First Annual Tobacco Stripping Festival

Ok, so, I have this great idea. You might recall in a recent column I addressed how tobacco stripping used to be. It led me to thinking about growing a half-acre of tobacco this crop year. Well, I’m not thinking about me growing it. I will either have to sub-contract it, or entice a former tobacco grower to buy into my plan. A half-acre would yield approximately 500 sticks of burley tobacco which would work nicely into my plan. It would have to be a collaborative effort.

When I manage to recruit a sufficient number of volunteers, the workload could be spread out so as not to overwork anyone. Barn space would not be an issue as there are plenty of empty tobacco barns in the immediate area. Of course, the entire project would be a labor of love, for soon all will be gone who remember “how it used to be.”

Once the tobacco is cured, the stage will be set for the First Annual Tobacco Stripping Festival. I envision folks coming from miles around just for the privilege of standing at a tobacco stripping table and tying a few hands. I have even considered charging a fee based on time spent at the table, or number of hands tied. (Of course, all monies would go to charity.) If the festival falls on a Saturday, I would seek to find a recording of the late John Ward announcing a University of Tennessee football game. Many a tobacco stripping Saturday was made more pleasant, or even shorted, by John Ward who had a magical way of transporting you from the tobacco barn to Neyland Stadium and Shield-Watkins Field.

And 500 sticks of tobacco would yield a “basket” of tobacco which would require the sticks of handed tobacco to be “booked” down – a great learning experience for the younger crowd.

I can see it now! The nostalgia would be intoxicating!

And while I’m at it, I suppose I should plant a half-acre of corn (or sub-lease it.) No one “gathers” or picks corn by hand anymore. Now that’s an experience that should not be lost to the past. Today, modern combines pick the corn, shuck it, and shell it. The day may come when the combines even spit out Kellogg’s corn flakes!

A young person should be afforded the experience of twisting dried ears of corn from the stalk, and then, shucking bright orange ears of corn. (And the experience of knowing what chapped hands feel like.) Come to think of it, I might have a wooden box constructed for the purpose of shelling corn. I will have to track hold a hand-cranked corn sheller. Youngsters might pay a small fee at the next county fair for the chance to shell a few ears of corn.

You might ask, “Why would you think of going to all the effort to do these things?” My answer is simple. Because important pieces of our past are slowly slipping away.

I have never been one to live in the past. But I think it important to remember from where we have come – to remember that which has contributed to the fabric of our lives. I think it keeps us “grounded.”

I am convinced staying in touch with the best of our past gives us courage to face the uncertainties of the future. And if the memories of stripping tobacco with family and friends, and gathering and shucking and shelling corn by hand does the trick, so be it.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall 

Breakfast with my Grandfathers

My grandfathers were most unusual men. As you have heard people say, “different as daylight and dark.”

My maternal grandfather, Will Herod Brim, was just shy of being a recluse. He spent most of his life in the Brim Hollow. My mother, his only daughter, told that he was never gainfully employed after his father died. He rented out his tobacco base, had a few goats and sheep, and lived off the land. In the twelve years I knew him, he allowed me to see into a world a generation before.

The house he lived in had no running water. Electricity was limited to drop cords in the center of two rooms. Air conditioning amounted to opening a window and hoping for a breeze. In the winter, the house was heated by a large, open fireplace, and a wood burning, cook stove in the kitchen. His meals were as simple as his surroundings.

He ate two hard-boiled eggs at every meal - three times a day, 365 days a year. The routine never varied. He would chop up the still warm eggs with a fork, add a pat of hand-churned butter and a dab of salad dressing, salt and pepper to taste, and combine thoroughly with his fork. He preferred white bread toast cooked to a crisp with his eggs, but relied on saltine crackers from time to time. Occasionally, he would enjoy a piece of fried side meat or fresh tenderloin, but he mostly stuck with his eggs. In the summer, when speckled butter beans came in, and my grandmother seasoned them to perfection, and cooked them to a dull, grey; he would add them to his plate - but always with his eggs.

He sat at a table he had built himself. My mother said the wood from which it was built cost 75 cents. The tabletop was constructed of rough-cut poplar boards and covered with red and white checked oil cloth. The chairs that surrounded the table were of the straight-back, cane-bottom variety.

My paternal grandfather, D.T. McCall was just as unusual, but in a different way. If ever there was a “natural-born salesman” he was one. He loved people and he loved the sales game. He showcased a “can do” attitude years before the phrase was popularized by modern sales motivators. D.T. McCall wore a shirt and tie to work every workday, and his day started at the feed barn. He had no taste in clothes, sometimes wearing a plaid shirt with a plaid tie, with a plaid sport coat. In the middle Tennessee area, his flat-topped, straw hat was legendary. He brought the same flair to the breakfast table.    

“Pa Dave,” as we called him, believed in a big, hardy breakfast. I can never recall his eating lunch. Unlike the kitchen in the Brim Hollow, my “Granny Amy’s” kitchen featured the modern conveniences of her day. She served up poached and sunny-side-up eggs for my grandfather’s breakfast. He liked sausage, bacon, as well as country ham. Toast and biscuits were the order of the day. But the finale to his breakfast each morning I shall never forget. After he has finished his main course, he would fill his plate with All Bran. (I think it was of the Kellogg’s variety.) When I say “fill his plate,” I mean, at least a cupful. That’s a lot of bran. It looked like a haystack in his plate. Speaking of hay, I would rather have tried to eat a block of fescue hay! It got worse.

Then he would take whatever liquid was left on the table and pour it in the top of his pile of bran. I’ve seen it all - coffee, honey, orange juice. Occasionally, I think for effect, he would pour the runny yoke of a poached egg over the bran. It was nothing short of disgusting.

It may have scarred me for life.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

More Pocketknife Rescues

In my last column I wrote of my successful efforts to save pocketknives at security checkpoints in airports and at concert events. I suppose almost anyone who “carries” a pocket knife has been faced with similar dilemmas at one time or another. The reason being a pocketknife becomes a part of the contents of your pocket that is almost “forgotten” until called upon.

Friend, Steve Ellis, tells of how while serving the military in Vietnam he was the only one among his buddies who carried a pocketknife. Said Steve, “You would not believe how many times my buddies asked to borrow my knife! When orders came for me to go home, I left my pocket knife with one of my friends so they would have one to borrow.”  

In the world where I grew up, a pocketknife was almost indispensable – “handy as a pocket on a shirt.” And it seems every knife has an attachment to someone – a memory of a grandfather -a gift from a friend – a link to the past. So, a pocket knife is worth rescuing from time to time.

Which brings me to a Paul McCartney concert at Thompson-Boling Arena on the University of Tennessee campus in Knoxville, TN. That evening I just happened to be carrying a 4-blade, Case XX given to me by a young friend on the day of his wedding – a special gift.

As I approached the security checkpoint, I began to empty my pockets to find, to my dismay, the Case XX. No turning back here - I was a long way from my parked car. The two security guards, both women, were right in front of me. The woman nearest me I determined, by her age and general appearance, to be a person of wisdom and good judgment.

I extended my arm and opened my right hand to show her my knife, and with pleading eyes, I whispered, “What do I do?”

She glanced cautiously to her right and then to her left, and said, “You put it (the knife) in this basket. I will slide it down the table. When you walk through there, pointing to the metal detecting doorway, you  grab the knife and run like #@!%$*^!” I try to write clean column, so I won’t use her exact word, but it’s a place no one wants to go. I did exactly as she directed except for the running part. I did, however, walk away briskly after emptying the basket.

It was a great concert. As I was leaving the arena that night, I was pleased to see the woman who had done me a favor. She was seated with another security guard at the exit doorway. As I walked by, I leaned toward her and, out of the corner of my mouth, I whispered, “thanks for saving my knife.” She didn’t blink. She looked straight ahead with an expressionless face; and with no feeling in her voice, she said, “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

I chuckled as I walked away. “There are still a few people around who have some common sense,” I thought.

A couple of weekends ago, I had to fly to Chicago. Sure enough, when I arrived at airport security in Nashville, I found a pocket knife in my pocket. This time it was a little slender Case called a “toothpick” given to me by one of my sons - another special knife. I couldn’t see giving it up, so I decided to take a chance, It being a tiny knife, I slipped it under my cell phone in my backpack. It passed through security “slicker than a peeled onion.”

Being one who is not inclined to tempt fate, I made arrangements to mail the “toothpick” back home, and not hazard another attempt to get it through security, especially in Chicago. Two weeks later the knife found its way home. The postal service had even placed my envelop inside another, larger “window” envelop to see that the contents arrived safely – a nice touch by the USPS.

So, here’s to all you pocketknife “carryin’”, pocketknife “totin’” folks who value a good pocket knife. They are worth rescuing from time to time, you know. I know the metal in them is not like it used to be, but stainless steel is not so bad.

Speaking of metal, the best “pull” tobacco knife we ever used had a blade fashioned from a piece of fender from a T-Model Ford. It would hold an edge like the pocketknives of old.

As the old timers were oft to say, “They just don’t make metal like they used to.”

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall        

To Save a Pocketknife

I suppose every kid who grew up on a farm came to appreciate the value of a pocketknife. My deep respect for the bladed treasures began with my maternal grandfather, Will Herod Brim. Known in the Riddleton Community of Middle Tennessee as “Mr. Herod” or “John Reuben,”(We called him “Pa Rube.”) he was a pocket  knife “expert.” Long before I came to know him he had perfected the skill of “whittling.” He could roll curled shavings off a good piece of red cedar with the best of them. Fellow whittlers were known to pay him the handsome sum of fifty cents to hone a razor sharp edge on their knives. Herod Brim had a collection of pocket knives and “whet” rocks which he maintained with the greatest of care. When he returned a newly sharpened knife to its owner he would show off his work by shaving the hair off his arm with a blade now “a sharp as a briar.”

When he died, he left me a two-bladed Case, known to some as “an Eisenhower.”  

My love of pocketknives only increased while I was growing up on the farm. When it comes to farm work, you might describe them as “indispensable” – “handy as a pocket on a shirt.” So, it is little wonder I have “carried” or “toted” one for most of my life.

In the 1990’s and the first 20 years of the 21st century I spent more than my share of time in airports. And all too often, I would find a knife in my pocket as I prepared to go through airport security. (They confiscate pocket knives in airports.) In those days, you could walk down to a travel agency by the name of Wright Travel, give them your mailing address and ten bucks, and they would, as a courtesy, mail your knife back home. Eventually, the price increased to fifteen dollars.

In later years, I chose to purchase a house brand of pocketknife at Smoky Mountain Knife Works called a “Rough Rider” for the meager sum of $9. If I got caught with a pocket knife in the airport, I let them have it. I simply considered it my contribution to the Federal Government’s crime fighting efforts.

Which brings me to an evening at the World-Famous Ryman Auditorium in Nashville, Tennessee. Years before I had given my older brother, Tom, a slick, little, yellow, Rough Rider one-blader. (I didn’t tell him how little it cost.) Being more like my aforementioned grandfather than my other brothers and me, he had carried it as his pocket knife of choice for several years, and had told me from time to time how much he liked it.

That night, Tom and his wife, Patsy, had accompanied Kathy and me to the Ryman. As we approached the front door and security check point, Tom revealed the contents of his pocket to find the pocket knife I had given him.

He froze in his tracks.

“Jack, what am I going to do?” he stammered.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

“Give me the knife!” I whispered.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

I had already “cased” the place.

“See that row of shrubs,” I said, calmly. “Remember shrub number three from the left.”

“What are you going to do?” he said, his voice filled with grave concern.

“I’m going to hide this knife at the base of shrub number three. I’ll come back and get it after the concert.”

“What if somebody steals it,” he asked.

“Tom, I’m sure no one will be rummaging through the shrubs in the dark tonight.”

He seemed relieved.

It was a great concert - Ronnie Milsap performing his greatest hits.

At the end of the night, I found the yellow pocketknife, safe and sound, under shrub number three, and returned it to its rightful owner. Pa Rube would have been proud.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

Stripping Tobacco

A young man, almost half my age, recently told me he would like to have a “hand” of tobacco. I think he had seen that for which he was looking. I’m not sure he had experienced the making of a “hand.” Let me step back in time to explain.

In bygone days the “making” of a tobacco crop was a source of great pride for farmers who “grew” it. After the tobacco had “cured” in the tiers of a tobacco barn it was “thrown down” when it came “in order” (Some called it “in case.”) Then it found its way to a stripping table. The leaves were then carefully “graded” under skillful eyes. There were different names for the different grades. Leaves near the bottom of the stalk fell under the names of “lugs” or “trash.” The next leaves, long and golden, and higher up the stalk, were called “bright.” Next came shorter, dark leaves which fell under the name of “red,” and then, came “tips.” Some names for the different grades varied from farm to farm and from region to region, but farm “grading” had an overall consistency. The USDA grading system insured it to be so. All that brings me to the “hand.”

In my part of the world the process of removing tobacco leaves from the stalk, by hand, and placing the leaves in various grades was called “stripping tobacco.” In other places the process was called “handing tobacco.”

A right-hander would hold the butt-end of the tobacco stalk in his right hand and strip the leaves from the stalk, collecting them in his left hand. When his hand was “full” to his liking, he would “tie” the hand of tobacco with a carefully selected “tie leaf.” The “hand” of tobacco was created by holding the “stem ends” of each leaf, and an effort was made to keep the “stem ends” even. Skilled tobacco strippers were always on the lookout for desirable “tie leaves” as they put together “hands.” When one was found It was tucked under the strippers left arm for safe keeping. When the “hand” was full, the “tie leaf” would be retrieved and put to good use. The “hand” was finished by wrapping the “tie leaf” around the  ”stem ends” of the collected leaves. The wrapping or “tying” of the hand began with the tip of the “tie leaf“ and resulted in 2-4 inches of the “hand” being under the “tie leaf.” The job was finished when the “hand” of tobacco was divided  under the “tie” and the stem end of the “tie leaf” was pulled through the divided “hand.” This was referred to as “tying the hand.”

“Tie leaves” were selected for their quality and color. The size of “hands” varied considerably. Some tobacco growers preferred the “tied end” be no bigger around than a silver dollar. The size of the tobacco stripper’s hands often determined size. In my time, I observed tobacco “hands” as big as the barrel of a baseball bat.

As the first tobacco stripper at the stripping table removed the first graded leaves, he passed the tobacco stalk down to the next man or woman. When the next grade of leaves was removed, the stalk was passed further down the table. Finally, a tobacco stalk was left with 2-3 “tips.” When the last leaves were removed all that remained was a lowly tobacco stalk. I “hauled” many a tobacco stalk out of a tobacco barn in my time. It seemed to be a thankless job.

I hold many fond memories from my tobacco stripping days. When tobacco stripping time began my late father was relentless. He would stand at the stripping table from early morning until late afternoon, day after day, until the last leaf.

They started my brothers, my sister and me early. I still carry a scar over my right eye. They told me, when I was four years old, I tripped on a rock and hit the wagon tongue. Three stitches and I was as good as new.

To this day, I miss the smell of a tobacco barn.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

Heart

There are so many lagging effects of the COVID-19 Pandemic. Although everything can’t be blamed on COVID, there are a few results which are undeniable. Many learned they would rather stay at home and “draw” a check than go to work every day and work. Some have said it is not that members of the younger generation don’t want to work, but they don’t want to work much. And let’s face the fact the younger ones among us have been fed a steady diet of conversation that goes something like this: “Our generation will be ok in the face of all the reckless federal government spending and growing national debt, but it’s going to bankrupt our children and grandchildren.” So why, one might ask, should I pour my life into any job or cause when I will end up broke?

Of course, the growing labor shortage was only made worse by COVID. For some, once they got out of the work habit, it was hard to get back into the “flow.”

I don’t know that it can be blamed on COVID, but it seems we came out of the pandemic blaming a variety of problems and delays on the “supply chain.” The supply chain has been given a really bad name these days. But I think the real problem finds its roots in not only a declining workforce, but also in less dedicated workers. You know the old cliché: “You just can’t find good help anymore.”  Of course, you can always find exceptions to the rule.

But you can witness it everywhere. I told a friend recently that we will probably never see great personal, customer service, as we have known in the past, ever again. Personal service must have a special ingredient – let’s call it “heart.”

Have you ever heard someone say, “He doesn’t have his heart in it?” or “She just didn’t have her heart in it?”

A good friend of mine was laid to rest this past weekend. His name was Mark Holder. Mark’s name was synonymous with the Trousdale Livestock Market in Hartsville, TN for many years. In livestock circles he was well known from Hop’town to K’town. Mark was a throwback to his grandfather and the old, crusty livestock operators of that generation. When I considered one word which I would use to describe Mark, I came up with this: “accommodating.” You have to have your heart in it to be accommodating.

Thinking of Mark took me back many years to my livestock marketing days. One memorable occasion found me on a farm in northern Middle Tennessee where I had been called upon to bid on a farmer’s cattle. I found it to be a most unusual situation as the farmer was grazing his cowherd and his last three calf crops in the same pasture. That’s right. He had steers as big as cows, 600-700 lb yearlings, and then, the young ones. And he wanted two price quotes -one for the steers, and one for the heifers. I knew I was well in over my head, so we called in my professional order buyer. He came, made an offer, and the seller accepted.

By the way, I forgot to mention an important bit of information. In my negotiations with the farmer I came to the conclusion he was one the toughest, most ornery individuals I had ever met.

A day was set to gather and sort the cattle. Two tractor trailers would be positioned at the bottom of the hill, and cattle would be shuttled from the feed barn on smaller straight trucks to the waiting transports. On the appointed day, the skies were dark and threatening which caused our pace to be stepped up. A long day lay ahead. It turned out to be grueling. Wide hallways, and narrow, stable doors in the dark hallways of an old, feed barn offer all the ingredients of  a death trap. Sorting turned out to be a nightmare. It was not one of my best days, and the old farmer was quick to point out my every mistake. He was unrelenting in his criticism. I chose to suffer in silence.

At the end of the day, I was physically exhausted and emotionally spent. I have never felt like such a failure.

My situation that day was not helped by the fact I had chosen to wear heavy overshoes. (The kind with metal closures down the front. I don’t think they make them anymore.) When I followed the last truck to the bottom of the hill I could barely pick up my feet.

Suddenly, flashes of lightning drew my attention back to the barn at the top of hill. The old barn looked like a tired, old sentry against the darkened sky. And there beside it was the hulking figure of the old farmer trying to move his loading chute, an almost impossible task for one man. At the same moment the rain arrived. It first came as big drops, making silver dollar- sized craters in the dust. Then, the dust became a sticky mud.

I was presented with a pressing dilemma. Should I race back up the hill and help him? I decided I should. With boots that grew heavier with mud with every step I took, I sprinted up the hill and arrived just in time to throw my shoulder into the loading chute as we easily rolled it into its proper resting place. The farmer took a chain which had a ring in the  end and dropped it over a hook on the side of the barn - job done.

Then he turned to me, and I looked into the eyes of a man I had never seen before. For his eyes were soft and kind, as he said in a quiet voice, “Thank you, boy. You are the only one in this whole outfit that has his heart in this.”

In all my years, it ranks as one of my finest moments.

Copyright 2023 By Jack McCall

Sameness

My wife, Kathy, and I visited friends in North Carolina back over the holidays. We met them near Hickory, NC, and then caravanned across the state. My plan was to let our friend, Geno, lead the way. As soon as we got under way, I realized keeping up with Geno would be a challenge. But I set my sights on his black SUV and decided to give it the old college try. Mid-day traffic was unusually heavy which made my commitment even more challenging. In and out of the interstate lanes my friend drove. Sometimes he sped out of sight as I struggled to keep up. On one occasion I thought I had caught him as I pulled in behind a black SUV only to find it was not him. Over the 200 miles of highway, we traveled I mistakenly tracked down Hondas, Toyotas, Chevrolets, Fords, and Lexus – all black SUVs -none of them him. I finally gave up when we stopped for fuel and said “we’ll see you at the hotel.”

Over 30 years ago there was talk of a “world car” by futurists and car manufacturers. The idea was -- transmissions made in Mexico, computer chips manufactured in China, alternators made in Brazil, starters made in Canada, etc. etc. The parts and the countries named might be different, but you get the idea. Most parts would be inter-changeable, coming together to build a “world car.” So now we have all these cars that look eerily alike.

And the sameness doesn’t stop with automobiles. For generations teenagers have cried out “let me be myself” only to end up dressing like, talking like, and acting like their peers. The pressure to “fit in” is a powerful thing.

In today’s world it appears if you aren’t willing to “go with the flow” you might face serious rejection or even be ostracized. Once upon a time the “rugged individualist” was admired. Not so much these days.

Henry David Thoreau spoke of the man (or woman) “who marched to the beat of a different drummer.” Rocker, Bob Dylan said, (I’m paraphrasing here.) “When you step out and do your own thing some people will be mystified, and it will tick (He didn’t use the word “tick”) some other people off.”

A popular admonishment today goes like this: “Stay in your own lane.” Personally, I’ve always empathized with children who have a tendency to “color outside the lines.”

My late grandfather, who was consider by many to be “an odd bird” was oft to say, “It takes all kinds to make a world.” I am always amused to hear young parents, after their second child is born, say, “They are so different!”  I hope they allow them to stay that way.

I have an old friend who often remarks, “You got to be yourself. You can’t try to be like somebody else. It will never work.” How true!

So, here’s to “being your own dog!”  Not for the sake of being different, but for the sake of being true to your calling. I once heard a brilliant psychologist say we think all brilliant students should become doctors and scientists and engineers. But the world needs brilliant welders and mechanics and farmers.

Our Creator must have loved variety because we came into the world as uniquely different packages, each to let his light shine in special ways.

I wish you well in being true to yourself.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall         

Things I’ve Seen in the Brim Hollow

If you know me, or you have followed my writing, you know a place called the Brim Hollow has been a profound influence in my life. Not just memories of my maternal grandfather, Will Herod Brim, or my grandmother, Lena Bradford Brim, but it is also the hollow itself that shaped my personality and my way of thinking. Over the years I have returned there many times – sometimes in person, but often times in my mind.

Not so many years ago I was on one of the many walks I have taken there. Sometimes, when I arrive at the old home place, I turn sharply up the hill through Squirrel Tail Hollow and take an ancient log road to the head of the hollow, then return by the hollow road. On this day I had taken that route and arrived halfway back down the hollow. When I stopped to rest, I drank from a spring which oozed out from under a rocky bluff. I found a place and situated myself beneath a massive oak tree. I carefully surveyed my surroundings before closing my eyes in anticipation of taking a short nap. Before me lay a fallen tree at least 18-inches through. Its tangled roots, having let go of a soggy bank, and the limbs of the tree had caused it to rest almost parallel with ground two feet below. I estimated its trunk to be at least thirty feet in length. When I was satisfied with my surveillance, I pulled the bill of my cap down over my eyes to doze off. Suddenly, I picked up the slightest movement out of my peripheral vision. I turned slowly to see a full-grown bob cat hop up on the fallen tree just beyond its roots. After she had taken a step or two, a kitten bounded up on the tree trunk and followed – then another, and then another. If I could have frozen the frame on a movie camera, it would have captured the mother and her three kittens traversing the log, all in a row. The sight is indelibly printed in my mind. When she reached the first limb of the tree she hopped down to the right and disappeared. Each kitten followed. They never knew I was there. The experience remains a priceless treasure for me.

One spring I was headed up the hollow road beyond what was once the farm working area of barns, chicken houses, smokehouse and outhouse. My grandfather once parked his truck in a small building covered with shake shingles. I passed its remains as I ventured up the hollow on this day. After a few hundred yards the road turned sharply down and to the right and entered a rock, creek bed. Called “the narrow place,” the creek bed passes between craggy bluffs before the road turns sharply up and to the left. I crossed another creek and started up a shaded lane where water seeps in the wet season and green moss grows. Not far ahead I came upon a most unusual sight. In a tall sycamore tree, which I had watched through the years grow from a sapling, was a gathering of robins the likes of which I had never seen before. There were hundreds of them. They seemed undisturbed as I moved in closer to observe this wonder. The

chorus of their chirps and singing was almost mesmerizing. They flitted and flirted among the branches of the sycamore, then back and forth they flew to small cedars. Every move seemed to be strangely orchestrated. Among them were older birds, their red breasts broad, their bodies full. And there were younger ones with youthful heads and slender bodies. All were together, I suppose - exchanging notes – summoning courage to meet the challenges of spring.

All my life I had heard of “a robin’s roost.” I had found one. Priceless.

You might say one of the reasons I love that old hollow is because, within its bounders I have encountered nature at its finest.               

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall