Grass String

It goes by many names - hay baler twine, baler twine,

grass string. Any farm boy (or girl) knows its “feel” with their eyes closed and is familiar with its many uses on a farm.  

I grew up calling it grass string. As I was considering writing about it in this column, I wondered if the term “grass string” had a common usage or if that is just what we called it on our farm.                

I asked my friend Jim Coley, a veteran feeder of hay, if he used the phrase “grass sting” when he was growing up. Jim explained to me that until it came out of the hay baler, and while it was still on the hay bale, it was called baler twine. But as soon as it was cut and removed from the hay bale it became a grass string.                            

That made perfect sense to me because, in fact, that’s the way it was on our farm. Now that I have that issue straightened out, I can proceed to consider both baler twine and grass string.           

Speaking with Jim also reminded me of how his late Uncle Clyde insisted the baler twine be cut at the knot when bales were being “busted” and fed to their fine Horned Hereford cattle back in the day.            

My first experience with baler twine took place in the hay fields of Smith County. I’m not sure how old I was, but I was big enough to roll a bale of hay up on a wagon. Taunt baler twine has a unique feel about it. Handling hundreds of bales of hay over many days makes for strong hands and fingers. If the hay was baled heavy and tight the twine seemed to cut into your fingers like baling wire.           

Speaking of baling wire, my father used to say that you could

fix almost any problem that came up with a model T Ford if you had three things: an air pump, a box of inner tube patches, and a piece of baling wire. That brings me back to grass strings. There are a thousand uses of grass string on a farm, and there were always plenty of grass strings to use when I was a boy.             

I marvel at how many stable doors, crib doors, and gates have been made secure with a doubled grass string. My father was known to keep one or two grass strings in the hip pocket of his overalls.

You never know when something will need to be tied up.  

My grandfather Herod Brim was a master at weaving ropes

with grass strings. He called them plaided ropes. He could weave them with three or four grass stings. He had grass string ropes that were 10 and 20 feet long. And they were strong. One of those ropes, tied around the horns of a big Billy goat, would stop him in his tracks          

I remember one rope in particular. It had a closed loop in the end which made for a perfect lasso. That lasso played a part in one of my most cherished childhood memories.              

In the summertime I would spend weeks at a time with my grandparents Herod and Lena Brim in the Brim Hollow. My grandfather had a routine every morning. He would leave the house early and tend to his chores. Then, “up in the morning,” he would come back to the house to see what I was doing.          

I would be lying-in-wait for him with a cleverly designed trap. Just inside the kitchen door, I would spread the open end of the lasso into a large loop on the floor. Then, I would hide under the kitchen table and wait. When he came through the door he stepped right in the middle of the noose. I would pull hard on my end of the rope and tighten the rope around his leg.           

He would squall out like he had stepped into a bear trap.

“Whoa, Lena!” he would bellow. “Whoa, Lena! Come here quick.  Something’s got me!”            

I would roll on my back and laugh out loud as I held on to the rope            

Then he, acting like he had finally come to his senses, would mockingly begin to chastise me. “Why you!” he would scold, “Come here to me and I’ll skin your head.”            

I would always get away without getting my head skinned.

And he would always step right in the center of that noose the next time I set the trap.       

Sometimes I hear his booming voice echoing in my memory, and I can still feel the end of that grass string rope in my hands.

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall

Joy

A few years back, my late wife Kathy and I spent the weekend in Nashville. The occasion was our wedding anniversary. It’s hard to believe I was married to that blue-eyed blond for over half my life.

We stayed at the Hampton Inn near the Vanderbilt University campus. On Saturday and Sunday morning I took my two-mile walks on the Vanderbilt campus. Students had not returned from spring break so, for all practical purposes, I had the campus all to myself. It was a great time to enjoy a beautiful campus. And, on this weekend it was serenely quiet.

On Saturday morning I got out early and left Kathy sleeping. At the elevator on the 5th floor, two black women were waiting for the elevator to arrive. They were both wearing beautiful, brightly colored dresses with matching accessories.

“Good morning!” I greeted them. “You ladies are mighty dressed up for going out this morning!”

“We’re on our way to church!” the larger of the two ladies chirped.

“Where are you ladies from?” I asked.

“Chicago!” the other lady replied with a broad smile.

“You’ve come all the way from Chicago to go to church in Nashville?” I asked.

“Yes, we have!” they both nodded.

“Well, I hope you have a blessed day!” I said.           

“And you, too, sir!” they responded in unison.

Well, they were not the only two persons staying at the hotel who were going to church. We stepped off the elevator to find the hotel lobby filled with people. The hall was filled. The dining area was filled. Church-going people were everywhere. All the women were dressed up.

The men wore pin-stripped suits with brightly colored ties. The girls wore colorful cotton dresses. The boys wore oxford cloth, button-down

shirts with well-fitting slacks. The entire “congregation” presented a sight to behold…in a very heart-warming way.

But what I particularly noticed was the sound that filled the hotel lobby. It is a sound I have heard many times over the course of my life…a sound with which I am intimately familiar. It is almost a humming sound. It is a sound only to be heard among God’s people. It is the sound of people loving God…and each other.

If I were describing the sound in terms of something that could be seen, I would call it a “glow” or “after-glow.” I think it was the sound of joy.

Sadly, it is not to be found in many churches or religious gatherings anymore. It is becoming alarmingly rare. Remember, I wrote “the sound of people loving God…and each other.”       

It all starts with loving God. When we get our love for God right, loving each other naturally follows.         

Unfortunately, “the love of many has waxed cold.” I am afraid we have lived to see post-modern man “having a form of godliness but denying the power thereof.”         

But, let’s get back to the sound of joy. It is a wonderful thing to sit among God’s people and listen to the “hum” of joy. Among people who love God, and each other, there is no pretense, no show, no hidden agendas, no big I’s and little you’s – just people caught up in worshipping the true and living God. It truly is “joy unspeakable and full of glory.” 

I have often found myself with God’s people at a shared meal with little or no appetite for the food being served. It was not that the food was bad. I just wanted to “be there” – to watch and listen and be a part of something very special. And I have come to understand what Jesus meant when he told his disciples on one occasion, “I have meat (food) to eat that ye know not of.” I think He spoke of food that feeds the soul. I have tasted that food.         

If you are fortunate enough to be a part of a fellowship of believers where your soul is regularly fed, be sure to count it as one of your blessings; and guard it as you would your own heart. 

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall

Smoking in the Brim Hollow

The story you are about to read is true. Names have been changed or omitted to protect the innocent…or the guilty.

I grew up in tobacco country. My great-grandmother Icey was a snuff dipper. My grandparents on both sides of the family refrained from using tobacco products of any kind. My mother admitted she smoked “a little” corn silk and “rabbit tobacco” when she was a girl. On the other hand, my father enjoyed a good chew now and then. It was not unusual for my father, as he walked down the hallway of a tobacco barn, to reach up and grab a “tip” leaf, blow the dust off, roll it up and stuff it inside his jaw. When he did buy chewing tobacco, he preferred “Redman.”

My experience with using tobacco products is rather limited. When I was 10 or 11, I smoked a big cigar one time right after eating two big, bologna sandwiches. Made me sick as a dog. I pretty much laid off cigars after that.

Will Herod Brim, my maternal grandfather, died on November 12, 1963. My grandmother, Lena, moved out of the Brim Hollow later that winter. The following summer, four of my best buddies and I “camped out” in the Brim Hollow. I say we camped out. We actually held up in a house long abandoned in the head of the hollow. The house was big…and spooky after dark. One night we had to halt telling ghost stories because one of my buddies got scared.

I was 13 years old in the summer of 1964. My buddies and I were well prepared when we entered Brim Hollow that summer. We had packed extra clothes, sleeping bags, cooking utensils, a four-day supply of food and cigarettes…lots of cigarettes. And we had matches, too. Not just any matches. We had two big boxes of those “Strike Anywhere” matches.

We smoked till our heart’s content for the first two days. I say we smoked. We actually puffed. We were too young and green to tolerate inhaling cigarette smoke. Whenever I did accidentally suck smoke into my lungs, it made me feel sick.

The first two days of “camping” were uneventful except for two happenings. My mother had packed supplies for cooking purposes in baby food jars. There was sugar, salt, pepper, Trend dishwashing powder, etc. The first morning, upon  tasting my attempt at scrambled eggs, one of my buddies cried out, “Oow, these eggs are awful!!” He had seasoned his eggs with dishwashing powder instead of salt!

The other happening was more serious. We ran out of cigarettes. This called for some serious discussion. We decided to walk the two miles to downtown Riddleton, TN and attempt to buy more.

I’m sure it was quite a sight, when all five of us, just barely teenagers, strolled into that country store that morning. If we had had the slightest bit “cool,” we would have requested a carton of cigarettes under the guise of making a purchase of one of our parents. But, oh, no; smoking different brands was half the thrill.

The proprietor, whose name will go unmentioned, had the slightest hint of a smile come across his face as we began to rattle off brands. One of my buddies had the nerve to ask one of the others, “What kind did you father say he wanted?”  The proprietor turned his head to one side to keep from laughing. He had us dead to rights. But, surprisingly, he went along with our charade.

We left the store that day with a pack of Marlboro, a pack of Winston, a pack of L&M’s, two packs of Kool’s, a pack of Salem’s, a pack of Newport’s, and one pack of Sir Walter Raleigh.

I suppose we got smoking out our system that summer. To this day, none of the five of us are cigarette smokers.

But I will say this. If I am ever accused of purchasing cigarette illegally, you will have a hard time finding witnesses.

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall    

Friends

I must admit in the earliest years of my life I didn’t have (or need) many friends. When you grow up in a large family your brothers and your sisters fill any need you have for friendship. By the time I started to school William Denney and Hugh E. Green, Jr. had become my best friends outside of my family. That remained the case throughout my high school days although Hugh attended Castle Heights Military Academy. I kind of lost touch with William after he moved away, but Hugh and I still get together on a pretty regular basis.

College brought me in touch with a whole new set of friends, but I never really became close friends with many of them. I still relied on my brothers for close friendship. Fortunately, my brothers, my sister and I have remained “tight’ over the years.

Over the course of my professional career, I have had the amazingly good fortune to develop friendships with four very fine men. It is almost like God said, “you are going to need these guys, so I am blessing you with their friendship.”

I was introduced to the first two men who would become my friends, right out of college. When I took my first, full-time job, there they were. Both were about 15 years my senior, and both had established families and enjoyed solid marriages. At the time, I didn’t realize how much I needed their steady counsel and Christian example.

They have been like “rocks” for me for over 40 years. We stayed in touch throughout the years, we celebrated Christmases together, and generally kept up with each other’s family members.

For me, they provided “a window on the world” for what might be coming next down the road of my life. They were always quick to share their experience with me. You might say they have been my special appointed “guides.”

And their lives were not without challenges and heartaches. One man has a “special needs” son to whom he gives credit for “making our spiritual life.”  He has seen his other son through business failure, and the salvaging of a rocky marriage.

A few years back I assisted in conducting at his wife’s funeral.

My other friend - well, he had his troubles too. A few springs ago I delivered the eulogy at his funeral. His passing left a hole in my soul.

I met my third friend about 20 years ago. He, too, is about 15 years older than me. We are both “country boys.” He grew up in Midland, Texas. Our mamas had a lot in common. As he would say, “we took a likin’” to each other from the very start.  At the time we met, each of us had three sons.

Before we met, he was the victim of what we call today “corporate downsizing.”

That didn’t slow him down. And over the years, he has had his share of health issues. That hasn’t slowed him down, either.  And a few years back, one of his boys died in a car wreck.

My friend has borne his great loss with such grace. He is the youngest man his age I know. We get together often, for many reasons; one of which is - he makes me feel younger!

Amazingly, my fourth friend is, you guessed it, about 15 years my senior. He is the businessman, visionary, “mover and shaker.” Well-connected politically, he rubs shoulders with powerful people. He’s at the top of his game, the best in his field, yet he remains compassionate and empathetic. He is one of those rare, generous-spirited people, almost bigger than life. I have often wondered why he took an interest in me when I was a fledgling.

Again, it was almost like God said, “you need to see this man, up close” – another blessing of friendship.

Of course, I have other friends. But these four men kind of “came out of nowhere.” I didn’t pick them, and they didn’t pick. I am quite certain they were “chosen” for me. Strange, this life – filled with wonderful surprises.

I have often heard it said, “Take care of your friends, and they will take care of you.”

A famous singer once sang, “I’ll get by with a little help from our friends.”

And from the writer of Proverbs:

 “A man that hath friends must show himself friendly: and there is a friend that sticks closer than a brother.”

Now that’s a friend!

Copyright 2018 by Jack McCall

Of the Spirit

It is sad to realize that for a majority of Americans modern religion has come down to the simple question of whether or not one believes in God. Even many of the godless subscribe to some belief in some form of deity. There is a world of difference in believing in God, or believing there is a God; and believing God, or believing on God.

James 2:19 make for an interesting observation: “You believe that there is one God. Thou doest well. The devils also believe, and tremble.” Even the devil and his lot believe in God. They know. But they will never submit to his lordship and believe on him.

 So we are faced with a choice of moving on from believing in God to believing on (or putting our full faith and trust in) God.

Paul and Silas charged the Philippian jailer, “Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved, and your household.”

But after we move from believing in God to believing on God, in the salvation experience, there is still higher ground. Let us call it knowing God.

The third person of the Godhead, the Holy Spirit, or Holy Ghost, fails to receive much publicity these days. Maybe that’s because we as human beings are weirded out by that which we cannot see. Or maybe it’s because we are uncomfortable with the thought of “ghosts” and “spirits”.

 The Apostle John wrote, “God is a Spirit, and they that worship Him must worship Him in spirit and in truth.” There is that word “Spirit” again.

 As Jesus approached his last days on earth he explained to his disciples, “It is expedient for you that I go away; for if go not away, the Comforter will not come unto you.”

 In yet another verse he spoke, “But the Comforter, who is the Holy Spirit (Ghost), whom the Father will send in my name, he will teach you all things”, “guide you into all truth”, “He shall glorify me, for he shall receive of mine, and shall show it unto you.”

 When it comes to understanding the working of the Holy Spirit, we do well to scratch the surface.

Oswald Chambers wrote, “As workers for God we have to learn to make room for God – to give God ‘elbow room’. Do not look for God to come in any particular way, but look for Him. This is the way to make room for Him. Expect Him to come, but do not expect Him in a certain way. However much we may know God, the great lesson to learn is that at any minute He may break in.”

In my prayer life as of late the Holy Spirit is creating within me a thirst for a deeper knowledge of God. I am being led into unfamiliar territory. It is kind of scary. But it is very exciting. I am embarrassed to say I am a novice when it comes to the subject of “being filled with the Spirit”. I’m not even sure I know what I am asking for. I’m just following His lead.

I have been wrestling with questions like: How will I know I’m making progress? Where is He taking me? Am I going about this the right way? Do I have the courage to go places I have never been? (spiritually speaking.)

Sometime back, while I was out on the walking trail, I came upon a most unusual sight.  It was a whirlwind.

 Now I’ve seen lots of whirlwinds in my life. Most were very small, not much larger than a five-gallon bucket. I’ve always found them fascinating.

 But this one was different. It was at least five feet tall and just as wide. And its rotation was very slow. Its boundaries were defined by no more than 15-20 brown leaves scattered evenly within its grasp. The whirlwind moved slowly away from me. I suddenly felt an urge to run and jump into its middle. Then, I felt a strange sensation that I was standing on holy ground. I wanted to take off my shoes. It was then I recalled the words of Jesus to Nicodemus, “The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth: so is every one that is born of the Spirit.”

 Suddenly just as it approached a line of trees, the whirlwind let go of the leaves and was gone.

 And in those moments, I was given to understand I am not supposed to understand the working of the Holy Spirit. I am to simply trust his leading.

 This thing about God and the Holy Spirit is much, much bigger than they have been telling us.

 Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall

Count Your Blessings

We take so many things for granted in this great country of ours. Did you know in 1922  only 3% of the farms in the U.S. had electricity? Not until 1935, (just 89 years ago), with the formation of the Rural Electrification Administration, did electric power begin to become available on a grand scale for rural America.

When I was a boy in the 1950s, the heat of summer nights in the Brim Hollow was only broken by gentle breezes from beneath lazy shade trees, and a small oscillating fan which attempted to stir the night air. Later, back at the home place, my family installed window fans which did little more than move the sticky night air. They did, however, bring some relief. Today most of us live and work in climate controlled environments. And today we think nothing of lights at the flip of a switch, microwaves, vacuum cleaners, electric mixers, TV, and a myriad of electrical gadgets which make our lives easier. Count your blessings.

There was no “running water” in the house in the Brim Hollow. There was a spigot fed by a rain barrel on the back porch. Drinking water was drawn from a well. Today, we Americans enjoy the safest and purest water supply in the world. And it comes to us at the turning of a faucet. Ask a missionary friend about water quality in third world countries. Then, count your blessings.

My late mother was legally blind in her declining years. Her deteriorating knees became so bad she could hardly navigate from room to room, and she experienced constant pain. But of all the things age had taken from her, she confessed she missed her ability to see the most. She especially missed reading her “marked’ Bible. If you have eyes that see, count your blessings.

There were two tasks on the farm where I grew up that my late father never relinquished to his sons. One job was pulling the tobacco setter. (He considered himself the master of laying off straight rows.) The other job was baling hay. He was a wizard at keeping old equipment going, and he hovered, like a mother hen, over engines that tended to run too hot. But the day came when he could no long perform those tasks. Eventually, he was no longer able to leave the house. And later, he became confined to his bed.

If you live on a farm and you are still able to climb on a tractor, or mow the yard, or walk to the barn, or drive out into the pasture and check the cows, count your blessings.

An old preacher used to visit the church I attended as a boy. He usually showed up at revival time. When called upon to pray, he would, invariably, come across this line, “And Lord, thank you that I woke up this morning and put my feet on the floor in a sound mind.”

If you woke up this morning, and you still “had all your marbles”, count your blessings.

I, and my late wife, Kathy, have 8 grandchildren – 5 girls, 3 boys. They say the funniest things. I love to hear the girls giggle. Sometimes it seems they can think faster than I can. They make me feel younger. If you have grandchildren, count your blessings.

The late newspaper columnist and humorist, Lewis Grizzard used to declare “I am a citizen of the United States by birth and by choice; and Southern by the grace of God!” So am I.

I am convinced we Southerners live in the very best part of the world. At least some of us still know some of our neighbors. We have a tendency to look out for one another - makes for a safer place to live and raise your children. Just another reason to count your blessings.

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall

Animal Sayings

Webster’s defines “saying” as a “proverbial expression.” Over the span of my lifetime I have heard and used many proverbial expressions related to the animal world. Many of them will be lost to the past as small, family farms slowly disappear, and fewer and fewer children grow up interacting with animal life. Here are some of my favorites.

“He (or she) stinks like a Billy goat!” My maternal grandfather, Will Herod Brim, who went by the nickname, “John Reuben” had a large herd of goats. His goats were nothing like the goats we see today. They were of the old, white variety – tough as nails – and they would eat anything that grew out of the ground. They would eat the bark off a tree.

My grandfather “called them down” every two or three weeks to “salt them.” I can see him now as he allowed the salt to pour out of the sack onto the big, flat rocks that lay just in front of the chicken house. As the goats briskly licked up the salt, he would check the herd. Sometimes, as the goats were coming down out of the hollow, you could smell them before they arrived. Any country boy or girl knows why. The big, “Billies” had long beards. You can take it from there.

“He’s as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocky chairs!” That one speaks for itself.

“Don’t kick a dead horse!” A few years back I came upon one I like even better. “If the horse is dead, get off!” That one could be applied toa number of situations.

 “Slick as a snake.” This one might be called a misnomer. Once, when I was gathering eggs as a boy, I reached in the nest and grabbed a big chicken snake instead of an egg. The snake did not feel slick! Some things you never forget. After that day, I always looked before I reached.

“Meaner than a junk yard dog.” I have seen a few junk yard dogs in my time. And they were all mean (or appeared to be so).

 “This place looks like a pig sty!” This phrase is often used by people who have never seen a pig sty. I have seen some pig sties – in more shapes and conditions that you might imagine. Throw in the smell and most people have no idea what a pig sty is really like.

“Don’t eat like a pig!” Since I’m on the subject of pigs, I thought I would throw in another.  My late mother was big on table manners. “Don’t chew your food with your mouth open!” she would admonish. Growing up I had a friend who chewed his food with his mouth open. He ate like a pig.

“As stubborn as a mule.” I have ridden a mule to the bottom of the Grand Canyon many times. Out there the wranglers informed me you can teach a horse to respond on command. In other words, a trained horse would jump off a cliff to its death if trained to do so. Not a mule. A mule cannot be trained to do itself harm. A mule will not go against its instincts. Hence, the saying, “Stubborn as a mule.”

“A wolf in sheep’s clothing.” Sometimes we must beware. Things are not always as they seem. British Prime Minister Winston Churchill, who was a master at turning a phrase, once referred to Neville Chamberlin, a pacifist; who preceded Churchill as prime minister, as “a sheep in sheep’s clothing.”

“As gentle a lamb.” I had an orphan lamb once. There is nothing as gentle in the animal world. After a week of caring for it, I came to appreciate the line in the poem Mary Had a Little Lamb - “And everywhere that Mary went the lamb was sure to go.” That lamb met me at the door every morning and followed me around all day long.

And, finally, here’s one to consider. I’ve heard it said two ways. “That cooked his goose!” or “He got his goose cooked.” I was never exactly sure what it meant, but I was convinced it couldn’t be good!

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall

Breakfast

Gone are the days when most families gathered around the table in the early morning hours to start the day with a good breakfast. Of course, that meant someone, usually the woman of the house, would rise an hour earlier and make biscuits and fry something. That something could range from country ham, bacon (side meat) or pork chops to country sausage and the like.

 That breakfast table often served as a platform for everyone in the family to get their day’s marching orders.

 The word “breakfast,” composed of two words, “break” and “fast,” in its origin meant to break the “fast” of the last evening. Today it seems we have re-interpreted the word “breakfast” to mean to get a “fast break” on the day. Most breakfasts today are purchased fast and eaten fast.

 My friend and former supervisor, the late Claude Harris, told of the days when he and his brother as boys milked 15 cows by hand every morning before breakfast. Now that would give you an appetite for breakfast. I would not have wanted to get into a handshaking contest with those Harris boys. I’ll bet they had a handgrip that would bring you to your knees.

 “Mama fried pork tenderloin, pork chops, fried chicken, even steak sometimes for breakfast,” Mr. Harris related.  “We could eat three or four eggs and half-a-dozen biscuits apiece just to get started. You milk seven or eight cows before breakfast and you are ready to eat,” he mused.

 Ruth Bradford, first cousin to my mother, married Ralph Holbrook. For many years, Ralph Holbrook owned a large general merchandise store in downtown New Middleton, Tennessee. He also ran a small dairy operation.

 I have put my feet under Pappy Holbrook’s table on many occasions. In doing so, I learned that he had a few hard and fast rules. One of his rules was that each of his four sons, Wayland, Jack, Joe, and Jerry went to the milk barn every morning before breakfast and did something constructive. Every boy had a job at the milk barn every morning.

 Another rule involved inspections at the breakfast table. Before the meal began every boy had to show that his hands and finger nails were clean. And each boy’s hair had to be combed neatly. If anything was out of order, it was back to the bathroom to get it right.

A lot can be learned at the breakfast table.

 In the house where I grew up, my father ate breakfast promptly at 6:30. He never varied the time over five minutes. He liked his eggs scrambled and he was oft heard to say, “Somebody pass me the manneez” (mayonnaise.) Salad dressing or mayonnaise, it didn’t matter, he was going to have some with his eggs.

 When my brothers, my sister, and I were growing up we ate a ton of rice and oatmeal for breakfast. I was half grown before I found out that everybody didn’t eat rice for breakfast.  It’s hard to beat a big steaming bowl of rice topped with real butter and plenty of sugar.

 Now that’ll stick to your ribs! I was also half grown when I came to appreciate my mother’s thriftiness. She was feeding us breakfast for pennies a day.

 But breakfast has changed dramatically in America. Seems no one has time to sit down anymore. We are all in a big rush. It should come as no surprise that McDonalds Corporation is the largest egg buyer in the USA. And other breakfast fast food outlets

abound. We order breakfast over a microphone, exchange our money for something in a sack, and woof it down on our way to where we’re headed. Frankly, I can’t get used to a round fried egg and round bacon. I guess that’s what it takes to fit an English muffin, or bun, or biscuit.    

Breakfast has long been recognized as “the most important meal of the day.” That alone should give us cause to carefully reconsider our eating habits.

 Copyright 2017 by Jack McCall