Big Brother's Day

Well, Spring Break has overtaken us. The Easter Holiday will soon be upon us closely followed by Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. Each is a special time of reflection and celebration. From time to time, I entertain the idea of calling for a new holiday celebration. I think I would call it Big Brother’s Day.

I suppose, not to be sexist, we could call it “Big Brother’s and Big Sister’s Day,” or it might be more appropriate to call it “Brothers and Sisters Day.” But I have a big brother bias, so I’m more inclined to call my version “Big Brother’s Day.”

When it comes to big brothers, I have one of the very finest. His name is Tom.

The day I was born at Martha Gaston Hospital in Lebanon, TN, my big brother, who was all of three years old at the time, walked the halls spreading the word to each stranger he met, “Hi, I’ve got a new baby brother. His name is Jack.”

If someone asked his name, he answered, “Tom Cat.”

Over the years, my big brother has taken great pride in his younger siblings.  Whether it was athletic contests, hog shows, or any other special events, our big brother always showed up. He not only invested his time, but also his resources. My younger brothers, my sister, and I have reaped the benefits of his wisdom, his leadership and

his example.

I cannot count the times he has come to my rescue. I know of one time he saved my life.

In our earliest days, we lived in a house on the D.T. McCall farm. A central feature of the house was a big, rectangular log cabin. In time, a kitchen was added to the west end. Not far from the kitchen steps, a big, wooden gate led to the barn lot. The feed barn stood no more than a hundred yards from the house.

Just to the right of the road leading to the feed barn, stood a lone, towering cedar tree. Beneath the tree, a wet-weather pond sprawled out into the barn lot. In the springtime the pond grew to a depth of two feet or more at its center. As summer came on, it was reduced to a wallowing hole for my grandfather’s hogs.

For my brother and me, that barn lot was a favorite place to play. Because of the pond, my mother had given Tom special instructions, in detail, regarding my safety.

Then came the day, she looked out the kitchen window to view a scene that took her breath. Two little boys, covered in black, pond mud were coming up through the barn lot toward the gate. She ran out of the house to meet us.

Tom was resolutely leading me by the hand back to the house. I, reluctantly, was following along. 

My mother tells us we were covered in pond mud from the top of our heads to the soles of our bare feet. But the black pond grime could not obscure Tom’s glowing face. With great pride, through shining eyes, he called out to her, “I did what you told me to do, Momma! Our baby got in the pond, but I didn’t leave him to come and get you. I stayed with him, Momma. I stayed with him ‘til I got him out! I did what you told me to do!”

Tom was five years old when he pulled me out of that pond.

Fast forward to the fall of 1965.

I was somewhat apprehensive as I began my freshman year in high school. Eight grade boys who were looking forward to high school heard stories of beltlines and worse things done to them by upperclassmen.

On my first day as a freshman, I was standing in the hall with two of my buddies when two seniors approached us.  One of the upperclassmen grabbed one of my friends by the arm, and then, with the stone of his class ring turned to the inside of his hand, the senior popped a knot on the top of my friend’s head.

As my buddy grimaced in pain, the senior grabbed my arm with every intention of giving me the same medicine. That is when the other senior said, “Leave him alone. That’s Tom’s brother.” My antagonist let go of my arm.

Over the next couple of weeks, those words became music to my ears: “Don’t bother him, he’s Tom’s little brother.”  “Leave him alone. He’s Tom’s brother.” By the third week, upperclassmen were calling me “Little Tom.” It was not a bad place to be.

So, I’m big on big brothers.

The passing of the years has not changed his looking out for his younger siblings. To me, that’s a cause for celebration.

On my “Big Brothers Day” holiday we could celebrate the lives of our big brothers or little brothers or even our big sisters and little sisters. And those who don’t have natural brothers or sisters, as well as those who do, could celebrate the lives of their brothers and sisters in Christ.

Or we could take it a step farther, and, on that day, celebrate the brotherhood and sisterhood of mankind. We could even consider loving our enemies on that day. The possibilities are endless.

Just a thought, but I think I could be on to something here.

Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

The Changing Nashville Skyline

I don’t make it into downtown Nashville very often. For years, coming from the east, I made it to Nashville International Airport countless times where I could view Nashville from a distance. When I occasionally ventured into the downtown area it was usually at night. Consequently, I paid very little attention to the changing skyline.

Well, a couple of weeks ago my work took me downtown three mornings in a row. I found myself somewhere between shell-shocked and amazed. When did all this happen?

First, I had to search to spot the “batman” building. Not that long ago it was the big dog of downtown high rises. I didn’t even try to find the L&C tower. It is now like the first little buttercup in the spring lost in the tall grass.

Once upon a time, The Life and Casualty building could be seen over 20 miles away from Jenning’s Knob, the highest point above sea level in Wison County. Not anymore.

Growing up as a boy near Carthage, Tennessee, Nashville seemed so very far away. It was a big deal in our household when someone went “all the way” to Nashville. Riding the escalators at Harvey’s or taking in a movie at the Tennessean Theater on Church Street was an over-the-top experience. In later years, when I finally secured my driver’s license, taking a date to the movies at 100 Oaks Mall and stopping at Shoney’s on Thompson Lane, was a really big deal.

On his return to the farm after World War II my father probably never ventured more than 50 miles from home over a half-dozen times. Nashville seemed to be as far as he ever wanted to go. And he didn’t make the trip unless it was necessary.

In his declining years, when my father began to experience dementia, our family made an exhaustive effort to get to the bottom of his issues. Along with memory loss, he began to have difficulty keeping his balance. We visited neurologists and tried physical therapy. Eventually, he was referred to a major Nashville hospital for an MRI. He was not happy there. To make matters worse, he was required to stay overnight.

It was decided I would take the night shift. My mother and my brother, John, would return the next morning and take him home. He and I were in for an eventful night. At that time in the evolution of healthcare, large hospitals were experimenting with a concept called “total nursing care” which, in this case, meant one RN was assigned to 4-5 patients during the night. Our nurse had her hands full. The patient across the hall must have been a real booger as he required most of her attention. When the nurse realized I was there for the night, she thanked me and interrupted the evening as little as possible.

Around 10:00 PM my father and I fell into a routine. Every 10 or 15 minutes, he would roust and say, “let’s get out of here”, and then, attempt to get out of the bed, sometimes throwing one leg over the bedrail.

I would counter with, “Dad, remember. Ma and John are coming in the morning to take you home.”

“Ok,” he would say as he laid back down.

This went on into the wee hours of the morning until we both had had enough of each other. That’s when he decided to change his strategy.

First, he sized me up. I could see the wheels turning in his mind. Then, he started the negotiation. He pointed to the cabinet at the foot of his bed.

“My clothes are in that cabinet right over there,” he said. There was cunning in his eyes.

“If you will bring me my clothes, I’ll put ’em on and we can slip right out of here, and “they” will never know it!”

“Why, we could go all the way to Nashville, and “they” wouldn’t know a thing!” he said slyly.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him we were in Nashville.

But in his mind, Nashville was still a faraway place where we could never be found out.

Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

Mental Health

I read an interesting cover story in USA Today recently about Baby Boomers (those born from 1946 -1964.) It seems more and more “boomers” are “running, cycling, swimming, boot camping – doing just about anything that will keep them fit, outdoors and among friends.”

As we ‘boomer’s’ age we seem to be placing much more emphasis on our physical health than our parents did. That is largely due to the fact that our parents lived a lifestyle which was much less sedentary than ours. Their very way of life kept them physically fit.

Because life expectancies continue to get longer, they are now saying age 60 for the “boomers” is the new 40.

      When I approached retirement age, I found myself struggling to keep up a routine of walking two miles every day. When I considered my late father walking two miles just for the sake of walking, I had to laugh. At age 70 he was fit, trim and as solid as a rock.

Maintaining our physical health should certainly be one of our top priorities if we are to continue to be happy and productive. But it is important that we address our mental health as well.

I shall never forget an old preacher who used to visit the church where I grew up at revival time. When called upon to pray, he would say, as a part of his prayer, “And Lord, I want to thank you that I woke up this morning and put my feet on the floor in a sound mind.”

Certainly, a sound mind is something for which we should be grateful, and a subject we might do well to give more thought.

The great Dr. William Menninger, founder of the Menninger Foundation in Topeka, KS, gave us a fine definition of a sound mind, or mental health.

He said, in essence, “Let us define mental health as the adjustment of human beings to the world and to each other with a maximum of efficiency and happiness.”

Dr. Menninger went on to say “It is the ability to maintain an even temper, an alert intelligence, socially considerate behavior, and a happy disposition.”

The late Earl Nightingale wrote, “As we grow up, these four sides of our personalities should also develop, so that, ideally, we become totally mature people. But what actually happens (and it’s much easier to see it in another person than in ourselves) is that we usually grow up in some areas of our life and stay childish in others: we tend to grow up lopsided.”

I have given these four areas considerable thought over the years.

Maintaining an even temper is not an easy task. Someone once said, “It is better to have a cool head and a heart on fire than to be a cold-hearted, hot head.” Anger, if not carefully managed, can destroy relationships and even impact one’s physical health. It has a way of eating away at one’s personality.  A marvelous rule of thumb comes from the Good Book, “Let not the sun go down on your wrath.” A well placed “I’m sorry” can sometimes work wonders.

In order to enjoy an alert intelligence, we must continue to challenge our minds. My late grandmother, Lena Brim enjoyed a sharp mind well into her nineties.  She constantly stimulated her brain by working crossword puzzles. There are millions of “pathways” in the human brain. When they stop being used, they stop being usable.

The subject of socially considerate behavior baffles me most. Why can’t we be kind and considerate to other people? Have we become so obsessed with “me” that we have no room for others? I firmly believe that most mental illness can be traced to “me-i-tis.”

Many years ago, a 100 year-old man was a guest on the Johnny Carson Show. As he talked with his host, the old gentleman laughed easily and was a general cut-up.

“You seem to be a very happy person,” Mr. Carson observed.

“What is the secret to your happiness?”

“Well,” said the old gentleman, “I figure when I get up in the morning I have two choices. I can be happy, or I can be unhappy. I simply choose to be happy.”

I believe maintaining our mental health, like happiness, is a choice. But after we make our choice, there remains much work to be done.

Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

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