Tim Murphy

Reporter

Tim Murphy is a reporter in MoJo's DC bureau. Last summer he logged 22,000 miles while blogging about his cross-country road trip for Mother Jones. His writing has been featured in Slate and the Washington Monthly. Email him with tips and insights at tmurphy [at] motherjones [dot] com.

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Tales of the Last Moonshiner

—By Tim Murphy

| Sun Jul. 11, 2010 8:46 AM PDT

Bybee, Tennessee—The road to Cocke County from the Great Smoky Mountains takes us through Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge, the Crabbe and Goyle of modern American tourist sprawl. You'll pass by, in no particular order, a "Ripley's Believe it or Not!" museum (ubiquitous wherever geographical oddities and commercial zoning coincide); a "Hollywood Wax Museum"; no fewer than 15 places to buy moccasins; frontier-themed amusement parks; fake waterfalls; "Hillbilly Golf"; some place called "Magiquest," which I think has something to do with magic; a dinosaur museum; a store selling nothing but "As Seen on TV" products; and Dollywood, the world's only Dolly Parton theme park. It's the real-life equivalent of an avalanche of pop-up windows, made all the more jarring by the fact that it immediately follows the serenity of the Smokies.

But the roadside SPAM ends by the time you get to Cocke County, an hour up the road. Cocke used to be the moonshine capital of the United States, but now, with bootlegging no longer worth the risk (for the most part), younger generations have turned to more modern occupations: White lightning was replaced by marijuana, which was replaced by cocaine, and now that, according to Ray Snader, who covers the area for a local radio station, has been replaced by chop shops and salvage switch operations—a process in which car thefts swap vehicle information numbers of a stolen car with that of a wrecked car. Those lines of work, coupled with perpetually high unemployment figures, lend themselves to a distrust of government and anyone who comes between you and your community, which is part of the reason why Eastern Tennessee is one of the more conservatives regions in the United States. As Ray puts it: "You talk to some of the old people, and they say, 'You can say it was illegal and we don't like to break the law, but when it comes down to breaking the law and feeding the family, or not feeding the family, we feed the family.'"

Moonshine may be entering its twilight—the Tennessee legislature recently passed a law legalizing moonshine distilleries, which means that pretty soon it'll be just another piece of roadside kitsch you can buy with your moccasins in Gatlinburg. Ray tells me the story of "Popcorn" Sutton, a notorious moonshiner who committed suicide in March of 2009 before he was set to begin serving an 18-month prison term. Popcorn, says Ray, "was the end of an era." Here's his story:

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A Sense of Where We Are: Going West

—By Tim Murphy

| Fri Jul. 9, 2010 9:49 AM PDT

View Westward Expansion in a larger map

Now Entering the Barbecue Belt

—By Tim Murphy

| Fri Jul. 9, 2010 6:59 AM PDT

This Little Piggie: North Carolina vinegar-based pulled pork with a dollop of cole slaw: First-hand evidence that the terrorists have lost. This Little Piggie: Vinegar-based pulled pork with a dollop of cole slaw, from Louise's Famous Restaurant in Linville Falls: First-hand evidence that the terrorists have lost.Asheville, North Carolina—Ever since we accidentally met Robyn, the "Need a Prayer? Stop Here!" sign-holder from Athol, Massachusetts, my friend and I have come to think of every fluke occurence on our trip as the work of, if not God (who presumably has better things to do), some sort of lesser deity like Walt Whitman.

For instance, if we knew anything about cars, we might not have driven 2,000 miles with a leaking radiator cap, which meant we never would have broken down outside of Wytheville, Virginia, and been forced to spend the night at a campground/spiritual retreat with members of the Last Days Gospel Church band. They hold services every Saturday, but on Wednesday they were just there for a birthday party, when a jam session broke out. Last Days is a a "Cowboy Church,"which means its evangelical and very informal—"come as you are in the eyes of Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior," as Patti, the group's guitarist, explains to me. She's practicing what she preaches, wearing green crocs and a Tweetie Bird t-shirt. Patti invites me to stop by on Saturday, and to be honest I'd love to, except it'd mean another four days in Wytheville.

We made it to Asheville, though. Finally. And on our way we discovered that the Highland Games, a sort of Scots-Irish Olympics, are being held this weekend outside Linville. One of our few rules on this trip is that any time we have an opportunity to watch competitive sheep herding, we can't pass it up, so expect a full report tomorrow. From there, it's up into the Smoky Mountains, through the Cumberland Gap, and into the Republic of RandPaulia.

Goldbug Variations

The politics of gold mania and the rise of the right-wing gold fanatics.

—By Tim Murphy

| July/August 2010 Issue

1775 The Continental Congress prints paper dollars backed by Spanish gold. Overprinting and hyperinflation render them "worthless as a Continental."

1795 The US Mint produces its first gold coins, though most early American currency is silver.

1849 California Gold Rush increases supply of gold currency.

1862 To pay for the Union war effort, the Treasury prints "greenbacks"—bills not backed by specie, prompting gold hoarding. The Confederacy says its money is backed by gold—when it turns out it's not, the Confederate dollar's value crashes.

1873 Amid a silver boom, the Coinage Act cuts back on the production of silver coins. Cash-strapped farmers and small businessmen, who'd hoped to pay off debts with "free silver," brand the act "the Crime of 1873" and vilify gold as the choice of East Coast bankers.

[Read the full article]

The Bond Villains at the Jerry Falwell Museum

—By Tim Murphy

| Wed Jul. 7, 2010 1:03 PM PDT

The Great Books: Liberty U's Barnes & Noble is like any college bookstore anywhere, right down to the overpriced coffee. The books are a little bit different, though (Photo: Tim Murphy).Lynchburg, Virginia—Although a friend in Charlottesville had informed me that Lynchburg might be a nice place for me to check out my first gun shop, the real attraction in town is the campus of Liberty University. Founded by the late Rev. Jerry Falwell, the televangelist who once suggested that 9/11 may have been God's punishment for homosexuality (I mean, really, who can say for sure?), it's emerged as one of the nation's most prominent conservative Christian institutions. At the law school, the world's only full-scale replica of the Supreme Court courtroom invites students to think about their futures in public life; last year, the school's president, Jerry Falwell Jr., shut down a Democratic student organization because of the party's position on abortion.

The crown jewel on campus, though, might be the Jerry Falwell Museum, located by the main entrance to the vistors center and perfectly situated for prospective students and their parents to stop in as they wait for a tour. It's kind of awesome. The museum houses not one but two stuffed bears, the smaller a black bear named Gertie that the Reverend's father had wrestled (!!) as a young man, and tucked in a side room reserved for alumni, a 10-foot-tall Kodiak donated by a visiting speaker. You can find the piano that was played at the church the night the Reverend was saved, his wife's wedding dress, and a to-scale replica of the tricked-out car his father used to run liquor during prohibition. One room consists almost entirely of photos of its namesake with people more and less famous than himself. There's Jerry with Evander Holyfield; Jerry with Ted Kennedy; Jerry with the Presidents Bush; Jerry with Franklin Graham; Even, tucked in the corner, a photo of Jerry and the tall scary guy who played Jaws in Moonraker.*

A young woman is there with her parents, waiting for an official school tour to begin. She's currently in college (in North Carolina, I think). "It's a 'Baptist' college, in quotations, because I don't think they talked a lot about God the week I was there," says the mom, matter of factly, to tour guide. "Mom, they did!" the daughter protests. Parents are required by a federal law to say stuff like this at least once on every college tour, I think.

Jerry and Jaws:: You may know Richard Kiel as Bond villain Jaws, or as Mr. Larson in Happy Gilmore. Jerry Falwell knew him as "the guy standing next to me" (Photo: Tim Murphy). Jerry and Jaws: You may know Richard Kiel as Bond villain Jaws, or as Mr. Larson in Happy Gilmore. Jerry Falwell knew him as "the guy standing next to me" (Photo: Tim Murphy).The family leaves and I get to talking to a man named Ryan, a former student who now works at the school. I ask Ryan about Liberty's commencement speaker last spring, Glenn Beck. It wasn't quite Obama at Notre Dame, but, he says, "a lot of people were like 'whooooa—he's Mormon." The elderly man sitting at the desk, who I presume works there but doesn't really talk except for once or twice and even then for never more than five seconds, jumps in at this point: "He's not a Christian," he says, speaking of Beck. Then he goes back to his book.

Ryan doesn't really mind much what Beck is, though. He says that while "about a third" of those in attendence at the ceremony were skeptical going in, once Beck started things off by expressing his admiration for the school, he had the crowd in hand. As he explains it, "I don’t really care whether you're Buddhist, Hindu, Jewish, or Christian. I just care about how conservative you are." Needless to say, Glenn Beck passes that test.