A Trip

Last week my three brothers, my sister, and I took a trip. Our mission was to attend a funeral to the southeast. My GPS revealed a drive of 114 miles which would take 1 hour and 56 minutes. As we loaded up the extended cab pickup truck, I was relieved to find no one cried, “Shotgun!” or “I’m sitting by the door!” After all these years I suppose a few things have changed.

My sister Shari, and brothers, Tom and Dewey rode in the spacious backseat. After an hour’s drive I was prepared to hear someone complain, “Tell Tom to leave me alone!” or “Tell Shari not to touch me!” or “Dewey’s bothering me!” The complaints never came although I was fully prepared to bark from the driver’s seat, ‘’Don’t make me come back there!” or “Am I going to have to stop this truck?” or “This is the last time I’m taking y’all anywhere!” or “I’m leaving you at home the next time!” But, alas, not one cross word was spoken. Even, brother John, who was riding shotgun, and has been known to stir things up a bit, uttered nary “a discouraging word.”

After 4 hours and over 200 miles in defined space, dominated by pleasant conversation, I concluded we really liked each other.

As we laughed and talked and covered every subject under the sun, we shared a deep sense of gratitude for how we were “raised” (brought up.)

One of the true surprises of my growing older is how very much I enjoy my relationships with my siblings – after all these years. I did not anticipate it being such a blessing. And credit can only go to our father and our mother.

So, it turned out to be a great trip in spite of sad circumstances.

It took me back to the days of our first family vacation. I think it was the summer of 1962. As a family, we had never been outside of Smith County. A trip to the Great Smoky Mountains and Cherokee, NC was like going to the other side of the world. We left our baby sister with relatives, and picked up our cousin, Ray B. McCall, Jr. in Cookeville, TN, and we were on our way. The long drive was uneventful except for the time my father followed through on his threat to pull off on the side of the road if we didn’t settle down. You could have heard a pin drop when he lined up my brothers, Ray B. McCall, Jr., and me along side our station wagon, and headed for the tree line to cut a limb off a tree. I won’t say what happened next, but we didn’t breathe a word for the next 100 miles.

I’ve made many trips to faraway places in my time, but that trip stands out in my memory. We saw 17 bears in the mountains that summer, pitched a big, heavy tarpaulin tent in friendly campgrounds, and ate meals cooked over a campfire. One night my mother left a big, black iron skillet in which she had cooked meat and beans on the picnic table, and a big bear licked it clean. I know it was a big bear because my brother Dewey felt the bear rub the walls of the tent as he walked by. Dewey insisted on sleeping in the station wagon the next night.

Mother’s Day found us back at the farm on Sunday - my brothers, my sister, and me. Of course, there were nieces and nephews, children, and grandchildren.

I was reminded of what a young Hispanic father said to me in a Longhorn Steakhouse one evening when I complimented him on how patiently he worked with his young daughters.

“Oh, sir!” he said, “Family is everything!”

I think he was right.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall            

Memories

My Uncle Charles Hix passed away this past weekend. He was husband to my Aunt Mildred McCall. They met at Tennessee Tech (TPI back then.) Seems they were married forever. Charles Hix was a prince of a man. If I chose one word to describe him, it would be “steady.”

For many years he raised Shorthorn cattle at Sewanee Valley Farm in Cowan, TN. One year when I was a boy, I visited him and his family at the Tennessee State Fair cattle show. They were staying in a small camper on the fairgrounds. I was pleased to join them for breakfast. As we gathered around the table, he pulled out his Bible and read. Then, he blessed the food and his family. Those moments made a lasting impression. I left that day thinking, “If a man reads his Bible and prays at a cattle show, he must do it at home.”

I’m not big on sending Christmas cards, but over twenty years ago I started sending Thanksgiving cards. A Christmas card can easily be lost among many others, but a Thanksgiving card doesn’t have much competition. Uncle Charles and Aunt Mildred were always on my list. His wife of 60 years passed on 10 years ago. I know the last decade was lonely for him. But every Christmas since her death I have received a Christmas card from him with a simple message” “Love, Charles.” Some things are never to be forgotten.

I grew up attending a little country church. If you had such a privilege, you know the old songs of the church were sung over and over, and over again. When I say, “over and over,” I mean sometimes the Sunday School song leader would lead a song, and the church song leader, arriving late, would lead the same song! By the time I reached my young adult years, I had grown somewhat tired of all those songs - knew them all by heart. Little did I realize they were all being stored away, and one day they would re-visit me like old friends. Songs like Love Lifted Me, Standing on the Promises, How Great Thou Art, Amazing Grace, Victory in Jesus, Farther Along, I Love to Tell the Story, In the Sweet By and By, When We All Get to Heaven, Sweet Hour of Prayer, What a Lovely Name – the list seems inexhaustible. And that brings to mind another song, Count Your Blessings. And I often count those songs as one of mine.

At that little country church, we had a time called intermission between Sunday School and “preaching.” Intermission was a big deal. It was time for the men folks to catch up on the latest news and, of course, for the smokers to smoke. One man of whom I was especially fond smoked “roll-your-own” cigarettes. It is a fascinating thing to a small boy to watch a man “roll” a cigarette. A roll-your-own is tapered on both ends. And when a smoker lays one end on his lower lip it sticks there. And as he talks it won’t fall off! The other end just jumps up and down. That whole scene is etched in my memory.

I remember a pair of brown seersucker pants my father wore in the summertime. One Sunday during intermission, as I stood close to him, I decided to hook my arm around his knee. Then, I began to weave in and out between his legs. I could not have been older than 3 or 4 years old. As I continued my antics, I noticed the men standing around were grinning as they watched. One of them was my father!  I looked up suddenly to see a face I was not expecting. I had the wrong seersucker pants by the leg! I let go of him quicker than you could say Jack Robinson. Of course, hearty laughter followed. I can still see that man’s face as it towered above me.         

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

Shoes

I’ve always taken a special interest in the shoes I wear. I suppose it began in my fifth year when my mother purchased my first pair of “store bought” shoes. Chocolate brown in color with “wingtip” stitching in the toe, those Buster Brown high-tops were a thing of beauty. I wore them home. As I tucked the shoebox which held my old, hand-me-downs under my arm, my mother warned, “Jack, whatever you do, don’t wear your new shoes to the barn!”

 You can read how that story played out in my book, titled Snowflakes in Summer Time.

In the late summer of my 12th year, I observed my mother ordering new back-to-school shoes from Sears Roebuck & Co. for my brothers and me. The shoes were of the plain-toed, military type. The price - two pairs for $5. As I thumbed through the catalog, I saw a pair of shoes I liked much better. The price -$7.95.

“Order these for me,” I said to my mother. 

“They are too expensive,” she answered with furrowed brow. “I can put shoes on three of you boys for what they cost.”

“But those are the ones I want,” I countered.

She paused, then took a deep breath and said, “when it gets to where what I buy is not good enough for you, you can get a job, and buy your own shoes.”

I found a job and bought that pair of shoes. I have been buying my shoes ever since.

I was further influenced by something my grandfather Brim once told me. He said a man should wear a good hat, good shoes, and own a good suit of clothes. I own two Stetsons. I’ve always worn good shoes and boots, and I am most comfortable in a Hickey-Freeman.

Early in my career I discovered Johnston-Murphy Crown Aristocrat shoes. They are well-built, top-of-the-line. And they were and are expensive. The last time I checked the price was $295. However, in those days they could be found, pre-owned, at French’s Shoes and Boots in Crossville, TN. and Abe’s Shoe Repair in Nashville, TN. Over the years, I purchased several pairs for under $50. Some of them I have had resoled two or three times. It takes good leather to hold a shine.

Speaking of shoeshines, through the years I have learned from the best. I have spent more time in airports than I would like to admit. But an airport is a great place to grab a shoeshine. Sometimes when I was experiencing a long layover, I would stop to have my shoes rejuvenated, and sometimes I would simply reward myself for a hard day’s work by watching an expert apply his craft. Like I said, I have learned from the best.

The best clean shoes with saddle soap before polishing. I have found a toothbrush to be indispensable when doing so. And the shoe polish they use? Most use Lincoln Stain Wax Shoe Polish - expensive, but it is the best I have found.

Many years ago, I read a great book titled Dress for Success. The writer cautioned “never wear brown shoes with a dark suit.” Well, that flew out the window some time ago. I have never seen so many brown shoes worn with dark suits. It’s just not right!

I see so many young professionals today (mostly men, but some women) dressed in expensive suits and their shoes look like they kicked rocks all their way to work. Maybe it’s just me, but I find myself shaking my head.

Speaking of shoes, my friend, the late Jimmy West, used to say, “People have more fun than anybody, except mules. They sleep with their shoes on.”

  Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall            

Cockleburs

Ok, I will confess. This past fall I allowed the cockleburs to take over my farm. I did not see it coming, but nevertheless, it happened.

For the purpose of clarity, let me simply say we call cockleburs “cuckleburs” where I come from – “cuckle” as in “chuckle” – “cucklebur.”

By definition, Xanthium (cocklebur) is a genius of flowering plant in the tribe Heliantheae within the family Asteraceae, native to the Americas and eastern Asia and parts of south Asia. Bet you didn’t know that.

My cocklebur invasion was only exacerbated (I hate using big words.) by the fact that I have three mules abiding on my spread (farm/Pondarosa.) I’m here to tell you, mules are cocklebur magnets. By early winter, my mules had cuckleburs in their tails, on their legs, on their bellies, on their backs, in their manes and between their ears. There were so many in their tales they walked around with their tails raised. I assumed that was to keep the prickly passengers from poking their posteriors. Their tails were so heavy they were unswishable.

Let me tell you about my mules which were forced to endure cucklebur purgatory.

“Tater Tot” is a retired Grand Canyon Mule. You gotta love a mule named Tater Tot. Sometimes I am tempted to call him “Tater,” but that just wouldn’t be right. I can’t imagine a mule named “Tater.” Out in the Grand Canyon, I have ridden mules named “Budreau,” “HooDoo,” “Skidmark,” “Mutton,” “Gizmo,” “Junky,” “Lucy,” “Little Jed,” and “Mister” among others, but never a “Tater.”  Last year we figured out why TaterTot was retired. When we “mouthed” him we found he had a bunch of molars missing. So, he has trouble grinding his food. He’s as old as Methuselah which means it is hard to keep weight on him. The cuckleburs made him look worse. I’m surprised he held up under their weight.

The other two mules came off a hitch of blazed-face, stocking-legged, sorrels out of Tucson, AZ.  “Iris” is going on 30 years old. Shy and slow to get to know you, she is a sweetheart. “Maggie,” half as old as Iris, is a strong and assertive high-stepper that runs the show. She was the least bothered by the cuckleburs though her thick mane attracted hundreds.

Which, now, begs the question how to rid a mule of cuckleburs? Let me count the ways. First, we tried baby oil. That helped loosen some. But timing is important here. Do you apply the oil and wait for it to work? How long?

I trimmed their manes with dull-pointed scissors. (Never take the chance of stabbing a mule.) The situation was far beyond using clippers. I must say after three attempts I did a pretty darn good job.

Then we discovered “horse mane and tail detangler.”  Who would have thought it? By now, we were closing in on the cuckleburs, aided by spring shedding. But some cuckleburs don’t give up easily.

I heard in bygone days that cotton pickers picked cotton until their fingers bled. I have felt their pain. The last of the cuckleburs did not give up without a fight. It all came down to hand-to-hand combat - no comb or brush or scissors here. It was gore and guts – one cocklebur at-a-time.

It was a cool, breezy, spring afternoon when Tater Tot, Iris, and Maggie were declared “cucklebur free.” I promised each mule this would never happen again. But they seemed too focused on munching on oats to care.

When I was a boy growing up in The Brim Hollow, I suppose I removed a gazzillon stick tights from my socks, jeans, shirts, and short britches. It took determination and patience. Little did I know it would prepare me for bigger battles to come.

I have no fondness for cuckleburs. Neither do my mules.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall     

A “Can Do” Attitude

My maternal grandmother, Lena Bradford Brim, was valedictorian of Gordonsville High School, Class of 1916. My mother, her only daughter, was valedictorian of Carthage High School, Class of 1941. Her name was Mary Helen Brim McCall. You might say there were some very intelligent people in my pedigree. Unfortunately, my brothers, my sister, and I fell victim to a concept called “generation skipping.” (Maybe I should be speaking for myself.) But all of our children (the next generation) seem to be adequate in the intelligence department.

I read a marvelous book entitled, Emotional Intelligence a few years back. It was most enlightening. It only served to confirm much of what I had already come to believe – That a healthy mental attitude has as much (or more) to do with success in life as level of intelligence.

When I was a small boy, spending weeks at a time, with my maternal grandparents in The Brim Hollow, I would often answer my grandmother, Lena, in the negative by saying, “Naw!”

“Naw?!?” she would say. “Rats gnaw!”

I soon got the point.

Or, sometimes, when she asked me to meet a task, or fulfill a command, I would answer, “I can’t!”    

“I can’t?” she would scold. “Can’t never did do anything!”

I suppose most of my generation grew up with the story of The Little Red Engine That Could. You remember, “I think I can, I think I can.”

It seems to me we are fast becoming a society filled with excuse makers. People are prone to find more reasons not to try than reasons to try. As someone has said, “If you never try, you will never know.”

I have a wonderful friend. His name is Johnnie Godwin. He is the youngest 86- year-old I have ever known. If ever there was a man with a “can do” attitude, he is the man. When his company “downsized” many years ago, and showed him the door, he never missed a beat. As a matter of fact, he went on to write a book titled, Retirement, Life’s Best Chapter. He later revised the title, but the message was still the same – when life gives you a lemon, you can sour, or you can make lemonade.

Well after his retirement, when a new iPhone came out, Johnnie would hire (on a private basis) the most capable “techy” he could find in the IT department at Best Buy to train him on how to get the most out of his new device. None of this “I can’t keep up with all this new technology” for him.

A few years back Captain D’s, the seafood restaurant, rolled out a new promotion called “We Can Do That!” It was like unto the old Burger King theme, “Have it your way.” According to the promotion, Captain D’s offered great flexibility in filling orders from its menu.

Johnnie was eating in Captain D’s one day and was admiring the promotional material strategically located on his table. It was one of those tri-angle shaped displays. And written thereon, in bold italic, were the words, “We Can Do That!”

My friend, Johnnie Godwin, ever the entrepreneur, thought one of those displays would work well as a prop in a sermon or public speech, so he asked his waitress if he might have one when the promotion came to an end. She told him she would have to ask the manager.

The manager came, and Johnnie made his request, and this is what the manager said: “We can’t do that!”

Maybe we all should take a lesson once again from the Little Red Engine.

You can, if you think you can.           

Or maybe a greater lesson from Paul, the Apostle.

“I can do all things through Christ which strengthens me.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

Dogwoods

The dogwoods are blooming in The Brim Hollow. I knew they would be. I had to go see them. A misty morning met me a few days back as I headed to the place I love dearly. Over the years, I have gone back many times. In more recent years most of my trips have taken place in my mind. I can be there in a minute.

On this day I winced as I thought I might not see the sun, but I knew I would be welcomed by the dogwoods, come rain or shine.

No one has lived in The Brim Hollow since the spring of ’64. It would be a lonely, forlorn place except for the memories. Each time I visit there, the old hollow comes back alive.

And so, it was on this day. As I strolled up the shady lane that leads into the hollow, I was met by a cooling breeze funneled by the hills rising to my left and to my right. It was a familiar breeze - one I have encountered many times. I stopped for a moment to drink it in - afraid I might miss the hollow speaking to me.

Just ahead I got my first glimpse of the dogwoods. High among tall, grey tree trunks a few scattered blooms on skinny branches appeared to be reaching for the sky. Some flowers shout, “Here I am!”  These dainty blossoms seemed to whisper with a bashful shyness. I paused to admire their delicate beauty. There was more to come.

 These are wild dogwoods – unlike the ones you see in yards and parks. Void of any kind of symmetry most “snake” their way upward under a canopy of hardwood trees; sometimes creating two and three levels of blossoms. On this day they were magnificent!

And then, I saw another. Standing against a backdrop of evergreen trees, this one showcased a thousand blossoms. I will look for it again in years to come.

As I ventured deeper into the hollow, dogwoods seemed to be everywhere – high on the hills, and places where I had never seen them before. Suddenly, I was caught up in a sense of wonder. That’s when the hollow came alive, and I began to recall things from years gone by.

Beyond the henhouse I remembered hens running headlong for the safety of the tree line when the shadow of a red-tailed hawk came gliding across the open ground.

The old feed barn no longer smells of mules, but the very thought of it made my nose burn.

And after 60 years I can still remember the light in my grandfather’s eyes, and the smell of his flannel shirts, and the feel of his whiskered old beard; and my grandmother’s - made from scratch – chicken pot pie, and her crabapple jelly, and little biscuits.

The dogwoods are blooming in The Brim Hollow, another testament to the Resurrection. Lord willing, I will see them again before my time is through.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

Things I Can’t Get Used To

My 8th Grade English teacher, Mrs. West, would never have stood for my ending a sentence with a preposition. She certainly would have been opposed to ending a title in like manner. But desperate situations call for desperate measures.

I have always considered myself an optimist. I have come to learn there are two qualities necessary for doing well in a changing world. One is flexibility, the other is imagination. So, you might say I have learned to “roll with the punches.”  But, even with my best effort, there are some things I just can’t get used to.

I can’t get used to all the automobile insurance advertisements on television. Whether it is Progressive, Geico, Allstate, or, even, State Farm. I’ve had enough. I had a hard time enjoying the NCAA Basketball Tournament this year because of all the insurance commercials. They just go on and on. Maybe all the foolishness their marketing companies come up with appeals to the younger generation, but it’s not for me. I can’t get used to it.

I can’t get used to pressing the brake and pushing a button to start an automobile. I was first introduced to the push button jobs when I rented cars in my speaking travels a few years back. I must admit I had considerable difficulty getting out of a few rental car garages until I finally got the hang of it.

Just the other day I was discussing this very subject with a gentleman when he remarked, “I can’t get used to turning a knob to put my wife’s car in ‘drive.’ One day I turned the wrong knob and the radio came on!” See what I mean? The day is fast approaching when a skilled “shade tree” mechanic will no longer be able to repair these modern contraptions.

And here’s something else I can’t get used to. When I say “thank you” to a member of the younger generation, and they answer, “no problem!” No problem? Of course, I probably would have been disinclined to say, “thank you” if there was a problem. How about, “you’re welcome?” That works much better for me.

And here’s a biggie. I can’t get used to being directed to a website when I call any corporation seeking to have a problem resolved. I recently contacted a wireless provider, which shall remain nameless, with an insurance claim. Of course, I was directed to their website, “in order to have my claim processed more quickly.” I have visited that website (and two others) over a dozen times since March 17. Occasionally, I was offered a number to call for “immediate help” only to be directed to a website for “faster” service. It’s a “run around” I can’t get used to.

I can’t get used to the “you deserve” mentality that is being fostered in these United States these days. You see and hear it everywhere. Maybe it began with McDonald’s many years ago. You might remember the jingle, “You deserve a break today, so, get out and get away…to McDonald’s.” You see in all areas of life. “You deserve health insurance. It is your right.” “You deserve to have a cell phone.”  “You deserve a free lunch.” “You deserve to drive a Lexus!”

Come to think about it, when my time is finished on this planet, I will be happy not to get what I deserve.

My late father used to say, “You can get used to anything except a gravel in your shoe.” I am find myself having to re-think that.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

The 4-H Chick Chain

My granddaughters and I have participated in the 4-H Chick Chain for the past few years. Having been away from starting and growing chickens for several decades, it took me a while to get up to speed. After a few tries we figured out what worked and what didn’t work. Last year, granddaughter, Jane, had reserve champion pen at the annual Trousdale County Chick Chain show and sale. Thanks to generous sponsors, she received over $100 in prize money.

After the show I teasingly asked her to split the winnings with me. She refused.

“Jane,” I said, as I chided her. “I don’t understand. I paid the entrance fee, I paid for all the feed, I helped take care of the chickens, and you get all the ribbons and all the prize money! That doesn’t seem fair!”

Her response was quick and cool.

“Daddy Jack, life is not fair!” Out of the mouths of babes!

Of course, under the same game rules, she suggested we participate in the Chick Chain again this year. So, in early March, I contacted Terry Toney at the Trousdale County UT Extension office to sign up again. Unfortunately, I had missed the deadline. The best I could do was ask to be placed on a waiting list. Weeks passed and I found I was third on the waiting list. The prospects for growing chickens in 2023 seemed dim. Actually, I didn’t check to see when the chicks were arriving because my chances appeared so slim.

Well, the chicks did arrive at the local Farmer’s Coop on a Monday. And on that Monday afternoon I received a call.

The voice of the other end of the line went something like this: “Mr. McCall, can you come and pick up your chicks? We had a few cancelations, and you are in!” I tried not to panic.

“How many?” I asked.

“I’m not sure, but I know you probably won’t get any of the Easter egg chicks,” came the response.

“Not a problem,” I said. (I really don’t care for the blue-eggers.) “When can I pick them up?’

“Any time before 4:30,” came the reply.

So, there I was, totally unprepared to take a passel of peepers under my wing. (No pun intended.)  I frantically began to think of feeders, and waterers, and heat lamps.

“And where on earth can I lodge them on the first night?” I wondered. All this was complicated by the fact we were facing the three coldest nights of late spring. I thought of taking them to the feed room in our barn where I normally started our chicks, but the severe cold presented too much of a risk. If the heat lamp happened to malfunction all would be lost.

I decided to let them spend their first night in the storage room/pantry attached to our carport. I didn’t tell my wife, Kathy, but I dropped enough hints so she would not be taken completely surprise. (Desperate situations call for desperate measures.)

Arriving at the Coop at 4:15, I was eager to inspect my brood. A friendly Coop employee informed me “the chicks in the box belong to someone else. All the rest are yours.” Mine were scattered in a large, aluminum water trough – all 18 of them!

Over the next few days I upgraded their living quarters from one rubberized storage bin to another. After the cold weather passed, I moved my little army to the safety of the feed room; and the spacious confines of a large Rubbermaid water trough. I do believe two or three are already trying to fly.

So, Jane and I are back in the laying business.

Life may not always be fair.  But as Fess Parker said in the movie, Old Yellar, “some of it (life) is mighty fine.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall