Kansas, by law, was a dry state.  The only legal alcoholic beverage was 3.2 beer, so-called because its alcoholic content cannot exceed 3.2% of its total volume.  A person can become intoxicated drinking this beer but they have to work at it.   Oklahoma, which was only one mile south, was just as dry.  This led to the creation of a thriving business community right at the Kansas-Oklahoma state line.  U.S. Highway 166 runs north and south through Kansas and passes through Caney before continuing into Oklahoma.  At the point where it crossed the State Line there were four windowless buildings, two on each side of the highway, two in each state.  They were called “clubs”.  Whiskey, wine, and strong beer was sold freely in those “clubs” to those who could afford to buy them at inflated prices.  Their proprietors believed strongly I equal opportunity.  They absolutely did not discriminate based on age, sobriety, or gender.  It took only three things to be a customer.  One, have enough money.  Two, be tall enough to hand money over the counter although reaching up and over the counter would probably have been acceptable, and three, be able to grasp the bottle when it was handed over.

There were other “sources” around town dedicated to solving the thirst problem, and it was not unheard of for a high school boy to supplement his income by making the 70-mile drive to Joplin, Missouri where booze was sold legally and bring a carload home to sell.  This "bootlegging" was clearly illegal but it was really tempting when boys needed an extraordinary amount of quick cash such as when the Junior/Senior Prom came around.

My older brother Gene gave in to that temptation.  He would probably have came out of it filled with a zeal for capitalism had Dad not noticed a sudden increase in the number of friends he had and how often they came to visit him.  I was in on the denouement of Gene’s capitalistic enterprise.  Our Dad could be a stern patriarch when the need arose.  When he saw an unusual number of boys coming to visit my brother’s upstairs bedroom he decided to check out his son’s sudden popularity.  The confrontation between Dad and Brother Gene was brief and without rancor.  That wasn't Dad's style.  He resolved things with firm, corrective action while showing little or no anger.   He told Gene to bring the remaining bottles of booze downstairs into the kitchen and empty them into the kitchen sink.  Dad was not a teetotaler.   Like any gentleman, he enjoyed a sip of good whiskey but his tolerance stopped short of having his home turned into bootlegger's nest.  As for my brother, his profits escaped into the Caney River, with the rest of that day's sewage.   There were no further repercussions.

Dad obviously thought the punishment fit the crime.  Years later I read a book written by a famed psychologist in which he told how to discipline children.  In reading it I saw that although Dad had not studied it he put that psychologist’s theories into practice like a professional.