Springtime

Oh, the glory of springtime when the earth yawns and wakes from winter’s sleep. Buttercups, the greening of the grass, returning birds, and budding trees announce Mother Nature’s coming out party.

Much can be said of springtime and its intoxicating spell. If you are feeling well, you are liken to “a spring chicken.”  Inordinate behavior of both young and old is blamed on “spring fever.”  Of course, the stress level of our modern world has made it necessary to have a “spring break.” And who can find a young lady, regardless of her age, who would not like to be described as “a breath of spring?” We even “spring” forward at the changing of our clocks as daylight savings time is ushered in.

As winter begrudgingly loses its grip, hope “springs” eternal.

Many are the springs I observed my late father “spring” into action. It seemed he could never get started early enough. Come the first warm day of February, he couldn’t sit still. He saw there was much to be done - plant beds to be set in order, tobacco patches to be made ready for “setting,” and all the details involved in getting the next crop in the ground.

Come March, he would be watching over his tobacco plant beds like a mother hen. A potential late frost would have him doubling the plant bed canvas. And I remember a few springs when he built fires along side plant beds to ward off the chill.

Of course, he claimed all bragging rights that came with early success. At the country store he would announce to his peers, “Boys, I’ve got plants as big as a thumb tack,” or, “I’ve got plants as big as a dime!” When the growing plants had leaves as big as a quarter, he would say, “Boys, I’ve got plants leaving the ground!”  All the while, he was planning ahead.

I never recall his being unprepared. If he was not tending to plant beds or “working” tobacco ground, he was taking care of the “little things” that made for a smooth operation.

In my 12th year, Little League Baseball came to Smith County. I played for the Giants in my first and final year. In the ensuing years my younger brothers played. Our father allowed us to play though he rarely attended our games. Baseball players have been called “the boys of summer,” but I submit they should be called “the boys of springtime.” Of course, springtime is planting time. We saw ballplaying as a privilege made possible by our father’s hard work. While we played ball, he stayed at home preparing for the next day’s work.

 He would often chide, “We are going to lose a crop over all this ballplaying.” My, how things have changed!

 In the month leading up to tobacco setting, Frank McCall would have gathered every two-and-a-half-bushel wash tub, bushel basket, orange crate, sturdy cardboard box, and any other container that would hold tobacco plants (slips.) He would have greased and gone over the tobacco setter with “a fine- tooth comb.”  The engine and water pump would have been tuned and ready to go, the water tank filled ahead of time.

 In all the years he orchestrated tobacco setting, we never experienced a breakdown.

Springtime - a time for doing – a time for preparation - a time to swing into action. And a time for breathing in the wonder of life. 

And above all, a time for celebrating an empty tomb.

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall      

Quotes to Remember

Over the course of my speaking career, I encountered many people who were smarter than I am. Here are a few of the great quotes I discovered.

On the subject of attitude:

“The longer I live, the more I realize the impact of attitude on life. Attitude, to me, is more important than facts. It is more important than the past, than education, than money, than circumstances, than failures, than successes, than what other people think or say or do. It is more important than appearance, giftedness, or skill. It will make or break a company…a church…a home. The remarkable thing is we have a choice every day regarding the attitude we will embrace for that day. We cannot change our past…we cannot change the fact that people will act in a certain way. We cannot change the inevitable. The only thing we can do is play on the one string we have, and that is our attitude. I am convinced that life is 10% what happens to me, and 90% how I react to it. And so, it is with you…we are in charge of our attitudes.”

-Charles R. Swindoll

“Everything can be taken from man except the last of the human freedoms, his ability to choose his own attitude in any given set of circumstances – to choose his own way.” -Victor Frankl, Holocaust Survivor

“It is energy-demanding work to experience distressing realities in a positive light.” -From the book, Emotional Intelligence by Daniel Goldman

“No misfortune is so bad that it can’t be made worse by whining about it.’ -Jeffery C. Holland

On the subject of Life:

“America is great because America is good. When America ceases to be good she will cease to be great.” -Alexis de Tocqueville, 1805-1859

“One thing I know: The only ones among you who will be really happy are those who will have sought and found how to serve.”  -Albert Schweitzer

“A friend is one to whom one may pour out the contents of one’s heart, chaff and grain together, knowing that gentle hands will take and sift it, keep what is worth keeping, and with a breath of kindness, blow the rest away.” -George Eliot

“One of the highest of human duties is the duty of encouragement. It is easy to laugh at men’s ideas; it is easy to pour cold water on their enthusiasm; it is easy to discourage others. The world is filled with discouragers. We have a Christian duty to encourage one another. Many a time a word of praise or thanks or appreciation or cheer has kept a man on his feet. Blessed is the man who speaks such a word.”

-William Barclay

“When you get into a tight place and everything goes against you, till it seems you could not hold on a minute longer; never give up then, for that is just the time and place that the tide will turn.” -Harriot Beecher Stowe

“People are often unreasonable, irrational, and self-centered.

Forgive them anyway.

If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives.

Be kind anyway.

If you are successful, you will win some false friends and some true enemies.

Succeed anyway.

What you have spent years building, someone could destroy overnight.

Build anyway.

If you are honest, people may cheat you.

Be honest anyway.

If you find happiness, people may be jealous.

Be happy anyway.

The good you do today may be forgotten tomorrow.

Do good anyway.

Give the world the best you have, and it may never be enough.

Give your best anyway.        

For you see, in the end, it is between you and God.

It was never between you and Them anyway.” - Mother Teresa

The Disappearance of the “Shade Tree Mechanic”

When I was growing up, I learned of a special breed known as “shade tree mechanics.” These men and women (mostly men) were endowed by their creator with exceptional mechanical skills which they applied in their back yard, side yard, and, sometimes, in their front yard. They were called “shade tree” because their work usually found them laboring under the shade of a tree. Often times that tree became useful in the mechanics works. A low hanging limb was used to support a “chain fall” in the pulling of a car engine. “Chain fall” is old school for a chain hoist or even a “come-a-long.”

Of course, back in the day, motor vehicles and, especially, engines, were much less complicated.

My late father once told me, that in the days of T-model Fords, you only needed 3 things to keep a vehicle going – a box of tire patches, a tire pump, and some baling wire.

Shade tree mechanics did most of their work in their spare time. Many worked at a “regular job” and freelanced at home. They were known for helping a neighbor, sometimes working into the night and on Saturdays to finish a project. Most were invaluable resources on “how to” uncomplicate engine issues that had another mechanic or neighbor “stumped.”

Many perfected their skills by learning from a father, grandfather, or uncle.

But alas, the motor vehicle landscape has shifted … radically. The computer has changed everything. Now we have vehicles without ignition keys. Compress the brake, push a bottom, start the car. What happens if the car doesn’t start? Have it towed. A trained technician will hook it up to a computer and the computer will tell him what is wrong. You pay the bill.

I recently spoke with a manager in need of hiring young men and women to work outside. Part of the job involved truck driving.

“I can’t find one who can drive a “straight shift,” he said.  “What is the world coming to?”

A skill set is being left behind. I well remember the first time my father put me behind the wheel of a pickup truck to drive in a hay field. I looked down at the floorboard and saw three (3) pedals only to realize I had but two (2) feet. I was ok until the first time I had to stop on the side of a hill.

I have made a vow I will teach my granddaughters and grandsons how to drive a straight shift. You never know when necessity will demand a skill.

When our sons were growing up, one listed the qualities he looked for in a young lady in whom he might be interested. He specified three things.

1)     Be able to “pull” a calf.

2)     Be able to field dress a deer.

3)     Be able to change a tire.

I would have added to that list – able to drive a straight shift.

Many years ago, my father had the opportunity to purchase an “irrigation outfit” in a distant part of the state. It included over 5000 feet of aluminum irrigation pipe and a six-inch pump driven by a “straight-8” cylinder Chrysler engine. The problem was the engine had not been started in over two years and the starter was missing. My father was undaunted. It was the “shade  tree” in him.

Today those shade tree mechanics are hard to find. If you happen upon a good, older vehicle worth saving, best you track down a mechanic of the “shade tree” variety. It will be well worth your time.

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall

Unsung Heroes

In celebration of Black History Month in February, here’s a story that needs to be told. Hartsville, TN, once a farming community like so many others in our great a state, has experienced sweeping changes in recent years. But unlike many small towns, Hartsville has managed to hold on to three very important entities – a weekly newspaper (The Hartsville Vidette), a local radio station (WTNK), and a hometown hospital (Trousdale Medical Center.) This story is about the hospital and a man named Robert Calhoun.

Trousdale Medical Center, once known as Hartsville Hospital, was built in 1962. Dr. E.K. Bratton, one of the founding physicians, was instrumental in creating a marvelous culture of care which still exists today. (Employees who have been there for years vow that his ghost still walks the halls.)

Shortly after graduating from high school in 1966, Robert Calhoun came to work at the hospital as what was then called a janitor - a position later called “housekeeping,” - even later known as “environmental services.” He, along with his brother Larry and a number of cousins, saw to it that the hospital was immaculately cleaned for years.

George Harris, who served as maintenance engineer at the hospital for over 40 years, said he had worked under 19 different hospital administrators. In 1999, I became that 19th administrator.   

Over a span of 60 years, you can imagine all the changes a hospital might undergo.  Trousdale Medical saw changes in ownership (some good, some bad), changes in physicians, changes in management. All the while, the hospital building continued to age. Robert Calhoun and his staff continued to clean.

Then, through a fortuitous series of circumstances near the turn of the century, the hospital was purchased by Carthage General Hospital, at that time a part of the Covenant Health System. Under the leadership of Hospital Administrator Wayne Winfree, vast improvements were made to the interior of the hospital – new flooring, new wallpaper, new paint. Under Robert Calhoun’s watchful eye, the hospital interior sparkled.

In a few short years, it appeared the hospital would be up for sale again. Contacts were made. The big question became what do we have to sell? Two things – culture and clean.

At the same time, Trousdale Medical Center was being surveyed by Joint Commission. The leader of the survey team was a pediatrician from Virginia, a graduate of the University of Michigan Medical School. At the end of the survey period, on the day I was to take him to the airport, he walked with me to my car. As he sat down in the passenger seat, he turned to me and said, “Mr. McCall, I see about 50 hospitals each year, and I have been doing surveys for years. And this hospital is, without question, the cleanest hospital I have ever seen.”

I rode that horse for all it was worth. The cleanliness of the hospital was the single most important factor in placing Trousdale Medical Center in what would turn out to be capable hands. The driving force was a man who had cleaned the hospital for over 50 years. His name was Robert Calhoun.

In 2013, Robert Calhoun received the Meritorious Award from the Tennessee Hospital Association for his outstanding accomplishments as a Departmental Manager. Each year he actively supported a health fair at his church. The first time I attended that health fair my first thought was, as I entered the church fellowship hall, “Robert Calhoun has been here!” “Pristine” is the word that came to my mind. It is defined as “pure, in perfect condition, fresh and clean as if new.” That is the way Robert Calhoun kept things.

Could one man have that much impact on a church, a community, or even, the future of a hospital?

You bet your life!

 COVID took him in 2022. But not before he had made his mark.

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall

Gunsmoke

In my quest to find TV worth watching I have settled into viewing Wagon Train and Gunsmoke in the evenings. Ward Bond, John McIntire, and Robert Horton, along with a strong supporting case, make the old West come alive on Wagon Train. There are cowboys, Indians, good guys, bad guys, strong men, strong women, crooks, cheats, cowards and heroes. The storylines on Wagon Train provide unique insights into the human condition.

But my favorite is Gunsmoke. Premiering on CBS in September 1955 and completing its network run September 1975, Gunsmoke is the longest-running dramatic series in the history of TV. And there is little wonder. The foursome of Milburn Stone as “Doc,” Amanda Blake as “Kitty,” Dennis Weaver as “Chester,” and James Arness as “Matt Dillon” are unmatched in television history if you ask me. I know that “Festus” and “Newly” came along later, but the four originals made the show great.

I noticed in the earlier episodes that Matt and Miss Kitty were more open in showing their affection for one another. As the series evolved though years their relationship took on more of a mystique. The chemistry between them proved to be both intriguing as well as refreshing.

And, of course, Doc’s and Chester’s “jawing” with each other is priceless.

I suppose Chester was always short of money, but “Marshall Dil-lern” never seemed to run out of patience.

As the story begins to unfold in an episode I viewed recently, Chester comes upon a young cowboy who is breathlessly close to being horse whipped. A “religious” man has tied the young man to a tree; and, with whip in hand, is ready to proceed in “purging” the young man’s sins to save him from eternal damnation.

Chester intercedes, stops the horse whipping, and unties the would-be victim. This raises the ire of the religious man who vows Chester will pay for “interfering with the Lord’s work.”

Later in the story, Chester is captured by the religious man and his two sons. Their plan is to cut off Chester’s hand for his misdeed. Fortunately, they put it off until the next morning. During the night, one of the son’s comes to realize his father “has gone ‘round the bend” and rides to Dodge City for help. The next morning, he and Marshall Dillon arrive at the scene just in time to save the day. In the course of the ensuing gun battle, Chester – and his hand – are saved and the religious man is shot dead. (As it turns out one of his sons fired the fatal bullet.)

Of course, the turn of events leads to questions and philosophizing at the end of the show.

“Mr. Dil-lern,” says Chester. “I just can’t understand why a man would try to do something like that.” (Or something to that effect.)

“Well, Chester,” says Matt, “The Bible says ‘And what does God require of you but to do justly, to love mercy, and walk humbly with thy God.’ I guess that man never read that.”

I could not believe my eyes and ears. There was Matt Dillon, U.S. Marshall and federal government employee, quoting Micah 6:8 right straight out of the Holy writ. And he was on the job, mind you!

In today’s world where the founding fathers’ concept of “separation of church and state” has been so misinterpreted and so misapplied, Marshall Dillon would have been in some real trouble.

The conversation would have gone something like this:

“Why, Mr. Dil-lern, you can’t quote the Bible while in the line of duty. You work for the federal government and that’s a violation of the separation of church and state. Why, you could lose your job!”

Matt, always straight forward and practical, would answer, “Chester, did you say separation of church and state? It doesn’t say “separation of state and God.”

If Matt were around today, I’m afraid he would be sadly disappointed.

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall   

Brim Hollow Revisited

I visited The Brim Hollow recently in hopes that I might see him. I stepped up on the big footstone and entered the old house where no one has lived for 60 years. Inside the workroom I looked for his faded denim jumper which always hung on a big nail. It being winter, his weathered, felt Stetson should have been hanging on that nail, too.

Next, I stepped into the kitchen where the boom of his laughter used to echo among the walls. In the bedroom I once sat beside him as we popped popcorn over the flames of an open fireplace.

Peering out a window, the windowpanes dimmed by the passing of many years, I hoped to see his hulking figure coming from the sheep barn and crossing the rock-bottomed creek.

I tried another window, my gaze lifted towards the feed barn where I often saw him sauntering down the hill with a pail of warm milk in the late afternoon. Just beyond the little, dry branch lay the rocks where he once salted his goats. He could “called them down” with ease. In a rich baritone, he would call, “Diddy, diddy, diddy…come on diddy!” (His pronunciation of “billy.”) I could almost hear him calling.

I made my way to the back porch and looked up the hollow where he once parked his truck in a little shed covered by a shake shingle roof. It had crumbled long ago under the weight of time.

As I left the hollow that day, I walked down a shady lane with which I am too familiar, and caught myself listening for the “chug, chug, chugging” sound of his 1952 GMC half-ton. Only silence met me.

I decided to give it one last try. Driving up main street in the little town of Riddleton, I looked where he once sat in a straight-back chair in a ditch formed by a low, rock wall and the edge of the pavement just across the road from Leonard Carter’s General Store. By late afternoon he would have been knee-deep in cedar shaving he had whittled all day long. He was not to be found.

Long ago my grandmother gave me some of his personal effects. She said he would have wanted me to have them. One is particularly dear to me. He called it his billfold. Actually, it was a little coin purse he carried in the bib of his overalls. I’ve kept it in a lock box at the bank over the years just the way I received it. It contains his drivers license, a few tarnished coins, a “Lincoln” folded up the size of a postage stamp, and a few odd receipts.

Not too long ago, I visited the bank to “get into” my lockbox. As I thumbed through several documents, I came upon the “billfold.” I opened it, removed its contents, and traveled back in time. Before I returned it to the lockbox, I closed my eyes, held it to my chest, and I thought of him.

As I breathed in deeply, I suddenly I felt a whiskered old face up against mine! My eyes flew open as I thought someone had gotten in the back vault with me! No one was there. Just a memory.

In the late fall of ’63, my brothers and I arrived home from school to be met by our Aunt Rebecca McCall. That seemed very odd. She let us know that our grandfather Brim had taken ill, and our father and mother had gone to the hospital with him. He had been placed in a straight-back chair and rode out of The Brim Hollow in the back of a pickup truck to meet the ambulance. He was then rushed to McFarland Hospital. He had dealt with a bad heart for years. This was his third “spell.”

That afternoon he was resting comfortably in his hospital bed with my mother, his only child, at his side. She was holding his hand. My mother would later say he thought he was going to pull through again.

Suddenly, he opened his eyes as if he were surprised.

“Honey, I’m dying!” he said.

“Yes, sir,” she answered.

“Don’t you hear that death rattle!” he said.

“Yes, sir,” she answered, again.

She whispered a silent prayer. “Lord, please don’t let him suffer.”

He closed his eyes, breathed an easy breath, and he was gone.

Gone, but not forgotten.

  Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall

February 24

 As I have written in previous columns, my late father was a tobacco man. If he were not working on his current crop he was thinking about next year’s. For my father and our family, February 24 held significant meaning. First, it is my older brother Tom’s birthday, and second, it was the target date every year for my father to sow his tobacco plant beds. I like to think he chose that day in recognition of the birth of his first son, but I suspect he also used it as a reason to get started a week before March arrived. This year’s soggy weather would have had him is a “tizzy.”

Come the first warm day of February, my father would begin preparing his tobacco beds. In some of the earliest years I recall, I can remember his burning off the plant beds to kill last year’s weed seeds. In later years, he gassed the beds under heavy plastic. Whatever his secrets were to starting healthy, thriving tobacco plants, or slips,  largely remained his secrets. There were some jobs he seemed to enjoy doing alone. Preparing plant beds was one of them. By the time he was ready to sow the tobacco seeds, he had worked the soil until it was as soft and supple as powdered sugar. If by chance there were any small clods of dirt left, he would remove them with a hand rake.

When the seed bed was prepared to his satisfaction, he worked on getting the seed ready for sowing. He took ashes from the fireplace and wood stove that he had saved in various containers over the winter and began the process of sifting them, much like you would sift flour. When he had sifted out enough to fill a two-and-a-half bushel galvanized wash tub, he was ready for the envelope of tobacco seed. He would add the seeds and mix them thoroughly with the ashes by hand until he was satisfied the seeds had separated themselves sufficiently. Then, he would fill a five-gallon bucket with his mixture and, to use his word, “broadcast” the seeds on the plant bed. Back and forth he would go, seeding and over-seeding until all the seeds were sown. I can see him now in my mind’s eye, carefully walking down the middle of the plant bed sowing seeds and ashes from side to side. The grayish-white dust from the ashes would rise steadily from the ground like smoke from a slow burning fire.

When the seeds were sown, he tramped (some people called it “tromped”) the entire plant bed. Tramping a plant bed involved putting your shoe sole down on every single inch of the plant bed. Tramping accomplished two things. First, it forced the tobacco seeds into the soil and second, it compressed the soil so it would hold moisture better. My father tramped the bed from end to end and from side to side. I have vivid memories of seeing the first plants coming up inside a shoe print. After the bed was tramped, he called in help to set the plant bed poles.

My brothers and I have picked up the small end of many a plant bed pole in our time. They could always be found nearby lying in the tall weeds from last year. When the poles were in place down both sides of the plant bed and across the ends, we were ready for the plant bed canvas, a pocket full of small-headed nails and claw hammers.

Working in unison, we would drive nails in the plant bed poles, carefully lining them up with the eyelets in the border of the plant bed canvas, as we pulled the canvas taut across the plant bed. Greater care had to be taken if the canvas was old, as it tended to tear if pulled too tightly. Finally, everything was in order. My father smiled with satisfaction as we surveyed the finished work. But all was not finished.

In a few days he would begin to watch those plant beds like a hawk. After the first tiny tobacco plants began to make a showing, he would monitor the evening weather forecasts, observe the sun each day, and watch over those plant beds like a setting hen fussing over a netting of eggs. On sunny days he would pull back the canvas and let the sun warm the earth. If the weatherman spoke of a hint of frost, he would double the canvas to protect the plants from the cold.

In the days that followed he would bring daily progress reports to the house. “I’ve got plants coming through the ground,” he would beam. Speaking of the size of the leaf pairs, he would report later, “I’ve got plants the size of a thumb tack.” Then later, “I’ve got plants as big as a dime!” he would declare.

He especially loved to report to the farmers who gathered at Dewey Manning’s General Merchandise every spring. “Boys,” he would say, “I’ve got tobacco plants as big as a quarter!” He would be the first to make that brag every year. It had something to do with February 24.

My father sowed tobacco plant beds every spring for over fifty years. Every single one of those years he produced plant beds teeming with strong, vigorous tobacco plants.

Every year he had plants to give away. He was a tobacco man.

On February 24 I will celebrate my brother’s birthday. And I will find reason, again, to celebrate my father’s life.

I was down on the old home place a while back. I strolled out in the back yard and looked down on the field where we once raised tobacco. A west wind was stirring gently. My gaze was drawn to the western edge of the tobacco patch, just inside the tree line, where a plant bed once lay.

Suddenly, I was caught up in a dreamy fog. For a few fleeting seconds, I am almost sure I saw the dust from ashes rising slowly from the ground.

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall

A Meat and Three

I suppose anyone who has eaten at a country style restaurant knows what a “meat and three” is.  It, of course, refers to a meat entree and three vegetable selections. There are still a few places where you can get real country cooking, but they are few and far between. Cooking is sadly becoming a lost art.

A generation ago it was not uncommon for someone to walk into the house and ask, “What’s cookin’?” Those days are long gone, it seems, because nothin’s cookin’ in most homes today. It’s thawing, or being tossed in the microwave, or being delivered, or waiting at a fast food restaurant to be picked up, but it’s not “cookin’.”

Some health advocates asserted in years past that “you are what you eat.” If that is true, those following the baby boomer generation will be largely made up of pizza, chicken strips and ranch dressing.

I contend that those women of the World War II generation and before were great cooks because they “cooked”…a lot…everyday. Repetition is the mother of skill.

Of course a few women never mastered the art of cooking…even back then. My mother’s great-aunt, Martha Brim Bowman, was the least talented of five daughters when it came to the kitchen. Once, her brother - my great-grandfather, Richard Jackson Brim - visited his sister Martha’s home for a meal. As she put the food on the table, she declared, “Eat it as you love it.”

Her brother would later comment, “You had to love it to eat it!”

In the house where I grew up we usually enjoyed a meat and three at least once a day, usually at dinner (that’s what we called the noon meal).

My mother always considered her mother to be a great cook, but was less complimentary of her own ability. But she would often say, “I can keep plenty of good ‘grub’ on the table.” And she did.

I often think back to the days when we had hired hands join us for “dinner.” On those days we usually had “two and eight - or nine or ten.”

By that I mean two meats and a table filled with vegetable plates. The meats could be roast beef, fried chicken, meat loaf, fried tenderloin, pork backbone, pork roast, or fried country ham. The vegetables included, but were not limited to, green beans, pinto beans, pork n’ beans, butter beans, field peas, fried squash, okra (boiled or fried), mashed potatoes, stewed potatoes, fried corn, corn on the cob, boiled cabbage, coleslaw, candied sweet potatoes, and cucumbers in vinegar.

Finally, my mother would open two cans of Franco-American spaghetti to make sure there was, what my father called, “planty” (plenty).

Then she would top that off with two skillets of cornbread and a sheet of biscuits.

Of course, we drank enough sweet iced tea to float a boat.

I often speculated that the high school boys and men who helped us at tobacco cutting and hay hauling time would have worked simply for the chance to eat at our table. Spirits were high, the conversation was lively, and the “grub” was always good.

My great-grandmother Ida Bradford, who raised her family in New Middleton, had four sons and three daughters. She said, “To be a good cook, you had to stay in the kitchen.”

Her boys were constantly bringing their friends home after school and after ball games. Toward the end of her life Ida Bradford was heard to say one day, “I hope when I get to heaven to have a good cook stove and a bunch of hungry boys to feed.”

Great cooks of the past put more than their talent and energy into their cooking. They put their hearts into it. Because cooking consumed so much of their time, it gave them time…time to work out problems…time to lovingly think about those for whom they cooked…time to meditate and pray….time to be thankful.

Speaking of being thankful, as I considered all the great cooking I have enjoyed over the years, it dawned on me. In all my years, I have never…once…gone to bed hungry…not one time. Millions upon millions have lived and died who could not say the same.

That alone should give one pause to have a grateful heart.

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall