(Read on August 17, 2025)

The year is 1933. Prohibition is over. After thirteen dry years, Americans could finally raise their glasses without looking over their shoulders. No more secret knocks on back doors. No more whiskey hidden in teapots. Just good old-fashioned toasts—bold, public, and long overdue.

But while most of the nation celebrated the end of the so-called “Noble Experiment,” Pennsylvania’s story unfolded a bit differently. Governor Gifford Pinchot wasn’t ready to join the party.

Sharp-minded, fiercely principled, and a lifelong teetotaler, Pinchot didn’t see alcohol as just a personal vice—he viewed it as a threat to society itself. To him, good government meant protecting the public from moral and social dangers. His aversion to drinking took root in college and deepened during his travels in Europe, where he believed he witnessed the destructive effects of widespread alcohol use.

And that belief wasn’t uncommon for his time. Many reformers saw sobriety as a path to a more orderly society. But for Pinchot, it was more than political—it was personal.

So while much of the country rejoiced at Prohibition’s repeal, Pinchot stood firm.

During his two non-consecutive terms as governor—first from 1923 to 1927, then again from 1931 to 1935—he used his political capital to shape some of the toughest post-Prohibition liquor laws in the country.

That influence is still with us today. Walk into any state-run liquor store in Pennsylvania, and you’re seeing part of Pinchot’s legacy. Because for him, the end of Prohibition wasn’t the end of the fight—it was just the beginning.

At first glance, his stance might seem out of step with the times. But in context, it made perfect sense. Born into privilege, Pinchot could have pursued any number of comfortable careers. Instead, after graduating from Yale in 1889, he chose something obscure and nearly unheard of in the United States: forestry.

To Pinchot, forests weren’t just resources to be harvested—they were national treasures. And this radical idea quickly drew national attention.

In 1898, President William McKinley appointed him to lead the Division of Forestry, a small office buried deep inside the Department of Agriculture. Under Pinchot’s leadership, that division evolved into the U.S. Forest Service in 1905—with Pinchot as its first chief.

It was a turning point in American conservation. Working closely with President Theodore Roosevelt, Pinchot championed a bold new idea: that the nation’s natural resources should be preserved and managed for the public good—not handed over to private interests for profit.

But politics being politics, the path wasn’t smooth. Under President Taft, Pinchot clashed with Secretary of the Interior Richard Ballinger, who supported opening public lands to private development. The dispute became a national scandal and ultimately cost Pinchot his job.

Still, he didn’t back down. That fight helped fracture the Republican Party and energized the rising Progressive movement.

In 1912, Pinchot backed Roosevelt’s third-party run for president. Though the campaign came up short, the fight for reform remained central to Pinchot’s life.

By the time Prohibition began, Pinchot had returned to Pennsylvania. From his beloved family estate, Grey Towers, he watched a nation transform—as millions of otherwise law-abiding citizens suddenly became criminals, all because of alcohol.

In Pennsylvania, the change was especially profound.

Before Prohibition, the state stood at the heart of America’s whiskey industry. It had more distilleries than any other state. Its rolling hills and fertile valleys supported everything from large-scale producers to small family-run stills.

Beer, too, had deep roots. Legend has it that William Penn brewed beer at his Pennsbury estate along the Delaware River. By 1696, Philadelphia boasted four major brewhouses.

Then came German immigrants, who brought lager—a lighter, crisper beer that quickly replaced the heavier English ales dominating colonial taverns. Demand surged. Breweries sprang up across the state, shaping Pennsylvania’s early economy and identity. By the late 1800s, nearly 3,000 breweries operated nationwide—91 in Philadelphia alone.

Now, Prohibition wasn’t just a strange American detour. It was part of a global wave of early 20th-century progressive reform—an effort to tame the social disorder brought on by rapid industrialization. In the U.S., reformers tackled political corruption, labor abuses, and—most fervently—alcohol.

To them, booze wasn’t a harmless indulgence. It was a threat to family life, workplace safety, public morality, and even democracy itself. The alcohol industry, flush with cash and political influence, became an irresistible target. The perfect villain.

Two groups led the charge: the Women’s Christian Temperance Union—the largest women’s organization in the country—and the Anti-Saloon League, a politically savvy powerhouse. Together, they campaigned relentlessly for local and national dry laws—working town by town, county by county. With backing from Protestant churches and a growing bloc of women voters, they built a movement Washington could no longer ignore.

In 1919, their efforts paid off. Congress passed the 18th Amendment, banning the manufacture, sale, and transportation of alcohol nationwide.

President Woodrow Wilson vetoed the enabling legislation—not because he opposed Prohibition, but due to technical concerns tied to the war effort. Congress quickly overrode him.

A one-year grace period followed, giving the nation time to adjust. Then, on a cold January morning, the law took effect—and the country went dry. Almost immediately, it backfired.

Instead of order, Prohibition brought chaos. Instead of sobriety, it unleashed an underground economy of speakeasies, smugglers, and organized crime. Nowhere was this more vivid than in Philadelphia, where the battle over alcohol became a brutal struggle for money, power, and survival. The American dream? In some places, it was going completely off the rails.

Prohibition’s backstory: Mississippi led the charge, becoming the first state to ratify the Prohibition amendment on January 17, 1918. Nebraska sealed the deal as the 36th, pushing the amendment over the majority line for national ratification.

Pennsylvania dragged its feet, ratifying only after the amendment had already passed. New Jersey followed even later. And some states—like Rhode Island and Connecticut—never ratified it at all, citing economic concerns, individual liberty, and resistance to federal overreach.

Still, the country wasn’t caught completely off guard. There had already been a trial run during World War I. Concerned that alcohol might weaken troop readiness—and that grain was better used for food—Congress passed the War Prohibition Act in 1918. It banned drinks over 1.28% alcohol, effectively shutting down production until the war’s end. That wartime dry spell didn’t just limit drinking—it helped prepare the public for what was coming next.

But here’s the odd part: the 18th Amendment never actually defined what “intoxicating liquor” meant or what penalties violators would face. That job fell to the Volstead Act—named for Minnesota Congressman Andrew Volstead, a staunch Prohibitionist.

The Act banned anything over 0.5% alcohol by volume—outlawing nearly all beer, wine, and spirits.

There was one narrow loophole: breweries could still make “near beer,” a watery version with less than half a percent ABV. But let’s be honest—most people weren’t lining up for the weak stuff.

So they got creative. Illegal beer—often stronger than 4% ABV—flowed behind closed doors. Despite the law, the beer of the Roaring Twenties still packed a punch.

At first, regulars played it safe. It is said, one Philadelphia reporter checked seventeen bars along Penn Street and found business had tanked in those initial weeks. No one wanted to get caught in a raid.

But for many bar owners, enforcement felt more like a nuisance than a serious threat—something they could ride out. Raids were inconsistent. In fact, as Prohibition enforcement tightened in New York, drinkers simply headed south—to Philadelphia—where rules were looser and the booze easier to find.

And city leaders weren’t exactly clamping down. The Philadelphia City Council refused to boost funding for police raids, even as bootlegging operations grew more organized—and more brazen.

By 1924, Mayor W. Freeland Kendrick had had enough. He asked Washington for help. President Calvin Coolidge responded by sending in a no-nonsense fixer: Brigadier General Smedley Darlington Butler, a decorated Marine with a reputation for getting results.

Butler didn’t disappoint. In one year, his team raided more than 2,500 illegal bars and clubs—a staggering leap from just 200 the year before. He even installed giant spotlights on top of City Hall, literally shining a light on the city’s deep-rooted corruption.

But the system pushed back. Judges tossed out cases. Police looked the other way. And citizens? They just wanted their booze.

By the end of 1925, Butler had seen enough. Burned out and disillusioned, he walked away—famously calling Philadelphia the “cesspool of Pennsylvania.”

For all its high-minded goals, Prohibition had an unintended side effect: it created a massive black market. Organized crime took over bootlegging, raking in millions. Using violence to control territory, gangsters like Al Capone rose to power, building underground empires and bribing police and public officials.

Speakeasies popped up everywhere—including at Brinton Lodge (www.brintonlodge.com). You should come on one of my tours.

While the law aimed to curb drinking, it often did the opposite. For many, breaking the rules became part of the fun. Secret cocktails, jazz bands, and late-night dancing turned drinking into a stylish rebellion—especially for women, who found new freedoms in the smoky corners of these hidden clubs.

That atmosphere sparked a full-blown cocktail craze. With quality liquor scarce, bartenders got creative—masking the burn of homemade booze with citrus, herbs, and sweeteners. Out of necessity came innovation and Prohibition gave rise to some of America’s most iconic cocktails.

The Bee’s Knees—a blend of gin, lemon juice, and honey syrup—was made to elevate rough spirits. Its name, slang for something excellent, fit perfectly. The Gin Rickey—a crisp mix of gin, lime juice, and soda water—became so iconic that it’s now Washington, D.C.’s official cocktail. Other drinks like the Hanky Panky and the White Lady also emerged, showcasing bartenders’ inventiveness working with limited—and often questionable—ingredients.

But not all of it was glamorous. Some bootleg booze was toxic. So-called “patent medicines” and mystery blends sent people to hospitals—and sometimes the morgue.

Meanwhile, legitimate jobs vanished. Breweries closed. Distilleries went dark. State and local governments lost millions in tax revenue.

As for enforcement? It was a mess.

Just a few hundred federal agents were tasked with policing the entire country. Most were underpaid, overworked, and easily bribed. Some even joined the illegal trade.

And it didn’t just enrich mob bosses—it turned millions of regular Americans into criminals. Courts and jails overflowed. The system couldn’t keep up. Some people arrested for Prohibition violations waited over a year just to see a judge.

To ease the pressure, courts leaned heavily on plea bargains—resolving hundreds of cases at a time. In fact, this is when plea bargaining really took hold as a common tool in the American justice system.

And here’s the kicker: by banning alcohol outright, the government also eliminated the very regulations that once kept it in check—things like licensing, taxation, and quality control. Pushed underground, booze became an unregulated product, sold in secret, with no oversight.

Instead of making drinking safer, the law made it riskier—legally, financially, and physically.

After more than a decade of chaos, crime, and unintended consequences, the tide finally turned. Public opinion shifted. The social, economic, and legal costs were far too high.

In 1933, the 21st Amendment was ratified—repealing Prohibition and officially ending the so-called “Noble Experiment.” It remains the only amendment in U.S. history passed solely to undo another.

In Pennsylvania, Prohibition enforcement had never gone smoothly. Even Governor William Sproul—Pinchot’s predecessor—admitted that bootlegging was wildly out of control.

So when Pinchot returned to office in 1931, he saw that chaos as a challenge. He believed that if Prohibition were enforced properly, it could bring real benefits. So he came in swinging, determined to make the law stick.

When Prohibition was repealed two years into his second term, Pinchot didn’t back down. Instead, he pushed through some of the strictest state-level alcohol laws in the country. The result? Pennsylvania’s state-run liquor system, with the Liquor Control Board overseeing everything from licenses and prices to hours of operation.

Pinchot argued that a state monopoly was safer than letting private businesses compete. He feared that competition would invite corruption, encourage bootlegging, and undo the progress reformers had fought so hard for. 

There was also a practical reason: revenue from the state-run stores helped fund critical social programs during the depths of the Great Depression—when unemployment in Pennsylvania reached a staggering forty percent.

Montgomery County, where we currently sit, wasn’t immune to the chaos of Prohibition. Far from it. Thanks to its close proximity to Philadelphia—Montco found itself in the middle of the action. 

Towns like Conshohocken were already known as “drinking men’s towns,” The Alan Wood Steel Company alone employed over 5,000 men, and factories like Lee Tire and Schuylkill Iron Works added thousands more. After a shift, most workers stopped at one of two dozen bars to wash down the day’s grime.

When Prohibition hit, many of those bars closed—at least officially. But it wasn’t long before they were back in business as speakeasies.

For nearly thirteen years, Conshohocken looked like a scene straight out of a movie. Moonshine barrels lined the sidewalks, agents swung axes, and booze poured down storm drains like water.

The first big raid in the borough happened on August 24, 1922. Five men and one woman—mostly hotel owners and bartenders—were arrested. It was just the start of many more raids to come.

One especially memorable bust happened at the “Soap House” on Seventh Avenue and Jones Street. Agents found an active still, barrels of mash, and gallons of alcohol. When they knocked, the owner was at work—but his wife answered the door and promptly dumped a gallon of booze down the drain. They later found a second still hidden in a stable out back. 

Other raids targeted shoe repair shops, grocery stores—even an undertaker, who had to prove his hearse contained a body and not barrels of hooch.

Elsewhere, Prohibition agents were making waves in Ambler. In July 1923, one of their biggest raids hit the Three Tuns Inn, where they barged in during an afternoon dance packed with hundreds of people. Right in the middle of the festivities, agents seized ten cases of beer and dozens of bottles of wine.

And it wasn’t just the inn that got hit. That same day, agents spread out across the area. At the home of William Holmes, a local dairy farmer, they found three cases of gin. Over in Norristown, they stopped by Joseph Carcappa’s cigar shop. At first, the search didn’t turn up much—but just as the agents were wrapping up, Carcappa walked in carrying fifty half-pint bottles of whiskey. He was arrested on the spot.

Interestingly, just days before the raid, the Three Tuns Inn had been damaged by a massive fire that caused around $15,000 in losses. Even so, the place was still drawing crowds—and attention.

And the raids didn’t stop there. Agents also targeted other popular spots around Ambler and Norristown, including Linden Court, Forest Inn, and Seven Stars Inn. Bartenders and owners were arrested and held on $2,000 bond, which was no small sum at the time.

Local newspapers were filled with stories: wives testifying in court about drunk, violent husbands; lookouts blowing whistles as agents approached; and bootleggers getting busted in increasingly creative setups.

Prohibition unrest also ran high in Bucks County. Authorities swept through rural communities like Durham Township, Carversville, and Upper Makefield. While some hotels held limited liquor licenses legally, many became countryside alternatives to the big-city speakeasy.

In July 1922, the Hagersville Hotel near Perkasie was caught selling liquor illegally. Another bust came in 1924, when police discovered a five-gallon still inside a home on Fifth Street. The owner was fined $300. Three years later, in 1927, the Blooming Glen Hotel was raided after a former housekeeper tipped off authorities about hidden stockpiles of alcohol. 

Then came a bold move: on December 13, 1928, nine federal agents raided both the American House Hotel and the Fraternity Temple. They attempted to break into the Union Hotel, but the bar had shut down in anticipation and locked its doors.

By 1930, a federal judge ordered the American House Hotel bar padlocked. But the owner simply relocated operations to the hotel kitchen. When state police raided again in 1931, they found a half-barrel of beer. This time, the owner wasn’t let off with a fine—he was sentenced to three months in prison.

The area’s most notorious speakeasy? The Rocky Ridge Hotel, perched along Bethlehem Pike between Perkasie and Quakertown.

That story began in 1927 with a couple from York County who had recently settled in Hilltown. After neighbors lodged complaints, police raided their farmhouse and discovered the couple, along with two women, serving alcohol to five married men from Perkasie and Sellersville. The couple was charged with selling liquor and faced accusations of running a house of ill repute.

Meanwhile, in Philadelphia, Prohibition wasn’t just endured—it was exploited. And no one did it better than Max “Boo Boo” Hoff.

Born in South Philly in 1892 to Russian Jewish immigrants, Hoff got his start as a boxing manager and gambling operator. But when alcohol went underground, he saw a bigger opportunity.

He opened a string of nightclubs and ran his operation with ruthless efficiency. Industrial alcohol, meant for factories, was siphoned off and repurposed for bootlegging. Bribes flowed freely—to police, federal agents, even judges. This wasn’t just organized crime. It was organized corruption.

By 1928, the federal government had taken notice. A grand jury launched an investigation into gang violence and bootlegging in Philadelphia. What they uncovered was staggering: hundreds of officers on the take, bars protected by payoffs, justice for sale.

And yet, Hoff stayed untouched. He was summoned eight times—but never indicted.

In the end, it wasn’t the law that brought him down. Like Capone, it was taxes. The IRS came after him for unpaid back taxes, and the empire crumbled. 

Hoff died in 1941.

And across the state in Easton, Prohibition left its mark in dramatic fashion. Exactly 100 years ago this week—on August 24, 1922—more than 100 federal agents swarmed the city in one of the largest liquor raids in Pennsylvania history.

They hit nearly every bar, café, and hotel downtown—spreading out into Nazareth, Bangor, and Bethlehem. Thousands of gallons of illegal booze were seized. 

At the Franklin Hotel, agents confiscated 100 gallons of whiskey—enough to keep the city wet for weeks. The Mount Vernon Hotel held another 60. Steve’s Café added 70 more. And at the Valley Hotel? Ten gallons of moonshine, hidden behind a false wall.

Despite the scale of the operation, almost no major bootleggers were caught. Just bartenders and bar owners. The real operators had already skipped town.

The raid made headlines. But most locals assumed—and rightly so—that things would soon go back to normal. Fines were issued. A few bars shut down. But within days? The buzz was back.

Here’s a fun one. Lancaster-based Rieker (pronounced Ricker) Star Brewery—later known as Penn Star Brewery—was the subject of a major raid in late January 1931. Police uncovered 2,700 barrels of beer, valued at over $54,000. Nine brewery workers were arrested. 

The business had been around since 1875, and according to reports, the owners literally took operations underground at the start of Prohibition. In one clever setup, beer was transported through the city’s sewers via a hose to a nearby warehouse, where it was barreled and distributed.

When Prohibition ended, Pennsylvania didn’t simply reopen the taps. Instead, it handed power to local communities. Towns and boroughs were given the right to decide: wet or dry? That choice remains today.

As of 2019, no counties in Pennsylvania remain completely dry, but over 680 municipalities still maintain some form of alcohol restriction.

Want to sell alcohol in the Commonwealth? You need a license. The Pennsylvania Liquor Control Board (PLCB) issues licenses based on a strict quota: one license per 3,000 residents per county. If an area has reached its limit, existing licenses are grandfathered in, but new ones can be costly and competitive to obtain.

Beer and wine? Slightly easier. Grocery and convenience stores can sell them—if they meet licensing requirements. But even then, limits remain: how much you can buy, when you can buy it, and whether you can purchase everything in one trip. And if you’re looking for beer at your local state store? Think again. Beer and spirits operate under separate systems.

Efforts to modernize the system have bubbled up for decades. Some governors have pushed for reform. Critics call it inefficient and outdated while supporters argue it maintains accountability and protects public health. Through it all, the system stays largely unchanged.

When Prohibition was repealed in 1933, Governor Gifford Pinchot refused to return to the old ways. He believed alcohol in private hands would reignite corruption and unchecked sales. 

Because of Pinchot’s vision, Pennsylvania is one of only two states—alongside Utah—where liquor is sold exclusively through state-run stores.

And here’s a poetic twist: the PLCB’s headquarters in Harrisburg, built in 1939, sits atop an old brewery site. Back in 1881, a German immigrant named Henry Fink built a large red-brick brewery there, capable of producing 20,000 barrels a year. It was a local favorite, famous for creative ads—including one featuring the “Distelfink Song,” a nod to Pennsylvania Dutch heritage.

So next time you raise a glass in the Keystone State, remember: there’s nearly a century of history behind every sip.

Whether you’re someone who remembers what it used to be or someone just discovering its celebrated story, this letter is for you.

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Come be part of the conversation on the first Sunday of each month at 3 p.m. Admission is always free, and everyone is welcome.