Heroes

I’ve always been careful about picking heroes. Too often you end up being disappointed. But I do have a few. You might say they picked me.

I suppose my first hero was my father. I am one of those fortunate sons who can say my father was the best man I have ever known. He was a prince of a man – quiet and shy - solid as a rock. He was one with the land and he had a natural feel for the miracle of the seed and the sun and the soil.

Never once did I see him angry. There was a reasonableness about him that drew people to him. Looking back, I realize now it was not only a pleasure, but a privilege to work with him side by side.

In all the years I knew him, he never disappointed me, not once.

I found my next hero to be my brother, Tom. God is a master at choosing the eldest. A man of solid character like our father, he saved my life at least once and saved my hide on more than one occasion. It is a fine thing to have an older brother you can look up to.

Next on my list of heroes would be my maternal grandfather, Will Herod Brim. Known by his friends as “John Reuben,” I called him “Pa Reub.” He lived in the Brim Hollow, in a house with no bathroom and no running water. He died of a third heart attack in his 69th year. I was 12. In the short time I knew and loved him, more than anyone else, he galvanized my self-esteem. I shall never forget the feel of his whiskered old face, the smell of his flannel shirts, or the light in his eyes. There are some people you would like to forget, there are a few who are unforgettable.

And then, there was Charlie Midgett. We called him “Mr. Charlie.” Long before Sunday School became a feature of country Baptist churches Mr. Charlie was a catalyst in nurturing a Sunday School in the little country church I attended as a boy. In some ways, I think he considered it his life’s work. He was forever promoting Sunday School. When the big snow falls came, he would drive his tractor and hay wagon around the community making sure kids made it to Sunday School. Countless lives have been impacted over many years by the dedication of Charlie Midgett. His work was the stuff of heroes.

The next hero I would mention was a man named Claude Harris. He was the best boss for whom I worked in all my working years. It was my plan when I finished my studies at the University of Tennessee to work for him. My plans took a detour when I was recruited to operate a livestock market for Tennessee Livestock Producers hardly a week after I finished school.

Mr. Harris was the supervisor for livestock grading for the Tennessee Department of Agriculture for many years. Thanks to him, Dr. John Reagan, and a series of conservative Commissioners of Agriculture, Tennessee boasted one of the most consistent livestock grading services among all the Southeastern states. The grading service remained virtually unchanged by turnover in Tennessee’s Governor’s office for decades.

From Gladeville, TN, (“The Glade”) in Wilson County, Claude Harris was a serious and accomplished breeder of Hereford cattle. He was smart, cut from conservative cloth, and took a commonsense approach to life, every day. He was the kind of man you wanted to work for.

So, when I completed my work in livestock market management, I went to work for him. Never once did he show up unannounced at a worksite that I was not glad to see him.

Our three sons were born during the five years I worked under his supervision. Although he and I never discussed it, he made sure my schedule kept me close to home when babies were due. It was a touch of kindness never to be forgotten. Speaking of sons, he and “Miss” Nelda raised three fine sons of their own, Mike, Keith, and Steve. All three are “chips off the old block.”

Far too few people know, but the people who knew him know that Claude Harris was a giant in the Tennessee livestock industry. I’m sure he never saw himself that way. But that is what makes for real heroes.

  Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall    

Tobacco Rows

I’ve spent some time traveling down rows of tobacco. In freshly plowed ground, I’ve struggled to keep my balance as I lugged a pressure sprayer filled with insecticide. At other times, I’ve walked, almost leisurely, with a hoe in my hands as I looked for stubborn weeds or grass. Then, again, I’ve walked briskly down the rows topping tobacco trying my best to keep up with the torrid pace set by my late father.

He could take two rows at a time, topping with both hands, and never seem to slow down. And I’ve cut and spiked tobacco in rows that seemed to grow longer by the minute.

But my favorite recollections of tobacco rows were of the times when I was a small boy, probably 10 years old. That was a time when a boy was expected to help, but not to carry the full responsibility of an adult.

I remember the days before sucker control, the days before MH-30 and later, Royal MH-30. Anyone familiar with tobacco knows that three suckers appear in the top of a tobacco plant soon after it is topped (when the terminal bud is removed.) And when those three suckers are removed the plant will “sucker” from top to bottom.

As growth inhibitors, the MH-30 family of sucker control products; under proper conditions, brought sucker grown to a halt. But they also slowed the growth of the tobacco plant.

In the early days of sucker control products, my father felt he got the most growth from his tobacco if we removed the initial top suckers after topping before he applied MH-30. It meant more work, but it made for longer top leaves in the tobacco plants.

Needless to say, we pulled a lot of suckers in my growing up years.

In the years prior to the arrival of MH-30, there were times when we were forced to pull suckers from top to bottom.

As a boy, I got the job of crawling down the row and pulling the bottom suckers. There is a world unto itself near the ground in a patch of mature tobacco.

Hidden under a canopy of big, broad, drooping tobacco leaves, you could barely see the sky. Except in the hottest weather, the ground was cool and moist, made more so by suckers removed in earlier days. Sometimes suckers, fading from green to pale yellow, almost covered the ground. It made for a smell unique to the tobacco world.

And then, there was the soil; deliciously soft and brown, giving up an occasional flint rock or arrowhead – soil which had a rich, clean smell about it. It was the kind of dirt that felt good in your hands as you rubbed off accumulated tobacco gum.

One year, after a prolonged dry spell, my father opted to “prime” one particular patch of tobacco. Down the rows my brothers and I went, removing the brown leaves from the bottom of each stalk of tobacco. As we worked along, we created piles of leaves at varying intervals.  Later, the leaves were picked up and moved to the tobacco barn for spreading out, or stringing up. That year, I was just the right size for the job. It was the only time I remember when working in tobacco was fun.

Of course, working in tall tobacco when you are a boy has another advantage. Because no one can see you, they don’t know exactly where you are. So, you could slip in a little “rest” now and then. My brothers contended I was really good at taking breaks in tall tobacco. Of course, I accused them of the same.

Those were good days. A boy came out of the tobacco patch at quit‘n time with ground-in dirty on his knees and on the heal of his hands. Tired bodies make for the best sleep.

I learned many of life’s lessons down those tobacco rows.

 Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

Charleston

I was in Charleston, SC a few summers back. My Southwest Airlines flight had a 3:10 PM arrival, and it was on time on a hot, humid day. I picked up my bags and went in search of a ride to my hotel. I take a hotel shuttle whenever I can. Sometimes a hotel shuttle is not available. This was the case in Charleston. A friendly lady at the information desk said I had two options: A regular shuttle or a taxi.

As I walked outside the terminal and headed in the direction of the transportation island, I saw a sign which read: Taxi to downtown - $30 or wait for 15 minutes and the shuttle is $12. I decided to wait for the shuttle.

The transportation coordinator directed me to a white van. As I climbed inside the shuttle, I greeted two women passengers sitting in the second row. I took my seat in the back. I immediately noticed the van’s engine was not running, consequently no cool air was blowing. It was a sweltering 98 degrees outside in the Carolina sun. It had to be well over 100 degrees with a heat index beyond 110 inside the van. It was so hot it was funny. The other two passengers and I began to lightheartedly discuss or predicament. Ten minutes passed with absolutely no air movement. It felt like an oven inside the shuttle. One woman laughed as she finished sweating off the last remnants of her make-up. After what seemed like an hour and 15 minutes our shuttle driver, an older black man showed up.

“I guess I could start the engine and get the air conditioner going,” he offered in a rather weak and embarrassed tone of voice. All three passengers looked at each other as we collectively rolled our eyes. For the next five minutes the air conditioner struggled to abate the heat. It was like throwing an ice cube in the ocean.

Finally, the driver returned and steered our shuttle in the direction of one of the Old South’s great cities. We had three stops to make. Mine would be the last one. In ten minutes we were negotiating the streets of downtown Charleston.

Our first stop was the Charleston Marriott. The woman who had sweated off all her make-up got out there.

Next, our driver took us meandering through an old residential section of downtown Charleston. The houses were all two-story and stacked together like building blocks. All were connected by narrow streets and back allies. At our second stop, the other woman looked a bit confused as she disembarked from the shuttle. It seemed she was in disbelief that her daughter lived at the address to which she had been delivered. She hesitated outside the house, called her daughter on her cell phone; and after a brief conversation, began to climb the stairs that led to the second floor.

As the shuttle pulled away, the driver looked back to make sure the woman made it inside. Then, we were on our way.

After winding our way through traffic for the next five minutes we came upon a discouraging sight. In front of us, down a long street, at least twenty cars were backed up at a traffic light. My driver hesitated for a split second as he sized up the situation. Then, he eased out into the left lane and began to pass the other cars. That is when I realized we were not on a one-way street. He continued down the street at a steady rate of speed.

At that moment a car turned down the street at the stop light and headed in our direction. The other driver slowed for a moment when he saw us coming. My driver didn’t blink, or brake. He kept right on going. I began to think, “This has all the makings of a game of chicken or a slow-speed head-on collision.”

Only two car lengths separated us when suddenly, my driver made a hard left turn and headed down a narrow ally. At the far end, I could see one of those storage pods sitting half-way out into the ally. A car was parked on the other side. The gap between the two was ever so narrow. My driver was not daunted. As we silently sized up the situation, he decided to go for it. I promise you, there was less than three inches clearance on each side of the shuttle as we sliced through.

Once we cleared the eye of that needle, he accelerated to the end of the ally. Two cars were approaching from the left. My driver decided he could beat them. A hard right turn took us out into the street. I cringed, expecting to hear the sound of horns glaring.  No horns. My driver was on a roll!

At the end of that street, he hesitated as he looked to his left.

Nothing coming! Again, we surged out into the street. Ahead, I could see the traffic light that had all the cars backed up. It was green! As the shuttle blew under it, I looked to my right. The line of twenty cars had grown to thirty or more. I smiled to myself.

I leaned forward in my seat.

“Nice piece of driving,” I said to my driver.

He could not hide his pleasure.

“I’ve been driving a shuttle or a taxi since 1978,” he offered, with a broad smile. “I know all these streets.”

“What is your name?” I asked.

“William!” he said. His voice had a proud ring to it.

I will not soon forget William. There is nothing quite as comforting, or exciting, as being in the hands of someone who knows what they’re doing.

 Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

Independence Day

As this Fourth of July rolls around, our great country has a storied history upon which we may reflect – the bravery of the first settlers, among them the Pilgrims; the genius of the founding fathers; and so many men and women who have died for the cause of freedom.

The American “experiment” remains one of the greatest accomplishments in the course of human freedom. There is little doubt that the Creator of all men had a hand in the survival of what began as 13 fledgling colonies.

At no other time in human history has so much genius in the form of a handful of men shown up in the same place at the same time, dedicated to the same great undertaking. The names of Washington, Jefferson, Adams, Madison, and Franklin will forever be linked with freedom’s cause.

In giving up her sovereignty of the American colonies, what appeared to be a disaster for England actually resulted in her salvation less than 200 years later.

No nation has influenced the freedom of the world like America.

But America’s freedom has exacted a great price. Through the course of history, streams and rivers and ocean tides have run red with the blood of America’s sons and daughters.

Hundreds of thousands have made the ultimate sacrifice to secure and defend our freedoms. Countless numbers of our best and brightest died too soon.

Sometimes I think their mothers and fathers may have paid as great a price.

So many mothers saw their babies leave for foreign shores never to return.

What a price laid at freedom’s alter!

And then there were those brave soldiers who returned home never to be quite the same – their psyches inalterably changed by the horrors of war encountered on the seas, on the battlefields and in the air.

When I think of freedom’s great price I am overwhelmed by its likeness to holy ground. And I want to remove my shoes and fall on my face in reverence of its sacredness.

So, to celebrate our freedom I have, with this column, included two stanzas from “The Star-Spangled Banner.” It is important that its words remain familiar, especially those of the second stanza. May you read them thoughtfully.

O say can you see, by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming, Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight, O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming? And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there; O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

O thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand Between their loved homes and the war's desolation. Blest with vict'ry and peace, may the Heav'n rescued land Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation! Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, And this be our motto: 'In God is our trust.' And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! [42]

And in these days when our freedoms are once again under assault, may the words of another song be our constant prayer:

“Long may our land be bright,

With freedom’s holy light,

Protect us by Thy might

Great God, our King!”

Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

Sayings

A few years back, I presented the opportunity for my readers to send in some of the favorite sayings they had heard over the years. The response I received was impressive. I promised it would not be my last column on sayings. After giving the subject some thought you might want to send in one of your favorites. Take the time and send me an email or note or give me a call. You never know what fond memory you might resurrect for someone.

Years ago, my friend, the late Jack Petty, sent in some of his favorites. He said his father used to say somebody “acted like a public fool.” Jack related that he asked his father what the difference was between a public fool and a private fool. Jack said all he got was a hard look! Here are a few more of Jack’s favorites:

“More fun than a barrel of monkeys,” “Up a creek without a paddle,” “A stitch in time saves nine,” and “Swinging for the fence.”

Marian Ann (Mrs. Bill) Cothern quoted a favorite of her late mother-in-law, Clara. If there was a spat in the family she would say, “If people would only just pass and re-pass” (if people would just try to get along.)

Speaking of “getting along,” that’s a saying that is being lost to coming generations. Seems fewer and fewer people know how to get along anymore.

Marion quoted Mrs. Neil Smith as saying, “As handy as a pocket on a shirt.”

Steve Wilmore, who came up with the idea for this column, collected a few favorites from his late mother, Beatrice.

“After being sick at my stomach and throwing up all night, I would hear these words from my mother,” Steve related.

“You look like a sick kitten on a hot rock!”

“If I left a job unfinished,” Steve continued, “she would say, ‘Go back and lick your calf!’”

A few more of her favorites were:

If someone looked bad, she would say “They look like they have been rode hard and put up wet.”

“Full as a tick on a dog’s ear.”

And how about this one? “You need to turn your wanter down.”

Steve said he heard a new one at his brother-in-law’s house once.

Someone said, “Well, drop me in the grease!”

Here are a few more that I have heard over the years:

“Slicker than a peeled onion,” “Dumber than a box of rocks,” and

“Ugly as sin,” And how about this one? “Cold as a stepmother’s kiss.”

There are some great sayings from the Bible which are not direct quotes of scripture. Here are a few;

“Well, land of Goshen!”

“From Dan to Beersheba” (a long way!)

“This, too, shall pass” (from “And it came to pass.”)   

“Just as sure as that coat was Joseph’s ticket to Egypt!”

My grandmother Lena had a favorite that I heard more than a few times. “Be the job, big or small, do it well are not at all.”

 A locally famous character in the Watervale Community used to declare, when emphasizing a point, “Hope I might die!”

When I was attending high school, I often heard that someone was “cruising for a bruising” or “aching for a braking.”

And from “a Kentucky reader” I received an email which read thusly:

“A few years ago we had an abundance of squash, so I let my little daughter, who was around ten years old, take a “mess” to an elderly neighbor. When my daughter returned, she had this puzzled look on her face and said the neighbor said, “much obliged.” My daughter had never heard this expression of thanks before.”

Well, “much obliged” was my late father, Frank McCall’s way of saying “thank you.”  I heard him say it hundreds of times. The thought of those two little words, “much obliged” took me back in time and I was warmed by the memory of my father.

There seems to be an abundance of protesters and protesting going on in our country these days. One is prone to ask, “Who are these people?” Which reminds me of a saying of my late grandfather, D.T. McCall, brought to my attention recently by my late uncle, John E. McCall:

“Pulling mules can’t kick!”

Much obliged to all those who shared their sayings and memories.

copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

Email: jack@jackmccall.com

Red Rock Ride

I had the privilege of making the Red Rock Ride a few weeks back. It was the culmination of several serendipitous events over many years. All was set in motion in organic chemistry class at the University of Tennessee in around 1972. On a spring day, my lab partner introduced himself. He was one with a big smile and neatly cut auburn hair.

“Hi,” he said, “I’m Dickie Reese.”

“You wouldn’t be any kin to Dick Reese, would you?” I asked.

It was a dumb question now that I think about it.

“He was my father,” he said.

Having grown up in livestock circles and having worked livestock markets in my late teen years, I knew of Dick Reese. He and his brother were renown, if not famous, mule traders - I suppose the best-known mule men east of the Mississippi River. I also knew Dick Reese had been killed in a trucking accident some years before.

So, there in organic chemistry lab, a life-long friendship was forged. Which once again proves the old saying, “It’s not the grades you make, it’s the hands you shake.”

In the ensuing years I was introduced to Dickie’s brother and partner, Rufus. And I learned that Reese Brothers were suppliers of most of the famous Grand Canyon mules. Dickie, Rufus and I have had many conversations through the years

Of course, my love for mules goes back further than that day in chemistry lab. My maternal grandfather, Will Herod Brim, owned two mules, Kate and Liz (That’s “Liz”, with a long “I,” as in Liza Minnelli.) As a boy I spent many an hour in the feed barn shucking and shelling corn intoxicated by the pungent smell of the mule stable. It was an experience I have never gotten past.

So, after talking about it, dreaming about it, and looking forward to it, I found myself on the back of a mule headed into the Grand Canyon on September 10, 2000. My mule’s name was Wilford. Over the next ten years, I would ride into the Grand Canyon 18 times. I have ridden mules named Wilford, Mutton, Skid-mark, Budreau, Gizmo, Willow, Katie, Mister, Junky, Wyatt, Josie, Goldie, Lucy, Hoodoo, and Little Jed. Willow and Mutton were forgettable as they were both “plodders”. Skid-mark was unforgettable as he hopped down every step going into the canyon leaving skid marks on my backside. All my rides took me to Phantom Ranch by way of the South Rim of the Grand Canyon.

After a few years, Rufus suggested I take the Red Rock Ride. He told me of the Mangum family, some of whom I later met at a few Reese Bros. mule sales. Really nice folks. So, in 2015, I booked the Red Rock Ride. A few weeks before I was to go, my wife, Kathy, was diagnosed with stage 2 cervical cancer, and the trip was off.

Ten years later, and one year after Kathy’s passing, I booked the ride again. In a much needed get-a-way, once again, I found myself on the back of a mule. Her name was “Cardi B.” Named after a famous female rapper I had never heard of, she was a fine ride. On the last day of the ride into the Grand Canyon, I rode “Bert.”

Before I left for my trip, one of my friends, a horseman, said, “Jack, you are going to be sore like you can’t imagine!”

On the Red Rock Ride, we covered approximately 86 miles in six days. I saw Zion Canyon, Brice Canyon, Butch Cassidy Canyon, the North Rim of the Grand Canyon and two other canyons all from the back of a mule – all breath-taking.

I discovered the term “saddle sore” is based on an old, Native American Indian word which means “too old to ride a horse” (or in this case, a mule.) Just kidding.

It was the trip of a lifetime. If I live long enough, I will do it again.

Copyright 2025, by Jack McCall

Home Remedies

This time of year, as summer is upon us, I reminisce of summers past. It always takes me wandering down the hallways of my memory to my boyhood days in the Brim Hollow. When I go back there, the first thing I think of is speckled butter beans.

That thought finds me in my Granny Lena’s garden. And I am reminded how the runners from the butter beans plants climbed the cane poles set on four corners in the rows like skinny Indian tee pees. While she picked butter beans I meandered among the beans poles and played in the rows.

The big rock back step was our favorite place to sit and shell butterbeans in the cool of the afternoon. And the finished produce? Nothing tasted so good as fresh butter beans, pinkish-grey in color and flavored with seasoned meat. Makes me long for a mess of butter beans right now.

But my most vivid memory is my first encounter with chiggers. One of the first summers I spent in the Brim Hollow I experienced the mother of all cases of chiggers. Today we would call what I had an “infestation.” In those days people called it a “case” of the chiggers. People would say, “He’s got a ‘good’ or ‘bad’ case of the chiggers.” Either ‘good’ or ‘bad’ meant bad.

I learned first-hand that a large number of chigger bites concentrated in a small area could inflict some serious pain on a boy in very sensitive places. When I found myself in such a grievous situation, Granny Lena would put a spoonful of fried meat grease in a fruit jar lid and send me to the privacy of the next room to anoint myself. I also learned that if you had scratched the top off the chigger bites the fried meat grease burned like fire until it began to sooth.

Because of my past experiences, I have no love lost for chiggers.

Back in those days a boy ran bare footed from the first warm day of spring until beyond the first frost. One pair of shoes was good for a winter … or two. In my bare-footed days I stepped on honey bees, rusty nails, broken glass, prickly pears, cockle burrs, thorns, briars, sharp rocks, fodder worms, stinging weeds and you name it. By the time fall rolled around the bottoms of my feet were as brown as the top of a biscuit and as tough as shoe leather. Of course, bare footed boys were susceptible to certain parasites.

One summer, upon arriving in the Brim Hollow for a two week stay, I began to complain of the belly ache on the second day. After observing my laying around and moaning and groaning for a day or two, my Pa Rube pronounced his diagnosis.

“I believe he’s wormy,” he declared to Granny Lena, “And I’ve got just the cure.”

The next morning he headed up the hollow to where he knew a patch of wild garlic grew. He returned shortly with a brown paper sack filled with bulbs of wild garlic. As he dumped the contents of the sack out on the table, I noticed that the bulbs ranged in size from a golf ball to a small tangerine. He took one of the larger ones, cut the tops out of it, removed the roots and cleaned it. Then he handed it to me and said, “Here, eat this.”

I adored my Pa Rube. Anything he told me to do, I would try. I took the bulb of garlic and bit into it like I was eating an apple. I learned two things in an instant. Wild garlic tastes like a bitter onion and it is hot as blazes!

I managed to get the first bite chewed up and swallowed. Then I began my protest.

“Pa, I can’t!” I cried.

“Yes, you can!” he countered.

“I can’t!” I continued.

“You’ve got to eat it all! It’s the only way you can get better!” he insisted.

Handing me a cold biscuit, he said, “Here try this biscuit with it.”

It was easier to stomach with a biscuit. I managed to get the whole thing down. The next morning I ate three biscuits with my garlic.

For the next seven days I woke up every morning to chase down wild garlic with a biscuit.

After checking the slop jar on the third day, Granny Lena announced that progress was being made. She had seen visual evidence that the stomach worms had decided to get out of town. I must admit I could not blame them for vacating the premises. That wild garlic was killing me.

On the seventh day I was pronounced cured, my gastro-intestinal tract free of any unwanted inhabitants.

And my belly? It did not hurt one time for the remainder of the summer.

I would not have admitted it if it had.

And so, I learned, in those summers in the Brim Hollow, of the wonders of home remedies, and of the curative qualities of fried meat grease and wild garlic.

I’ll bet we would be healthier and happier today if we employed more home remedies. I’ll bet our health costs would go down as well.

Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

Summer's Here

Ok, I know, officially, the first day of summer is another week or so away. But for me, summer has arrived. Already a bunch of summer time things are going on. Late rains postponed this year’s spring hay crop. Now farmers are dodging rain showers as they try get the hay crop in.

Speaking of hay, don’t you love the smell of newly mowed hay? It is a smell like no other. I especially enjoy it now that I am no longer called to the hay fields to haul square bales. Those were the days! Hot and dusty are words that come to mind. There is hardly any heat that compares to the stagnant air high in a hay loft.

And dust? My father grew a lot of red clover and Laredo soybean hay. If either got wet, those dark green leaves turned black. The dust that came with that hay was almost unbearable. Why, I believe I’ve blown a black bale of hay out of my nose a few times! When my brothers and I complained to our father about black leaves and coarse stems, he had two comebacks. “They’ll (the cows) eat every bite of it!” he’d exclaim, or “It’ll beat a snowball!”

Of course, it’s the time of year for thistles. I hate thistles. Whenever I see a thistle in one of my pastures, I bristle. (That’s almost poetic.) As in, “I bristle at a thistle.” I know, I know, we are not supposed to hate. When I find myself hating a thistle I take comfort in Ecclesiastes 3:8” … a time to love and a time to hate…” I also take action. I rarely check cows without the company of my trusted hoe. This year my hoe and I have inflicted some serious damage on the thistle crop. Going to battle against thistles is a summer thing. I try to head them off before they head out.

Speaking of checking cows, most of the spring calves have arrived. I love to watch them grow. Shaded pastures and lazy creeks running cool make for a scene right out of paradise. I almost feel sorry for all those city folks who know nothing of country living.

Many years ago, my friend, Johnny Godwin, who grew up in Midland, TX (where he said they had ONE tree) and his wife, Phyllis flew to Tennessee by commercial airline. “When we looked down from that plane and saw ‘the greenest state in the land of the free’ we decided we were never going back to live in Texas!” Johnny said. They have lived here ever since. Summer time showcases the “green” of our beloved Tennessee.

And summer speaks of gardens in our part of the world. Soon gardens will be coming “in.” My brothers, Tom and John are the garden growers in our family. There is nothing quite like fresh vegetables “right out of the garden.” Hats off to my friend, Jackie Oldham, who will share his sweet corn with “half of Dixon Springs.” If you want to see a great garden, slow down next time you are driving through Dixon Springs in Smith County. You can’t miss it.

Of course, summer time is a time for cooking out [That is opposed to “eating out.” ] Bring on the grills. And speaking of grills, here’s a little promo for the beef industry. A few steak houses are now offering a cut called a “flat iron” steak. It is a less expensive cut (about 3 to 5 dollars less than a rib eye.) I asked the meat cutter at Kroger the other day about the “flat iron.” “Oh, yes, “he said. “It’s called the poor man’s sirloin.” You might want to give it a try. I suggest you marinate it in your favorite marinade with some garlic at home or try the “flat iron” wherever it is offered.

And then, there is summertime heat. On one of these hot summer afternoons I suggest you make a tall pitcher of lemonade (with real lemons) or fix yourself a glass of sweet, iced tea, take off your shoes, and go bare-footed. You might even go down to the creek and go wadin’.

There’s much pleasure to be had in “the good ole summer time.”

 Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall