The Old Feed Barn

I spent many an hour in our old feed barn. To a boy it seemed vast in its size and expanse. I became intimately familiar with each stable and hallway. I  especially enjoyed the large barn loft which provided endless opportunities for exploring. But I suppose the old corn crib stands out most in my memory.

Situated on the west side of our barn it featured a 4’x4’ “window” all of 10 feet above ground level. It allowed a man, with corn scoop in hand, to stand on a wagon bed and “pitch” ear corn into the crib. The crib’s wooden floor lay two feet above ground. When the crib was filled to the window, it showcased a mountain of ear corn no less than 8 feet tall. As the crib filled with corn each fall, my father placed boards, each above the other, at the crib door to keep the corn from flowing out into the upper hallway. As the level of corn was reduced, the boards came down one at a time. Working your way through that door was challenging to say the least. It was important to avoid a corn avalanche.

A crib filled with ear corn had two best friends – barn cats and chicken snakes. My brothers and I were given strict instructions to leave the chicken snakes alone. They played an important role in keeping rodent numbers down. And any mice the snakes didn’t get, the barn cats did.

I had a silent arrangement with the chicken snakes – “You don’t bother me, I don’t bother you.” I will admit, though, it’s a bit unsettling to be sitting in a pile of shucks while shucking corn and happen upon a snake’s “shedding.” You knew the snake couldn’t be too far away.

Our feed barn always featured a goodly number of barn cats. My father encouraged their multiplying – more cats, fewer rats. Sometimes, to the cats’ delight, he provided them with a pan of warm cow’s milk. I’ve watched a throng of cats sit patiently in hopes of getting in on the cow’s milk. My father was skilled in the art of milking a cow. He could squeeze a cow’s tit and hit a cat’s mouth with a stream of milk all the way across barn hallway. To see a cat licking fresh warm milk off its face is a picture I will not soon forget.

I was often sent on a mission to find new egg nests in the mountain of square bales of hay stacked high in the barn loft. It seemed the hens preferred the higher elevations. The secret was to find the nests before they had been their too long. A nest filled with eggs (I’m talking two dozen or more.) was not always a good find, especially in the summer time. Good, fertile eggs could go bad pretty quickly. I learned to hold an egg up to my ear and shake it gently. A bad egg is a dead give-away. (They don’t teach these things in schools these days.)

Is there anything that smells worse than a rotten egg? I was sprayed in the face by a baby skunk one time. It was bad. It was nauseating. It was debilitating. But it didn’t make me want to lose by breakfast like the smell of a rotten egg.

A feed barn presented the perfect setting for a corn cob battle. The corn crib provided an ample supply of ammunition, and there were plenty of places to hide and stage forays.

I remember one particularly heated battle involving the Ellenburg brothers. That day, I got hit in the head with a wet corn cob. I found out that a wet corn cob gathered much more velocity than a dry one. The battle went back and forth until someone discovered a nest of rotten eggs. I was the first casualty.

That brought the corn cob battle to a screeching halt!

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

Trinkets or Treasures

You’ve probably read or heard according to the latest estimates Americans spent $12.1 billion dollars on Halloween this year. That’s right $12.1 billion…on Halloween. I suppose the big winners were retailers, candy manufacturers, and the American Dental Association. That is a mind-boggling statistic. Let me say it again - $12.1 billion.

$12.1 billion dollars spent on candy, costumes, parties, and decorations celebrating ghosts, goblins, skeletons, witches, werewolves, black cats and anything else darkness can conger up. And for all practical purposes it’s all over in a day. Except, of course, for all the candy which shall be sorted through, eaten, or thrown away. What a way to usher in the Holiday Season!

When I was a young man, an older friend (I thought he was old. He was probably no more than 50.) said to me, “Son, you think time passes quickly now, just wait until you get my age!” I should have taken his words more seriously.

What I have found is with each passing year time indeed seems to accelerate. For me this past October was a blur. Surely, November will not pass so quickly. By the time most of my readers read this column Thanksgiving will be less than 2 weeks away. Christmas will be right on its heels. Best we take a deep breath and make some plans.

There’s a not-so-old saying that goes like this: “If you are failing to plan, you’re planning to fail.”

I’m big on making Thanksgiving lists. Every year I encourage my friends and acquaintances to start a list well before Thanksgiving Day arrives. I suggest a list numbered 1 through 25 – a list of the things for which you are most thankful. This simple exercise will broaden your mind and expand your heart. Best you start on your list early. As the old folks use to say, “Thanksgiving Day will be here before you know it!”

Plan a few short visits this Holiday season. Go see someone who might be lonely. You don’t have to stay long. You don’t even have to take a gift. Your presence will be the present. And here’s a thought. Should you have lots of food left over after Thanksgiving dinner with family, load up a plate of food and share it with someone who has no family with whom to celebrate. When you get together with family, don’t forget to talk to the kids. Ask lots of questions. Kids are people, too.

When I was a kid our family celebrated Christmas on the Sunday after Christmas with my maternal grandmother’s family. It was a family group we only saw once each year. Every year my great-uncle Jack interviewed me. He always took the initiative. Sometime during the day, he would track me down for conversation. And every year he would refer to things we talked about the year before. I was some impressed by the interest he took in me. Over six decades have passed and I still remember.

If you start now, you have plenty of time to be creative in your gift giving. Put some thought into it. You’ve heard it said, “It’s the thought that counts.” It is the same way with choosing gifts. If you have to spend extra money to make a memory, do it. Thoughtful gift givers have learned the difference between trinkets and treasures.

And finally, this Holiday season stash an extra $5 or $10 or $20 or more in your purse or wallet and be on the lookout for persons to whom you might give it. If you look for the opportunity, it will present itself.  

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

Fear

I had the privilege of being a part of the professional speaking circuit for over 35 years, being a “full-timer” from 2000 to 2020. During those years, I traveled and made speaking presentations in all 50 of these United States. It was a wonderful and fulfilling experience to work with speaker’s bureaus, and meeting planners; and speaking before a wide variety of audiences.

My first experience in front of an “audience” came in my 17th year when a crusty, old Sunday School teacher named Reece Enoch suggested I teach his adult class. Teaching the Bible became my “calling.” You might say I have been “at it” for 55 years now.

hat teaching experience and my work on the professional speaking platform has landed me in many a church. Over the years I have filled in for preachers, performed wedding ceremonies, and delivered eulogies at funerals. Sometimes the weight of responsibility has been overwhelming.

I have never attended a denominational seminary or taken a seminary course. I would stop well short of saying I have been self-taught. I have been schooled, but that is a subject, both deep and strong, which should be saved for another day.  

Somewhere along the way I was introduced to the concept of “the whole council of God.” You’ve heard the saying, “a little knowledge is a dangerous thing?” So, it is with the Bible.

I have come to know there are “silver threads” that run throughout the scriptures from Genesis to the Book of Revelation. Among those silver threads are God’s Grace, Faith, and His patience and longsuffering toward humankind to name a few.

But one which rings out; and is especially fitting for these times is the command to “fear not!”

My friend, Dr. Ben Bissell, psychologist and educator, explained in one of his seminars the difference between “fear” and “anxiety” or “being afraid” or “anxious.” He gives this example.

If on a hike on a trail in the Great Smokey Mountains you met another hiker who informed you he saw a big bear back up the trail, then, you might become “anxious.” You might, or might not, ever see the bear, but the possibility of seeing a bear creates anxiety. Anxiety is driven by possibility.

On the other hand, if you continue your hike, and encounter that big bear, now you have a reason to be afraid. Fear has a definite source.

At the beginning of World War II, President Franklin Roosevelt sought to calm a nation by saying, “We have nothing to fear, but fear itself.” That sounded good, but it simply wasn’t true.

When the 12 spies were sent to spy out the land of promise, they did a thorough job of evaluating, and brought back an accurate assessment. But the majority brought back “an evil report,” speaking of giants and a land which would devour the people. And the hearts of the people “melted.” (with fear.)  Of course, we know the rest of the story. Undealt with fear paralyzes.

And the word came to Joshua, “Be strong and of a good courage, be not afraid, neither be dismayed….”

Remember the man who received only one talent? Do you know why he buried it? He said, “I was afraid.”

Mark Twain once said, “I’m an old man, and I have seen a lot of trouble - most of which never happened.

Someone once said, “Never take inventory of your fears.”

Jesus said, “Be anxious for nothing…”

I had great respect for the late Dr. Norman Vincent Peale. He once quoted a line from a book titled Fear, by Boswell Kane.

It goes like this: “Be bold, and mighty powers will come to your aid!”

I believe that to be true.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall                   

A 1960 Chevrolet

There aren’t many objects (things) that deeply captivate  my memory. Most of my most vivid recollections are tied to people and experiences. Usually some kind of strong emotion is involved. But when this time of year rolls around, I always think of a dark blue, 1960 Chevrolet. The image is crystal clear and lasting.

High school football season is in full swing. During my school days in the 1950’s and 1960’s high school football was a big deal in our part of the world.

It was during those years in the 1950’s and 1960’s that the late Turney Ford became a Middle Tennessee high school football coaching legend. At the height of his coaching popularity in 1959, the football boosters in Carthage (Smith County) presented Coach Ford with a new 1960 Chevrolet. It was dark blue. As you might recall the 1960 Chevys had the big fins on the back corners, as did the 1959 models. I was eight years old, and I was some more impressed. A new car! I thought it was beautiful.

Experiences impact our psyche more or less due to our particular perspectives. Up until 1959 my family had never owned a car. Our primary means of transportation was a pick-up truck. My father bought new pick-up trucks in 1948, 1958, and 1968.  It was 1961 when we acquired our first car, a Chevrolet Parkwood station wagon. My experience observing the citizenry of Carthage giving Coach Ford a brand new car made a life-long impression on me. Coach Ford drove that car for years. Seeing that 1960 Chevy always made me smile.

The closest thing to a play-off back in those years was the Tobacco Bowl played in Hartsville. To quote sports announcer Keith Jackson, the Tobacco Bowl was “the granddaddy of them all.”  It was the premier high school football bowl game in all of Middle Tennessee. And in many of those years it pitted Turney Ford’s Carthage Owls against the other best team the mid-state  had to offer. Battle Ground Academy (BGA) usually comes to mind when I recall Tobacco Bowls of the past. The Tobacco Bowl was a happening.

A half-time feature of every Tobacco Bowl was the Tennessee A&I marching band. Tennessee A&I was later named Tennessee State University. The A&I marching band was worth the price of the ticket. The band was spectacular. I always arrived early just to see the band members get off the Trailway buses.  The half-time show - you had to see to believe. I had never seen marching in quarter time until I saw the A&I band. And the band members could play instruments like no other band I have ever heard. Like I said, the Tobacco bowl was a happening.

And the games were always “slobber knockers,” hard fought and played with tremendous pride. It was before the days of weight rooms and strength and conditioning programs. Most football players, like the earliest and best Roman soldiers, were boys who came right off the farm. They were strong and tough as pine knots from haling hay and cutting tobacco and digging post holes and milking cows and pulling up stumps with their bare hands.

To many, those were the glory days of Carthage High School football. State championships were mythical, play-offs were in the future, and Carthage was considered a mid-state powerhouse coached by a legend. 

But much like today, a coach’s job is only as safe as last year’s won-loss record. Eventually Coach Turney Ford fell out of favor with the powers that be and was replaced. He moved on to Gordonsville High School where he continued to build on his legend. The last time I attended a football game in Gordonsville I smiled when I read the sign which read, “Turney Ford Field.”

Turney Ford was a great coach and a good man, and he helped shape the lives of many fine young men.

I can see him now, climbing behind the wheel of that dark blue, 1960 Chevrolet.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall                               

Home Fires

Seems like as far back as my earliest memories I can see flickering flames dancing in a fireplace. I don’t recall much about the log house in which we first lived, but I remember the fireplace. Maybe it was the warmth of the fire, or the mesmerizing rhythm of the rolling flames. Whatever the reason, I can’t help but smile when I go back down the halls of my memories and find myself in front of a fire.

Of course, our ancestors sat in front of a fire for thousands of years. Some would say it is in our DNA to be intrigued by fire.

I can only tell you this: Each fall when leaves begin to turn, and I hear the haunting call of geese in flight, or feel the bite of frosty air on my face, I get a little homesick. And I begin to look for smoke circling out of a chimney, and I have a longing to breath in the smell of smoke from a hardwood fire.

There is something special about “wood” heat. When you come in out of the cold, the smell of the fire and the feel of the warm air has a quality about it that says “welcome home.”

My maternal grandfather’s house in the Brim Hollow featured a big, open fireplace. It would accommodate a back log 9 to 12 inches “through” (diameter). At night, just before going to bed, my grandfather would “bank up” the ashes against the back log; which, in effect, put the fire out for the night. The next morning, he would rake the ashes back from the back log exposing the embers that had smoldered during the night. A piece or two of kindling, and more firewood would bring the fire back to life in a sudden burst of flames. You might say my grandfather was the self-appointed “thermostat.”

An Ashley wood heater was the centerpiece in the living room in the house where I grew up. My mother was the keeper of the flame. My father (sometimes reluctantly) kept the front porch stocked with firewood, but my mother “tended” the fire. And she had her preferences when it came to the kind of wood he supplied. To my father, “a tree was a tree.”

My late mother use to say “hackberry burns about the same whether green or dry.” She preferred Ash (fewer ashes.)

To his credit, my father consistently provided an excellent supply of cedar kindling each year. In the spring, he would secure a pickup truck load of cedar slabs (trimmings) from the J. C. Owen sawmill. (That was years before the Owens made the transition from producing cedar boards to making cedar bedding.)

My father would pile the cedar slabs in an out-of-the-way location and let them “dry out” all summer. At the first hint of winter, he would attach a frame to the front of our John Deere tractor. The frame featured a small, round sawmill blade driven by a 6 inch-wide, black belt which was “hooked up” to the tractor. There’s no sound like the whine of a sawmill blade crawling through dry cedar. My brothers and I would “feed” the slabs onto the frame, and my father carefully guided the wood into the whirling saw blade. The sound of the saw, and the smell of cedar, and the yielding of tired, young muscles; and being a part of a job needing to be done made for an experience to be re-visited and treasured over a lifetime.

There’s nothing quite like cedar kindling for firing up a fire. My father made sure we had an abundant supply.

Today, I live in a climate controlled dwelling. There is a thermostat on the wall. At the touch of a button I choose the temperature I desire. The air in my house is a bit too antiseptic for me.

But that doesn’t keep me from going back to feeling the warmth of a fire on my face and the smell of smoke and dried cedar.  It not only warms my heart, it strengthens the marrow in my bones.

 Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall  

Soft Places

I stepped out into the morning air this past weekend and knew fall had   arrived. Autumn officially began at 2:50 a.m. EDT on Saturday, September 23. Seems it was right on time. I checked the temp on my iPhone - 50 degrees.

That’s all the excuse I needed to bring out a flannel shirt. I am convinced  flannel shirts; soft, comfortable, jeans and old boots are three of life’s simple pleasures.

You’ve heard the saying, “When the going gets tough, the tough get going?” Well, that’s all well and good, but sometimes you need to land in a soft place. Sometimes, you need to catch your breath. Sometimes, you have a need to feel softness. That’s one reason I like flannel shirts.

My late mother used to say, “This life is no place for the faint hearted.” She was “spot on.”

M. Scott Peck began his classic book titled, The Road Less Traveled, with these words, “Life is Difficult.” He suggested the sooner you figure that out, and accept it as true, the sooner success will come to you, the easier will be your journey.

 With that in mind, best we find places to rest mind, body and soul. Why not start with a flannel shirt when fall weather begins? Of course, there are other soft things and places that provide respite. A big, cushy recliner can offer welcome rest to tired bones. And how often have we failed to give thanks for a warm, soft bed when winter chills come calling?

I have often found a soft place in the fellowship of family and friends. I once observed a young, Hispanic father patiently working with his two pre-kindergarten daughters in a restaurant. As I prepared to leave, I stopped and complimented him on his efforts. I shall never forget his beaming smile, nor his words.

“Oh, sir!” he said. “Family is everything!” I believe that is true.

I tell young men, “Take care of your family.” A stable home life provides shelter from life’s storms. It is one of life’s softest places.

Another soft place can be found in the loving eyes of a friend. Everybody  needs a friend. Sometimes that friend might be a dog or a cat. In the words of songwriter, Tom T. Hall, “Old dogs care about you even when you make mistakes.” Unconditional love is another of life’s softest places.

 And then, there are memories - memories of people you have known – the “salt of the earth” kind of people. The writer of the Letter to the Hebrews referred to them as “a cloud of witnesses.” Thoughts of their kind bring rest and renewed courage to tired spirits.

Sometimes I find a soft place in the simple task of folding clothes, or ironing a shirt (That’s a lost art.), or polishing shoes, or canning green tomato pickle – simple, mundane tasks in which you can “lose” yourself.

Of course, get-a-ways are nice. Sometimes, you just need to get away. We all have experienced times “when we couldn’t see the forest for the trees.” Times when life was so busy and moving so fast that we lost perspective. I have found a soft place in riding a mule into the Grand Canyon many times, or visiting the Columbia River Gorge in Oregon, or duck hunting in Canada, or driving in the Great Smokey Mountains.

Legend tells of how John, the Apostle, was one day relaxing as he tinkered with a pet bird. Someone asked if he had nothing better to do than focus his attention on such a trivial matter. To which he replied, “The bow that is always bent soon ceases to shoot straight.”

Soft places. We all need them. We all long to find them. Sometimes they are right in front of us, and we fail to see them. God’s speed in finding yours.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

Albert B. McCall

I had the privilege of speaking at an uncle’s funeral two weeks ago. His name was Albert Burr “A. B.” McCall. Known to thousands of Middle Tennesseans as the silver-haired spokesman for D.T. McCall and Sons on WSMV’s Ralph Emory Show, he was a driving force in turning a small-town furniture store into a multi-million- dollar business.

Born the fourth child (third son) to David Thomas (D.T.) McCall and Amy Manning McCall, he seemed destined for a career in business. His father was an accomplished salesman, beginning his career driving a mule wagon as he sold his wares throughout Middle Tennessee. He began by selling (and trading) chickens and eggs. That led him to represent the Corn King and Morman companies as he delivered animal feed supplement products to farms for miles around.

In the earliest days of my career in livestock marketing, I was asked by countless farmers of his generation, “Are you any kin to D.T. McCall? He’s been on my farm!” As a salesman, D.T. McCall took his products to his customer’s farms. As a marketer, A.B. McCall came into their livingrooms.

In the beginning of his longstanding relationship with WSMV Television and The Ralph Emory Show, it was a reach, and somewhat of a risk, for a business in a small town to pay $200 for 30 seconds of airtime. But that $1000 dollars per week made “D.T. McCall and Sons” a household name. For many years, Middle Tennessee woke up to the live music and antics on the Ralph Emory Show at 5:00AM. A. B. McCall was right in the middle of it all. Whether he was promoting an outhouse race, bedroom furniture made of “real tree wood,” or a microwave oven that would “brown a biscuit,” he was laughing, smiling, and saying, “Heyyyyy!”

The entire WSM (later WSMV), Channel 4 viewing area opened up to D.T McCall and Sons - from Harriman to Hohenwald, from southern Kentucky to northern Alabama - all became McCall’s marketing domain.

But A. B. McCall was more than a marketing wizard. His marketing savvy was complimented by his buying prowess. He knew how, and when, to buy. He bought right and he bought “big.” In its day, he purchased Ashley Wood Heaters by the boxcar load. He purchased entire inventories of air conditioners from bankrupt hotel projects. He was a master at taking advantage of year-end closeouts. Come late December, manufacturers knew who to call if they needed to move inventory. A. B. McCall would buy in volume, and he would pay “cash.”

He liked to tell about a “buy” from time to time. One day he told me of this one. “Pigman,” he said. (He called all the sons of his older brother, Frank, “Pigman.”) “I had a company call yesterday trying to sell me 200 dishwashers… in almond (color.) The price was right, so I bought ALL of ‘em.” Then, he laughed, and said, “It may take me two years to move ‘em, but I will sell ‘em for less than the competition can buy ‘em!”

I said at his funeral; in a small-town sense, A. B. McCall was liken to a Harvey Firestone, or a Goodyear, or a Rockefeller, or a J.P. Morgan. He simply found himself in a smaller pond.

He was personal friends of, and adviser to governors. He was as comfortable talking on the phone with George H.W. Bush as he was making small talk with dirt farmers and sharecroppers.

Toward the end of his working days, he was offered a chance to teach a business course at Cumberland University. He told me all about it. It pleased him immensely.

“They asked me if I needed a book for the course,” he said.

“I told them I wrote the book!”

A.    B. McCall, dead at age 94.

He was one-of-a-kind.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

Hot Weather, Cold Water, and Other Things

Well, several weeks ago I wrote about the subtle signs of fall’s approach. Wouldn’t you know the next thing we would experience would be a week of blazing heat. Of course, the news media and weather forecasters played the heat for all it was worth as usual. I can only guess it increases viewership.

I had a friend send this text. “You would think by listening to the news that it’s never been hot in August!”

“You know what we used to do when it got this hot in August?” said an old timer.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“We went right ahead with what we were doing!” he snarled.

Over the weekend, before the heat eased off, I had the opportunity to take a long walk in the evening in a nearby city. I realized after the first mile I should drink some extra water. So, I stopped and purchased a bottle. The water was ice cold, and I don’t especially like drinking really cold water.

So, for a moment, I pretended. I pretended I was in a corn field, or a hay field, or in a tobacco patch many years ago. I thought of how hot it was, and how refreshing a cold drink of water would be. And I remembered how head-splitting cold the water from a water jug was. I drank the whole bottle.

In days gone by, we took water to the fields in a big-mouth, glass, gallon jug. We filled the jug with ice cubes (from ice trays) and finished filling the jug with water. (It was well water.) Then, we wrapped the jug with old newspapers, and slipped it into a big, brown grocery sack. If the top of the sack was folded down tightly, the ice would last all day. And the water? Cold as ice. The first water from the jug had to be sipped slowly unless you wanted a headache.

My friend, Dr. Paul Enoch, tells back when he was a boy how he and his father were suckering tobacco on a miserably hot day. Paul kept begging Mr. Enoch to let him go back to the house to get water. His father refused and insisted they keep working. When they came to the end of a row, his father spotted a water jug from days before resting in the shade of a tobacco plant.

Of course, the temperature of the water was that of the air outside, and anyone knows water left in the field for days takes on a musty smell.

Paul, desperate for a drink, removed the top, and exclaimed, “Daddy, this water is hot!”

“It will put out a fire, won’t it!” his father replied. They continued working.

My brothers and I had the privilege of working side-by-side with our father for some of our best years. Of course, as boys are prone to do, we complained. We complained about the heat. We complained about the sweat bees. We complained when we finished a row and he insisted we do another. Complain, complain, complain. His patience seemed unending.

One day, he had had enough. He threw down his hoe in the corn row, and with disgust, he said, “Well, let’s just let the Johnsongrass take the corn!”

With that said, he started walking toward the pickup truck. He was not bluffing. Or maybe he was. It took some begging on our part to get him to come back and continue chopping Johnsongrass. That ended the complaining.

I’ve noticed our grandchildren run out of gas very quickly when called to a task. Whether picking up sticks in the yard, unloading wood, or generally cleaning up, they don’t last very long. I sometimes wonder how they will do when life gets hard for them. And I often wonder what they have on their minds – how they are being “conditioned” by the world.

The other day, one asked me, “What would happen if the world blew up?” I thought, “What a heavy thought for a little boy.”

I reminded him of a song titled, “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands.”

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall