Moonshine Through Marietta

One evening in 1925, Sheriff Thomas M. Sanders stood watch in the dark on Johnson Ferry Road.

In those days, Johnson Ferry Road was unpaved, cutting through the woods like a scar with two deep wheel ruts. The trees pressed in close on either side, and the only source of light was the moon and stars.

A deputy stood watch on the other side of the road. Farther down, sitting behind the wheel of Sanders’ car, was his 16-year-old son, Kermit. The only sound was that of tree frogs and crickets. But they were soon joined by another: the clatter of an automobile engine and the grinding sound of tires on the red earth. Sanders could make out headlights through the trees. He and his deputy withdrew under the trees.

The car passed them, riding low on its springs, weighed down by its cargo of illegal corn whiskey. Sanders used his flashlight to signal Kermit, who turned on his own headlights and pulled the car sideways to block the road.

As sheriff and deputy descended on the car, the driver bolted, bounding off through the woods. Not being as fast as he once was, Sanders handed his flashlight and shotgun to Kermit and said, “Catch him, son!”

Young Kermit Sanders lit off after the bootlegger with enthusiasm. Although the man had a head start, youth, speed, stamina and knowledge of the terrain prevailed. After a quarter-mile chase, the younger Sanders had his man.

The next day, in the Marietta jail, the prisoner laid eyes for the first time on the boy who had chased him down in the dark.

“You mean to tell me that I let that young kid catch me!”

That “young kid” would go on to become sheriff of Cobb County, serving from 1957 to 1976. This would also mean continuing his father’s battle with moonshiners, though it would not reach the same levels as it had in his father’s day.

Georgia farmers had distilled spirits from apples, wheat and corn since colonial times. Home distilleries provided a much-needed cash source for Southern farmers, who tended to be land-rich and cash-poor. In fact, brewing ales and distilling spirits had once been an honorable and gentlemanly occupation.

But after the Civil War, Georgia returned to the Union to find that the Internal Revenue Service was levying taxes on alcohol and tobacco. Many Georgians saw this as another example of an overreaching federal government and applauded the bravado of those who refused to stop producing liquor or to pay the revenue tax.

As the century turned and the South’s economy failed, more and more rural farmers found that their overproduced corn crops were more valuable when turned into whiskey. The cash made by selling these spirits was often the only thing that stood between families and destitution. Because they ran their stills by night to avoid detection, producers became known as “moonshiners.”

Since rural Southerners tended to blame their economic difficulties on a power-hungry federal system, moonshine runners took on a heroic status. But as violence in the business escalated, moonshiners became more ruthless with their tactics and fell into public disfavor.

After the 1920s, when the automobile replaced the horse-drawn cart as the primary method of smuggling, “shine runners” began modifying their vehicles to make them lighter and faster with more powerful engines and stronger suspensions. This was done while maintaining the car’s factory appearance. Law enforcement agencies were inclined to keep up, and stock car modification became a highly developed craft.

So it was that moonshine running gave birth to stock car racing and the modern sport of NASCAR.

But in Cobb County, in the 1920s, these modifications gave Sheriff Sanders the means he needed to detect smugglers.

Cobb County was a waypoint for smugglers traveling from Florida and South Georgia to Northern cities like Chicago. Even drivers for Al Capone passed through Marietta with their wares.

But Sheriff Sanders knew that cars modified for moonshine smuggling usually had saddle springs, and deputies posted on Marietta Square watched for the telltale bounce they made when going over bumps in the road. When deputies spotted one with “the bounce,” they stopped the car, jailed the driver, confiscated the liquor and impounded the vehicle. Drivers thus arrested could redeem their vehicle by paying a stiff fine, some of which went to the arresting deputy as a fee.

According to Kermit Sanders, more than one of the Chicago drivers asked his father how he had known they were carrying moonshine.

“A little bird told me,” he would answer.

 “I wish I could find that damn bird,” one of them said. “I would kill it.”