My Grandpa was a bootlegger. Not the Kentucky-born, generational whiskey maker, born to brew in the backwoods. No, in fact, his father was a stern, honest farmer. Grandpa, Edward F. Balmes, also known as Hap, was born in Minnesota, but raised in Arizona. His father, John A. Balmes, homesteaded first in Chandler, then in Phoenix, and Grandpa’s older brother Roy was an honest, quiet and hardworking farmer. Roy’s children grew up in Buckeye Arizona on a farm, and worked hard with their parents. Now Grandpa, he was the black sheep of the family, a bit of a rounder by all accounts, but friendly, outgoing and generally loved by most of his acquaintances.
Well, the Revenue agents didn’t like him much, I’m sure… he thoroughly enjoyed being a bootlegger, by all accounts, and reveled in outrunning or outmaneuvering the ‘revenuers’. A family folklore surrounded those years, that Grandpa went to prison for bootlegging. A little digging brought up the prison record, which listed the charges as ‘petty larceny’, for stealing a barrel of gas. When his daughter Shirley was asked about this, she chuckled and said, ‘Oh yeah! Dad used to laugh about that. He was delivering a barrel of whiskey in Phoenix when the law started chasing him. Realizing he would be caught, he raced into a gas station, dumped the whiskey, grabbed a barrel of gas and raced out. He was stopped shortly after, and the revenue agents mainly wanted his list of customers. Well, that list included certain judges, attorneys, even the attorney general, and he wasn’t about to give them up. Enraged by his lack of cooperation, the agents saw to it that he was sent to prison for stealing 25 gallons of gas, worth less than 5 dollars.’ He spent a year there, in 1924, for a petty offense, not a felony! Needless to say, there were many well placed politicians and professionals that deeply appreciated his discretion, and they remained his friends all of his life.
Hap met his wife when he stopped at a local Phoenix junk yard to find some truck parts. Her father owned the store, and she worked the cash register. She was a saucy, redheaded girl that stole his heart. Shortly after his release from prison, he married Marie Pike, and my father was born in 1926. They struggled to make a living, and for a while Grandpa worked on his father’s farm. He told his wife, ‘We can work there, but don’t expect to be paid for it.’ Clearly, the farming life was not to his liking, and he soon searched for other work.
Sometime after Shirley was born in 1929, Grandpa and Grandma moved to a tiny settlement in Yavapai County known as Goodwin. It was a mining settlement in the rugged Bradshaw mountains. A bad road linked it to Phoenix, which allowed Hap to mosey down to Phoenix with a load of ‘demon alcohol’. That same bad road discouraged many contacts from the outside, like the police or Internal Revenue agents.
Dad and Shirley had many happy memories of Goodwin; catching wild burros and training them for riding, roaming the hills with the few other kids, as free as birds. My dad also has stories of the families living on mining claims, eking out a living. Not all the claims had much ore in them, and Dad spoke of ‘salting’ the mines. When the mining commissioner was thought to be coming, some men, (certainly not MY Grandpa!), would use a shotgun full of ‘color’, either gold or silver, shot into the walls of a mine, to indicate the mines were indeed viable and thus the claims would continue. These people lived there with no electricity, running water, or even a nearby store. Aunt Shirley was always careful with water, claiming that anybody that had to haul water much would never waste it. My Grandma became the Post Mistress there, which brought a certain respectability to the family.
Grandpa owned a trucking business, and made some income by dismantling mining equipment, hauling it to another mining site, and then rebuilding the whole thing. My Dad remembered driving that truck to Phoenix with a load of ‘hooch’, because Grandpa figured the cops wouldn’t suspect a kid of hauling alcohol. Now those are the ties that bind, huh?! Many years later, in the 60’s, Dad and Grandpa owned a ranch in the Cordes Junction area, with Hap and Marie living there. We kids had to sleep in the basement when we visited. I still remember the bar down there, complete with a Coor’s waterfall ad. It was a nice big picture of a moving waterfall and the Coors logo. What was really unusual, I suppose, were the slot machines living down there too. I remember the penny and nickel slots mostly, because Grandpa would often give us a few coins to play with. Back then the family insisted the bar was just a hang out for friends. But- they lived far off the main road, a perfect place for a little ‘friendly gambling’. We came to realize he never really gave up his ‘wicked ways’! I know that while the bar remained, suddenly the slot machines were missing, and questions about them by a curious little girl were blithely ignored. I imagine somehow they were warned the law was getting wise to their basement enterprise, and got rid of the evidence before they got busted…. At least that’s my version of it, who knows what the reality was, because no-one ever bothered to tell us kids.
My dear Grandpa! While to some he may have been a ‘hardened criminal’, to us he was delightful. He always had candy for us, and would set all of the grandkids in his old jeep and drive slowly over the bumpy dirt road for the ½ hour drive to the nearest gas station. There he would allow us to pick out an ice cream cone or soda pop while he chatted with the owner, filled the jeep with a little gas and tell us stories all the way home. “Once upon a time and not two times, when I was a little girl” was the way he started every story, and believe me, he had lots of them!
I was 11 when he died, and I still remember the funeral. A Mormon Bishop, a Catholic Priest and a Minister all presided at the funeral, and many of his old political friends were there as well. Easily 500 people attended, from all walks of life. I saw rough looking ranchers and miners, more refined ‘church going’ people as well as the professionals from many walks of life. Grandpa had many friends, as well as many that respected and feared him. Now I’m sure there were many that would have loved to get his old bootlegging recipes, but if he shared them, it was only with his wife and son, who of course would never use them…..
Well, the Revenue agents didn’t like him much, I’m sure… he thoroughly enjoyed being a bootlegger, by all accounts, and reveled in outrunning or outmaneuvering the ‘revenuers’. A family folklore surrounded those years, that Grandpa went to prison for bootlegging. A little digging brought up the prison record, which listed the charges as ‘petty larceny’, for stealing a barrel of gas. When his daughter Shirley was asked about this, she chuckled and said, ‘Oh yeah! Dad used to laugh about that. He was delivering a barrel of whiskey in Phoenix when the law started chasing him. Realizing he would be caught, he raced into a gas station, dumped the whiskey, grabbed a barrel of gas and raced out. He was stopped shortly after, and the revenue agents mainly wanted his list of customers. Well, that list included certain judges, attorneys, even the attorney general, and he wasn’t about to give them up. Enraged by his lack of cooperation, the agents saw to it that he was sent to prison for stealing 25 gallons of gas, worth less than 5 dollars.’ He spent a year there, in 1924, for a petty offense, not a felony! Needless to say, there were many well placed politicians and professionals that deeply appreciated his discretion, and they remained his friends all of his life.
Hap met his wife when he stopped at a local Phoenix junk yard to find some truck parts. Her father owned the store, and she worked the cash register. She was a saucy, redheaded girl that stole his heart. Shortly after his release from prison, he married Marie Pike, and my father was born in 1926. They struggled to make a living, and for a while Grandpa worked on his father’s farm. He told his wife, ‘We can work there, but don’t expect to be paid for it.’ Clearly, the farming life was not to his liking, and he soon searched for other work.
Sometime after Shirley was born in 1929, Grandpa and Grandma moved to a tiny settlement in Yavapai County known as Goodwin. It was a mining settlement in the rugged Bradshaw mountains. A bad road linked it to Phoenix, which allowed Hap to mosey down to Phoenix with a load of ‘demon alcohol’. That same bad road discouraged many contacts from the outside, like the police or Internal Revenue agents.
Dad and Shirley had many happy memories of Goodwin; catching wild burros and training them for riding, roaming the hills with the few other kids, as free as birds. My dad also has stories of the families living on mining claims, eking out a living. Not all the claims had much ore in them, and Dad spoke of ‘salting’ the mines. When the mining commissioner was thought to be coming, some men, (certainly not MY Grandpa!), would use a shotgun full of ‘color’, either gold or silver, shot into the walls of a mine, to indicate the mines were indeed viable and thus the claims would continue. These people lived there with no electricity, running water, or even a nearby store. Aunt Shirley was always careful with water, claiming that anybody that had to haul water much would never waste it. My Grandma became the Post Mistress there, which brought a certain respectability to the family.
Grandpa owned a trucking business, and made some income by dismantling mining equipment, hauling it to another mining site, and then rebuilding the whole thing. My Dad remembered driving that truck to Phoenix with a load of ‘hooch’, because Grandpa figured the cops wouldn’t suspect a kid of hauling alcohol. Now those are the ties that bind, huh?! Many years later, in the 60’s, Dad and Grandpa owned a ranch in the Cordes Junction area, with Hap and Marie living there. We kids had to sleep in the basement when we visited. I still remember the bar down there, complete with a Coor’s waterfall ad. It was a nice big picture of a moving waterfall and the Coors logo. What was really unusual, I suppose, were the slot machines living down there too. I remember the penny and nickel slots mostly, because Grandpa would often give us a few coins to play with. Back then the family insisted the bar was just a hang out for friends. But- they lived far off the main road, a perfect place for a little ‘friendly gambling’. We came to realize he never really gave up his ‘wicked ways’! I know that while the bar remained, suddenly the slot machines were missing, and questions about them by a curious little girl were blithely ignored. I imagine somehow they were warned the law was getting wise to their basement enterprise, and got rid of the evidence before they got busted…. At least that’s my version of it, who knows what the reality was, because no-one ever bothered to tell us kids.
My dear Grandpa! While to some he may have been a ‘hardened criminal’, to us he was delightful. He always had candy for us, and would set all of the grandkids in his old jeep and drive slowly over the bumpy dirt road for the ½ hour drive to the nearest gas station. There he would allow us to pick out an ice cream cone or soda pop while he chatted with the owner, filled the jeep with a little gas and tell us stories all the way home. “Once upon a time and not two times, when I was a little girl” was the way he started every story, and believe me, he had lots of them!
I was 11 when he died, and I still remember the funeral. A Mormon Bishop, a Catholic Priest and a Minister all presided at the funeral, and many of his old political friends were there as well. Easily 500 people attended, from all walks of life. I saw rough looking ranchers and miners, more refined ‘church going’ people as well as the professionals from many walks of life. Grandpa had many friends, as well as many that respected and feared him. Now I’m sure there were many that would have loved to get his old bootlegging recipes, but if he shared them, it was only with his wife and son, who of course would never use them…..
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