in the trunks and on the floors of powerful sedans fitted with stiff springs, huge brakes, and souped-up engines. He'd poke his rifle out the back window and watch for "the laws" while they raced down the night roads to supply the thirsty, just as the church supplied the temperate with piety during the daylight. I told him that I'd had great moonshine myself on occasion. The best is as clear and honest as any French marc, without the kidney punch two hours later.