Luckenbach, Texas

A few years back Kathy and I were in San Antonio, TX where I was speaking for a conference. While there, it was recommended to us that we take in the Alamo Creek General Store and Café in Fredericksburg, TX. Since Fredericksburg was only 50 miles north, we decided to drive up and have a burger. While we were there someone recommended we stop by Luckenbach on our way back down to San Antonio.

The town of Luckenbach (pronounced Luke-in-bach) was made famous by a song. Surely you have heard the lyrics: “…Willie, Waylon and the boys…”      

When we left Fredericksburg, Kathy and I were on a mission to see Luckenbach, TX. We had no idea what to expect.

About ten miles out of Fredericksburg, we began to see make-shift, dilapidated signs which read: “Don’t miss ‘uptown’ Luckenbach”, “Stop in ‘uptown’ Luckenbach,” and “See ‘uptown’ Luckenbach.”      

“What do you think?” I asked Kathy. 

“I’m not sure,” she said. 

Soon we spotted a sign with an arrow pointing left which read, “Uptown Luckenbach.” Best we could tell it amounted to a feed mill and a souvenir shop housed in a block building. As we pulled in front of the souvenir shop another sign read: “This is it.”

“This can’t be it,” Kathy groaned.

“Let’s check it out!” I said, as enthusiastically as I knew how.

A dirt path took us past an area caged in with chicken wire. Inside were rows of roughly constructed shelves displaying pieces of granite of odd shapes and sizes.  The polished side of each piece bore the etching “Luckenbach, Texas.”

There were several signs which spoke of “armadillos.”  I supposed that explained the chicken wire. While in “uptown” I failed to see even one of those critters.

We stepped inside the souvenir shop which was unattended. There was plenty of signage giving directions on how to serve yourself.  We purchased a refrigerator magnet and a small piece of granite (both had Luckenbach, Texas written on them), and two caps. After placing our money in the designated, covered crock-jar, we made our get-a-way.

As we headed for the car, Kathy moaned, “This can’t be it!”

Her words turned out to be correct. About a mile down the road we saw another sign. It read: “Luckenbach, Texas – Downtown Loop.”

The loop turned out to be a gravel road which led to what looked like a small county fair grounds. A young man seated in a folding chair motioned for us to turn into a dirt parking lot filled with pickup trucks and cars covered with Texas dust. Turns out a car show was in full swing. We walked down to the entrance gate and paid the five-dollar fee to get into the car show. Once we were through the gate, we found ourselves right smack in the middle of downtown Luckenbach, Texas.

The sign on the most prominent building read:

U.S. Post-Office

1850    Luckenbach, TX.   1971

Well, that building turned out to be the gift shop. A cantina had been added on to the back. Just out back beyond the cantina stood an outdoor stage where a band was hammering out country-rock music. The stage was flanked on the right by a small western hat shop and flanked on the left by a men’s and women’s restroom building that looked like an old barn shed. That was about it.

We later learned that a local, accomplished guitarist and folklorist named Hondo Crouch purchased the town of Luckenbach, which at the time had a population of 3, in 1970. I could only assume that is why the post office closed in 1971.

Today, Luckenbach is a favorite watering hole for the locals. In the summertime live music is played every day on the Luckenbach stage.

If you are ever within a hundred miles, I would strongly suggest you see Luckenbach - just for bragging rights if for no other reason.

From the moment we left the downtown loop I will forever be able to say, when the subject of Luckenbach, Texas comes up – “I’ve been there.”

Copyright 2022 by Jack McCall      

Independence Day

As this Fourth of July rolls around, our great country has a storied history upon which we may reflect – the bravery of the first settlers, among them the Pilgrims; the genius of the founding fathers; and so many men and women who have died for the cause of freedom.

The American “experiment” remains one of the greatest accomplishments in the course of human freedom. There is little doubt that the Creator of all men had a hand in the survival of what began as 13 fledgling colonies.

At no other time in human history has so much genius in the form of a handful of men shown up in the same place at the same time, dedicated to the same great undertaking. The names of Washington, Jefferson, Adams, Madison, and Franklin will forever be linked with freedom’s cause.

In giving up her sovereignty of the American colonies, what appeared to be a disaster for England actually resulted in her salvation less than 200 years later.     

No nation has influenced the freedom of the world like America.     

But America’s freedom has exacted a great price. Through the course of history, streams and rivers and ocean tides have run red with the blood of America’s sons and daughters.       

Hundreds of thousands have made the ultimate sacrifice to secure and defend our freedoms. Countless numbers of our best and brightest died too soon.

Sometimes I think their mothers and fathers may have paid as great a price. So many mothers saw their babies leave for foreign shores never to return. What a price laid at freedom’s alter!

And then there were those brave soldiers who returned home never to be quite the same – their psyches inalterably changed by the horrors of war encountered on the seas, on the battlefields and in the air.

When I think of freedom’s great price I am overwhelmed by its likeness to holy ground. And I want to remove my shoes and fall on my face in reverence of its sacredness.

So, to celebrate our freedom I have, with this column, included two stanzas from “The Star-Spangled Banner.” It is important that its words remain familiar, especially those of the second stanza.  May you read them thoughtfully.

O say can you see, by the dawn's early light,
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming,
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming?
And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there;
O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

 O thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved homes and the war's desolation.
Blest with vict'ry and peace, may the Heav'n rescued land
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation!
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: 'In God is our trust.'
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave![42]

 And in these days when our freedoms are once again under assault, may the words of another song be our constant prayer:

 “Long may our land be bright,

  With freedom’s holy light

Protect us by Thy might

Great God, our King!”

  Copyright 2022 by Jack McCall

Lord, have mercy

“Lord, have mercy!”

If my late mother said it once, she said it a thousand times – “Lord, have mercy!”

Mercy is closely akin to grace. In many of his greetings to the churches, Paul, the apostle, included the words “mercy” and “grace.” A simple definition of grace is “unmerited favor.” Webster defines mercy as “compassionate leniency toward a wrongdoer or enemy.”

My friend, Claude Haley, when asked, “How are you doing?” always replies, “Better than I deserve!” That is mercy applied.

Another friend, the late Brother J. Frank Carr, former missionary to Japan and Baptist preacher, once supplemented his income by raising feeder pigs. That was in the 1970’s. At the time I was employed by the Tennessee Department of Agriculture as a livestock grader.

One Thursday morning, while grading pigs at Smith County Commission Co. in Carthage, I looked up to see Bro. Carr following a sizable load of pigs up to the grading pen. He was delighted to see I was the grader that day.

“Good morning, Jack!” he said, with a beaming smile. “About these pigs,” he continued. “Now, Jack, I’m not looking for justice. I’m asking for mercy!”

I fully understood from where he was coming. Fortunately, his pigs were of excellent quality that day, and mercy did not have to come into play.

Charles H. Spurgeon was of the greatest English preachers of the 19th century. Known as “the boy preacher” he began preaching at age 16 and was preaching to thousands by the time he reached his early twenties. He is without question the most published preacher of this time. His daily devotional, Morning by Morning is a classic, and one of my favorites. I would highly recommend doing yourself a favor and getting a copy. You can thank me later.

Here is what Spurgeon had to say about God’s mercy:

God’s mercy is tender.

Psalm 147:3 He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds. His mercy is infinite.

Psalm 118:1 O give thanks unto the LORD; for he is good: because his mercy endureth forever.

His mercy is undeserved.

Ephesians 2:4 But God, who is rich in mercy, for his great love wherewith he loved us,5 Even when we were dead in sins, hath quickened us together with Christ, (by grace ye are saved;)

Titus 3:5 Not by works of righteousness which we have done, but according to his mercy he saved us, by the washing of regeneration, and renewing of the Holy Ghost;

His mercy is effective.

Psalm 90:14 O satisfy us early with thy mercy; that we may rejoice and be glad all our days.

His mercy is abundant.

Deut. 5:10 And shewing mercy unto thousands of them that love me and keep my commandments.

His mercy is unfailing.

Hebrews 13:5 For he hath said I will never leave you nor forsake you.

Psalm 23:6A  Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,

And here is the great invitation:

Hebrew 4:14 Seeing then that we have a great high priest, that is passed into the heavens, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold fast our profession.

15 For we have not an high priest which cannot be touched with the feeling of our infirmities; but was in all points tempted like as we are, yet without sin.

16 Let us therefore come boldly unto the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy, and find grace to help in time of need.

For many, many years, our prayer for our beloved country, the United States of America, has been, “God bless America.”

In these perplexing days when it appears our nation is headed down a slippery slope, maybe our prayer should be,

“Lord, have mercy.”

Justice may be more than we can bear.

Copyright 2019 by Jack McCall

Hens and Roosters

Every spring brings with it a stirring in me to return once again to the Brim Hollow. Imagine the chirping of birds, the air filled with fragrances from a thousand blossoms, and cool ground under my bare feet. And I breathe in the earthen smell of newly turned up ground in my grandmother’s garden. And I walk through rows of buttercups and marvel at iris blades fanning toward the sky, soon to bring the flower garden alive with colors that would rival a rainbow.

 And I always think of chickens, hens and roosters and baby chicks.

It seems the springtime was prone to make a hen’s temperature rise. At least a few hens would want to “set” a nest of eggs. My grandmother Lena decided which hens got the “settin” eggs and how many. Some hens wanted to “set” whether they got the eggs or not. That created a problem for me when I was sent to gather eggs each day.

There were two rows of hen nests in the Brim Hollow. One was attached to the outside wall of the henhouse. It was comprised of sections, about 12-14 inches square, and covered with one piece of roofing tin. The other row of nests was attached to the back of the smokehouse.  

It was always thrilling to me, as a boy, to be given the job of gathering the eggs. It was like a treasure hunt. My grandmother taught me to always look in the nest before I reached in to collect the eggs. She pointed out that chicken snakes were known to crawl into a hen’s nest occasionally. The thought of grabbing hold of a chicken snake made me a careful observer. I was afraid of snakes, but I was more afraid of settin’ hens.

When a hen is determined not to leave a nest of eggs, or even more determined to protect her baby chicks, she can make herself look bigger than she really is.  And they make this clucking sound that sounds fearsome. Sometimes a hen is bluffing. When a hen is not bluffing, you are in for flogging. A flogging hen is not to be messed with.    

But, in the chicken world, if there is anything worse than a flogging hen, it is a spurring rooster.    

There were no aggressive roosters in the Brim Hollow. And now that I think about it, there’s probably a reason for that fact. I imagine if a rooster got out of line, he was on the fast tract for my grandmother’s frying pan. My Granny Lena stood only 5 ft. 2 inches, but she could ring the neck off a chicken with the best of them.    

We did have a few aggressive roosters on our farm in Watervale (also known as “Punch, TN”) when I was growing up.

It is an intimidating experience to be “eyed” by a big rooster. We had one particular rooster that would put an eye on you as soon as you stepped off the front porch. What followed was always the same. If you turned your back on him, the next thing you heard was the rustling of feathers and fast-moving chicken’s feet as he made his charge. He was never successful in his attempts to spur me, but I did have to fight him off a few times. If, on the other hand, you continued to watch him as you walked away, refusing to turn your back on him; he would crow (like a rooster) as he strutted around, letting the barnyard know he was king of the roost. I never like him, but he commanded my respect.

You might say I grew in a day of “free range” chickens half-a-century before the phrase was even coined.

Copyright 2022 by Jack McCall

Summer's Here

                                              Summer’s Here

Ok, I know, officially, the first day of summer is another 2or 3 weeks away. But for me, summer has arrived. Already a bunch of summertime things are going on. Late rains postponed this year’s spring hay crop. Now farmers are dodging rain showers as they try get the hay crop in.

Speaking of hay, don’t you love the smell of newly mown hay? It is a smell like no other. I especially enjoy it now that I am no longer called to the hay fields to haul square bales. Those were the days! Hot and dusty are words that come to mind. There is hardly any heat that compares to the stagnant air high in a hay loft.      

And dust? My father grew a lot of red clover and Laredo soybean hay. If either got wet, those dark green leaves turned black. The dust that came with that hay was almost unbearable. Why, I believe I’ve blown a black hale of hay out of my nose a few times! When my brothers and I complained to our father about black leaves and coarse stems, he had two comebacks. “They’ll (the cows) eat every bite of it!” he’d exclaim, or “It’ll beat a snowball!”    

Of course, it’s the time of year for thistles. I hate thistles. Whenever I see a thistle in one of my pastures, I bristle. (That’s almost poetic.) As in, “I bristle at a thistle.” I know, I know, we are not supposed to hate. When I find myself hating a thistle I take comfort in Ecclesiastes 3:8” … a time to love and a time to hate…” I also take action. I rarely check cows without the company of my trusted hoe. This year my hoe and I have inflicted some serious damage on the thistle crop. Going to battle against thistles is a summer thing. I try to head them off before they head out.  

Speaking of checking cows, most of the spring calves have arrived. I love to watch them grow. Shaded pastures and lazy creeks running cool make for a scene right out of paradise. I almost feel sorry for all those city folks who know nothing of country living.

Many years ago, my friend, Johnny Godwin, who grew up in Midland, TX (where he said they had ONE tree) and his wife, Phyllis flew to Tennessee by commercial airline. “When we looked down from that plane and saw ‘the greenest state in the land of the free’ we decided we were never going back to live in Texas!” Johnny said. They have lived here ever since. Summertime showcases the “green” of our beloved Tennessee.       

And summer speaks of gardens in our part of the world. Soon gardens will be coming “in.” My brothers, Tom and John are the garden growers in our family. There is nothing quite like fresh vegetables “right out of the garden.” Hats off to my friend, Jackie Oldham, who will share his sweet corn with “half of Dixon Springs.” If you want to see a great garden, slow down next time you are driving through Dixon Springs in Smith County. You can’t miss it.   

Of course, summertime is a time for cooking out [That is opposed to “eating out.” =)] Bring on the grills. And speaking of grills, here’s a little promo for the beef industry. A few steak houses are now offering a cut called a “flat iron” steak. It is a less expensive cut (about 3 to 5 dollars less than a rib eye.) I asked the meat cutter at Kroger the other day about the “flat iron.” “Oh, yes, “he said. “It’s called the poor man’s sirloin.” You might want to give it a try. I suggest you marinate it in your favorite marinade with some garlic at home.  

And, then, there is summertime heat. On one of these hot summer afternoons, I suggest you make a tall pitcher of lemonade (with real lemons) or fix yourself a glass of sweet, iced tea, take off your shoes, and go bare-footed. You might even go down to the creek and go wadin’.

There’s much pleasure to be had in “the good ole summertime.”

Copyright 2022 by Jack McCall  

Drinking Water

The early arrival of summer represented by a couple of miserably hot days a week or so ago took me back to summer days of my youth – days when you would die for a cool drink of water.

 When I was a boy, we carried drinking water to the fields in a gallon jug. It was one of those big-mouthed gallon jugs. Before we left the house we would fill it half-full of ice cubes. These were real ice cubes from ice trays. They were as big as square golf balls. Then we filled the jug with tap water from the well. When the top was safely on the jug, we wrapped it in newspapers to keep it cold then slipped it down in a brown paper grocery sack. We rolled the top of the sack over the jug to keep the cold in and the heat out.

 Upon arriving at the hay field or tobacco patch, we set the jug in the shade until we needed it. By mid-morning it was time for a break. That water was so cold that it would give you a headache if you drank it too fast.

 We never took a glass or cup with us to the field. Everyone drank out of the water jug. Family, friends, neighbors and hired help all drank right out of the same jug. I was always careful to get my drink before the snuff dippers and tobacco chewers arrived. Sometimes if I was late getting to the water, I would notice an amber stain on the lip of the jug. I either wiped it off with my shirt sleeve or moved to the other side of the jug.

 The introduction of the plastic milk jug changed all that. My father, ever the innovator, began filling used milk jugs half-full of water and setting them in the deep freeze. When we started to the fields, he would grab one out of the freezer and finish filling it with water. It was not necessary to insulate that jug of water or set it in the shade. It would take all day for the ice to melt. The water was head splitting cold, too.

 I promise this to be true. We had one hired hand who, from time to time, would study one of those milk jugs trying to figure out how my father got the ice inside it.

Sometimes we would run out of water toward the end of the day. If my brothers and I complained loudly enough, my father would challenge us by saying, “Go get a drink in the creek.” We always protested.

 He would walk us down to the edge of the creek and say, “Now see that little bluff right over there? A spring is running out from under it.”

 I will admit that a trickle of water flow could usually be seen. Our father knew exactly what he was talking about, but we never admitted it to him. Then he would say, “Just put your face down in the water right up next to where the water is coming out. It’s as clean and safe as any water that you could ever drink.”

 That was easy for him to say. I always envisioned a snake or snapping turtle jumping out and latching on to my nose or lip.

But, at one time or another, somewhere along the way, each of us became thirsty enough to try it. My father would hold his tongue until we were down on our knees with our faces in the water, just ready to draw in a drink. Then, he would laugh and say, “Be sure to clinch your teeth to strain out the bugs.”  

 Copyright 2022 by Jack McCall

Setting Tobacco

In days long past, by this time in the month of May (or maybe a week earlier), my late father would have already gathered up every bushel basket, every wash tub, every orange crate, and as many cardboard boxes he could get his hands on in preparation for “settin” tobacco.

Let me pause for a moment to clarify the use of the word “set” as applied in settin’ tobacco. There is no past, present, or future tense distinction in using the word “set.” Simply put it, works this way. “We set tobacco yesterday.” “We are settin’ tobacco today.” “We will set tobacco tomorrow.” No one ever “sat” tobacco, although some of the old timers use to say, “We ‘sot’ out some tobacco yesterday.” Those who became more educated and/or sophisticated in later years would use the word “transplanting” in referring to settin’ tobacco, but what did they know?

The various containers gathered by my father would be used to transfer tobacco plants from the plant beds to the waiting tobacco patches. Unfortunately, the cardboard boxes only made it through one use, especially if the plants had to be “wet down.”

And by now, my father would have checked out and greased the tobacco setter (Ours was a New Idea, drag-type setter.) On day one of settin’ it was always in perfect working order. And the 2-hp pump used to transfer water from creek or farm pond to the setter tank? Tuned up and ready to go. In all the years I helped in the tobacco settin’ we experienced precious little down time. Frank McCall was a master at preparation in the work he loved.

With the coming of May the rye grass cover crop had long since been turned under and the tobacco ground disked to my father’s satisfaction. On the afternoon or the morning before we began settin’, he disked the ground one more time turning the earth into brown powder.

In the days leading up to tobacco settin’ time, the canvas had been removed to allow the tobacco plants to toughen under direct sunlight. In the earliest days I remember, if the plants were growing too tall, we “wrenched” off the tops of the leaves by hand before planting. It was a painfully slow process. In later years, we  tied a push mower (lawn mower) to two long poles and carefully walked along the sides of the plant beds lowering the tops of the plants. In more modern times tobacco growers used weed eaters to trim the plants. In my boyhood days the only weed eaters we had were two old goats that kept the graveyard clean.

Speaking of plant beds, I came across a mass of “yellow vine” in a pasture last summer. There it was, right out in the middle of the field. I hadn’t seen yellow vine since my tobacco settin’ days. Yellow vine (Some folks called it “love vine”) is hard to describe. A parasite, it showed up almost every year somewhere in our plant beds. Bright yellow in color, looking like fishing line or dental floss, it grew in a tangled mess. (I you ever experienced a backlash with a spinning reel you would have some idea of how hopelessly tangled it grew.) It could be traced back to where it was attached to the spongy stem of a tobacco plant. Its point of attachment left a tiny ridge on the plant which could be removed easily with the blade of a pocket knife or a long fingernail. I don’t ever remember a tobacco plant being sacrificed to love vine. And I don’t remember a piece of love vine making it to one of our tobacco patches.

So many memories - the dank smell of the water in that tobacco setter water tank – the rhythmic click of the setter as it released a shot of water for each plant- the feeling in the tips of the fingers of my right hand as I “searched” for the next plant to be passed to my left hand for planting – the satisfaction that only comes from a job well done at day’s end. All these recollections and a thousand more make up the fabric of who I am. I, like so many other farm boys and girls, grew up in a “golden age.”

Copyright 2022 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 by 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 2022 by Jack McCall