The Coaster Wagon

Dr. James W. Garrett was our family doctor when my brothers and I were boys. He told my mother in the early days, “Mrs. McCall, your family has a history of diabetes. Whatever you do, don’t let your boys get fat.”

He was 50 years ahead of his time. Today we live in a world where children grow up as “couch potatoes,” with their eyes glued to a TV or computer screen, or mobile device of some sort, and live sedentary lifestyles. Consequently, obesity among children is growing at an alarming rate, perpetuating a diabetes crisis.

My mother acted on Dr. Garrett’s advice to ensure her boys stayed skinny. Of course, that was not a problem on the farm where we grew up. After we were old enough to help our father with the tobacco and hay crops, he made sure we stayed in great shape. And prior to our learning to work hard, we played hard.

We played all over that sixty-acre farm. We climbed trees. We built houses and hide-outs. We made mud pies. We rode bicycles. We played ball. It was easy to stay skinny. Then too, there were so many of us we never had an overabundance of food. We had plenty to eat, but we didn’t overeat. And, like I said, we played hard.    

One of my favorite things my brother, Tom, and I did was ride a coaster wagon off the hill behind our feed barn. I don’t remember when we got our first coaster wagon. I do remember it wasn’t new. My father built a plywood flatbed the exact size of the original Radio Flyer frame. It was a thing of beauty.

Just behind our feed barn lay a hill that sloped sharply toward the river bottom. The dirt road that led off the hill was at least 100 yards in length and turned sharply to the left at the bottom of the hill.

In the curve at the bottom of the hill, tractor tires and truck tires had ground the dirt into a soft powder. It was as fine as powdered sugar and saddle brown in color.    

My brother and I would spend entire mornings and sometimes most of an afternoon on different days riding that wagon off the hill. I would ride in the front of the wagon. My brother would lay the wagon tongue over my shoulder, climb in behind me, and off the hill we would go. It was absolutely breathtaking!

At the bottom of the hill, if we didn’t make the curve, the wagon would dump us into the bank of the curve and the dust would fly.

Of course, the hardest part of the ride was pulling the wagon back up the hill. We took turns. It was no small task. In the summertime, the sweat rolled off us, which means when we were dumped at the bottom of the hill, all that dust stuck to us. By the end of the day, dirt would ring the creases of our necks, and our toenails and fingernails would be black underneath.

At night, before our baths, our father took pleasure in gathering us into his lap one-at-a-time and checking to make sure the wigglies were cleaned out from between our toes. After our baths (and there was always a considerable amount of silt left in the tub), our mother would inspect our ears. Sometimes she would look in our ears and say, “Whoo, I believe a rooster slept in there last night!”

I will never forget that coaster wagon, and the thrill of flying off that hill. And how much work it took to get back to the top. Those were carefree days – the kind of days that are worth remembering.

I can’t, however, remember the last time I found wigglies between my toes.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

Memories of the Brim Hollow

I had trouble falling asleep a few nights back. The still of the night offers a great time to clear your thoughts. As I lay in the darkness, I was transported back to summer nights in the Brim Hollow. Some memories can remain incredibly vivid after over half a century.

If you have never fallen asleep to the sound of gentle rain falling on a tin roof, you have missed one of life’s unique pleasures. In the Brim Hollow the only buffer between a wide-eyed boy and that tin roof was the attic floor. The sound of the rain was pure and clean. When the rain was falling softly, I remember smiling a smile of satisfaction as I sank into the fold of a feather bed. Nothing like it.

On the other hand, when the rains came with a vengeance, the sound was deafening. You couldn’t hear yourself talk, much less hear anyone speaking from across the room. Sometimes the rain would suddenly stop, followed by an eerie silence.

Quite often, when a storm front is passing through, I have a hankering to load up my truck and head to the Brim Hollow just to sit in the old house and listen to the rain.

On clear summer nights I would lie in that feather bed and take in the sounds of the night. Through an open window covered only by a screen came a symphony of nature. It was hard to recognize individual voices as there were so many. Only those who have had the pleasure of listening in on summer nights fully understand.

And then there was the wind, softly, gently playing in the trees creating just enough stir to bring relief from the summer heat. And I remember the droning of an oscillating floor fan (General Electric) as it rotated back and forth.

On summer days when I rode my stick horse into the wilds of the hollow in search of desperados wearing black hats, I recall the smell of the tall weeds that provided cover from the bad guys for my horse and me. And down well-worn paths I learned to watch for stinging weeds which had the habit of reaching out to inflict pain of bare legs.

When my pursuit of the enemy required that I dismount and crawl down chicken paths under a canopy of towering weeds, I was careful where I placed my hands. A cowboy with chicken poop on his trigger finger would have been a disgrace.

Summertime called for picking blackberries. It was the only time my grandmother, Lena, ventured deep within the bowels of the hollow. The first year I went along, she took no measures to protect me from chiggers. They ate me alive. It was the only time I recall my mother becoming really angry with her mother. My recovery was long and painful. The itching brought on by chiggers is nothing short of tormenting.

In the Brim Hollow we drank from a water bucket filled with water drawn up from a deep well. And then there were the spring houses where cool, clear spring water rose to the surface from deep within the earth - water so pure it had a sweetness about it.

Those spring houses and other springs fed the branch which ran for most of the summer. On the hottest days I found relief by “playing in the creek.” Unfortunately, that is an art lost to younger generations – “playing in the creek.” There is much to be learned there.

My days spent in the Brim Hollow are long gone. But sometimes I close my eyes and I hear the rain and taste the spring water and feel cool water on my feet.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall      

Rest

I read a marvelously written book a few years back. Published in 1974, it is titled A Reason to Live, A Reason to Die. The author, the late John Powell, wrote a series of thought-provoking books. One of my favorites, titled Fully Human, Fully Alive is certainly worth the read.

When I read A Reason to Live, A Reason to Die I was especially struck by one line which seemed to jump off the page. It goes like this: “The pulse and rhythm of human life has quickened so suddenly that all those who want to keep up must run.” If we were running to keep up in 1974, we surely must be sprinting to keep up almost 50 years later.

On one hand, the technologies which were supposed to make our lives less complicated and more efficient have only served to bring added pressure and speed up all areas of life. Schedules seem more jampacked than ever; and the pressure to perform has been ratcheted up due to ever-increasing competition.

Life in the 21st century has become one big pressure cooker. We are pressed, stressed, and easily depressed. Seems everyone could use a little rest.

Speaking of rest, one of my greatest concerns for the generations to follow is a lack of “quiet time” – a time to reflect and think.  And the excuse? “We don’t have time.”

A few days ago, I was visiting with a young professional who happens to be at the top of his game, career wise. The nature of his job responsibilities dictates his being pulled and pushed in many directions.

“Sometimes, I wish I could just sit alone in a room for an hour and stare at the wall,” he said.

“Then, that’s what you should do,” I answered.

The fact is, we all need to “get away” from time to time, which brings me back to the subject of “rest.”

Even the Creator rested from his labors on the 7th day. And the rules laid down in early human history called for the land to rest from time to time.

I was not there when the earliest decisions were made, but it seems the reality of day and night calls for an interlude of rest for us humans.

The fact is, we all need time to refresh, regroup, revitalize, refocus…to rest.

Legend has it that the Apostle John was once relaxing and amusing himself by playing with a small, pet bird.

As he did, an onlooker snarled, “Don’t you have something better to do than play with that bird?”

To which, the Apostle calmly replied, “The bow which is always bent will soon cease to shoot straight.”

And so, it is.

Dr. Hugh Green, Sr. was a great friend of our family. He was an excellent country doctor. He lamented to my mother once of how he had stopped attending church. It seems he couldn’t escape the pressures of doctoring because fellow church goers were always asking for medical advice and inquiring about the health of sick folks.

“Mary Helen,” he said. “Rest for me is going out to the farm and cleaning out a fence row.” Well said. Sometimes the most mundane tasks can provide needed rest.

Of course, there is rest for the body and rest for the mind. Sometimes a good night’s sleep can solve a world of problems.

It has been said that “fatigue makes cowards of us all.” If you want to keep fighting the good fight, best you take some time to catch your breath.

 Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

Gifts

I hardly watch the national news media on television anymore. Nightly news, regardless of the network, is so scripted it is almost unbearable. It is hardly news. Sensationalism seems to be the order of the day. Even the weather forecasters, if they can still be called such, are constantly using words like disastrous, severe, catastrophic, destructive, devastating, etc. As a weather front was moving across the southeast recently, a news commentator reported “putting at least ten million people at risk!” Really?

I am not quite sure how we arrived at a place where bad news sells. I suspect someone (or a group of some ones) somewhere is dictating how news is presented. On the other hand, negativism may have so infiltrated our society that most everyone has come to expect the worst. Whatever the case may be, here we are.

There is so much ugliness in the world. Don’t believe me? Check out any news source. (But don’t make it a habit.) School shootings, murder, lawlessness, subversion, the drug epidemic, suicide, child abuse - the list goes on and on. At this point you may be asking, what does that have to do with “gifts.” Everything.

So how do we counteract all that is wrong and out-of-whack in our world. I’m not sure I have the answers, but I am sure I have one of the answers.

I am convinced every person can bring life or death, light or darkness to most life situations. Take “words” for instance.

You’ve heard it said, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never harm me.” That saying is simply not true. Words can destroy. Sometimes a broken bone is much less serious than a broken spirit. If you should have the gift of encouragement, use it. Every person can use a kind word.

My father was blessed with the gift of mechanical skill. It bordered on genius. When it came to internal combustion engines, he was undaunted by any challenge. He would fearlessly attack any problem. His gift brought life to the day-to-day routine of running a farm. He accomplished his tasks as a man of few words.

My mother, on the other hand, was a talker. She had the gift of counsel. I’m not sure she realized it, as she was selfless in her approach.

That reminds me of a story told by Dr. Charlie Shedd. It seems there was this young girl named Susan who was hosting her birthday party with her friends. Party games were being played and cake and refreshments enjoyed by all. Suddenly, her friends began to chant, “Susan open your presents, open your presents!”

To which Susan replied, “I was having so much fun serving my friends, I forgot I was here!”  Life and light - some people make it look easy.

I know a person who is “a sender of cards.”  It is one of her gifts. I would tell you her name; but she is unaware it is a gift, and she wouldn’t want you to know. If, within her circle of influence, you are sick, or mourning the death of someone near and dear, or just having a hard time; you are going to receive a card. Her husband should have bought stock in Hallmark, American Greetings, and the U S Postal Service. Her effort is relentless, the flow of cards is continuous.

In the parable of the talents, one man received only one. But he hid his because “he was afraid.” Gifts are like talents, and everyone has at least one. Don’t be afraid to use yours.

Our world could use your light.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

Quality and Durability

Have you noticed how nothing seems to hold up or last like it used to? It covers the entire gambit from household appliances to underwear. In the case of appliances, repair costs seem to necessitate replacement rather than a repair. An example would be flat screen televisions. If one breaks down, it is simply more economical to discard it and start all over.

In the case of underwear, material keeps becoming cheaper and cheaper. And it is not limited to underwear. Shirts can be purchased these days that will shrink up to half their original size after the first washing.

Speaking of shirts, my late mother taught me a lot about buying shirts when I was just a boy. Back in the 50’s and 60’s our family swore by the Sear, Roebuck & Company. The “Sear- Roebuck” catalog was a fixture in our household.   

Every winter “Sears” featured a heavy duty, flannel shirt called “Field Master.” I recall the price being $7.95. After Christmas the shirts “went on sale” for $5.95. We stocked up! They lasted for many winters.

Thus began my appreciation for quality flannel. I know it will soon be summer, but I am a flannel shirt man. The last few cool mornings I have brought them out again. I’ve instructed my family, when my time comes, to bury me in a flannel shirt, jeans, and a pair of old boots. I figure if I’m going to have to lie there until the Lord returns, I might as well be comfortable.

Speaking of boots, have you noticed these new shoes everybody seems to be wearing these days? I’m not going to mention the brand (or brands) because I refuse to advertise them. They look like they are made of paper-machae! Comfortable? I’m sure. Will they last? Not a chance.

Back to the Sears-Roebuck catalog. After raising boys and having grandchildren, I am very familiar with “booster seats.” When my brothers, my sister and I needed a lift for “sitting up” at the table we were perched on a stack of Sears-Roebuck catalogs – three inches thick and never to be thrown away.   

Early in my work career, I was employed by the State of Tennessee in the Department of Agriculture. My job entailed grading feeder pigs and feeder cattle in livestock markets across the state. One of the feeder pig sales took place in Pulaski, TN. A key person in the feeder pig grading process was the pig “sizer.” That’s the person who sorted the pigs by weight before they were graded and weighed. In Pulaski, he was an old, black gentleman called “Old Folks.”  

Old Folks told of how things were “back in the day.”

“Why,” he’d say. “I remember when you could buy ‘dem heavy, denim shirts for 50 cents! And ‘overhauls’? They was jest a dollar. And they would wear like iron. You know, the denim in them overhauls was so stiff, you could stand ‘em in the corner!”

I remember that kind of denim. When you wore a new pair of blue jeans on the first day of school in the fall, they would chap your legs just behind your knees.

But alas, heavy denim jeans went out when stonewashed jeans came along. Seems the younger generation wanted jeans that appeared to have been worn when they hadn’t been worn at all.

When our eldest son, J. Brim, was a little boy, he hated green vegetables. As we sat at the supper table one evening, insisting he finish his portion of green peas, he began to cry.

As he shook his head back and forth, he said, through his tears, “They just don’t make mamas and daddies like they used to!”

Nor anything else, I suppose.

 Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

Pickup Trucks

I attended a Legislative conference in Gatlinburg, TN last week. It was a gathering of county road supervisors, county commissioners, and county mayors. The meeting was held at the Park Plaza Hotel high above Gatlinburg. The conference featured informative sessions and interesting speakers. I found networking with other mayors to be most beneficial.

I have never seen so many pickup trucks in one parking lot in my life. It got me to thinking about pickup trucks. When I left Gatlinburg, I had pickups on my mind. In three hours of driving, you see lots of pickup trucks, especially if pickups are your focus. Seems Chevrolets are especially popular these days.

My father was a GMC man. He purchased new GMC’s in ’48, ’58, and ’68. “Made in America” was his theme for most of his life.

The 1948 model was forest green in color and came equipped with a 4-speed floor shifter. First gear was a “granny low.” I declare. That truck could have pulled up stumps. It would pull a hay wagon loaded with 100 bales out of the river bottom and never break a sweat.

All three trucks arrived on our farm with a naked frame. My father preferred building custom truck beds. After the flatbed was constructed, he meticulously laid out a plan and built a “cattle rack.” The ’48 was green on green.

The 1958 model holds the most memories for me. By then we were a family of six. From 1959 until 1962 we all crammed into the cab of that truck on Sunday morning and on other family trips. My sister was born in1961 taking up another spot in the cab. My mother used to say we were “crammed in the truck like sardines.” (Of course, back then a can of sardines was packed tightly.) I recently opened a can of sardines to find two little fish that had plenty of room to swim around in the mustard sauce.   

 I learned how to drive a “straight shift” in the ’58, as did my three brothers. My father declared he replaced a clutch for each of us boys during our driver’s training in the hay fields. I can hear him now, as he shouted, “Stop riding the clutch!”

The ’58 was a 3-speed, on the column, and lacked the pulling power of the ’48. It was much lighter, built more for the road. It did well to make it out of the river bottom, loaded with 30 bales of hay. It was red in color, all the way around.

By 1968 my brother, Tom, was a junior at the University of Tennessee. When the models changed, my father bought the ’68. The cab was white - and you guessed it – the cattle rack was orange. I’ll bet we were the only farmers in the world who owned a ½ ton GMC pickup sporting a white cab and a custom built, orange truck bed. Power wise, that’68 wouldn’t pull the hat off your head.

My fondest memories of my father during those years saw him dressed in overalls, with the long sleeves of his shirt rolled up above his elbows. He wore high-top work shoes and what we called a “turtle shell hat.”

Several years after I had moved away and started my own family, I returned to visit the old homeplace one spring day. As I drove up the farm road which led to the house – a gravel road over which I had ridden in all those pickup trucks countless times – I saw him standing by his new pickup truck. It was a Toyota. He was wearing a baseball cap, a short-sleeved shirt, regular work pants, and Nike running shoes.

I could not help but thinking, “Wow, the world has changed!”

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall  

Singing

I sang in a choir Sunday. The production was months in the making. Th choral director, Robert B. Thurman, is a longtime friend. He and my wife Kathy share the same birthday, and the same middle name. He and I go back a long way. He and Kathy go back a longer way. They sang together in a youth group called Good News in the 60’s. Robert, and our late friend, Jere Sinquefield, and I sang together in a trio in the 80’s and 90’s. Because we sang a lot of Gatlin Brothers songs, we called ourselves the Gallatin Brothers. We could have settled for the name The Banker, The Dentist, and Me. Both were more talented than I. You might say I went along for the ride. I have never really enjoyed singing solo but put me in a trio or quartet or choir and I am right at home.

Sunday afternoon at First Presbyterian Church in Gallatin, TN brought a number of wonderful singers together. Many of us had sung together in community choruses throughout the years. It was great to be a part of folks coming together from many different churches and backgrounds to join in singing some of the great songs of the Church. A music ensemble of brass, woodwinds, and percussion enhanced the power of the choral arrangements. And the church was almost filled.

We sang The Star Spangled Banner, America The Beautiful, A Mighty Fortress is Our God, The Midnight Cry, Homeward Bound, and many other classics. Members of the congregation were lavish in their applause. There is no place I would rather have been. Sometimes we are afforded the privilege of being “seated together in heavenly places.”

But alas, the day had a bitter sweetness about it for me. This choral production was a part of Mr. Thurman’s “year of retirement.” His success through the years has been a result of his applied talent, determination, and a talent pool from which he easily drew. I fear there will not be another one like him to come along in our lifetime.

Congregations are aging which places congregational singing at great risk. High school choruses are becoming fewer and farther between. As a people, we are simply singing less.

Someone has said, “We do not sing because we are happy, we are happy because we sing.” Speaking of singing, there is nothing so uplifting as “hearing the rafters ring.” Some of my readers know of what I am writing here.

And singing goes right along with whistling. Have you, by chance, noticed hardly anyone whistles anymore? I am not talking about a loud,  piercing whistle to sound a warning or get attention. I am speaking of whistling a happy tune.

I am a whistler myself. I guess I come from a long line of whistlers. My grandfather, D.T. McCall, was an avowed whistler. As a boy, when I went looking for him at the feed barn, I would hear him before I laid eyes on him. He was always whistling. Family members would attest to the fact he whistled nothing specific. It was more of a little ditty – same tune, over and over again.

Not too long ago I found myself whistling a tune as I boarded a plane. The person in front of me turned and snarled, “What are in such a good mood about?” I was taken aback a bit. It took a few seconds to answer.

“Oh, sorry, sir,” I responded. “I’m not whistling because I’m in a good mood. I’m just working on one.”

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

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