Love & Whiskey

What does it take to change a story the world thinks it already knows? In Love & Whiskey, Fawn Weaver argues that you can rewrite cultural memory when you blend rigorous research, relational trust, and entrepreneurial stewardship. She shows that Nathan “Nearest” Green—a formerly enslaved distiller who mastered the Lincoln County Process and taught Jack Daniel—belongs at the center of America’s most famous whiskey story. But to restore him, you must learn to work across archives and porches, past violence and kindness, and inside a modern industry designed to keep newcomers out.

You follow a clear arc: a single circa-1904 photograph of Jack Daniel with a Black man (George Green) in the place of honor prompts Weaver to investigate. That curiosity becomes a mission: prove Nearest existed and led the still house, protect his legacy in law and on land, launch a brand that operationalizes truth-telling, and channel its success into education, industry pipelines, and restorative ownership for the Green family. Along the way, Weaver navigates Lynchburg’s contradictions—everyday interracial warmth alongside episodes of terror like the 1894 Waggoner murders—and the modern spirits market’s gatekeepers (IP threats, distributors, and gendered exclusion).

The spark that becomes a mandate

Weaver studies the photo’s composition: Jack stands small and upright on lifts; George Green, son of Nearest, sits centered, dignified. Why is a Black man granted visual primacy in Lynchburg, Tennessee, a generation after slavery? That question leads her into Ben A. Green’s 1967 Jack Daniel’s Legacy, town archives, and living descendants like Annie Bell “Mammie” Green Eady, Claude and Miss Dot Eady, and Miss Helen. Oral recollections—“Daddy George” in the photo—converge with material traces from the Dan Call Farm to suggest a story hiding in plain sight.

A photograph can reframe history

“The man’s central position in the photograph was a statement in itself.” That visual claim sends Weaver to porches, deed books, and tax ledgers until the man behind the seat—Nearest—emerges as master of the still house.

Method: blend people, paper, and place

You watch Weaver combine three research modes. First, people: elders and descendants like Mammie, Miss Neat (Juanita Dunlap), Claude and Miss Dot, and Judy Boyd Terjen (a Motlow descendant) become primary sources and gatekeepers. Second, paper: unconventional records—Treasury assessment books, Moore County tax ledgers penciling “Nearest Green,” Masonic rosters, and church minutes—fill gaps left by the destroyed 1890 census and pre-1850 slave schedules that named numbers, not people. Third, place: artifacts at the Call Farm (a bottle jug stencil, foundation stones, gristmill ruins, the spring) and a crucial lease discovery by archivist Christine Pyrdom prove that Distillery No. 7 started on Dan Call’s property, with Nearest as the master distiller.

From truth-telling to institution-building

Weaver treats truth like a fragile asset you must secure. She files trademarks for “Uncle Nearest” and “Nearest Green” (June–July 2016) and secures domains to prevent appropriation without the family’s say. She and her husband Keith buy the Dan Call Farm to stop looting and create a research center. When making whiskey proves legally and financially complex, she pivots toward scholarships and a foundation, then returns with a brand strategy: launch quickly with mature, sourced Tennessee whiskey; build demand via PR and narrative; and hold distributors accountable with hard metrics.

Operational authenticity

Weaver’s rule: every commercial move must uplift the Greens and their community—scholarships, leadership roles (e.g., master blender Victoria Eady Butler), and physical memorials (Nearest Green Memorial Park, Highview Cemetery monument).

Negotiating power and building pipelines

The book shows how to defend a mission inside realpolitik. Weaver refuses a “coexistence” IP deal with Brown‑Forman that would dilute Uncle Nearest’s identity, yet co-launches the Nearest & Jack Advancement Initiative to advance apprenticeships, incubate BIPOC-owned spirits brands (e.g., Du Nord with Chris and Shanelle Montana), and establish the Nearest Green Academy of Distilling at Motlow State. You see a blueprint for principled independence coupled with pragmatic coalition-building (compare to Patagonia’s purpose trust model for values-led governance).

Why it matters now

Restoring Nearest doesn’t just correct a footnote; it reassigns credit for America’s signature whiskey style to a Black master distiller and his descendants. It also models how you transform discovery into durable change: legal foresight, place-based preservation, a brand that funds public good, and a succession plan that transfers non-investor shares to the family that created the value. If you care about repairing history, Weaver’s path offers you a practical, repeatable method—tell the truth, anchor it in evidence and relationships, and build institutions so the memory can’t be erased again.

Weaver begins with a photo and ends with a mandate: elevate Nearest Green from rumor to record and from record to living legacy. The image—Jack Daniel standing small, George Green seated center—raises a puzzle about power and recognition in Jim Crow Tennessee. You watch Weaver turn that visual question into a research program and then into action that outlives headlines.

Reading an image like a historian

You learn to treat composition as evidence. Why is George, a Black man, the focal point? Weaver reframes the usual “Jack and his mentor Dan Call” tale by following what the photo implies: prominence earned by mastery. The visual clue sends her to Ben A. Green’s 1967 book, local newspapers, and Lynchburg porches where memory survived outside official channels.

Porches before repositories

Weaver does not parachute in; she builds trust. She listens to Annie Bell “Mammie” Green Eady, Claude and Miss Dot Eady, Miss Helen, and Juanita “Miss Neat” Dunlap, a local genealogist. She runs a steady local ad asking for help and honors gatekeepers like Judy Boyd Terjen (a Motlow descendant) who could have barred access. That relational posture unlocks diaries, family Bibles, and the community’s willingness to co-author the story (compare to the best practices of oral historians like Studs Terkel).

• Miss Neat compiles family trees and organizes a meeting at Berry Chapel AME so the community verifies connections in public.
• Aunt Nell’s and Miss Helen’s identifications (“Daddy George”) turn the famous photo into an intergenerational artifact.

Triangulation across thin archives

Because the 1890 census was destroyed and pre-1850 slave schedules list people as numbers, Weaver must stitch together atypical sources: Moore County tax ledgers pencil in “Nearest Green”; Department of Treasury assessment books place production on Dan Call’s property; a lease document, surfaced by archivist Christine Pyrdom, confirms Jack Daniel leasing and renaming Distillery No. 7 there in 1877. Each fragment narrows uncertainty until oral history and paper mutually reinforce.

People are primary sources

“For decades, scholars couldn't piece together African American contributions because records were erased, lost, or never collected.” Oral testimony plus unusual documents make credible claims possible.

The town that complicates the story

Lynchburg resists simple labels. You meet generosity—land bequests like Oscar McGee’s five acres from the Stones, integrated play among children, and steady jobs with tenure-based pay at Jack Daniel’s—alongside violence, like the 1894 Waggoner murders with its macabre “Plenty More Rope” sign. In 1903–1904, townspeople even defend Allen Small from an external mob. This paradox explains how Nearest’s story could be widely “known” but rarely elevated: intimacy can normalize erasure as easily as it preserves memory.

From question to commitment

As Minnie’s porch stories meet ledger entries and artifacts, Weaver’s curiosity hardens into conviction: she files trademarks, acquires the Call Farm, and begins a foundation. The lesson for you is portable: start with the image or detail that doesn’t fit, pursue people before paper, and then use paper to secure the truth people entrusted to you. When you honor sources, the community will help you protect the story you both share.

At the heart of the book is a technical and moral correction: Nathan “Nearest” Green was the master distiller whose craft defined what the world calls Tennessee whiskey. He didn’t “assist” Jack Daniel; he taught him the Lincoln County Process and ran the still house that made Old No. 7 possible. Restoring his name restores ownership of a process and a flavor profile that became a global icon.

The real birthplace of Old No. 7

Weaver overturns a long-held assumption that Jack Daniel’s began at Cave Spring Hollow. With Christine Pyrdom’s lease discovery, you learn Jack leased and renamed Distillery No. 7 on Dan Call’s property in 1877. The Call Farm’s spring, gristmill ruins, and house with a bottle jug stencil anchor production there years earlier. Place matters because it ties craft to land and to the person mastering it—Nearest—rather than to a later corporate site (note: place-based origin stories also define Champagne or Roquefort).

What a master distiller actually does

A master distiller is part chemist, part taster, part systems steward. With the Lincoln County Process—slow filtration through sugar maple charcoal before barreling—timing, charcoal preparation, and barrel management change the spirit’s congeners and create Tennessee whiskey’s signature profile. Nearest controlled the variables that made Jack Daniel’s taste like itself across barrels and seasons.

Technical knowledge is ownership

“While Nearest was master of the still house, he was responsible for making Jack Daniel’s taste like Jack Daniel’s in every barrel.” When you control process, you author the product.

People as an intergenerational production network

Nearest’s sons George and Eli work with Jack after Emancipation, extending expertise into a family enterprise. Miss Helen’s identification of George in the photo (“Daddy George”) gives names to faces. Pay ledgers referencing Nearest’s children, plus local testimony from Debbie, Jackie, and Jerome Green (employed at Jack Daniel’s), weave family continuity into factory-scale production. Craft is never solitary; it’s lineage maintained by trained hands.

Why credit was missing—and why it sticks now

Legal structures once denied enslaved people recognition in patents and trademarks (see the 1858 attorney general opinion, “Invention of a Slave”). Combined with destroyed records and inconsistent name spellings (Nuerst, Nuress, Nerus), that silence persisted. Weaver counters with redundant forms of proof: tax ledger entries in pencil, physical artifacts on the Call Farm, lease documents, and oral consensus across generations. You see how many small receipts it takes to rebalance one big credit.

• Process: charcoal mellowing defines Tennessee whiskey beyond mashbill or barreling.
• Place: the Call Farm provides water, infrastructure, and a provenance that predates cave mythology.
• People: Nearest and his sons institutionalize the craft before corporate scaling.

For your work, the template is actionable: if you want to correct authorship in any field—tech, cuisine, design—document process custodians, tie practice to place, and build a chain of evidence that survives skepticism. When you protect the craftspeople, culture gets its real authors back.

The book insists you hold two pictures of Lynchburg at once: a community where Black and white families shared work, friendships, and even inheritances—and a place shadowed by racial terror. Understanding that contradiction helps you see how Nearest’s story was both preserved in memory and diminished in public record.

Everyday proximity and quiet equity

You encounter memories of Black and white kids playing together long before formal integration (Claude and Miss Dot Eady recall 1965 as a “nonissue”). Tenure-based pay at Jack Daniel’s and acts like the Stones leaving five acres to Oscar McGee point to relational ties that cut across color lines. Shared institutions—churches like Berry Chapel AME—keep stories alive through rituals and genealogies (note: these informal safety nets often did what official systems would not).

A night of horror: the 1894 Waggoner murders

Then there’s the rupture. On November 3, 1894, a mob stormed the Waggoner home on Jack Daniel’s property, murdered Ned Waggoner and family members, and staged the bodies with a sign—“Plenty More Rope. The Rest Look Out.” Newspapers nationwide carried the spectacle. Jack, bedridden, couldn’t intervene but reportedly paid for Ned’s burial. The atrocity punctures any temptation to soft-focus the era; it shows that proximity did not cancel the threat of terror.

Violence and protection coexisted

Lynchburg citizens at other moments resisted lynch mobs, as in the 1903–1904 defense of Allen Small, when townspeople protected the jail from an external mob and arrested ringleaders.

How contradiction shapes memory

Because neighbors knew the Greens and Daniel family personally, Nearest’s role was “known.” But normalization blunted urgency: what everyone knows locally can remain invisible nationally. Meanwhile, systemic erasure—the lost 1890 census, unnamed prewar records, and headstones gone missing—thinned the traceable record. Weaver’s method responds to both forces: honor local warmth by co-authoring the narrative, and overcome structural silence by over-documenting with tax rolls, leases, and artifacts.

Your takeaway for complex communities

Where you find entwined kindness and cruelty, you need a double strategy. First, invest in relationships that dignify memory keepers (e.g., Judy Boyd Terjen escorting Weaver to descendants; Miss Neat hosting family-tree meetings). Second, gather receipts across jurisdictions so a single missing record can’t collapse the case. If you can live with paradox without excusing harm, you can surface truths large institutions fail to hold.

Reconstructing the life of a person who was enslaved means fighting an archive built to omit them. The book becomes a manual for how you do that: look where standard histories don’t, duplicate everything you find, and weave together tiny documents until they carry the weight of proof.

Why the record is thin

Before 1850, federal slave schedules logged people as tallies. The 1890 census was destroyed, erasing postwar visibility. Law also excluded enslaved people from patents and trademarks (see the 1858 “Invention of a Slave” opinion). These voids mean you must make history from the seams: tax ledgers, Treasury assessment books, deed books, probate lists, church minutes, and fraternal rolls.

Detective work across jurisdictions

Weaver finds Moore County tax ledgers (1873–1884) penciling “Nearest Green,” lease documents confirming Distillery No. 7 on Dan Call’s farm, and Masonic rosters that map social networks of distillers (Jack was an exception among Masons). She notes Klan activity in nearby counties to read silence as signal—who had power to be remembered, and who didn’t. Artifacts from private keepers like Joel Pitts (a metal jug stencil) and Miss Neat’s bound genealogies matter as much as state archives.

• Photograph every page; store copies in multiple places; expect “inconvenient” documents to vanish.
• Cross-check spellings (Nuerst, Nuress, Nerus) and nicknames to thread people across records.
• Treat family Bibles, cemetery maps, and local papers as equal to official repositories.

Small documents decide big questions

A single penciled ledger entry with “Nearest Green” bridges family memory to state record, converting plausibility into historical fact.

Politics of secrecy and access

Fraternal orders like the Masons operated as shadow governance in 19th‑century America. Understanding who belonged and who didn’t helps you see why some names proliferate in minutes while others disappear. Weaver’s approach—ask local gatekeepers first; confirm with paper later—circumvents institutional defensiveness and lets the archive grow from within the community rather than against it (note: this mirrors community-archiving models used in civil rights museums).

Your method for resurrecting the erased

If you’re pursuing a suppressed history, build a lattice of proof: 1) interview elders; 2) map kinship with a local genealogist; 3) scour tax and Treasury records; 4) capture artifacts in situ; 5) preserve digitally in redundant systems; and 6) publish findings in ways communities can review. When the official archive won’t hold your story, assemble your own—piece by piece—until institutions must recognize it.

Weaver doesn’t stop at proving a point; she builds structures to protect it. The move from research to action flows through three levers: legal protection (trademarks and domains), physical protection (acquiring the Dan Call Farm), and social protection (foundations and scholarships). Together, they convert fragile discovery into durable stewardship.

Secure the name before the narrative explodes

In June–July 2016, Weaver files trademarks for “Uncle Nearest” and “Nearest Green” and locks domains. That preempts opportunistic actors from cashing in on the name without the family’s consent and keeps strategic control inside a mission-driven entity. IP isn’t just a business step here; it’s cultural preservation with a docket number (compare to the Navajo Nation’s defense of its name in fashion IP disputes).

Put the story back on its land

After discovering Distillery No. 7 began on Dan Call’s farm, Weaver and Keith buy it outright. Ownership halts the quiet looting of bricks, pipes, and even parts of the spring, and it enables an on-site research center. Place anchors legitimacy: when visitors stand over the spring and see the gristmill ruins, the abstract becomes felt truth.

Preservation as reparative action

Protecting land and artifacts safeguards a Black craftsman’s authorship in an industry that long profited from his expertise without credit.

Invest in people, not plaques

Weaver’s Uncle Nearest Foundation funds full-ride scholarships for Green descendants and restores family sites (e.g., Annie Bell Green Eady’s house). Rather than a static monument, she builds future capacity: education, jobs, and leadership roles (master blender Victoria Eady Butler). You see a theory of change—stories survive when descendants thrive.

Personal fuel for public good

Weaver’s urgency comes sharpened by grief: after losing her niece Brittany, she channels pain into purpose, guided by faith practices and a lifelong habit of listening learned from her Motown-connected father. Keith, initially skeptical of Lynchburg, becomes a steady operational partner—negotiating real estate and logistics. Their marriage becomes an engine that turns moral intention into practical action.

• Legal foresight: file IP early, assume everyone is watching your docket.
• Physical protection: acquire and steward origin sites to end artifact drift.
• Social investment: design scholarships and roles that make legacy self-sustaining.

If you’re shepherding a rediscovered legacy, take Weaver’s cue: act like a founder of an institution, not just the author of a narrative. Locks on the name, a deed to the land, and a bursar’s bill paid for a descendant all do more for memory than another press release ever could.

Turning a corrected history into a living brand meant building a company that could compete with legacy giants. Weaver’s strategy blends speed, credibility, and discipline: assemble an elite team, fund for control, launch with mature Tennessee whiskey, and create demand through narrative-led PR before the distribution moat closes.

Team first, then product

Weaver hires senior VP of sales and marketing Katharine Jerkens, operations head Sherrie Moore, executive assistant Evette Martinez, and master blender Victoria Eady Butler (a Green descendant). Each fills a critical function: Jerkens builds national relationships; Moore navigates supply; Butler ties product excellence to family lineage. Talent density becomes the brand’s first unfair advantage (note: mirroring Jim Collins’s “first who, then what”).

Capital that protects mission

Early funding comes from friends-and-family and aligned angels like Michael Berman, who brings in six others. With a floor of roughly $3M, Weaver avoids early dilution, preserving long-term autonomy. That decision later empowers her to refuse tempting buyout offers and maintain restorative goals (e.g., future ownership for the Greens).

Speed vs. aging: a smart trade-off

Whiskey takes time to mature; markets don’t wait. Weaver launches with sourced, mature Tennessee whiskey that meets the state’s legal standards (charcoal-mellowed) while planning in-house distillation for the long term. This lets Uncle Nearest show up on shelves with quality from day one and buys time to build their own stocks.

Tactical entry

Enter a slow category with fast credibility: source high‑quality supply now, compound brand equity, then scale your own production.

Narrative as demand engine

Weaver builds “pull” before asking distributors to “push.” Launches in Portland and Nashville (July 2017) target bartender communities and media. A Jeffrey Wright–narrated film, a Tribeca screening, and national TV placements turn history into cultural currency that retailers want on their backbar. Story translates directly into velocity.

• Market sequence: community of influence → earned media → distributor leverage.
• Product promise: Tennessee provenance and family leadership (Victoria Eady Butler) validate the label.

If you’re launching in a regulated, consolidated market, copy the playbook: build a top-tier team, choose values‑aligned capital, stage product for immediate excellence, and deploy narrative strategically so distribution becomes the effect of demand, not the precondition for it.

The modern spirits industry favors legacy incumbents through IP pressure, the three-tier distribution system, and cultural exclusion. Weaver wins by understanding each lever and acting decisively: protect core trademarks, measure and replace underperforming distributors, and flip bias into stealth advantage—while engaging giants on shared social aims without ceding brand sovereignty.

IP pressure and principled refusal

Brown‑Forman, owner of Jack Daniel’s, proposes a “coexistence” agreement allowing both parties to use the Nearest name. On paper, that looks fair; in practice, scale asymmetry means the incumbent could overshadow an independent. Weaver refuses, preserving the clarity of Uncle Nearest’s identity and right to grow. Later, after Nelson Eddy’s internal archival work and Mark McCallum’s visit to the Call Farm, Brown‑Forman acknowledges Nearest in materials, dedicates Barrel House 114 as the George Green Barrel House, and collaborates on inclusion initiatives.

Distributors: the hidden bottleneck

Under the three-tier system, producers sell to distributors who sell to retailers; distributors hold gatekeeping power. In Kentucky, a distributor claims 170 placements—but internal audit shows only one belongs to Uncle Nearest. Weaver fires them, secures a regional partner, and adds 500 placements in 90 days. The lesson: treat distributors like sales teams—set targets, audit performance, replace quickly when they fail.

Accountability over access

In a system built on relationships, verify. Data turns politeness into performance.

Gender bias as unintentional camouflage

Katharine Jerkens and Sherrie Moore encounter ignored emails and unreturned calls that vanish once Keith dials the same number. Rather than stall, Weaver adapts—letting underestimation keep her beneath the radar while results compound. The team divides outreach by channel and persona, ensuring gatekeepers hear the pitch in the voice they will actually answer.

Fight hard, partner wisely

Resisting a coexistence trap doesn’t preclude partnership. The Nearest & Jack Advancement Initiative (2020) tackles leadership acceleration, incubates BIPOC-owned brands (e.g., Du Nord’s recovery after a fire), and launches the Motlow State Academy of Distilling. You learn a nuanced play: defend your moat while collaborating on shared social goods the entire sector needs.

If you’re disrupting a closed market, operate with two hands—one holds the line on core IP and distribution performance, the other extends an open palm where progress requires coalitions. That balance transforms gatekeepers into reluctant allies while keeping your mission uncompromised.

Uncle Nearest isn’t just a bottle; it’s a place you can walk through and a community you can meet. Weaver makes authenticity operational by memorializing land, elevating descendants, and designing visitor experiences that teach while they delight. The brand, foundation, and physical sites reinforce one another until story becomes architecture.

Make memory tangible

Weaver buys the Dan Call Farm, secures four acres for the Nearest Green Memorial Park in Lynchburg, dedicates a monument at Highview Cemetery, and restores Annie Bell Green Eady’s home. These aren’t PR props; they are civic anchors that validate family memory and welcome the public into it (compare to Montgomery’s Legacy Museum in turning narrative into pilgrimage).

Family-first, not family-featured

Descendants aren’t cameos—they’re leaders and beneficiaries. Weaver organizes a Green family reunion at the Call Farm, funds full-ride scholarships, and elevates Victoria Eady Butler as master blender. Employment opportunities across the distillery turn legacy into livelihoods. This operationalizes the guiding principle: do for the family what the story did for the brand.

Brand principle

Authenticity must change the lives of the people who made the story possible, not just your marketing calendar.

Design layered visitor experiences

Tours merge artifacts (the bottle jug stencil), portraits, and film (narrated by Jeffrey Wright). The Master Blender House centers craft. Philo + Frank’s nonalcoholic speakeasy widens access; Humble Baron adds a music venue that becomes a community magnet. Visitors learn, taste, and belong—an experience stack that deepens brand affinity while teaching history.

• Place-making turns customers into advocates.
• Programs and parks keep families, not just fans, at the center.

If you want a brand that can carry a cause, build touchable truth. A park bench with a descendant’s name engraves memory deeper than an ad ever will. When people can visit your values, they return with friends.

Weaver uses Uncle Nearest as a platform for structural change—training new leaders, incubating BIPOC-owned spirits brands, and planning succession that returns non‑investor ownership to the Green family. This is restorative entrepreneurship: profit funds pipelines, and governance encodes justice.

Nearest & Jack Advancement Initiative

Launched in 2020 with Brown‑Forman, the initiative has three prongs. Leadership Acceleration places people of color in high-level apprenticeships across the industry (graduates include Tracie Franklin and Bryan Copeland). Business Incubation supports BIPOC-owned spirits brands through capital, compliance, and distribution, as seen in Du Nord’s recovery after a devastating fire (Chris and Shanelle Montana). The Nearest Green Academy of Distilling at Motlow State creates an associate’s degree pipeline into production roles.

Succession as moral design

Weaver drafts a succession plan naming Katharine Jerkens interim CEO and explores a purpose trust to transfer non‑investor shares of Uncle Nearest to the Greens in perpetuity. She refuses traditional exits—even theoretical multi‑billion offers—because the mission isn’t a payout; it’s a payback. Investor selection prioritizes alignment over speed, avoiding private equity terms that could force a sale or dilute purpose (note: akin to mission lock in B‑corps and perpetual purpose trusts).

Ethic of ownership

Transferring ownership to descendants of an erased originator is a form of restitution—justified by history and sustained by sound business.

Capacity before conveyance

Restorative ownership requires readiness. Scholarships, apprenticeships, and on‑the‑job leadership (e.g., Victoria Eady Butler as master blender and shareholder) build the skills and credibility that make future stewardship practical, not just symbolic. Family reunions and roles at the distillery nurture community cohesion so governance won’t outpace trust.

• Pipelines convert a headline into a hiring plan.
• Succession embeds justice in corporate DNA.

If you want your venture to repair the world that funded it, plan succession as carefully as launch. Choose investors who prize legacy over liquidation, train the people you’ll entrust, and design ownership vehicles that make mission drift legally hard and culturally unthinkable.