Harvest Time

I love the fall of the year. And that time is almost here. There’s just something about it that brings a feeling of satisfaction to my bones. For me, it starts when the leaves on the trees begin to make a different sound at the stirring of the wind. And then comes the morning I walk outside and the air has an unexpected bite in it. That sends me back inside looking for a flannel shirt. Soft flannel is hard to beat when the temperature starts to fall. The next experience to which I look forward is catching the first smell of smoke from a fireplace.

But I think I treasure the fall season most because it speaks of harvest time. Harvest time – one writer referred to it as that time “when the frost is on the pumpkin and the corn is in the shock.”

Harvest time -- when you gather in the fruit of that which you planted in the spring and nurtured through the summer.

Harvest time –to put it another way, when you go about reaping what you sowed.

I’ve seen a few harvests in my time. I was in on putting two dozen or more tobacco crops to rest. There’s no feeling like the bone-tired satisfaction one experiences when the last tobacco stalk is cut and spiked, and the last stick is hung in the barn.

And corn crops, I’ve seen a few of them finished off as well. Most of the corn crops I saw were gathered by hand,  scooped from the wagon, and pitched through a high window in the corn crib. The door to the corn crib was boarded up so the corn could not fall out into the hallway of the feed barn. We pulled the ears of corn out from between the boards until we could create a space for opening the crib door.

There’s nothing like the feel and smell of a corn crib….corn shucks, corn silk, and corn cobs. And there were rats, mice, and chicken snakes.

Whenever I see a corn field, golden tanned with the coming on of harvest, the best feelings are conjured up for me.

And there were fall hay crops which we stacked high in the old feed barn. Over the log pen, the stoutest part of the barn’s structure, we stacked fall hay all the way to the barn’s tin roof. It was a mountain of hay. Newly baled, fall hay safely in the barn -- now that’s a different smell altogether.

In my boyhood days, calf crops were usually sold in the fall of the year. And the second of two sets of “top” hogs went to market about that time as well.    

Harvest time is a time for “taking stock,” or assessing your situation – for taking a backwards glance. And it is a time for being thankful.    

I have often considered the many advantages of growing up on a farm.  One thing you learn on the farm is the rhythm of the seasons and the “flow” of nature. Actually, it is more “picked up” than learned. It is something that gets into your bones. You experience, first hand, the miracle of planting and harvesting, of sowing and reaping. You learn that a crop must be defended and cared for, that there are certain processes that must be followed. You also learn what works and what does not.  

And you learn not to apologize when you take in a bumper crop. You also learn not to complain when the harvest comes up short. It is all a part of the life experience. As the New York Yankee great, Casey Stengel, once said,

“You win some, you lose some and a few get rained out.” So it is with the harvest.   

God is a genius. He placed harvest time just before winter time. In the winter we have time to review the past year and contemplate the spring. How much will we plant in the spring? If the harvest was disappointing, will we find the courage to plant again?

Of course…….we must. Without sowing there can be no reaping.

A farm is wonderful place for learning to trust the Lord of the harvest.

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall  

Time

It seems like yesterday when a nurse in the hospital delivery room turned and handed our firstborn son to me as she said, “We’re going to let the father take him down to the nurse’s station and weigh him.” We celebrated his 44th birthday this past May.

My graduating Class of ’69 will mark its 55th class reunion this summer.

Last week, a job on the farm required some heavy lifting. Needless to say, this summer’s heat made the job even more challenging. At the end of the day, I was huffing and puffing… and hurting. It took me a day or two to get over the heat and the exertion. And I needed some Ibuprofen. Sometimes I’m reminded I am like the ole grey mare – “She ain’t what she used to be.”

Someone once said, “Time marches on, times waits for no man, and time will tell.” I can tell time is telling.

It’s hard to believe that the year 2024 is over half gone.

As I grow older, weeks seem more like days, months seem more like weeks and the years seem as short as months. I’m trying to slow things down, and time keeps picking up speed.  (Or so it seems.)

Years ago, dear friend and saint, Sam A. Denton was discussing the concept of time with me.

“You think time is going by fast now,” he said. “Just wait until you get to be my age. It flies by.” He was probably in his late fifties at the time. I have lived to see the truth in his words.

My mother, who died at age 89, use to say, looking back upon her life, “It’s like a dream.”

Moses wrote in the 90th Psalm, “We spend our years as a tale that is told.” He describes the passing of time as “a sleep,” “as grass that flourishes, and growth up, and in the evening is cut down,” and “as a watch in the night.”

He goes on to say, “So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts to wisdom.”

Numbering our days ... I think time seems to be passing more quickly because we become more aware of its value as we get older, and we realize we do not have as much time left.

And so the question becomes what shall we do with the time we have left? Paul, the apostle, called it “redeeming the time.” What shall we trade or exchange for our remaining time? How shall we live out the rest of our days?

On the subject of time, Arnold Bennett wrote: “Time is the inexplicable raw material of everything. With it, all is possible; without it, nothing is. The supply of time is truly a daily miracle, an affair genuinely astonishing when one examines it. You wake up in the morning and lo! Your purse is magically filled with twenty-four hours of the unmanufactured tissue of the universe of your life! It is yours. It is the most precious of possessions. ... No one can take it from you. It is unstealable. And no one receives either more or less than you receive.

Waste your infinitely precious commodity as much as you will, and the supply will never be withheld from you. Moreover, you cannot draw on the future. Impossible to get in debt! You can only waste the passing moment. You cannot waste tomorrow; it is kept for you. I said the affair is a miracle. Is it not?

“Which of us is not saying to himself—which of us has not been saying to himself all his life: ‘I shall alter that when I have a little more time’?        

We never shall have any more time. We have, and we always have had, all the time there is.”          

Which begs the question again, what shall we do with it?

Rudyard Kipling, in addressing the subject of maturity in his classic poem entitled “If,” challenged us to “fulfill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds distance run.”

That’s it! - To make the most of our allotted time.

The words of an old hymn remind us yet again of a pressing reality: “Years of time are swiftly passing, bringing nearer heaven’s goal…”

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall

Famous Pairs

Sometimes the things we remember and even experience come in pairs. I have given that a lot of thought lately. Here are few of my favorites.

A RC Cola and a Moon Pie. This pair is certainly a classic. Any boy or girl who grew up in the county and frequented old county stores has heard of, or enjoyed, this combo. Makes me want to take a sugar plunge just thinking about it.

Roy and Dale. Any young cowpoke who ever road a stick horse along a dusty trail knows Roy Rogers and Dale Evans were the king and queen of the cowboys. Roy on his trusted stead, Trigger, and Dale on her mare, Buttermilk, will forever be remembered as they road away at day’s end.

Cheese and crackers. I have watched a half-pound of real cheese come off that razor-sharp, spinning blade one-slice-at-a-time more times than I could count. Many a meal was had in the back of a country store on this combination alone. I would put it right up there with boloney and crackers. Singles like sardines, Vienna sausage, and potted meat should receive honorable mention. Pass the Louisiana Hot Sause.

Brains and eggs. If you were ever in on a hog killin’ you know that some swear by this culinary delicacy. As for me, thanks, but no thanks. I have never, nor will I ever, eat hog brains with or without eggs.

Mashed potatoes and roast beef on white bread. If you ever ate in a stockyard restaurant, you know this was a feature on the menu. Some of the finest cooks I have ever known served up their best to hungry farmers and cattle buyers.

Dizzy Dean and Peewee Reese. Never was there a pair who could “call” a  baseball game any better. When a batter swung and missed Dizzy would exclaim, “He had ripple!” And that was only one of many “Dizzyisms.” I can only smile when I recall this unique twosome.

Huntley and Brinkley. When NBC was at its zenith and network news was worth watching, these two brought the Six O’clock news like no one else. Chet Huntley and David Brinkley set the standard. And who could forget their sign- off each evening? “Good night, Chet. Good night, David. And good night for NBC news.”

Ham and biscuit. A biscuit never had it so good. Country ham on a-made-from-scratch biscuit is the stuff of legions. The late newspaper columnist and writer, Lewis Grizzard, once said he hoped heaven had Camels(cigarettes) and fried chicken. I would put country ham and biscuit right up there with them.

Peanut butter and jelly. I know people who have “lived” on this combo when money was tight. Add a glass of ice-cold, sweet milk and you are off and running. I say “sweet milk” because my late mother termed it so. That differentiated it from “butter” milk.

The Lone Ranger and Tonto. “Hi Yo, Silver, away!”  And in the words of Tonto, played by Jay Silver Heels, “You right, Ke-Mo Sah-bee.” (Faithful friend.) Oh, the days when good guys were really good.

Fish and chips. The British made them famous. I prefer catfish and hush puppies myself.

 Brooks and Dunn. When these two single acts showed up and Nashville, some brilliant record producer convinced them to join forces. The energy of Kicks Brookes and the high tenor of soft-spoken Ronnie Dunn proved to be an electric combination creating one of country music’s greatest duos.

Peas and carrots.  Forrest Gump made this pairing famous when he said “Jen-ny and I go together like peas and carrots.” Until age twelve, I spent many a night in the Brim hollow. My Granny Lena considered peas and carrots to be a staple. The very thought of this green and orange arrangement takes me back to the Brim hollow.

A “co-cola” and a candy bar. I remember when this unbeatable combination could be had for 10 cents.

Well, there you have it! I’ll bet you can come up with a few famous pairs your own self.

Speaking of Dale and Roy.

“Happy Trails to you……’til we meet again.

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall

Natural Exercise

I have a big tree in my back yard. No, it’s not a big tree. It is a giant oak. This tree is so big if I tried to run a lap around it, I would be out of breath. It is a monster.

When Kathy and I moved into the house where I now live, I found the shadow it cast to be unsettling. Three of its great limbs reached out over the house. In my dreams I saw one of them crashing through the roof and landing in our bed. Then,too, I grew tired of hearing acorns pelting the roof, especially after hours. Something had to be done.

So, I called on a local “tree” guy named “Lightning Gregory.” (You have to love a man named “Lightning.”) He came, he saw, and he conquered. But he admitted it to be one of the most difficult tree situations with which he had ever dealt. I slept better.

Two weeks ago, the limb on this ancient oak which reached to the north came crashing to the ground. Fortunately, it ran parallel to my house.  This limb, at its base, is bigger than most of the trees in my yard. Its terminal branches reached almost to my neighbor’s property line. What to do?

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I have been concentrating on dropping a few pounds as of late. I’ve cut back on sugar and bread, but my efforts at exercising have fallen short.

As I have studied this monstrous limb lying in my back yard, (I have noticed it is not going away.) my mind has journeyed back to my days on the farm. In those days if you wanted to lose a few pounds or tighten up your stomach muscles, you had a number of options. You could clean out a fence row. You could do some serious fencing, using hand-driven post-hole diggers. You could haul hay or tobacco. Or you could “run” a chainsaw for a while. I have opted for the chainsaw. I am going to “limb” this limb. Or, like the Little Red Engine That Could, “I think I can.”   

I will be tuning up my chainsaw and sharpening its blade. I am fully aware I am dealing with oak – hard as nails. I may even bring in my larger chainsaw and sawing up the massive truck of this limb. Maybe I’m dreaming. I could even see myself splitting up large blocks of wood with my wood splitter. Now, I know I’m dreaming.

Years ago, at Christmas, I purchased a top-of-the-line wood splitter at the Smokey Mountain Knife Works. It is fashioned of hickory and the finest Swiss steel. It is a thing of beauty. It was a Christmas present to me from me. My plan includes putting it to good use on this undertaking.

And to let you know I am serious, and at the same time a realist, I have ordered extra Icy Hot, Advil, Bengay, and yes, horse liniment.

Speaking of Christmas, I hope this limb is gone by then. I have the best of intentions.

But I may have to call “Lightning.”

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall

On the Subject of Happiness

You see a lot written and hear a lot of talk about happiness these days. Parents say, “I just want my children to be happy.” Young grooms-to-be say, “I just want to make her happy.” Young brides-to- be say, “I just want to make him happy.” And I often hear the disappointed and disillusioned say, “I just want to be happy.”

I’m quite sure you cannot make someone else happy. Happiness is an “inside” job. Happiness is more about what is going on inside a person rather than what is going on outside. And I’m not so sure happiness should be our goal. When happiness becomes our goal it becomes very allusive. Happiness is the by-product of a life well lived. Maybe one’s ultimate goal should be to be useful.      

Here’s a great Albert Schweitzer quote:

“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.”

I read a great article recently titled, “Things Happy People Don’t Do.” Here are a few thoughts gleaned from the article along with a few observations of my own.

Happy people don’t blame other people for their problems. Happy people take responsibility for their lives. They rarely, if ever, participate in “the blame game.” Blaming other people leads to more unhappiness because it is psychologically dis-empowering. If someone else is responsible for our problems we fall into the role of victim.

Happy people don’t use negative language. They rarely chastise themselves, or criticize or insult other people, either out loud or in their internal self-talk. Happy people can accept a compliment without turning it into a negative comment about themselves.           

Happy people work hard at the art of “having something good to say.” Besides, if you are constantly saying and hearing negative words, you have a tendency to believe them.       

Happy people don’t dwell on past failures. We all have our failures – lots of them.

John Greenleaf Whittier wrote, “Of all sad words of tongue or pen; the saddest are these, it might have been.” I think it is a human tendency to go back and visit the worst of our pasts and then use it to beat ourselves up. It is a trap happy people avoid. Sometimes you just have to let some things go.         

Happy people don’t gossip. Someone has said,” Great people talk about ideas, average people talk about things, and little people talk about other people”.    

Happy people don’t break confidences. They can be trusted. If they have something critical to say about someone else, they either say it directly to that person or they don’t say it at all.

Happy people don’t spend more time than necessary around unhappy people.

I have come to call this concept “selective association.” There are, in my opinion, two basic   types of people – the ones who build you up, and the ones who tear you down. Happy people prefer to spend more time with the ones who build them up.         

Happy people don’t focus on a single passion or relationship. In other words, happy people don’t “put all their eggs in one basket.” Happy people have multiple interests.

This diversification of interests reduces the risk that their happiness will suffer a catastrophic loss. Happy people are always broadening their horizons and trying new things.         

Happy people don’t give up on their dreams. The Good Book says, “Where there is no vision, the people perish.” We must all have a vision – one that is greater than ourselves. Happy people refuse to allow “the weight of this world” to crush them.

They hold on tenaciously to the dream of a day when “they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn of war anymore.”              

“And there will be peace in the valley….”

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall        

Boys and Girls of Summers Past

Many years ago, when burley tobacco was king in Middle Tennessee late  of June and early July would find most tobacco “laid by.” Dark green and growing, burley seemed to thrive as temperatures were on the rise. By then, my father would be looking ahead to July 4, a day when his sons were conscripted to fall in and “top” tobacco and dig potatoes. And hot? It mattered not.

When we grew older and had other holiday plans, those plans were put on hold until the work was done. We never resented it. It was part of the call of farm life. Looking back, I have come to realize we grew up in a Golden Age.

Neighbors helped neighbors. Swapping work was as natural as breathing. Dependability was the order of the day.

I say it was a Golden Age because of the security which surrounded us. We encountered “absolutes” at every turn.

You absolutely attended church on Sunday. You absolutely remembered the Sabbath Day to keep it Holy. (Unless the ox was in the ditch.) You absolutely respected parental authority. If you got a paddling or whipping (I hesitate to use the word “whipping” because it seems so severe in today’s world) at school, you absolutely got another one when you got home. I was introduced to a paddle on more than one occasion, beginning in the 1st grade, and so far, it seems I did not suffer any permanent mental of emotional scars.

You were absolutely expected to carry your share of the load. You could absolutely count on your neighbor. You were absolutely expected to show good manners. Adults were absolutely shown respect.

The boys and girls of those summers experienced the hazards of life, first hand. Sometimes newborn calves didn’t make it, hens were snatched away by predators, and occasionally puppies and kittens died.

Speaking of hazards, most of us ran barefooted in the summertime. Shoeless feet fell prey to honeybees, rusty nails and broken fruit jars. I ended the life of many a honeybee. Any country boy or girl knows the honeybee gives up its life in its last defense. I have pulled many a honeybee stinger from the floor of my foot. If my foot wasn’t too dirty my father would attempt to suck out the poison. Baking soda paste or tobacco juice was good for drawing out the venom.

Rusty nails were another story. In my mother’s mind puncture wounds were serious business. Rust only complicated the situation. To her, blood poisoning was no laughing matter. If you were stuck with a rusty nail, you were going to be stuck with a tetanus shot. No two ways about it.

Broken fruit jars lying in tall grass were altogether another matter. They were known to “lay a foot wide open.” My bothers and I have scars to prove it.

After enduring the scorching heat we have experienced lately, a friend asked, “How did y’all deal with 90 degree-plus temperatures when you worked on the farm?”

“First of all,” I said. “We didn’t know about the “heat index” or the “wind chill factor” when I was growing up. Hot was hot, and cold was cold. Secondly, we did not have to be reminded to hydrate. If you sweated a lot, you had sense enough to drink a lot of water.”

When the temperature climbed into the 90’s, we went to work before daylight. (My brothers and I handed up many a load of tobacco under the beam of truck headlamps.) Then, to use my brother, Tom’s words, we “dogged it off” around 10:00AM , and rested during the hottest part of the day. We returned to work around 3:00PM and finished the day. Any way you count it, we managed to get our 10 hours in.

It was a good life. Sometimes hard, but good. I appreciate it more today than ever.

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall

Drinking Water

Is nothing safe anymore? Now the people who are supposed to know are telling us that our water is not safe to drink. Americans have the safest, purest water supply in the entire world and every day someone is trying to sell me a water filtration system or trumpeting the dangers of chlorine. I wonder if anyone in modern history who was coming to the United State for a vacation has ever been warned not to drink the water. I dare say not.

When I was a kid, we thought we had struck it rich if we had a nickel to buy a “cold drink” aka “coke” (in some Southern states a “dope” or “belly warsher”), or in un-Southern states, a “pop” or “soda”. Regardless, what you called it, it was only a nickel. Today, we pay a dollar or more for a bottle of water and think nothing of it.

The best hotels supply bottled water in each room. A little sign attached to the bottle reads, “Please feel free to enjoy this refreshing bottle of water for only $5.00 or $6 or $7. So far, I have managed to resist the temptation. There are two types of running water in most hotel rooms, hot and cold. Why do hotels offer a $5.00 bottle of water? Because someone will buy it! Go figure.

When I was a boy, we carried drinking water to the fields in a gallon jug. It was one of those big-mouthed gallon jugs. Before we left the house we would fill it half-full of ice cubes. These were real ice cubes from ice trays. They were as big as square golf balls. Then we filled the jug with tap water from the well. When the top was safely on the jug, we wrapped it in newspapers to keep it cold. Then we slipped it down in a brown paper grocery sack. We rolled the top of the sack over the jug to keep the cold in and the heat out.

Upon arriving at the hay field or tobacco patch, we set the jug in the shade until we needed it. By mid-morning it was time for a break. That water was so cold that it would give you a headache if you drank it too fast.

We never took a glass or cup with us to the field. Everyone drank out of the water jug. Family, friends, neighbors and hired help all drank right out of the same jug. I was always careful to get my drink before the snuff dippers and tobacco chewers arrived. Sometimes if I was late getting to the water, I would notice an amber stain on the lip of the jug. I either wiped it off with my shirt sleeve or moved to the other side of the jug.

The introduction of the plastic milk jug changed all that. My father, ever the innovator, began filling used milk jugs half-full of water and setting them in the deep freeze. When we started to the fields, he would grab one out of the freezer and finish filling it with water. It was not necessary to insulate that jug of water or set it in the shade. It would take all day for the ice to melt. The water was head splitting cold, too.

I promise this to be true. We had one hired hand who, from time to time, would study one of those milk jugs trying to figure out how my father got the ice inside it.

Sometimes we would run out of water toward the end of the day. If my brothers and I complained loudly enough, my father would challenge us by saying, “Go get a drink in the creek.” We always protested.

He would walk us down to the edge of the creek and say, “Now see that little bluff right over there? A spring is running out from under it.”

I will admit that a trickle of water flow could usually be seen. Our father knew exactly what he was talking about, but we never admitted it to him. Then he would say, “Just put your face down in the water right up next to where the water is coming out. It’s as clean and safe as any water that you could ever drink.”

That was easy for him to say. I always envisioned a snake or snapping turtle jumping out and latching on to my nose or lip.

But, at one time or another, somewhere along the way, each of us became thirsty enough to try it. My father would hold his tongue until we were down on our knees with our faces in the water, just ready to draw in a drink. Then, he would laugh and say, “Be sure to clinch your teeth to strain out the bugs.”  

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall

Oreo

In our small herd of crossbred cattle, we have a cow named Oreo. I say we. Actually, Oreo belongs to our granddaughter, Jane. When Jane was younger, and less busy, she named all the new-born calves. She was quite creative in her naming – Monster, Pluto, Venus, Mercury, Dozier, Coco, Meteor, Ruby, Punkin, among others. Of all she named Oreo was her favorite. She chose Oreo to be her first cow.      

When the time came her time to calve, Oreo had great difficulty – big calf, slow birth. Try as we might, we couldn’t save the calf. Jane’s father, Joseph, said “Sell her.”     

“It’s not your decision,” I offered.     

“Let’s give her another chance,” said Jane. And so, we did.    

Ten months later Oreo brought a big, stout bull calf into the world. We were all smiles. Unfortunately, Oreo’s calf came at an odd time of the year and fell victim to a bush hogging mishap a few weeks later. Strike 2. Joseph was crushed and offered one of his calves to cover Jane’s loss.   

“Better sell her,” he said.   

“Not her fault,” said I. Sometimes older eyes and hearts can see things younger ones fail to comprehend. “Let’s give her one more try.”     

As most of my readers know, my wife, Kathy, died four weeks ago. I was told by friends, and fully understood, some hard days lay ahead. Last Saturday was my worst day, so far.        

It became necessary for me to search the house for a number of items (billing statements, check books, etc.) As I looked through file folders, envelopes, binders, and desk drawers, I ran into Kathy at every turn. By the end of the day, to say I had the blues would be an understatement. I no longer wanted to be in the house. How could I escape this deep sense of loneliness and despair?      

“I’ll go and check my cows,” I thought. So, I did.      

When I arrived at the farm, I noticed Oreo was in the back of the pasture far from the rest of the herd. She was standing with another cow that had calved recently and was keeping her newborn at a safe distance. That was not unusual. Oreo, by nature, was shy. When I called the cows in to treat them to ground feed, Oreo was the last cow to come in, if she came in at all.  My focus this day was on the rest of the herd. After I counted cows and checked on all the calves, I headed back in the direction my truck.     

Being in no hurry, I gazed back across the field in Oreo’s direction. As I had checked on her in the weeks before she had shown no signs of calving.     

“Better give her a look,” I thought. “Besides, the walk will do me good.” So, I began a walk of 1000 yards. Oreo was standing with her back to me as I made my approach. I quickly noticed the back quarters of her utter had filled out.      

“Close to calving!” I thought.      

Then, he stepped out of her shadow! Black as midnight, no more than a day this side of new-born, of a wiry constitution, on legs of which he was uncertain; he “bucked’ a couple of times to let the world know he meant business.       

I cried like a baby. Then, my tears turned to rejoicing, and my rejoicing turned to praise.        

In the next hour, a friend would call out my name with a lilt in his voice as I drove past him, and I would find that a neighbor had mowed my yard at the other farm. I would discover a letter filled with carefully chosen words from a fellow mayor, and a granddaughter would volunteer to spend the night to make my house feel less empty.       

Over the past month so many, through texts, emails, cards, phone calls, and in person, have offered these words of comfort: “You are in my/our thoughts and prayers.” I have given that a great deal of thought. What does that mean? I have come to the conclusion when a person is lifted up in thought and prayer it gives God the freedom to use His creative imagination to bless.         

Like the timing of Oreo’s 3rd chance, or the sound of a friend’s voice, or the kind gesture of a neighbor, or a thoughtful letter, or a granddaughter’s sensitivity.        

I would call them “blues chasers.” But it goes far deeper than that.       

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall