Makin Moonshine... AND Sparks

CHAPTER 42 – Soggy Days and Moonshine Nights

It’d been rainin’ so long, I started namin’ the puddles. The one out front by the gate? That was Big Louie. The low dip behind the smokehouse? Called her Naptime Gulch—‘cause if you stepped wrong, you’d take a nap involuntarily. Every boot had gone soft, every floorboard creaked, and I swear even the rooster had developed a cough.

Still, we weren’t losin’ hope. Just patience.

With the ground too mushy for planting, and the cows now strictly barn-bound, I figured we might as well do what we did best indoors: make moonshine. And not the rough stuff either—real craft work. Small-batch, sweet finish, and maybe a little honey twist if we could wrangle it.

I rounded up the brew crew—Uno, Dos, Tres, and Quattro—and told them, “If we’re gonna be stuck indoors, then we’re gonna be stuck productive. Still’s ready, barrels are dry, and our mash is beggin’ for attention.”

Dos grinned. “You mean we get to light the flame again?”

“Just don’t light yourselves,” I said, eyein’ him and Quattro in particular.

They took to it with the kind of energy you usually reserve for snow days and free pie. By noon we had the copper coils hummin’, the drip tubes set, and the mash warmed up in the fermentin’ room. It smelled like a sweet corn festival mixed with warm socks—ugly but welcome.

Lu came by to check progress, her hair tied back and an apron smeared with jam. “You boys better label this batch right,” she warned. “No more ‘Oopsie No. 3’ and ‘This One Might Kill You.’”

Uno cleared his throat. “We prefer ‘Experimental Corn B’ and ‘Warm Finish.’”

“Mmhmm,” she said, rollin’ her eyes.

Later that day, Once and Doce came in from their weatherproofin’ chores and wandered into the brew room. They were the new guys—brothers from Lu’s side of the family—and still tryin’ to find their place. I figured I’d let them watch. Didn’t expect them to outthink half the room.

“Why’s your condenser coil twist so tight?” Once asked, squintin’ at the copper loop.

“To cool the vapor faster,” Quattro answered proudly.

“Yeah,” Doce said, “but wouldn’t it be more efficient to add a second loop here and run the coolant from the rainwater barrels? More surface contact. Faster cooling.”

We all looked at each other.

“That... might work,” Uno muttered, almost offended.

“Well, let’s test it,” I said.

We strung together a side loop, hooked it to the rain barrel runoff, and sure enough—drip speed doubled, clarity improved, and the nose on the output was cleaner than a preacher’s sermon.

“Looks like we hired engineers,” I joked.

Once grinned. “Nah, just bored and curious.”

Lu brought in a notebook and started scribblin’. “We’ll need to replicate this for every unit.”

“Already?” I asked.

“You want consistency or mystery in your bottles?”

“Fair.”

Around supper, with the main batch coolin’, Lu ducked into the back pantry and came out carryin’ a faded recipe card in a plastic sleeve.

“This,” she announced, “is from my great-aunt Rosita. Honey-spiced liqueur. We used to make it in fall, after apple harvest.”

She laid it on the table like a treasure map. Cinnamon sticks, cracked pepper, a hint of clove, and a few things scribbled in family shorthand I couldn’t quite decode.

“What’s that say?” I asked, pointin’ to a note beside the honey.

Lu squinted. “I think it says ‘Stir with wooden spoon or risk a pouting ghost.’”

“…Okay.”

We whipped up a small batch in a spare fermenter—honey, spices, a few secret touches—and sealed it for a week’s rest. Meanwhile, the rain beat gently on the roof like a drum with no ambition.

The next two days blurred together in a haze of boilin’, tastin’, and dryin’ wet socks over the hearth. Seis accidentally left a batch uncapped and invited fruit flies into the mix, which Lu handled with a salt shaker, a loud “¡Ay caramba!” and a vengeance I ain’t seen since my grandma swatted a snake with her Sunday shoe.

By Thursday night, we had six finished barrels, labeled proper, sealed, and stacked. The boys were tired but giddy. Even Quattro, who normally griped about paperwork, offered to draft the first batch report.

After dinner, we passed around a small jar of the spiced liqueur—just a thimble each, for taste.

Lu raised her glass. “To time well spent.”

“To indoor work,” Uno added.

“To Seis, for not blowing anything up this week,” I muttered.

He beamed. “Only because you hid the fuses.”

We clinked, sipped, and I’ll tell you straight—it was good. Not just decent. Good enough to make a man close his eyes and think about apple trees and warm hands and fall blankets. Smooth, just sweet enough, with a peppery kick at the end that made me clear my throat.

“You could sell this,” I said.

Lu smiled. “That’s the plan.”

That night, as the boys played cards and Lu sorted recipe cards into her ever-growing binder, I stepped outside to the porch. Rain was still fallin’—a little softer now, almost lazy.

I leaned on the rail, listenin’, watchin’ droplets roll off the eaves.

I didn’t miss Earth. I missed people. But slowly, these ones were becomin’ mine. And it was strange how that felt more real than anything I’d had back home. We weren’t just makin’ moonshine. We were makin’ life work—together.

Lu joined me after a bit, arms crossed, her breath foggin’ in the cool air.

“Think it’ll let up soon?” I asked.

She looked out into the dark.

“Nope.”

I chuckled. “Well then. Guess we make more booze.”

“Guess so,” she said, smilin’. “Just don’t name the puddles again.”

“I already did. Big Louie says hi.”

She rolled her eyes and leaned into me. I didn’t flinch. Not this time.

CHAPTER 43 – Hothouse Hazards

You ever seen a row of lettuce sprout like it owed someone money? No? Well, I hadn’t either—until Lu got the itch to build a makeshift hothouse in the barn.

“This rain’s got no end in sight,” she said, standin’ in the barn doorway with a clipboard and an old grow-light clutched under her arm. “We can’t go weeks without greens.”

“I ain’t complainin’,” I replied, chewin’ on a bit of smoked jerky. “I can live off beans and mash.”

“You’ll be constipated and bitter in three days,” she shot back, and that ended that.

So we cleared out a corner of the barn. Moved the bags of feed, shoved a stack of lumber to the side, and laid out shallow tubs we scavenged from the old storage shed. Lu directed the setup like she’d trained at some off-world ag academy, and the boys scrambled to obey, trippin’ over each other in their muddy socks.

She handed Seis a tangle of wires and said, “You’re on lighting. Follow the color tags and don’t plug anything in until I double-check it.”

Seis puffed up with pride. “I got this.”

He didn’t got this.

But we’ll get there.

We lined the tubs with drainage rock and soil, added mulch, and planted the first round of seeds—spinach, lettuce, mustard greens, and even some cherry tomatoes in the back. Lu said we’d have fresh harvest in a couple weeks if the lights held steady and the soil stayed warm.

I wasn’t sure the barn would appreciate all the moisture, but I trusted her instincts. Mostly.

“Ron,” she said while setting up timers, “you mind fixin’ that busted corner panel? Cold air’s sneakin’ in.”

“Sure,” I said, grabbin’ a plank and some nails.

While I was hammerin’, I could hear Seis narratin’ his wiring job like he was teachin’ a class.

“Black goes to the heat regulator, red to the lamp switch, green’s for ground—unless you’re upside down, then—”

That should’ve been my first warning.

I turned just in time to see a spark leap from the socket like a frog on fire.

POW—crackle—zzzzzrrrt!

The whole barn went dark.

Seis yelped, dropped the wires, and stumbled backward into the lettuce tub. A light popped, and the air filled with the smell of ozone and slightly cooked cabbage.

The boys all froze.

Lu let out the slowest sigh I’ve ever heard.

“Is... is that supposed to happen?” Seis asked from the dirt.

“No, sweetie,” Lu said. “That’s called a blackout.”

I found the fuse box and reset the circuit, grumblin’ the whole way. Lights flickered back on, and Seis pulled himself up, coated in soil and shame.

“I swear I followed the colors,” he muttered.

“You did,” Lu said kindly. “But upside down.”

Seis blinked.

Lu crouched down, helped him dust off, and said, “It’s okay. You made a mistake. That’s how you learn. You didn’t burn the place down, so I’m proud.”

That’s how she was. Stern, but never cruel. The kind of leader who taught through patience and not just barkin’.

I walked over and gave Seis a high five. “You’re officially the first Hosen Farm electrician.”

He looked up. “Does that come with a hat?”

“We’ll see.”

We double-checked every wire, every bulb, and got the hothouse hummin’ again by evening. Lu adjusted the timers, calibrated the moisture sensors, and even hooked up a fan to keep the air circulatin’.

“You’re really goin’ all out,” I said, watchin’ her move like she was dancin’ with a chore list.

“If we’re gonna be stuck here another month,” she said, “I want something green that don’t taste like pickled despair.”

Fair enough.

Later, after chores were done and the boys had retreated to the bunkhouse to clean their muddy boots and swap ghost stories (Quattro claimed the barn was haunted now), Lu and I sat in the kitchen drinkin’ hot tea.

“You were good with him,” I said.

“Seis? He’s trying so hard to prove he’s useful,” she said, blowin’ steam from her cup. “Sometimes they push too fast because they’re afraid to fall behind.”

“Reminds me of myself when I first started farming,” I said. “I once flooded an entire carrot field ‘cause I fell asleep while irrigatin’. Peg laughed so hard, I almost moved out.”

“She seems like she was wonderful.”

I nodded. “She was. But you’re different in all the right ways.”

Lu blushed but didn’t look away.

“You’re different too, Ron,” she said quietly. “You could’ve just grumped your way through this whole thing. But you didn’t.”

I chuckled. “Grumped is still on the table.”

We sipped our tea in silence for a while. The kitchen smelled like bread and dry herbs, warm and safe. Rain kept tappin’ on the window, steady and soft.

I thought about how far we’d come—me, the boys, Lu, even Seis with his singed pride. We weren’t just surviving the rain. We were usin’ it. Workin’ through it. Growin’ despite it.

And that barn? It was hummin’ like a spaceship now. Warm, lit up, full of little green shoots pokin’ through the soil like they had somethin’ to say.

That night, I walked out to the barn one more time before bed. Just wanted to check the wiring. Really, I just wanted to see that glow again.

I stood in the doorway, watchin’ the grow lights cast long shadows over the dirt. The greens were barely peekin’ through, but they were tryin’. And so were we.

Seis had left a little sign next to his section of wires. It read:

“DO NOT TOUCH. UNLESS YOU KNOW WHICH WAY IS UP.”

I laughed. Good boy.