The Rifleman

I can well remember black and white television. I can also remember the Sunday evening our entire family loaded up in our pickup truck and went over to a neighbor’s house to get our first look at television in living color. It was a few years before my father brought home our first color set.

My brothers and I grew up watching three channels. Later on, if you had a special antennae, you could pick up Channel 17. Then, still later, Channel 30 came along. But, for the most part, it was three channels.

I’m proud to say, my wife Kathy and I raised our three boys on those five basic channels. Not until our youngest graduated from high school in 2002 did I break down and install DIRECTV. That’s not to say I didn’t endure plenty of grief over the years for my unwillingness to go multi-channel via satellite. But I held my ground as long as I could.

Suddenly, we had over two hundred channels. And I promise you, sometimes, in the years that followed, I have found myself sitting there after going through the channel menu and thinking, “There’s not a thing on tonight that’s worth watching!”

Then my youngest son Joseph saved the day when he suggested I add the Outdoor Channel and the Western Channel. Happy days were here again!

Not too long ago I was having a conversation with a young man who finished college last fall.

“What’s your favorite western?” I asked.

He gave me a blank look and responded, “What’s a western?”

I didn’t know what to say.

“What’s a western?” Why, no wonder the world is going to Hades in a hand basket! What is a western, my eye!

Recently, I was re-introduced to the classic western series, The Rifleman. Now, there’s a real western for you. Starring Chuck Connors as Lucas McCain, The Rifleman showcases all the drama and excitement of the old west. Lucas is, what would be called today, a single parent raising his son Mark. Played by Johnny Crawford, Mark is a good boy. I know he is a good boy because his main lines in the series are “Yes sir, Pa!” “Why, no sir, Pa!” “I’m sorry, Pa” and “Sure, Pa!”

When Lucas tells Mark to do something, he does it. Mark is a good boy. I know of a bunch of childhood actors whose lives turned out to be train wrecks. But I’ll bet Johnny Crawford grew up to be a fine man. He’s got that look in his eyes.

Lucas has this specially modified rifle which fires automatically when he pumps its lever. A ring in the lever affords him great freedom in welding his firearm. Lucas McCain can pump a dozen rounds through that Winchester faster than a cat can lick his whiskers. He doesn’t have to call on his rifle in every episode, but he rarely goes anywhere without it.

Lucas and Mark seem to spend a lot of time in town. That’s where most of the action takes place. The other two main characters are the sheriff, Micah, Lucas’s trusted friend and “Miss” Millie, who operates the general store.

In most westerns, the general store operator is a wimpy little man who wears glasses - not so on The Rifleman. “Miss” Millie is a sweet little thing; and, as Mark says, “purdy, too!” I think Lucas is a little “sweet” on “Miss” Millie. But if he is, their courtship is limited to an occasional invitation out to the McCain Ranch for supper. Lucas is much too focused on raising his son to have much time for courtin’.

According to Mark, Lucas is a great cook, especially when it comes to baking apple pie. However, on the show, Lucas spends precious little time in the kitchen.

In every episode of the Rifleman, an important lesson in life is brought to light. The show usually ends with Lucas pointing out that lesson to his son Mark.

I found I could sit down in front of my television precisely 22 minutes before bedtime; and, if I fast forwarded through the commercials, I could watch an entire episode of The Rifleman and still get to bed on time.

And the lessons Lucas teaches his son leave me with the best feelings. I go off to bed with good thoughts in my head.

Good wholesome entertainment is hard to come by these days – the kind that takes you back to the thrilling days of yesteryear when doing the right thing and living right meant something.

It makes me a little homesick just thinking about it.

Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

Trucks, Cars, and Push Buttons

My three brothers, my sister, and I grew up on a 67acre farm in a simple, white-framed, farmhouse. As our family grew, the house was “added on to” twice. The house featured one small bathroom. A second bathroom was planned for the second addition but was never finished until after the five of us moved on. Among our mother’s many fine attributes, she was a woman of extraordinary patience.

Our first three cars were pickup trucks. Our father saw that a truck lasted ten years. One of his familiar quotes was, “Oil is the life of an engine.” He purchased new GMC’s in 1948, 1958, and 1968. The ’48 model always seemed a bit sluggish to me. It featured a 4-in-the -floor, including a “granny low” gear. I declare that truck could have pulled big oak stumps out of the ground if the chain didn’t break. It was forest-green in color with a matching green, wooden, stock rack. In the lowest gear, it roared as it lurched forward. I called it the “green monster”. The ’58 featured a 3-speed-on-the-column, was leaner, quicker, but less powerful than the ’48. It was red with a matching bed. By the time the ’68 came along, my brother Tom was headed to the University of Tennessee. The ’68 featured a white cab and an orange stock rack. It was much lighter than its predecessor and geared so high it couldn’t pull a fat tick off a dog’s ear.

My father purchased our first car in the fall of 1961. He waited until the new models (’62’s) came out to cash in on a discount. Speaking of cash, that’s what he paid Jim Reed Chevrolet for it. It was a “plain Jane” 1961 Chevrolet Parkwood station wagon.  It came with a manual transmission and without air conditioning. I don’t recall it having a radio. Upon my mother’s insistence, my father installed plastic seat covers. In the hottest part of the summer, if you sweated enough, you could find yourself sticking to the car seat. If you wanted cooler air, you manually rolled the window down.

All three of the trucks I knew along with the station wagon could be started with a key, which reminds me of a trip I took recently.

I picked up a rental car at National Car Rental at a distant airport. The young man behind the counter in handing me the “keys,” named the make and model and said, “you will like this one!”  In order not to cast disparagement on the car company, the make and model will remain nameless.

I was not surprised to find it was a “keyless” model as most cars and trucks are of that variety these days. I was surprised when I had difficulty finding the gear shifter. Finally, there it was, a small black and silver device about the size of a plastic TicTac box, attached to the steering column. On the flat side were four letters, D, N, P, and R. D, N, and R were on a vertical line. The P was beside the N. I figured out what they stood for.

I don’t mind pushing buttons. I do it all the time. Elevators have buttons to push as do microwaves, cellphones, vending machines and the like. And I don’t expect a microwave to have an ignition key and a gear shifter. But these are cars and trucks for crying out loud. Chrysler Corporation tried pushbutton gears years ago, and it didn’t turn out so well.

After becoming accustomed to all the latest technology on the car, I settled into a comfortable routine of driving. On the second day I had not driven 10 miles when a steaming cup of coffee appeared on the instrument panel with a message which read, “Would you like to take a break?”

Before I could catch myself, I answered out loud, in an annoying voice, “No, I would not like to take a break!”

My next thought was, “I am talking to this car!”

When I returned home, I was relieved to climb inside my 2002 Toyota Tacoma pickup. In the floor I found a clutch petal, a break petal, and an accelerator (We used to call it a “foot feed.”) In the consol I found my trusted 5-speed gear shifter. I started it with an ignition key.

Neither I nor my truck said a word all the way home.

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall

Life by the Numbers

My friend, Dr. Donna Shaffer, has written an interesting book titled The Roller Coaster Called Life. In the book she refers to life stories as being “defining moments” in our lives. We all have these “defining moments.” Strangely, that got me to thinking about numbers. 

I also think there are defining numbers in each of our lives. Here are a few of mine.

“10” – That’s how many pounds I weighed when I was born. You couldn’t tell by looking at me.

“5” – In birth order, I am the second of five. You might call me a “middle child”, sort of.  

“40” – When I took my first job at the G&R Dairy Chef (Later Brenda’s Restaurant), the going hourly rate was 40 cents.  My job began in the fall of 1963.

“15” – That’s how old I was when I made peace with God. Some people call it being saved. Others call it being “born again.” Still others call it a “conversion experience.” Call it what you will. That was the age I made “my calling and election sure.” Since then, I have “been kept by the power of His might.”

“16” – That was the year I got my first “store bought” haircut. Up until then, my mother cut my hair, along with my three brothers’. There were a few early years when my father welded the scissors and clippers, but my mother took over when he started “soup-bowling” our haircut.

“1969” – That’s the year I graduated from Carthage High School.

“55” – That was my number in the U.S. Military Draft Lottery.

“19”- I was fully 19 years old when I first fell in love. That summer was the shortest summer of my life.

“1973” – In ’73 I graduated from the University of Tennessee. Look back to my high school graduation date. That’s right, I graduated in four years. That feat is not accomplished much these days.     

“1979” – That’s the year a blue-eyed blonde named Kathy Oakley and I were married.

“8 lbs. 15 ¼ oz.” – Our first son, J. Brim, tipped the scale at that exact weight. He turns 45   in a few months. It doesn’t seem like so long ago when the nurse turned to me in the hospital delivery room, handed him to me, as she announced to everyone in the room, “We’re going to let his father take him down to the nursery and weigh him.” I promise you. It seems like yesterday.

My mother use to say, “Looking back, it all seems like a dream.”

“45” – That blue-eyed blonde and I were married for almost that many years!

“3” -   That’s a big number around our house these days. We have three fine grown sons; and now, 8 finer grandchildren.

“63” – In my head, that’s how old I am. I know. I know. According to my birth date, I’m 73. But that just doesn’t work for me. So, do me a big favor and don’t try to tell me any different.

“81” – My father, Frank T. McCall crossed over to the other side at that age.

“22” – This Father’s Day he will have been gone twenty-two years. It doesn’t seem like that long ago when I got the call.

“88”– My mother made it to eighty-eight. If she had not worked so hard she would probably still be going strong.

“62” – My grandfather, Will Herod Brim, died on November 12, 1963. That’s sixty-two years ago this fall. Like my mother said, it’s like a dream. 

“1 million-plus” - That’s the number of blessings I’ve known in my lifetime.

“1” – Along this fascinating journey called life, I have tried to keep God first. I have failed Him often, but He has NEVER failed me.

“1000” – When I get to heaven, I’m going to find a rocking chair and sit in it for a thousand years. After a thousand years, I’ll start rocking.

Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

Return to the Brim Hollow

Strange how it draws me back there, after all these years.

My maternal grandfather, Will Herod Brim, was an odd fellow. Very few people knew him well, and that suited him just fine. He wore his feelings on his sleeve, was superstitious to a fault, and was “as tight as the bark on a tree.”

For the twelve short years I knew him, I could find no fault in him.

He and my Granny Lena lived in a house with no running water. I’m no stranger to an outhouse, a slop jar, a wash pan, a two-and-half bushel, galvanized wash tub, or a feather bed. In a moment’s recall I can feel the heat from a rolling fire in an oversized fireplace or winter’s chill in a bedroom where there was no heat.

They lived in The Brim Hollow, a property that’s been in the family since long before the Civil War. I spent many a day there (Sometimes weeks at-a-time.) in my formative years. In a strange way I came to know “the hollow” as I like to think it came to know me.

So much of the hollow mystique is linked to “him” – the smell of his flannel shirts, the boom of his laughter, the lovelight in his eyes. He thought I was “the finest thing.” And he made me feel that way.

In spite of his thriftiness, he said a man should wear a good hat, good shoes, and own “a good suit of clothes.” He wore a Stetson, Red Wings, and he had a fine, pinstripe suit. To this day I insist on Stetson hats, and I have worn out several pairs of Red Wing Shoes. You will find Hickey Freeman suits in my closet.

He wore a heavy denim “jumper” in the wintertime - the Sears and Roebuck kind. I still have it. The tag in the collar reads “Roebuck.” I guess he purchased it before “Roebuck” became Sears and Roebuck. He last wore it in the fall of 1963. I wore it last week when I returned to the Brim Hollow.

The old hollow calls me when the snow falls. It’s a strange calling. I find the Brim Hollow under a blanket of snow to be like no place on earth. I could hardly wait for morning to come after the recent snowfall. I dressed in layers of winter clothes, loaded my 410-shotgun, and switched my vehicle to 4-wheel drive.  Soon I was on the hollow road. Leaving my 4-Runner at the first deep creek bed, I prepared for the hike that lay ahead. At first, I donned sunglasses to protect my eyes on this bright morning. But in a moment, I removed them to witness the sacred whiteness. I felt my heartbeat quickening as the only sound I could hear was the continual crunching of the snow under my Red Wings.  Suddenly, I found myself far removed from the world in which I am living out my life.

As the ghostly form of the old homeplace came into view I felt a deep sense of “belonging.” So very many of the sights and sounds and smells and experiences and feelings known to me over six decades ago returned to dance in my head.

And in this silent world of white, cold and still, I was humbled to find myself reconnected to this place I had once known.

         Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall    

Adventures in Grandparenting

In my immediate family, there are 15 of us now – three sons, three daughters-in-law, eight grandchildren (5 girls, 3 boys), and me. I am discovering that it becomes increasingly harder to try and fill the shoes of a kind and loving mother and grandmother.

The following story is true. The names have been changed or omitted to protect the innocent…or the guilty.

Last week one of my sons, acting as agent for his son, contacted me to see if a grandson could “spend the night” at my house. The wheels were already turning as the plan was to invite the other two boy cousins. Calls were made, permissions granted, the fix was in. I didn’t have a chance. Just after dark three energetic 9-year-olds, give or take a few months, stormed my castle. They are good boys, but they are boys. Every square inch of the house became their kingdom.  

They ran, they played, they wrestled, they argued, they surfed the internet, and they built a fort with quilts and blankets in the living room. It was all good. As bedtime approached, I called them in for negotiations.

“Can we go to Early Bird (A local restaurant) for breakfast?” one asked.

That was not in my initial plan, but I complied.

“Sure!” I said, “What time are you guys going to bed?”

“Now, Daddy Jack, I drive a hard bargain!” one replied, sternly.

“How about nine-thirty?”  He said, with a smile.

“You got it!” I said. “In the bed by nine-thirty, and we go to the Early Bird.”

“Can we take a bath first?” they asked.

“Go for it!” I said.

I went straight to the bedroom and crashed. It was 9:00PM.

 At 10:30PM I was awakened from a deep sleep by three boys standing beside my bed.

 “Can we sleep with you?” One asked.

 “Come on!” 

The snuggler in the bunch crawled right up against me and curled his arm around my neck. He would soon turn and sleep with his knees in my back. I woke up an hour later with a foot in my face. At 2:00 AM I gave it up and moved to the den and the comfort of my Lazy Boy.

In the wee hours of the morning, I was awakened by loud conversation two rooms away. They were wide awake. I groped for the light switch on the lamp to see what time it was. The clock read “4:00.” I hoped they would go back to sleep. I turned out the light and waited. In a moment I heard them coming.

 “Daddy Jack, we’ve awoken and can’t go back to sleep!” one offered.

 “We will go play in the living room where you can’t hear us,” another chimed in.

 “Sounds good!” I managed to say.

 I headed back to my bedroom.

 At 4:35 AM they were standing beside my bed again.

“We can’t get waked up, Daddy Jack,” one whispered. “Can we take another bath?”

“You bet! Go for it!” I said.

For the next 30 minutes I heard water running and boys talking and laughing until I collapsed into oblivion.

At 5:55AM they were back again.

“Are you ready to go to the Early Bird, Daddy Jack? The leader asked.

Through a foggy brain, I heard myself say, “I’m ready!”

We did the Early Bird up right. Two of them drank coffee; the third had a big Dr. Pepper and a refill.

I later found three boys can go through thirteen bath towels while taking two baths. 

I heard one of the boys, when arriving home, went to bed at 5:30 in the afternoon and slept until the next morning. 

The following day all three went back to school.

I am still in recovery.

Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

Post Holiday Throughts

Ok. So, I probably listened to more Christmas music this past Christmas season than ever before. Several factors contributed to this new reality.

Some years ago, as part of her Christmas present, I gave my late wife, Kathy, a subscription to Sirius XM Radio. Somehow, in the ensuing years, I continued to renew her subscription although she no longer considered it a part of her Christmas present. The subscription was tied to her Toyota 4-Runner. As most of my readers are aware, Kathy passed away in May of last year. My sons saw to it that the 4-Runner became mine along with Sirius XM. Kathy, a devoted Beatles fan, had enjoyed the Beatles Channel for many years.

As Thanksgiving neared, I found Channel 71, titled “Christmas Traditions” on Sirius XM. It was “love at first hear.” The channel featured “the crooners of the 50’s and 60’s,” some of whom I had almost forgotten. It was refreshing to be reminded of the great voices of Jack Jones, Jerry Vale, Mario Lanza, Wayne Newton, Paul Anka, Judy Garland, Peggy Lee, Jo Stafford, Doris Day, Rosemary Clooney, Patty Page and others. And, of course, there were the great voices which we expect to hear each Holiday season – Bing Crosby, Andy Williams, Nat King Cole, Perry Como, Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, Johnny Mathis, Barry Manilow, Burl Ives, and many others.

At my house I have a CD player which accommodates 25 compact discs. The deck features a bottom labeled “random.” Hit that button and a “computer” inside the player chooses the next selection from over 500 Christmas songs. The music provided ever-present “company” for me in an otherwise empty house throughout the Holidays. This year, whether in my car or in my house, I found Christmas music to be my constant companion. It fed my mind and blessed my soul.

I have a dear friend from my hometown who starts listening to Christmas each year on October 1st. That means she enjoys the music of the Holidays for a full quarter of each year…or more. I manage to hold off until Thanksgiving, but I have been known to pull out a few of my favorite Christmas CDs in July just to enjoy a taste of the spirit of the season.

For years I have purchased one new Christmas CD each time the Holidays roll around. It is a special purchase carefully selected. When you live as long as I have the CDs mount up. This year I discovered the marvelous voice of a young Ella Fitzgerald on Sirius XM. I found Ms. Fitzgerald has recorded several CDs over the years. I have a tough choice to make.

If you should add to your Christmas music collection each year, let me make a few suggestions. (lt is never too early to shop for great CDs.) Some of the best are becoming in short supply.

I would certainly recommend That Holiday Feeling with Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gorme, The Complete RCA Victor Christmas Recordings of Eddie Arnold, Let It Be Christmas by Alan Jackson, and Home for The Holidays by Glen Campbell. Each one is a classic.

By the way, now’s the time during the slow winter months to update your Thanksgiving and Christmas cards mailing list.

I had breakfast at a local restaurant with my three grandsons this week. One asked if he could make an announcement to those patrons enjoying an early breakfast.

 “Sure,” I said.

Once he had everyone’s attention, he announced, “I hope you all have a great day! Go out there and make it count!”

Out of the mouths of babes. May you go out there and make your days count in 2025.

Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall.

The Year of our Lord

In keeping with tradition, on New Year’s Day I shall eat black-eyed peas and hog’s jowl. When I was growing up, we called it “hog jaw.” It doesn’t really matter what you call it. It’s good! And I’m here to say it must be good for you. 

They say it will bring you good luck if you eat black-eyed peas and hog’s jowl on New Year’s Day. I purchased my hog’s jowl in “the piece” in late December. Once I bought it, I couldn’t wait until 2025. I hand-sliced it with a sharp carving knife, cutting little notches in the skin so it would not curl while it fried. I will enjoy hog’s jowl on New Year’s Day and beyond. It’s good when it’s hot, and it’s even better when it’s cold. 

Eating hog’s jowl takes me back to my boyhood days. My mama always matched up fried hog’s jowl with fresh, fried corn or cream style corn out of a can. I ate a whole can of cream style corn once when I was on a hog’s jowl binge.         

I know. I know. You cholesterol fanatics out there are gasping in horror as you read this. But know this. If it kills me, I died happy.         

As to whether or not the black-eyed peas and hog’s jowl will bring me good luck, it matters not. I was never much of a believer in luck. Good fortune – yes, but luck – I’m not so sure.          

Someone once said, “The harder I work, the luckier I get.” 

It seems to me that what we often refer to as “luck” (I am speaking here of good luck, of course) is more the result of wise decisions, hard work, and right living than anything else.          

And, yet, I constantly catch my self wishing someone, “Good luck!”           

Maybe we should recognize good fortune and “good luck” for what they really are: blessings. 

When asked how they are doing, a few of my friends will respond, “Better than I deserve!”  

That holds true for most of us – most of the time. 

My plan is “to hit the ground running” in 2025. Well, here I am, and I haven’t managed to work my way up to a good trot so far.

I need another week to get ready for 2025. 

In my younger days we use to joke, “Getting ready to get ready is harder than getting ready.” As this year begins, I’m still in the “getting ready to get ready stage.”

But I have decided one thing. I’m going to keep it simpler in 2025. I’m going for less fun and more joy – which means I’m expecting 2025 to be harder for me than 2024. It’s a choice I am making. 

I had a rather eye-opening experience a few years ago while traveling south on Interstate 59 in southern Mississippi. I met a car going the wrong way on my side of the freeway. Now, that will get your attention! I looked out ahead, and here it came!  

I took to the right lane and the driver of the oncoming car took the left lane. My first reaction as the car flew by was to pray for the people coming behind me!  

I have often reflected on that southern Mississippi experience. 

Seems I meet a lot of people these days who are headed the wrong way. It’s a broad way, you know. And many of us know where it leads. The other way is hard and narrow, but it leads to life. 

I believe where there is life, there is hope. And where there is life it is never too late to right your ship. 

So, as 2024 begins to unfold, I will wish you well, but I will not wish you “good luck.” I will simply offer this blessing: 

“The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make His face to shine upon you, and be gracious unto you; the Lord lift up His countenance upon you, and give you peace.”  

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall

Country Ham and Red-EyeD Gravy

You might say I was introduced to country ham and red-eyed gravy at a very early age. When I was five months old my mother began to tear the middle out of biscuits and soak them in red-eyed gravy for my breakfast. She declared that I could put away “some more” biscuits and red-eyed gravy.

The late Dewey King Knight, a neighbor who married my father’s double first

cousin, Lucy McCall, would stop by our house two or three mornings a week just to find out how many biscuit middles I had eaten for breakfast. He got a kick out of hearing I had eaten a half-dozen or more.

I was hooked on country ham long before medical science discovered cholesterol to be an enemy of the human circulatory system. My former neighbor for over 30 years, Jerald Shivers, used to drive a delivery route for the Colonial Baking Company. Jerald insisted there were only two kinds of bread and both began with a “C” - Colonial Bread and corn bread.

Well, for me there’s only one kind of real ham and it also begins with a “C”… country ham.

I know, I know. There are sugar cured hams and “picnic” hams and the like. But most of them are actually pork shoulders.

On occasion, I ordered ham and eggs for breakfast in a restaurant and the waitress asked, “Would you like city ham or country ham?” I did my best to hide my look of dismay. Quite frankly, I have difficulty using the word “city” and the word “ham” in the same sentence. The is nothing “city” about ham.

The curing of real country ham is becoming a lost art. Oh, the days when the meat box was filled to the top with pork and salt, and the smell of hickory smoke penetrated the air. Smokehouses of the past were filled with the most delightful aromas. The rich smells left behind over the years by slow smoke and curing meat are indescribable. My best attempt would be to say it had a delicious earthiness about it.

When I was a boy, our family celebrated Christmas each year with my Granny Lena’s family, the Bradfords, on the Sunday after Christmas in New Middleton. The event took place at the home of my great-uncle, Carson “Stumpy” Bradford.

The Christmas dinner table always showcased three kinds of ham. One was a big sugar-cured ham, tender, pink and sweet. Then, there was a big platter of fried country ham. The third ham was an old country ham that had been boiled. It was prepared to perfection. It had a deep, rich red-wine color to it. And the fat was creamy yellow in color. And salty!?! Who wee! If you ate much of that ham, your tongue would be raw. And you would have to spend the rest of the day around the watering hole trying to quench your thirst.

But that ham was fantastic! A piece of it would flavor everything else you had on your plate. Never was a common biscuit so honored as to have a piece of that ham laid between it. It makes me thirsty just thinking about it.

One of my favorite restaurants is the Log Cabin Pancake House in Gatlinburg, Tn. Once or twice a year, I visit there for breakfast. When I do, I order country ham and eggs. It is real country ham, center sliced. That piece of ham is so big it hangs off each side of the plate. It takes no small amount of resolve to eat a whole center slice of real country ham. So far, I’ve always been up to the task. When I am finished, my plate is clean and the little bowl that held the red-eyed gravy is empty. The only thing left is the round ham bone.     

When I was growing up, my mother would often say, “Moderation in all things.” In my humble opinion, a center slice of real country ham twice a year is not going to hurt anybody.

And it won’t hurt you either. Makes you hunger just thinking about it, doesn’t it? If you, by chance, aren’t living out in the “country,” it will take you back there.

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall