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
