Resistance

Author and internationally acclaimed speaker, Matthew Keller, has written a number of marvelous books. In those books he consistently refers to one of the greatest enemies of our bettering ourselves as members of the human race. He calls it resistance.

Having lived out the better part of my allotted years, I would tend to agree. Resistance is everywhere. People of all walks of life resist change, children resist the teaching of their parents, lawbreakers resist arrest – the list goes on and on.

The late, great, sales motivator, Zig Ziglar spoke of good and bad this way. Bad habits are easy to start, but hard to quit. On the other hand, good habits are hard to start, but easy to quit. Whenever we seek to improve ourselves, resistance always seems to raise its ugly head.

Of course, resistance has a first cousin. Let’s call him/her procrastination. We have all fallen victim to procrastination. Someone once said  - with tongue in cheek – “Why do today what you can put off until tomorrow?” It was even made into the title of a song. Procrastination, like resistance, is a cunning and silent killer – a thief, no less. It will rob you of time and accomplishment. And to cast it aside, you must meet resistance head on.

Another cousin of resistance is hesitation.

I once read of a race horse that seemed destined to win the Kentucky Derby. Unfortunately, he did not. His jockey, in explaining why his horse failed to win, explained. (I am paraphrasing here.) “As we entered the home stretch, I had my horse in perfect position to win. But when he heard the roar of the crowd, for the slightest fraction of a second, his ears went up as if to say, ‘What’s that?’ By the time I got his head back in the race it was too late.” That, ever so slight, hesitation cost him the race.

Here’s a great quote. “On the beach of hesitation, bleach the bones of countless millions, who sat down to wait; and waiting, died.” A great Tennessean, David Crockett, said, “Make sure you are right, then go ahead.” Someone else was heard to say, “The world is filled with people who can make decisions, but very few of them will.”

So, may I recommend an antidote for resistance, procrastination, and hesitation? Sometimes you just have to “take the bull by the horns.” Or as, W.C. Fields once quipped, “Sometimes you have to take the bull by the tail and face the situation!”

And we all would do well to remember as the ancients wrote:

Four things return not:

1)      The spoken word

2)      The sped arrow

3)      Time past

4)      Opportunity lost

 I came across a poem that has stuck with me throughout the years. It goes like this:

If, with pleasure, you are viewing,

Anything a man is doing.

If you love him, if you prize him, tell him now.

Do not withhold your approbation,

Until the parson makes oration,

And he lies with many lilies on his brow.

For no matter how you shout it,

He won’t really hear about it,                                                              

He’ll not count the many teardrops that you shed.

So, if you feel some praise is due him,

Now’s the time to pass it to him,

For he cannot read his tombstone when he’s dead.

Don’t put important things off.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

Post-Holiday Thoughts

Well, another Holiday Season has passed us by. For me, Thanksgiving and Christmas and New Year’s Day come too soon and pass too quickly. Each year, especially at Christmas, I look for an experience, or a special feeling, or singular event which makes that particular Christmas especially special. This year, I found two.

Once again, I re-read Charles Dickens’ classic, A Christmas Carol. The story behind how this timeless work came to be is quite unusual. As another Christmas approached, Dickens found himself deeply in debt while kinfolks were pressing him for loans. He desperately needed to create a work which could be published quickly in time to take advantage of the Holiday market. As he walked the cold and dingy streets of London at night the ideas and characters which made A Christmas Carol the timely classic began to come to life. It could well be his best work, and certainly became his most memorable. Who in all the world has never heard the phrase, “Bah, Humbug!” or known of a “Scrooge” or whispered the prayer of Tiny Tim, “God bless us every one!”

A Christmas Carol is filled with so many memorable lines. A friend, Michael, reminded me of one of my favorites. In a conversation with the Ghost of Christmas Present, Ebenezer Scrooge is warned:

“Scrooge, there is never enough time to do all the things that we would wish. The thing is to do as much as you can in the time you have left. For, suddenly, one day you wake up and you aren’t there anymore!”

That’s a great thought to take into the new year. Each of us, young and old, should take the challenge to make the most of the time we have left.

Our family celebrated Christmas back at the old home place this year. Three generations were present. 14 of the 16 (ages 12 and younger) who make up the third generation were there. We were blessed with a beautiful day - clear skies and mild temperature – helped with a rolling bonfire in the front yard. (A week before the winter storm arrived.)

All the young ones were outside running and ripping and having a glorious time. I was seated at a window as I watched them in their play. And I found myself offering a Christmas blessing for each one. And I smiled as I considered each one’s uniqueness. And I wondered how each one’s life would be lived out.

I found out later that, as I was watching them, someone was watching me.

“Uncle Jack,” a niece confessed, “I saw you watching us as you sat at the window. With the Christmas tree glowing in the background, it would have made a great picture for a Hallmark Card!”

I thought, “Maybe a Norman Rockwell, titled the Old Man in the Window.”

The celebration of Christmas has the potential of being a glorious time. It can be described in many ways.

“For God loved us and sent His Son.”

“He shall be called Emmanuel, meaning God with us.”

To the shepherds the message came, “For is born to you this day in the City of David, a Savior which is Christ, the Lord.”

So what does that mean to you and me as we move into the Year of Our Lord 2023?

I propose that sometimes situations arise which are beyond us. Like when a strong and talented football player goes into cardiac arrest and grown men who have been taught that crying is a sign of weakness find themselves on their knees as tears run down their faces – and millions pause to pray.

On occasion we must be reminded to “look unto the hills…” Psalm 121

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall        

Things My Mother Said

My late mother, Mary Helen Brim McCall, was a phenomenal person. I suppose every boy who had a nurturing mother felt her to be phenomenal. Mine was not only very intelligent, but she also had loads of “common sense.” You know what they say about common sense – “common sense is not so common.”

In today’s world there seems to be less and less application of sound thinking. In some quarters I almost detect a disdain for those who insist on relying on the wisdom of the ages.

Mary Helen Brim was a child of the Great Depression. It had a lasting impact on her thinking. I often think of things she said. Most of her most memorable sayings were rooted in the Holy scriptures. Others were her own.

If I heard it once, I heard it a thousand times. “Son, every situation can make you, or it can break you.” I have seen it played out so many times through the years. I have witnessed prosperity being the ruination of some, and I have observed what appeared to be a disaster resulting in an individual becoming stronger and wiser. I have watched some grow bitter from disappointment, and others take financial success and do grand things for the betterment of humanity. “Every situation can make you, or it can break you.”

I hear these words ringing in my ears from time to time. “Moderation in all things.” It’s the extremes that get us in trouble – overeating, over drinking, over- spending, eating too little, under spending, over exercising, under exercising, over doing it, overcleaning -the list goes on and on. “Moderation in all things.”

“It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good.” There seems to be an abundance of ill winds blowing these days. Best we recognize them. There’s another old saying that goes like this. “He who will not stand for something will fall for anything.” Best we be aware of the ill winds.

“Bread cast on the water will return after many days.” My mother often said the only reason she would ever desire to have a lot of money was so she could give it away. She still managed to give a lot away – whatever she had.

“You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink.” The late, great, sales motivational speaker, Zig Ziglar used to say there are three things that are hard to do. “To climb a fence that is leaning to you, to kiss a girl who is leaning from you, and to help people who don’t want to be helped.” I came across a great line a few years ago which goes like this, “He is most easily convinced who discovers the answer for himself.” “You can lead a horse…”

“The answer to every situation can be found somewhere in the Bible.” That was one of her favorites. She believed it and she lived it. Her favorite verses? Proverbs 3:5-6 “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not unto your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him and He will direct your path.”

And her take on eternal life? She would simply say, “If you miss that, you’ve missed it all.”

Copyright 2022 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 round, 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 2017 by Jack McCall

Back the The Brim Hollow

My wife, Kathy, and I made our annual November trip to the Gatlinburg/Pigeon Forge area to Christmas shop a few weeks ago. After over four decades of marriage, I suppose most couples settle into some kind of routine. Our mornings play out like this. She sleeps late, and I do breakfast on my own.

I am now convinced 90% of the people who travel to Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge never enjoy pancakes at home. That’s the reason they all show up at pancake houses to stand in line for hours waiting to wade into the sticky, culinary delight. I, for one, do not enjoy standing in line in sub-freezing temperatures, so I get out early and beat the on-foot traffic.

The early morning usually finds me at the Log Cabin Pancake House on Airport Road in Gatlinburg. Not only do they know me there, but they also serve a great breakfast at a reasonable price. I say a reasonable price because I now limit myself, most of the time, to the “child’s/senior plate” – one egg, two strips of bacon and four mini-pancakes, with drink included.

The giant poplar wood beams that support the rafters, the large, gas fireplaces, (They once burned real wood) and the many relics of the past scattered throughout the restaurant have a way of taking me back to The Brim Hollow. Horse drawn plows, their plow handles made smooth by time and age, cry out to me from the outside shed of the restaurant each time I walk by. As I drink in those things which stir old memories, I experience the warmest feelings.

Once more, I see my Granny Lena sitting in a cane-bottomed chair, its back as straight as hers, as she worked the butter churn – up-and-down – with a resolve that yielded the fineness butter and callused hands.

The sight of a hand-cranked corn sheller sent me back to the feed barn where I learned to love the smell of mules; and up the ladder where I found safety when the hallway became too busy. In the corn crib, I recalled a pyramid of red corn cobs that reached almost to the ceiling; and a mountain of corn shucks that finished filling the crib where a boy could dive in and lose himself to the world outside.

As I sat and studied the flickering flames in the fireplace, I found myself in front of another fireplace, many miles and many years ago. And I felt the warmth of the fire on my face, and I smelled a thousand smells - the smoke from the fire, a chicken pot pie just removed from the oven of the wood stove, my grandfather’s flannel shirts, the inside of the smokehouse, and the intoxicating air in my grandmother’s flower garden.

And once again I stood beside the branch (My grandmother’s word for creek) and watched the refreshing flow from up the hollow, fed by a-half-dozen springs which drew up water, crystal-clear and cold, and sweet to the taste, from deep within the earth.

In the winters of my youth, I often laid in the safety and warmth of a feather bed at night and listened to the haunting whistle of the wind as it swept through the hollow. The high ridges that framed the hollow and the trees laid bare for winter made for a sound unlike any other I have ever known. I heard that sound again.

I have often wished every person had a “Brim Hollow” in their life – a place to which you could return, if only in your mind, from time to time; and find peace and solitude – a place where you could find a “grounding” - a place where life seemed to make more sense. If you have such a place, you are richly blessed.

Copyright 2022 by Jack McCall

After the Game - Part 2

In my last post I wrote of leaving a high school basketball game one evening as heavy snow was arriving, and how my trip home in our farm pickup truck was delayed by my unwisely deciding to grab a bite to eat at a local restaurant. At the column’s end I was facing three challenges to overcome on my way home - the first being my making it up the hill to the Carthage city square. I backed up around a curve to attempt a “running start,” took a deep breath, a pressed the accelerator.

The momentum I gained coming out of the curve sent my truck easily up the hill with tires spinning. As I passed the building on my right that once had housed the old Carthage Grocery and Locker Plant, I breathed a sign of relief. I eased on up to Main Street and stopped at the traffic light. One down, two to go.

 I turned right and started down the center of town. The Cordell Hull Bridge loomed before me. I knew the bridge would be especially slick and treacherous. I made the turn onto the bridge with as much speed as I could safely gather. The truck fish-tailed its way to the highest point on the bridge. I relaxed and touched the break as I started down the other side. I touched the brake again. The truck slipped and slid easily as I brought it to a precarious stop at the end of the bridge. Two down, one to go.

 Now I looked ahead to the biggest obstacle between me and home, the big hill that stood just east of Watervale (better known as Punch, Tennessee, USA to many) on Highway 70. As I paused on the end of the bridge, I considered two options. I could take the hill on straight up or turn off Highway 70 onto the Old County House Road and avoid the hill altogether. Those thoughts weighed on my mind as I pulled off the end of the bridge and turned west.

 The stretch of highway that ran below the bluff was as slick as I ever remember it.

I slipped and slid until I was out from under its dark shadow. I crossed the Hogan’s Creek Bridge and eased along at 40 miles per hour. I made it up the rise past the entrance to Old 70 to the stretch of road that straightened out past Carthage General Hospital. All the while I was contemplating the hill and the Old County House Road. At the end of the straight stretch I topped the rise in the road past the triangle where Jess Hackett lived. As I started down the other side I strained my eyes to get a view of the big hill ahead.

In the distance on the dark hillside I could see the tail lights of stranded vehicles on both sides of the road. My decision was made. But it was made too late.

 The entrance to the Old County House Road was right on me and I was caught in the middle of making two mistakes. I was going too fast, and I had to make my turn too sharply.

 As I went into the turn, I felt the back of the truck swinging around to my left. It slid faster. I was almost sideways when the strangest thing happened. Instead of sliding off the road where I would have obviously flipped and rolled down a steep embankment, the wooden livestock bed of the truck hit the stop sign on the edge of the road. When I say the stop sign, I do not mean the stop sign post. I mean the thin metal, octagonal shaped sign itself. The sign acted like a spring and pitched the back of the truck back out in the middle of the road, correcting my course. I was on my way. I blinked in disbelief as I made the next curve and continued on the snow-covered gravel road. The rest of my trip was a piece of cake, although it took three tries to get up the hill to our house.

 When I walked in the house, my mother met me at the door.

  “Where have you been?” she asked. The tone of her voice fell somewhere between concern and annoyance.

 “At the ballgame,” I answered nonchalantly.

 “At eleven o’clock at night?” she pressed.

 “Well, no ma’am,” I answered. “I went to Sherry’s Diner to get something to eat after the game.”

 I didn’t like the way she looked at me.

Then she said, “The next time the game is over and it’s snowing like this, you get yourself straight home. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, ma’am,’ I answered.

“You could end up in a ditch somewhere on a night like this,” she warned.

I could not have agreed more.

But I did not end up in a ditch that night. I ended up in a soft bed with warm covers.

I have never believed in luck. But I have had my share of good fortune.

As I look back over my life, I have a great sense of comfort in knowing that Someone was watching over me.

Copyright 2022 by Jack McCall

After the Game - Part One

It just doesn’t snow in these parts like it once did. When I was a boy attending school in Smith County, we could look forward to two or three big snows every winter. I say “big” in the sense that they were big snowfalls for our region of the world, usually four to six inches in accumulation. Students could count on missing at least ten days of school due to snow. One winter we were out of school for almost a month of school days. That year the temperature hovered around zero degrees for over two weeks. Most of the snow that fell that winter stayed around for while. It was glorious, at least temporarily, from a student’s point of view.

But weather patterns have changed, as they have throughout the long history of mankind (I still have not bought into the concept of “global warming”). But some things have not changed – like the accuracy of the weather forecasters. When it came to predicting snowfalls, the weatherman rarely got it right back in my day. Today they have Doppler radar along with computer models and imaging and the weatherpersons (I’m trying to be politically correct here) still muddle through the snow forecasts. That, of course, creates a dilemma for school officials as it always has. Questions like these must be addressed: Do we close school ahead of the forecasted snow? Do we let school out early? Do we start back two hours late? Do we cancel the basketball game? Do we cancel one and not the other? At best, it’s like rolling the dice……which brings us to a January Tuesday night in 1969.

Heavy snow had been predicted for that Tuesday. School students were excited and school officials were concerned. All day we waited. The snow never came. The end of the school day came - still no snow. The next issue was the Tuesday night basketball game. How do you cancel the game when there is no snow and you just finished a full day of school? A decision was made. The game was on. Hopefully, we could get the games in before the snow arrived. The weather forecasters were insistent that the snow would arrive.

During the basketball games people were constantly checking outside for signs of snow. The games concluded with not one trace of snow in the air. The crowd dispersed and everyone went home. The last of the members of the boy’s team, of which I was one, were the last to leave the gym that night.

As I stepped out of the gym and into the night air, I could hardly believe my eyes.

Looking up through the glow of the street lights I was met by an incredibly heavy, wet snowfall, some snowflakes appearing as big as quarters. Like floating goose down, it drifted steadily downward in seemingly endless supply. The scene had all the makings of a winter wonderland. And it was sticking fast.

I should have realized immediately that two things were not in my favor. One, on my way home I would be driving a two-wheel drive pickup truck with no extra weight over the rear axle. And two, I would be driving on snow-covered roads.

Oh, the foolishness of youth. I was 17 years old and I had other things on my mind –namely, food and conversation.

My only option for late night fast food in Carthage that night was Sherry’s Diner. I took off in that direction not taking into account it was located at the bottom of the hill just off the town square.    

The cooks there put together a chuck wagon steak sandwich as good as any I ever ate. I had a chuck wagon on my mind when I arrived at the diner that night. I did not notice that a half inch of snow had accumulated in the foregoing ten minutes. I soon settled into conversation with my friends, hardly noticing that there weren’t many of them joining me, and that none of them lived outside the city limits.  

An hour passed. The diner was closing. It was time to head home. As I stepped outside I met my second surprise of the night. I was looking at four or more inches of deep fresh snow. I paused to make this observation: When heavy snow is falling fast it can accumulate in a hurry!

I now took full stock of my dilemma with a renewed sense of urgency – two-wheel drive pickup truck with a light backend facing heavy snow on the roads.

My father had taught me four rules for driving in snow: use the highest gear possible, go easy on the accelerator, go easy on the break, and avoid making sudden turns.

 I considered all that as I started the pick-up and pulled out on the street. I tested the road surface by giving the engine a little extra gas. As the truck fish tailed, I thought “slicker than a peeled onion!” I backed up into the curve that veered around the Carthage Shirt Factory to get a running start, and took on the first of the three major challenges that lay between me and home -  the hill that would take me up to the Carthage square.

 Stayed tuned for the rest of the story when I reveal where I spent the night that night, and how I arrived there in After the Game - Part 2.

 Copyright 2022 by Jack McCall

Country Ham and Red-eyed Gravy

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

 When she spooned in a bite, I would grin

as the red-eyed gravy ran down my chin.

 The late Dewey King Knight, a neighbor who married my father’s double first cousin, Lucy McCall, would stop by our house two or three mornings a week just to find out how many biscuit middles I had eaten for breakfast. He got a kick out of hearing I had eaten a half-dozen or more.

 I was hooked on country ham long before medical science discovered cholesterol to be an enemy of the human circulatory system.

My former neighbor for over 35 years, Jerald Shivers, used to drive a delivery route for the Colonial Baking Company. Jerald insisted there were only two kinds of bread and both began with a “C”...Colonial Bread and corn bread.

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

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

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

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

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

The Christmas dinner table always showcased three kinds of ham. One was a

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

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

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

When I was growing up, my mother would often say, “Moderation in all

things.” In my humble opinion, a center slice of real country ham twice a year is not going to hurt anybody.

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

Copyright 2022 by Jack McCall