Take Your Time

I’ve often heard people say, as words of encouragement, “Take your time.” Sometimes it was advice given to a person recovering from surgery or an injury or an illness - “Take your time.” On other occasions it was offered to someone who was grieving over a great loss –“Take your time.” And I’ve heard it said when an individual was attempting a task which required their full concentration and focus –“Take your time.”

C.S. Lewis, in his classic, Mere Christianity, observed: “The real problem of the Christian life comes where people do not usually look for it. It comes the very moment you wake up each morning. All your wishes and hopes for the day rush at you like wild animals. And the first job each morning consists simply in shoving them all back; in listening to that other voice, taking that other point of view, letting that other, larger, stronger, quieter life come flowing in. And so on, all day. Standing back from all your natural fussings and frettings; coming in out of the wind.”

In today’s world that problem is not limited to Christianity. As a recent TV commercial spelled out, “Life comes at you fast!” We talk of a fast pace, we eat fast food and we clamor for our computers and mobile devices to be faster.

To paraphrase the late, John Powell, “We are not sure where we (the world) are headed but we are making record speed.”

Even the Holidays seemed to approach this year at a record clip. Of course, Christmas stuff has been showing up at the Cracker Barrel and Wal-Mart and other fine retailers in August for years now. But this year TV advertisers started putting on the full court press in early November. It all seems rather maddening.

So, as the Holidays are upon us, let me offer a suggestion – “Take your time.”

Take time to reflect. It was Socrates who said, “The unexamined life is not worth living.” We humans are inclined to look back on the valleys through which we have come and overlook the mountain tops. Sometimes a look back helps us summon the courage to look ahead.

Take time to appreciate your freedom. Most of us Americans have lived, and will probably die, as free men and women. Our freedom is a priceless gift. Not that it came without a price, but that it is beyond having a price attached to it.

Take time to consider your friends. Friends are another priceless gift. In the words of George Eliot, “A friend is one whom one may pour out the contents of one’s heart, chaff and wheat together, knowing that gentle hands will take and sift it, keep what is worth keeping, and with a breath of kindness, blow the rest away.” If you have such a friend (or friends) you understand true riches.

Take time to write some thank you notes (or letters.) I have a few notes and letters which I received over 20 years ago. I still go back and read them from time to time. As William Barclay said, “Many a time a word of praise or thanks or appreciation or cheer has kept a man (or woman) on his feet.” Go ahead and write that note or letter you have been putting off.

Take time to experience a sense of wonder. It seems in today’s world we have lost our sense of wonder at the altar of entertainment and acquisition.

Many years ago, I asked a newly-made friend where he grew up.

“In front of a television set,” he dryly responded.

Today, video games and mobile devices suck the mental energy right out of our children and grandchildren if we allow it to happen.

Best we take in a few more sunrises and sunsets, and gaze into the Milky Way galaxy on a starry night. And consider the fact that we have been “fearfully and wonderfully made.”

So, as the Holidays are upon us, take your time and “smell the coffee”… and the cinnamon and the roses and any other delicious smells that make you feel warm inside.

As I finished this column, I suddenly felt the warmth of a room heated by a wood stove and breathed in the smell of cedar.

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall  

The Sears Christmas Wish Book

I’m not really sure when the commercialization of Christmas began to impact modern America in dramatic fashion. Maybe it was in the 1960’s. If not that early, it certainly was underway by the 1970’s.

The first signs, I think, were when Christmas displays began to appear in retail stores as early as August. I was a young man when I first remember the subject being discussed among churchgoing people with no small amount of consternation. “The very idea of pushing Christmas merchandise before summer was over!”

Well, that hasn’t changed much in the succeeding 30 or 40 years. Christmas merchandise still makes it appearance in August each year. I have noticed that Halloween has made a big push in recent years. Early Christmas displays are somewhat overshadowed in August, September, and October by all the Halloween stuff. (If you care to look deeply enough, you might find that a bit unsettling, too.)

When Halloween passes and all the candy and costumes are gone, the Christmas push is fully underway. Strangely, the loser seems to be Thanksgiving Day. It’s hard to imagine…. Thanksgiving lost between the “marketing” of Halloween and Christmas. I, personally, find that unsettling, too. It is, unfortunately, a sign of the times.

In the days of my youth, it seemed Christmas was not given much thought until Thanksgiving Day was past. It was about that time, (by design, I’m sure) that the Sears Roebuck and Company Christmas Wish Book arrived in the mail at Route 2, Carthage, Tn. That’s when my brothers, my sister and I got really serious about Christmas, especially Santa Claus. For the next four weeks, we gave that Wish Book a going over.

At the McCall household, Santa Claus relied heavily on Sears Roebuck and Company. So, the McCall children took shopping the Wish Book very seriously. That wish book got very little rest. With four boys and a girl actively “shopping”, it meant the catalog was in use during most waking hours. This led to many a heated fuss.

When the issue of time with the catalog became hotly contested, my mother served as referee. I distinctly remember many conversations relating to the Wish Book.

“Mama, make him give me the Christmas catalog! He’s been looking at it for an hour!” a brother would say. 

Sometimes, to keep the peace, my mother would impose a 30 minute limit.

The next one in line for the catalog would watch the clock. Invariably, that yielded this announcement: “Mama, his 30 minutes are up. Make him give it to me!”

“Give your brother the catalog!” she would declare.

The one giving up the Wish Book would hand it over to the one waiting for it and snarl, “You big baby!”

For over a month it was passed around, day and night. What to choose? How to decide?

I’ve spent many an hour studying the pages of a Sears Wish Book. Back and forth, page by page. And I changed my mind a thousand times. I would go to bed thinking about my possible choices. Then, the next morning I would need to see the catalog again.

Sometimes it became miss-placed which created a household crisis. Years later, looking back, I suspected my mother hid the darn thing just to cut down on the racket.  

By the time Christmas arrived, that Wish Book was missing its front and back covers, was dog-eared and as limp as a dish rag.

Sometimes we changed our minds at the last minute and put in our order to Santa Claus too late, and didn’t get exactly what we asked for. But no one was ever unhappy on Christmas morning.

As I recall, the Sears Wish Book was delivered to our mailbox at no cost back in those days. But price or no price, we surely got our money’s worth.

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall

Novembers to Remember

I came upon an all too familiar sight a couple of weeks back. Sitting outside one of the few remaining tobacco warehouses in Tennessee were five farm wagons loaded down with tobacco stalks. Memories flooded my mind so fast I could hardly keep up. First, I felt the wintery wind in a drafty old tobacco barn. Then, I saw the ghosty figures of men and women standing before makeshift stripping tables committed to the task before them. I smelled the enticing aroma of a tobacco barn, the golden burley curing as it should. I pictured my father on his knees atop a “book” of tobacco as he carefully placed each stick of hands to be “pressed.”  I remembered “throwing down” tobacco in the middle of the night when warm rains rescued us by bringing dry leaves “in order.” And I remembered Novembers of years.

Two events, along with Thanksgiving Day, highlighted the Novembers of my boyhood days. One was the day my father “hauled his tobacco off.” It was a banner day. In many ways, a year’s work was tied up in a single load of tobacco. I remember best a sixteen-foot farm wagon loaded high with precision.  Corners of the load were square, the “ties” of tobacco hands lined up in perfect symmetry. My mother used to say my father made a load of tobacco look like “a cracker box.” And well he did. But I remember best the pride in my father’s eyes as he prepared to leave the farm with his best on board.

Secondly, I remember the day our tobacco crop “sold.” Each year, my mother would announce at the breakfast table, “your father’s tobacco sells today.” On that day her voice had a different tone, letting us know it was “his” day. We knew he would be coming home with the cash. It never failed. At days end, he would gather us together as a family. Then, he would pass out the envelopes. The contents matched each child’s age and contribution to that year’s crop. I remember my first $50 bill. My last envelope contained three $100’s - in all my life the best payday I ever received – certainly the most memorable.

But I digress. Back to the tobacco stalks. As I visited all those tobacco crops of the past down the halls of my memory, I waxed poetic. So, I leave you with that which follows.

Ode to a Tobacco Stalk

Oh, noble branch, both strong, but soft

which took your broad, green leaves aloft.

In summer’s heat your work was done

drawing life from soil and sun.

In harvest time and prime of life,

you felt the sting of a tobacco knife.

Then, to endure the steel spike’s prick,

and end up on a tobacco stick.

Among tier poles hung upside down,

‘til wilting leaves turned golden brown.

In weathered hands your butt was gripped,

your graded leaves with care then stripped.

When Father’s patience fully tried

I felt your weight on my back side.

Your last leaf gone, you’re cast away

but useful again another day.

When then and there you found more worth

when scattered about to feed the earth.

I pay respect to work past wrought

And thank you for life’s lessons taught.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall

Anticipation

I will frankly admit that a few days back when October turned into November I experienced a slight ting of panic. When I was a boy it seemed Thanksgiving was slow in getting here and after Thanksgiving, Christmas came even more slowly. Not anymore. The time has come in my life where time truly does fly.

 The sense of panic overcame me because Thanksgiving, then less than four weeks away, would be upon me before I knew it.  It was coming too fast. I found myself wishing things would slow down a bit. The world has just gotten itself in too big a hurry.

 I also found myself fearing that Thanksgiving Day would come and go and I might miss fully experiencing the depth of its meaning - that I would be too caught up in the busyness of life to truly be thankful.

 To a great extent, the speed of life has robbed us of time for reflection. Deep reflection requires time and quiet. Along with life’s accelerated pace has come more noise. Many voices demand our attention . . . social voices, political voices, religious voices, corporate voices, family voices, entertainment voices, evil voices, financial voices, voices of fear . . . the voices are endless and loud. Among the den of loud voices another voice, a quiet voice, whispers, “Be still, and know that I am God.”

 So I’ve had to give myself “a talking to.” I will take the time to prepare my mind and my heart for Thanksgiving.

 First, I will consider Thanksgivings of the past. I will recall faces that can no longer be seen . . . happy faces, smiling faces, saintly faces, faces of men and women who made my life better . . . who made the world a better place. I will give thanks for their lives.

 I will revisit my deep affection for my country, the United States of America, “the land of the free and the home of the brave.” And I will bask in the glow of the knowledge that I have lived out my life as a free man.

 I will recall the countless numbers of those who gave their lives on freedom’s alter, and all the others who bore an incalculable cost of grief and sacrifice for liberties sake. And I will be as thankful for them as I am capable.

 And I will think of my family.  I will consider each one who will be gracing my home with a visit on Thanksgiving Day. I will consider each one separately and think about their life. I will be thankful for their unique strengths. And I will, by design, spend individual time with each one Thanksgiving Day. And when I hug them and tell them I love them I will be the last one to let go.

 Before Thanksgiving Day arrives, I’ll make a detailed list of things for which I am grateful. It’s another way of saying I will count my blessings. Among those blessings are my friends. I’ll call a few of them up and tell them how I feel about them . . . that I am thankful for them.

I’ll also take some time to reflect on the past year. I’ve enjoyed excellent health this year. That’s  not to say I haven’t been to the doctor’s office a few times. When you get to my age there are some inconveniences that must be dealt with, healthwise. Diet, exercise, and weight loss will correct most of them . . . almost.

 And as I stop and look back over the years of my life, I will be thankful for the rough rows I have hoed. There have not been many, but there have been some. I am grateful for what they taught me.

 On Thanksgiving Day, may I have a heart like the first Pilgrims . . . grateful to be here, grateful for God’s provisions, grateful for the memory of friends gone on, grateful for a newfound freedom to worship, grateful to God.

 I have it planned.  Lord willing, on Thanksgiving Day morning, I will arise just before daylight and I will kneel at the rising of the sun, and I will offer a prayer of thanksgiving to the God of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob; and the Father of the Lord Jesus Christ.

 Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours.

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall

Grass String

It goes by many names - hay baler twine, baler twine,

grass string. Any farm boy (or girl) knows its “feel” with their eyes closed and is familiar with its many uses on a farm.  

I grew up calling it grass string. As I was considering writing about it in this column, I wondered if the term “grass string” had a common usage or if that is just what we called it on our farm.                

I asked my friend Jim Coley, a veteran feeder of hay, if he used the phrase “grass sting” when he was growing up. Jim explained to me that until it came out of the hay baler, and while it was still on the hay bale, it was called baler twine. But as soon as it was cut and removed from the hay bale it became a grass string.                            

That made perfect sense to me because, in fact, that’s the way it was on our farm. Now that I have that issue straightened out, I can proceed to consider both baler twine and grass string.           

Speaking with Jim also reminded me of how his late Uncle Clyde insisted the baler twine be cut at the knot when bales were being “busted” and fed to their fine Horned Hereford cattle back in the day.            

My first experience with baler twine took place in the hay fields of Smith County. I’m not sure how old I was, but I was big enough to roll a bale of hay up on a wagon. Taunt baler twine has a unique feel about it. Handling hundreds of bales of hay over many days makes for strong hands and fingers. If the hay was baled heavy and tight the twine seemed to cut into your fingers like baling wire.           

Speaking of baling wire, my father used to say that you could

fix almost any problem that came up with a model T Ford if you had three things: an air pump, a box of inner tube patches, and a piece of baling wire. That brings me back to grass strings. There are a thousand uses of grass string on a farm, and there were always plenty of grass strings to use when I was a boy.             

I marvel at how many stable doors, crib doors, and gates have been made secure with a doubled grass string. My father was known to keep one or two grass strings in the hip pocket of his overalls.

You never know when something will need to be tied up.  

My grandfather Herod Brim was a master at weaving ropes

with grass strings. He called them plaided ropes. He could weave them with three or four grass stings. He had grass string ropes that were 10 and 20 feet long. And they were strong. One of those ropes, tied around the horns of a big Billy goat, would stop him in his tracks          

I remember one rope in particular. It had a closed loop in the end which made for a perfect lasso. That lasso played a part in one of my most cherished childhood memories.              

In the summertime I would spend weeks at a time with my grandparents Herod and Lena Brim in the Brim Hollow. My grandfather had a routine every morning. He would leave the house early and tend to his chores. Then, “up in the morning,” he would come back to the house to see what I was doing.          

I would be lying-in-wait for him with a cleverly designed trap. Just inside the kitchen door, I would spread the open end of the lasso into a large loop on the floor. Then, I would hide under the kitchen table and wait. When he came through the door he stepped right in the middle of the noose. I would pull hard on my end of the rope and tighten the rope around his leg.           

He would squall out like he had stepped into a bear trap.

“Whoa, Lena!” he would bellow. “Whoa, Lena! Come here quick.  Something’s got me!”            

I would roll on my back and laugh out loud as I held on to the rope            

Then he, acting like he had finally come to his senses, would mockingly begin to chastise me. “Why you!” he would scold, “Come here to me and I’ll skin your head.”            

I would always get away without getting my head skinned.

And he would always step right in the center of that noose the next time I set the trap.       

Sometimes I hear his booming voice echoing in my memory, and I can still feel the end of that grass string rope in my hands.

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall

Joy

A few years back, my late wife Kathy and I spent the weekend in Nashville. The occasion was our wedding anniversary. It’s hard to believe I was married to that blue-eyed blond for over half my life.

We stayed at the Hampton Inn near the Vanderbilt University campus. On Saturday and Sunday morning I took my two-mile walks on the Vanderbilt campus. Students had not returned from spring break so, for all practical purposes, I had the campus all to myself. It was a great time to enjoy a beautiful campus. And, on this weekend it was serenely quiet.

On Saturday morning I got out early and left Kathy sleeping. At the elevator on the 5th floor, two black women were waiting for the elevator to arrive. They were both wearing beautiful, brightly colored dresses with matching accessories.

“Good morning!” I greeted them. “You ladies are mighty dressed up for going out this morning!”

“We’re on our way to church!” the larger of the two ladies chirped.

“Where are you ladies from?” I asked.

“Chicago!” the other lady replied with a broad smile.

“You’ve come all the way from Chicago to go to church in Nashville?” I asked.

“Yes, we have!” they both nodded.

“Well, I hope you have a blessed day!” I said.           

“And you, too, sir!” they responded in unison.

Well, they were not the only two persons staying at the hotel who were going to church. We stepped off the elevator to find the hotel lobby filled with people. The hall was filled. The dining area was filled. Church-going people were everywhere. All the women were dressed up.

The men wore pin-stripped suits with brightly colored ties. The girls wore colorful cotton dresses. The boys wore oxford cloth, button-down

shirts with well-fitting slacks. The entire “congregation” presented a sight to behold…in a very heart-warming way.

But what I particularly noticed was the sound that filled the hotel lobby. It is a sound I have heard many times over the course of my life…a sound with which I am intimately familiar. It is almost a humming sound. It is a sound only to be heard among God’s people. It is the sound of people loving God…and each other.

If I were describing the sound in terms of something that could be seen, I would call it a “glow” or “after-glow.” I think it was the sound of joy.

Sadly, it is not to be found in many churches or religious gatherings anymore. It is becoming alarmingly rare. Remember, I wrote “the sound of people loving God…and each other.”       

It all starts with loving God. When we get our love for God right, loving each other naturally follows.         

Unfortunately, “the love of many has waxed cold.” I am afraid we have lived to see post-modern man “having a form of godliness but denying the power thereof.”         

But, let’s get back to the sound of joy. It is a wonderful thing to sit among God’s people and listen to the “hum” of joy. Among people who love God, and each other, there is no pretense, no show, no hidden agendas, no big I’s and little you’s – just people caught up in worshipping the true and living God. It truly is “joy unspeakable and full of glory.” 

I have often found myself with God’s people at a shared meal with little or no appetite for the food being served. It was not that the food was bad. I just wanted to “be there” – to watch and listen and be a part of something very special. And I have come to understand what Jesus meant when he told his disciples on one occasion, “I have meat (food) to eat that ye know not of.” I think He spoke of food that feeds the soul. I have tasted that food.         

If you are fortunate enough to be a part of a fellowship of believers where your soul is regularly fed, be sure to count it as one of your blessings; and guard it as you would your own heart. 

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall

Smoking in the Brim Hollow

The story you are about to read is true. Names have been changed or omitted to protect the innocent…or the guilty.

I grew up in tobacco country. My great-grandmother Icey was a snuff dipper. My grandparents on both sides of the family refrained from using tobacco products of any kind. My mother admitted she smoked “a little” corn silk and “rabbit tobacco” when she was a girl. On the other hand, my father enjoyed a good chew now and then. It was not unusual for my father, as he walked down the hallway of a tobacco barn, to reach up and grab a “tip” leaf, blow the dust off, roll it up and stuff it inside his jaw. When he did buy chewing tobacco, he preferred “Redman.”

My experience with using tobacco products is rather limited. When I was 10 or 11, I smoked a big cigar one time right after eating two big, bologna sandwiches. Made me sick as a dog. I pretty much laid off cigars after that.

Will Herod Brim, my maternal grandfather, died on November 12, 1963. My grandmother, Lena, moved out of the Brim Hollow later that winter. The following summer, four of my best buddies and I “camped out” in the Brim Hollow. I say we camped out. We actually held up in a house long abandoned in the head of the hollow. The house was big…and spooky after dark. One night we had to halt telling ghost stories because one of my buddies got scared.

I was 13 years old in the summer of 1964. My buddies and I were well prepared when we entered Brim Hollow that summer. We had packed extra clothes, sleeping bags, cooking utensils, a four-day supply of food and cigarettes…lots of cigarettes. And we had matches, too. Not just any matches. We had two big boxes of those “Strike Anywhere” matches.

We smoked till our heart’s content for the first two days. I say we smoked. We actually puffed. We were too young and green to tolerate inhaling cigarette smoke. Whenever I did accidentally suck smoke into my lungs, it made me feel sick.

The first two days of “camping” were uneventful except for two happenings. My mother had packed supplies for cooking purposes in baby food jars. There was sugar, salt, pepper, Trend dishwashing powder, etc. The first morning, upon  tasting my attempt at scrambled eggs, one of my buddies cried out, “Oow, these eggs are awful!!” He had seasoned his eggs with dishwashing powder instead of salt!

The other happening was more serious. We ran out of cigarettes. This called for some serious discussion. We decided to walk the two miles to downtown Riddleton, TN and attempt to buy more.

I’m sure it was quite a sight, when all five of us, just barely teenagers, strolled into that country store that morning. If we had had the slightest bit “cool,” we would have requested a carton of cigarettes under the guise of making a purchase of one of our parents. But, oh, no; smoking different brands was half the thrill.

The proprietor, whose name will go unmentioned, had the slightest hint of a smile come across his face as we began to rattle off brands. One of my buddies had the nerve to ask one of the others, “What kind did you father say he wanted?”  The proprietor turned his head to one side to keep from laughing. He had us dead to rights. But, surprisingly, he went along with our charade.

We left the store that day with a pack of Marlboro, a pack of Winston, a pack of L&M’s, two packs of Kool’s, a pack of Salem’s, a pack of Newport’s, and one pack of Sir Walter Raleigh.

I suppose we got smoking out our system that summer. To this day, none of the five of us are cigarette smokers.

But I will say this. If I am ever accused of purchasing cigarette illegally, you will have a hard time finding witnesses.

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall    

Friends

I must admit in the earliest years of my life I didn’t have (or need) many friends. When you grow up in a large family your brothers and your sisters fill any need you have for friendship. By the time I started to school William Denney and Hugh E. Green, Jr. had become my best friends outside of my family. That remained the case throughout my high school days although Hugh attended Castle Heights Military Academy. I kind of lost touch with William after he moved away, but Hugh and I still get together on a pretty regular basis.

College brought me in touch with a whole new set of friends, but I never really became close friends with many of them. I still relied on my brothers for close friendship. Fortunately, my brothers, my sister and I have remained “tight’ over the years.

Over the course of my professional career, I have had the amazingly good fortune to develop friendships with four very fine men. It is almost like God said, “you are going to need these guys, so I am blessing you with their friendship.”

I was introduced to the first two men who would become my friends, right out of college. When I took my first, full-time job, there they were. Both were about 15 years my senior, and both had established families and enjoyed solid marriages. At the time, I didn’t realize how much I needed their steady counsel and Christian example.

They have been like “rocks” for me for over 40 years. We stayed in touch throughout the years, we celebrated Christmases together, and generally kept up with each other’s family members.

For me, they provided “a window on the world” for what might be coming next down the road of my life. They were always quick to share their experience with me. You might say they have been my special appointed “guides.”

And their lives were not without challenges and heartaches. One man has a “special needs” son to whom he gives credit for “making our spiritual life.”  He has seen his other son through business failure, and the salvaging of a rocky marriage.

A few years back I assisted in conducting at his wife’s funeral.

My other friend - well, he had his troubles too. A few springs ago I delivered the eulogy at his funeral. His passing left a hole in my soul.

I met my third friend about 20 years ago. He, too, is about 15 years older than me. We are both “country boys.” He grew up in Midland, Texas. Our mamas had a lot in common. As he would say, “we took a likin’” to each other from the very start.  At the time we met, each of us had three sons.

Before we met, he was the victim of what we call today “corporate downsizing.”

That didn’t slow him down. And over the years, he has had his share of health issues. That hasn’t slowed him down, either.  And a few years back, one of his boys died in a car wreck.

My friend has borne his great loss with such grace. He is the youngest man his age I know. We get together often, for many reasons; one of which is - he makes me feel younger!

Amazingly, my fourth friend is, you guessed it, about 15 years my senior. He is the businessman, visionary, “mover and shaker.” Well-connected politically, he rubs shoulders with powerful people. He’s at the top of his game, the best in his field, yet he remains compassionate and empathetic. He is one of those rare, generous-spirited people, almost bigger than life. I have often wondered why he took an interest in me when I was a fledgling.

Again, it was almost like God said, “you need to see this man, up close” – another blessing of friendship.

Of course, I have other friends. But these four men kind of “came out of nowhere.” I didn’t pick them, and they didn’t pick. I am quite certain they were “chosen” for me. Strange, this life – filled with wonderful surprises.

I have often heard it said, “Take care of your friends, and they will take care of you.”

A famous singer once sang, “I’ll get by with a little help from our friends.”

And from the writer of Proverbs:

 “A man that hath friends must show himself friendly: and there is a friend that sticks closer than a brother.”

Now that’s a friend!

Copyright 2018 by Jack McCall