Twomey & Miholovich Saved Frisco’s Yellowstone Saloon

In January 1896, the San Francisco Call reported on a legal battle related to the economic viability of the Yellowstone Saloon at 22 Montgomery Street, the major commercial avenue shown below.   The original owners, brothers John H. and Harry Wise had sued James T. Murphy and F. Smalley for money owning them on a half interest they had sold the pair in the drinking establishment.  Murphy and Smalley countered by charging that the Wises had lied to them about the profitability of the Yellowstone.

They claimed the brothers had told them the saloon was worth $20,000, half a million in today’s dollar.  Moreover, it was put to them that Yellowstone took in $100 a day and that expenses were $35 a day.  As related by the newspaper:  “They say that these figures are all wrong and that, as a matter of fact, the saloon is not worth $10,000” — apparently the amount of their debt.

However the case was settled, two month later the Yellowstone was worth even less.  In March the place caught fire early one morning.  Although the fire patrol was commended for quick action the interior suffered damage, including some loss of stock and fixtures.

Enter James Twomey and Vincent Miholovich.  Sometime in the months following the fire, they entered on the scene and by 1898 their names appear as “proprietors” of the Yellowstone Saloon.  Twomey was 38, an immigrant from Ireland born in 1860.  Shown right, a dapper looking gent, he was unmarried, living at a rooming house on Geary Street.  Miholovich was two years older, an immigrant from Montenegro, then part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.  He was married to a woman named Kristina and the couple had one daughter.

Together Twomey and Miholovich set out to build a new reputation for the Yellowstone Saloon.  One strategy was to emphasize their proximity to San Francisco’s grandest hotel, the Palace, shown below.  This hostelry had been opened in 1875 to great fanfare.  Under construction for four years, the Palace Hotel was a stunning edifice.  The skylighted open center of the building featured a Grand Court overlooked by seven stories of white columned balconies.  It attracted the rich and famous alike.  The Yellowstone Saloon was only a half block away, an easy walk.

The partners tried to emulate “Palace” class in their advertising.  As in the ad shown above, they made a play for the college crowd, advertising regularly in Stanford University publications, like the “Sequoia,” a bi-weekly newsletter.  Other Twomey and Mihalovich ads exhibit an “art nouveau” style and elegant restraint that can only be considered remarkable in the saloon trade. 

What first sparked my interest in the Yellowstone Saloon and the men who ran it was their choice of containers for the whiskey they were selling to retail customers.  They fancied pint sized jugs in white Albany slip with their label on the front.  The jug at right deserves special mention.  It advertises The Yellowstone C.P.S. (copper pot still) Bourbon in a distinctive container.  The design identifies it immediately as a product of White’s Pottery in Utica, New York — often referred to as “White’s Utica.”  The partners had reached more than 2,800 miles across the United States to commission this jug — an expensive effort but one that made their whiskey distinctive in San Francisco.

To these merchandising measures, Twomey & Miholovich added another attraction at the Yellowstone Saloon. It held, as one commentator noted:  “One of the most varied and interesting collections of minerals to be found in the state.”  The partners collected interesting rocks for years and displayed them in their drinking establishment.  Their assemblage included nuggets of gold, silver, copper, antimony, lead, tin, quicksilver, nickel and cobalt as well as “rare ores” such as covelite, shown left, and boleite, shown right.  The collection also featured semi-precious stones such as opals, agates, topaz in lava, and quartz. 

The Yellowstone Saloon minerals exhibit was reputed to be “a great attraction to visitors,” even those not interested in mining.  The proprietors welcomed questions about the items and, it was said, “all information is freely and cheerfully furnished.”  It probably did not hurt to buy a drink first at the Yellowstone bar.

Surviving the great San Francisco earthquake and fire of 1906, the Yellowstone Saloon continued to prosper.  The Pacific Wine & Spirits Review reported to its readers that patrons of the “famous” Yellowstone Saloon need not fear “a possible dearth in their favorite resort.”  Twomey and Miholovich had the largest and best supplied cellars of all the retailers in San Francisco, the trade paper reported.  The partners apparently continued to operate their watering hole until the onset of National Prohibition.  I have been unable to find details of their later lives or what happened to their minerals collection.

It is sufficient to say that James Twomey and Vincent Miholovich had made a smashing success of the Yellowstone.  By dint of hard work and imagination they had resurrected a saloon that was “on the rocks,” and by featuring a roomful of rocks, made it one of San Francisco most notable.

The Heller Brothers Played “Hide and Seek” with Prohibition

Heller Brothers sold liquor in Bristol, a city that straddles the state line dividing Virginia and Tennessee.  As prohibitionary forces intermittently were successful on each side of the line, the brothers played an elaborate game of “hide and seek,” changing locations to avoid enforcers of the “dry” laws.  They succeeded until 1916 when they ran out of options.

Although personal data about the brothers, Maurice A. and Adolph B., are scanty, their efforts to operate their whiskey enterprise in the face of growing anti-alcohol sentiments among the public read like a epic saga.  The brothers likely originated in Harrisonburg, Virginia, and just when they arrived in Bristol is not certain.  They likely set up their liquor enterprise initially on the Tennessee side of State Street, the avenue that marks the dividing line downtown.  From June 1886 to June 1888, it was illegal to sell whiskey in Bristol, Virginia, but perfectly fine across the street in Bristol, Tennessee.

The Temperance crowd under “local option” laws had carried the day on the Virginia side of town by a vote of 364 to 216 while the Tennessee side remained “wet.”  A tacit understanding among the prohibitionists on both sides was that Bristol, Tenn., would vote out saloons at a referendum taken the following year.   When the election occurred, whiskey was voted out of Bristol by a substantial majority but the proposed ban lost statewide in Tennessee and could not be imposed.

Subsequently in 1888 a second election was held in Bristol, Va., on the liquor question and by a vote of 184 to 115 the electorate decided to go “wet” again, although surrounding communities had voted to keep the ban on alcohol.  Faced with license applications from the whiskey trade, likely including the Hellers, a friendly judge ruled that under the prevailing law he was compelled to grant saloons and liquor dealers the right to do business once again on the Virginia portion of Bristol.

Thus for a time, liquor was sold on both sides of State Street.  On their large whiskey jugs, rendered both in ceramics and glass,  Heller Bros. referenced both states on their labels.  Shot glasses advertising their brands and given to saloon customers also listed both.  The Hellers established their headquarters on the Virginia side of State Street, located in the 500 block, the front window looking out at Tennessee.  Shown above right is an illustration of the building, three stories tall, with a giant bottle ornamenting the sidewalk in front of the entrance.  The horse-drawn wagon in front bears the inscription “Southern Express.” 

 

That railroad express company was the largest in the South and the principal means for liquor dealers to receive whiskey from producers and to send it out to customers.  Heller Bros. claimed to be the “Largest and Oldest Mail Order Liquor House in the Entire South” and was transporting its whiskey via Southern Express into both states and perhaps beyond.  They included local areas that had voted “dry,” since interstate liquor shipments were still legal under federal statutes.  The Hellers also ran a well-stocked local retail business, featuring house brands like “Duke of Bourbon” and “King Kotton Corn” in labeled quart bottles with underlying embossing.  They issued advertising shot glasses, shown below, to favored customers.

With the success of their business, the Heller brothers expanded their operations.  In 1905, they opened a liquor store in Knoxville, Tenn., located about 115 miles from Bristol.  Knoxville directories indicate that Maurice was manager of the facility,. About this same time the brothers also opened an outlet in Middlesboro, Kentucky, probably to help them access whiskey supplies coming out of that region.  In January 1907, Heller Bros. made a third move.  They purchased the wholesale whiskey business of The James Co.,Inc., in Macon, Georgia, and changed its name to theirs.  This move likely was a error in judgment because in October of that same year, Georgia voted a statewide ban on alcohol sales. 

Another blow fell in when Bristol, Tenn., under local option voted to outlaw liquor and close saloons.  After a court battle, the Tennessee Supreme Court upheld the abolition and the ban took effect on November 1, 1907. The Heller brothers were undaunted.  If they could not do business on the west side of Bristol, they could move to another Tennessee town still open for the liquor trade.  Adolph Heller told the Bristol News in October 1907 that he had gone to Chattanooga and while there leased a building near the Central Depot on Market Street.  Heller Bros., he said, would occupy it and be ready for business by the November 1 deadline.

Prohibitionist successes continued to require reshuffling of the company’s locations.   Heller Bros. merged their Tennessee outlets in Bristol and Knoxville to open in Chattanooga.  They moved their Macon liquor business to Jacksonville, Florida.  Their headquarters continued to be in Bristol, Virginia.  Now they had outlets in four states — Tennessee, Kentucky, Florida and Virginia.

The Hellers were, however, only a two year jump ahead of Temperance forces.  In 1909 the Tennessee legislature passed Senate Bill No. 1, making it illegal to sell or consume alcoholic beverages within a four-mile radius of any public or private school — whether it was in session or not.  While it was not an all-out statewide ban, the effect of the four mile exclusionary zone was just that.  The Heller operation in Chattanooga was forced to close.  As shown here, the Hellers subsequently eliminated any mention of Tennessee on their bottles, as on the jug shown right.

Now down to three locations, the embattled Maurice and Adolph faced new challenges to their operations. In 1913 the U.S. Congress passed the Webb-Kenyon Act that banned interstate transmittal of liquor products into dry areas.  The mail order business that had been so lucrative for the Hellers — and other mail order liquor companies — lingered for a time as the law was dragged through the courts but ultimately validated.  Now the brothers largely were limited to selling liquor in Bristol, Virginia, and in other parts of that state that were still wet.  Additionally, of course, Bristol’s thirsty Tennessee population could walk across State Street and pick up whiskey.  

The cost of business, however, had risen steeply.  Annually the Hellers were forced to renew their licenses with the state and city.  Virginia charged $500 for a retail license, $1,250 for wholesale, and if the company was “manufacturing,” a term that often included “rectifying” whiskey, i.e. blending and mixing it, the state charged another $700.  To these license costs the City of Bristol added a $2000 charge for retail, $500 for wholesale, and $3000 for manufacturing.  This means that the Hellers likely were paying just short of $8,000 annually to operate (equivalent to almost $200,000 in current dollars).

Through these exorbitant license charges, from twelve liquor dealers (including the Hellers), Bristol in 1914 raked in $340,000 (equiv. $8.5 million).  The same twelve dealers sent the state $141,500 (equiv. $3.54 million).  Despite these windfall license fees being lost, Virginia in October 1916 voted to go completely “dry.”  In Bristol it meant the termination of four retail only  dealers, nine retailer/shippers (including the Hellers), one wholesale dealer, two distilleries, two beer wholesalers and one “social club.”  

Although Florida did not go dry until late 1918 and Kentucky not until National Prohibition, having been ousted from Virginia, the Heller operations in those states would have been severely hampered.  My guess is that the brothers shut them down at the same time as the Bristol headquarters, took their liquor profits, and went on with their lives.  Because both Maurice and Adolph seemingly avoided census takers, they fade into the mists of time.  Not before playing, however, an elaborate “hide-and-seek” game with Prohibition — a game that unfortunately they could not win.  

Note:  My research has thus far found little about the personal lives of the Heller brothers and I am hopeful that a relative doing genealogy will find this post and help me fill in the details about these two resourceful brothers.

J.W. Cheesman Sold Spirits in “Sin City”

When I was a boy growing up in Ohio, everyone knew that Newport, Kentucky, was “Sin City,” beset with gambling, prostitution and crime.  But even earlier the town had a tawdry reputation.  One writer declared:  “At a time when Las Vegas was merely a crossroads in the Nevada desert, Newport became “Sin City” — a place if you could dream it, and pay for it, you could do it.”  That is where Joseph W. Cheesman established himself to sell whiskey.

How Newport attained its tawdry reputation has elicited various explanations.  Located on the Ohio River, it was established as a town in 1795 and grew rapidly when the Fort Washington Military Base was moved from Cincinnati to become Newport Barracks.  The troops stationed there fostered brothels whose numbers grew during the Civil War as soldiers garrisoned in southern Ohio crossed the river to make use of them.  Because Newport was populated by waves of immigrants, one writer has speculated that this “melting pot of culture” brought a love for beer, lotteries and sporting traditions that paved the way for illegal indulgences.”  Another author has cited the geographical seclusion from surrounding cities like Louisville, Lexington and Frankfort because of bad roads and hilly terrain.  As a result, he claimed, Newport became a perfect place for criminals on the run to hide out.

Whatever the combination of causes, the benign looking downtown shown above in a 1900 postcard seemingly belies the reputation.  Moreover, the circumstances responsible for pinning the “sin” label on Newport clearly held no fears for Joe Cheesman when he established himself in the whiskey trade there.  Cheesman had been born in Ohio in 1868.  His father, he told the 1930 census taker, was from New York and his mother from Ohio.  My speculation is that he learned the whiskey trade in Cincinnati, then the nation’s marketing center for liquor. 

 

Perhaps deciding that the field was too crowded with whiskey rectifiers, wholesalers and retailers in Cincinnati, he decided to take his enterprise across the Ohio River to Newport.  The letterhead of J.W. Cheesman Co. did not give an address but called itself “distributor of the products of the Old “76” Distilling Company,” whose Federal revenue designation was 6th District of Kentucky, Distillery No. 33.  

The Old ’76 Distillery was located not far from Newport in Campbell County, Kentucky, at a place designated “Finchtown. It had been built about 1892 by Geo. W. Robson Jr. & Co, a.k.a. Licking Bourbon Distilling.  As shown here in an illustration this was a large operation, located on a railroad spur line along Licking Creek, a tributary of the Ohio River.  The distillery itself, according to insurance records, was a brick structure with a metal or slate roof.  It featured five warehouses.  One was immediately adjacent to the still, with a companion storage area 55 feet west of it.  The third and fourth warehouses were in a single large structure, separated by a fire wall.   The fifth stood 75 feet west of the still.

In addition to providing whiskey to a host of wholesale and retail liquor companies from Cincinnati to San Francisco, the distillery featured its own proprietary brands, including “Medallion Bourbon,” Woodruff Whiskey,” Willmore Rye,” “Finchtown Whiskey,” “Lord Lytton Dry Gin,” and “Old ’76’ Brand Apricot.”   As a distributor for the Old “76” Distillery,  Cheesman would have been selling these brands, as well as his own proprietary brand, one he called “Inverness Club Whiskey.”   

He advertised Inverness Club lavishly, selling it wholesale in large white ceramic jugs with attractive cobalt blue labels to the many saloons and eateries in Newport, and at retail in quart bottles with a distinctive label.  Like many other liquor dealers of his time Cheesman’s merchandising efforts included providing advertising shot glasses to favored customers, including saloonkeepers and bartenders.   Two glasses are shown below, along with more unusual tin shot that had Cheesman’s name embossed on the bottom and Inverness Club along the rim.  His ability to give away items like this indicate his growing prosperity.

In the meantime Cheesman had taken as a partner, Clark B. Youtsey, a younger man who had been born in Kentucky, the son of native Kentuckian, Thomas and Sarah Youtsey.   The Youtsey family appears to have been deeply into the Kentucky whiskey trade.  In the 1910 census Clark’s older brother was recorded as the superintendent of a distillery, likely the Old ’76,’ and a younger brother was listed as a distillery clerk.  

With Youtsey’s help, much of Cheesman’s trade appears to have been mail orders.  Paying express charges, the company would send four quarts of Inverness Club and throw in an extra quart, all for the price of $2.85. That is the equivalent of $14.25 a bottle today, indicating that this was a relatively cheap whiskey for the times.  It also cultivated a wholesale mail order trade, able to supply 100 quarts at $42.00, the equivalent of $10.50 a bottle today. 

Cheesman’s mail order business, however, brought trouble in 1908 when this “Sin City” liquor dealer, sometimes operating as York Distilling Co., was accused of fraud.  The accuser was an attorney with the U.S. Post Office Department.  He charged that Cheesman and Youtsey “…were engaged in a scheme devised to defraud, and of obtaining money through the mails, by means of fraudulent pretenses, representations and promises, from the public generally….”  It appears, from a Cincinnati Enquirer story, that the partners were being accused of making false and fraudulent statements about the character of their mail order whiskey.  Since the alleged flimflam was being implemented through the U.S. mails, the postmaster at Newport was notified by the Postmaster General not to deliver any mail or redeem any money orders addressed to Cheesman.  His mail was held for weeks by postal authorities in Newport while the department prepared a fraud order that would have forever debarred the J.W. Cheesman Co. from using the mails in their business. 

Cheesman immediately sought a preliminary injunction in the Federal District Court to prevent the order being carried out.   When that court agreed with the liquor dealer the Newport postmaster appealed the decision to the U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals.   The Post Office lost again, this time on a technicality, and the mails and money orders presumably continued to flow in.

Although Cheesman remained in business for the next several years, the growing forces of Prohibition were slowing strangling the mail order whiskey trade.  Railroads and express companies increasingly were unwilling to carry liquor shipments into “dry” areas. In 1913, passage by Congress of the Webb-Kenyon Act made that interstate traffic illegal.  As a result many dealers like Cheesman ceased operations. 

Joseph Cheesman showed up in the 1930 U.S. Census, now 62, still living in Newport.   Apparently never having married, he was rooming in a house owned by 81-year-old Sarah Youtsey. He gave his occupation as “retired.”  Also there, apparently unmarried, was Clark Youtsey, 39, his occupation given as “agent.”  Even though Cheesman was several years removed from the liquor business when National Prohibition arrived, he was present during ensuing years to observe the onset of the “bootlegging” era when illegal booze, wide open casinos, rampant prostitution, and gangster control made Newport the nation’s most notorious “Sin City”

Rolling Out the Barrel with Friedenwald of Baltimore

Most liquor wholesalers sold whiskey by the barrel to the saloons and restaurants featuring their brands, but Jacob H. Frieldenwald was unique in marketing his whiskey to the general public in little oak barrels, each with a spigot and containing one gallon of Maryland rye or Kentucky bourbon.  Friedenwald had invented these “baby barrels” and stated they were made from the oak staves of old whiskey barrels:  “Thus the consumer continues to age the whiskey in wood after purchasing, a decided advantage over bottled whiskey.”  The whiskey came straight from the distillery, he claimed, right to the lips of the imbiber.   

This inventive whiskey man was born in Maryland in 1867.  His father, Joseph, a German immigrant, owned a clothing store in Baltimore.  Jacob’s mother, Rosina, a native of Baltimore, looked after a brood of nine children, ranging in age from 26 to 8 years.  They included four daughters and five sons; Jacob was the seventh in line.  Jim Bready, the guru of Baltimore whiskey, has linked him to the prestigious Friedenwald family that gave the city nationally recognized doctors and businessmen, but I have been unable to make the link.

Jacob Friedenwald first burst onto the Baltimore commercial scene in 1898 when he took over an existing liquor wholesale company that had been started by Moses Westheimer about 1880.  He was 31 years old and my guess he had been working as a clerk for Westheimer for several years, learning the whiskey trade.  J. H. Friedenwald & Co. was located at 101 to 113 North Eutaw Street, an address that changed slightly over the years as the city adjusted street numbers.

Friedenwald featured a number of brands of whiskey including “B.L.O.E.,” “Friedenwald’s Maryland,”  “Friedenwald’s Pure Rye,”  “Legion Rye,” “Purple Lable,” (his spelling) and “Triple Rye.” Of these brands, he appears only to have trademarked Triple Rye, in 1906.   His major advertising campaign for years featured the baby barrel and mail order sales.  He could ship more than 35 kinds of wines and liquors in the barrel and promised that it would arrive  “in perfectly plain package, no marks to indicate the nature of the content…”   Perhaps, but the postman might have noticed some sloshing.    Friedenwald also packaged his whiskey in bottles for over the counter retail sales.  As seen here, a colorful label usually covered his elaborately embossed amber quarts.

In 1902, the publication Advertising Age featured one of Friedenwald’s ads aimed at the retail trade.  In it the Baltimore whiskey man said:  “You couldn’t make a better resolution — you couldn’t do anything that would neet you more satisfaction than to determine to make this your headquarters for wines and liquors from now on.”  Friedenwald promised readers that with him they would get the best quality at lower cost.  Even so, his barrel of whiskey that cost $3.00 in 1901 had increased to $4.00 by 1908.

Jacob also concocted a “medicine” that he called “Friedenwald’s Celebrated Buchu-Gin.  This nostrum was made by filtering gin through the crushed leaves of buchu, a South American plant that was reputed to have therapeutic benefits.  He claimed, however, that his buchu gin was “a most effective cure for all diseases of the Kidneys, Liver, Blood, and Urinary Organs, Female Complaint and Irregularities.”   It also cured gall stones, diabetes, and “foul breath.”  This tonic, Friedenwald stated flatly, contained no opiates, narcotics, mercury or injurious drugs.  Note that he forgot to mention alcohol — a major ingredient.

Friedenwald’s Buchu Gin sold in embossed green quart bottles covered by an elaborate paper label that included instructions for its use that recommended three or four wine glasses of it daily or, for a woman, heating the beverage into a broth to be taken before going to bed.  This miracle cure could be had for $4.00 for four quarts or $1.00 per quart if bought with a baby barrel of whiskey.  He trademarked this “medicine” in 1905 and warned customers to be wary of fraudulent copies.

Jacob’s advertising ploys seem to have paid dividends in terms of business success.  In 1907 the Baltimore mayor and city council passed an ordinance allowing J. H. Friedenwald & Co. to construct and place a double faced electric sign in front of his Eutaw Street premises.   Ten feet long and two feet high, it read on one side “Friedenwald’s Wines,” and on the other “Friedenwald’s Liquors.” He also was gifting his customers operating saloons or restaurants with advertising shot glasses that touted both his wines and liquors.

Despite this seeming success, in 1913, Friedenwald, still a young man of 46, rolled out his last barrel, sold his liquor firm and exited the whiskey trade.  Why?  My guess is that the Webb-Kenyon Act, passed that year by Congress, he feared potentially damaging severely his mail order business.   Until 1913, the interpretation of the Interstate Commerce clause of the Constitution was that liquor could be mailed into “dry” localities and states so long as the transaction took place across state lines.  The Act forbid the practice, thereby eventually driving mail order whiskey dealers out of business.  Friedenwald may have anticipated that outcome.

Indicative of the financial squeeze being executed by prohibitionist forces,  the Wingro Company that succeeded Friedenwald at the Eutaw Street address was able to stay in business only about one year before it was absorbed by the Atlas Wine & Liquor Co., an larger concern with outlets in Maryland and Virginia.  In 1919 the Atlas firm too was forced to terminate its activities with the onset of National Prohibition.

Meanwhile, Jacob Friedenwald, his profits from the baby barrel and buchu gin in his pocket, had moved from Baltimore to New York City.  The 1920 census taker found him and his wife, Louise, living in a high rise apartment on West 86th St. in Manhattan.  Louise indicated that she had been born in Michigan, also the birthplace of her parents. Jacob gave his occupation as  “liquor-retired.”  The 1930 census found the couple had moved and were now living on Broadway.  Then Friedenwald gave his occupation as just “retired.”  

Three years later in August 1933, Jacob Friedenwald died at the age of 66 and his body returned to Baltimore where he had been born.  He was buried in the Baltimore Hebrew Cemetery, above.  Louise joined him there in 1938.   In my mind his legacy lives on in the plastic lined cardboard cartons with a spigot that currently dispense wine, beer, and even hard liquor.  Friedenwald clearly started something when he rolled out his baby barrel.

   

  

Booz in the Name and Booze in the Bottle

              

Shown above is a dictionary definition of the word “booze.”  It means an alcoholic beverage usually relates to whiskey or other hard liquor.  That is what Edmund G. Booz, a Philadelphia distiller of the mid-19th Century, put into his distinctive log cabin bottles and thereby etched his name in whiskey history and into the hearts of fervent bottle collectors.  He did not, however, give rise to the idea of liquor as “booze.”

Through the years the legend has been perpetrated that Edmund’s brand and the design of the bottles were so popular that “booz” (and later “booze”) became a slang term for hard liquor.  Actually the term may have been around since the 14th century, from the Dutch or German language.  Benjamin Franklin much earlier had referred to a drunkard as “boozy.”

Another legend surrounding Booz and his bottles is that the log cabin shape was derived from a supposed quote by William Henry Harrison in his 1840 election contest for that he would “rather sit on his front porch sipping whiskey than run for President.”  His opponents used the comment to slur him. As the story goes, Harrison turned it around and offered free bottles of whiskey in the shape of a log cabin (his birthplace) widely available to the electorate.  Well maybe, but Edmund Booz was only sixteen years old at the time and likely not at the helm of a Pennsylvania distillery.

While the real story of this whiskey man may be more prosaic than the legends, it is worth reciting.   Booz was born in 1824 in Bucks County, Pennsylvania.  His parents were William and Alice Green Hewson Booz, both of them born there.  His father worked the land and like many farmers at the time may have run a small distillery to use excess grain.  Edmund appears to have been young when he migrated to Philadelphia, shown above in the 1850s.  Nor was he much older when he started making whiskey in the big city.   In time as his business prospered Booz entered a marriage. His wife was Catherine D., a woman 12 years his junior who had been born in Philadelphia.  History records two son, Charles, born in 1857 and Andrew, born the following year.

The year 1858 often is cited as the first year of manufacture for the famous log cabin bottle.  By this time, Booz was selling his whiskey from a storefront at 120 Walnut Street to liquor merchants and tavern owners throughout the Delaware Valley.  The Whitney glass works had a retail office in Philadelphia next door to him at 118 Walnut.  We can imagine Edmund walking over there with an idea for a whiskey bottle and being warmly received.  Shown below, the Whitney Glass Works in Glassboro, New Jersey, was one of the largest and most accomplished glass and bottle manufacturers in America.

Even so, Booz’s log cabin must have posed challenges.  The bottle with its squared edges and embossed windows, doors, roof shingles and writing on many sides, would have required great skill from the workers.  It was difficult to blow sufficient glass into the corners and crevasses of Booz’s containers and they often are found with damage because of the thinness of the glass at those points.

The key to the bottles being feasible at all was a mold that was hinged to open and close diagonally.   A treadle mold was used applying foot power to allowed the master blower to close the mold around the blob of glass as he was blowing into it and then allowed him to open the mold carefully as he was finished making the bottle.  Excess glass was then cracked off and the top applied.  The original bottle also would have had a paper label wrapper, one that depicted an early American cabin, shown below in a reproduction.

The Whitney Glass works appears to have produced these bottles for as many as 12 years, reputedly into the 1870s.  As a result, although reasonably rare, many versions fetch under $10,000.  Over the years Booz bottles have been reproduced by other glass houses, however, and collectors must be aware of the differences in the later versions that are valued much less highly.

Meanwhile, the 1860 census found Booz and his small family living in the First Division of Philadelphia’s 14th Ward, his occupation given as “liquor dealer” but his name errantly given as “Edwin” and an incorrect birthdate.  A clear sign of Booz’s affluence was the net worth he reported of $4,000, equivalent to $100,000 today— twice as much reported by any of his neighbors.  Another indication were the two female servants in the household.  By this time in addition to his store on Walnut Street he was listed with an address at 15 Granite, possibly operating as his distillery or "rectifying" facility.

Having given the world an iconic bottle, Edmund Booz died young, only 46 years old in 1870.  He was buried in Laurel Hill Cemetery, shown left, a graveyard that holds the remains of many of Philadelphia most notable whiskey men.  Buried with him is his son, Charles, a railroad conductor, who died at only 30 years of age in 1883.  Strangely, Catherine Booz, who died in 1914, is not buried with her husband or son, but lies in the Saint James Episcopal Churchyard in Bucks County, the resting place as well of Booz’s parents, William and Alice.

In summary,  Edmund Booz may not have given us the word for "alcohol, especially hard liquor" as defined earlier, but he left a notable legacy of his own in the iconic log cabin bottles that contained his own, ah, hard liquor.