Sounds and Scenes of Tobacco Harvest

Having traveled the Southeastern region of these United States for many years, I have come to realize there is a significant number of my generation whose roots run deep in tobacco country. In Kentucky, Virginia, the Carolinas, and Tennessee, I have found countless numbers of men and women who have shared my experiences.

When this time of year rolls around I can’t help but go back in time and relive the sights and sounds of tobacco harvests of the past. These past few weeks have found me looking and listening as I moseyed down the hallways of my memory.

The ringing sound of a tobacco spike is indelibly etched in my brain. A skilled spiker (And I have worked around some of the best) used one arm to balance and force each tobacco stalk down on the spike. A flick of the wrist, and a strong downward stroke of the forearm left the spike ringing on the tobacco stick. The sound was a ringing not like a bell, but more of a humming sound – ommmmh! There is no other sound like it on earth.

The sound of ripe tobacco stalks being laid to the knife is another sound familiar to these ears. The sound generated by a “pull” knife (now a relic of the past) is altogether different from the sound made by a “hatchet” knife. When a skillful hand leaned a ripe tobacco stalk just right, the slightest pull on the knife freed the tobacco stalk from the ground. The sound was quiet and quick and clean.

I remember one pull knife in particular that survived many a tobacco crop on our farm. It had a straight handle which was grooved to fit your hand. The blade, according to my father, was fashioned from a piece of a T-Model Ford fender. You could cut tobacco, bare-handed, all day with that knife and never raise a blister. It was a sweet piece of craftsmanship. That knife should have made it to the Burley Tobacco Hall of Fame. The sound made by a hatchet knife is more of a “whacking” sound. When my father finally relented and made the switch to hatchet knives things never seemed the same. I grew to hear that “whacking” sound in my sleep. I still hear it sometimes when tobacco fields begin to yellow.

It might be said my father handled every stick of tobacco at least three times every tobacco season. I can see him now, in a wide stance to keep his balance, on a hay wagon or two-ton truck flatbed; looking bigger than life as he took each stick of tobacco from waiting hands. Later, he would handle each stick again as he swung or pointed it up into the barn. I also remember the sound of tip leaves sweeping the wagon or truck bed as he turned to thrust it skyward. He would handle each stick again come stripping time. You might say his was a “hands on” operation.

Once we were in the tobacco barn there are other sounds I remember – like the sound of tobacco stalks splitting out and falling out of the barn. Not good! And here’s another sound that was never good – the sound of a tier pole cracking under your foot. Yikes! That made you want to wear a parachute! I remember the sound of yellow jackets buzzing around my head. That’s unnerving when you are in the top of the barn! And how about this sound? Did you ever hear the tin roof “popping” on a brutally hot day? The tin would pop when a cool breeze hit it and then pop some more when it heated up again.

And here’s a sight that was always easy on my eyes - empty tobacco patches. Once the tobacco was cut and hauled to the barn on Frank McCall’s farm, the patch was left empty, devoid of weeds, grass and tobacco leaves. We left nothing in the patch but lonely rows of tobacco stobs.

But of all the sounds I remember from tobacco crops of the past, here in my very favorite. On the last day, when the last load had made it to the barn, and we were closing for the finish, my father would proudly announce,

“That’s it, boys! We are down to what the shoemaker killed his wife with – the last!”

 Music to my ears.

Copyright 2026 by Jack McCall

Things that bother me

Let me begin this column by saying I am an optimist by nature and by upbringing. I have always been inclined to see the “glass half-full” rather than “half-empty.” Both my parents were practical, hard-working people who approached life with determination, optimism and hope. Neither were “complainers.” As a matter of fact, there was not much room for “moaning and groaning” in the household where I grew up. If something wasn’t to our liking, we to were taught to “get after it or get over it.” I am not a complainer.

 But after observing life on this planet for more than seven decades, I must admit I have begun to notice more and more things that bother me.

It bothers me when I pull up to a fast-food drive-up menu station and, before I can say a word, a voice chirps, “Would you like to try our char-broiled, triple cheese, double-bacon, avocado, barbeque, three-quarter-pound mega burger on  Texas toast combo today, or even worse, “Will you be using our mobile app today?”

I am yet to reply, “Sure, lay it on me!”

Then, when I have placed my order for something with under a million calories, I am asked, “Would you like to make that a medium or a large?” More calories!  I want to say, “What ever happened to small?”

“Would you like an apple pie with that?” the voice persists. I’m thinking, “Of, course I would like an apple pie!” But, I reply, in a cheerful voice, trying hard not to say so through clinched teeth, “No thank you!” I am convinced there are forces out there determined to see me as big as a dump truck.

It bothers me that corporations like AT&T, Verizon, and a host of others (including good old “Uncle Sam”) insist on having access to my personal checking account. They all talk “security,” but that doesn’t make me feel so secure.

It bothers me that far too many people refuse to return their shopping carts to where they find them, or to one of the many return stations provided. It just “bugs” me.

And here’s a big one. It bothers me that we are becoming a society which is more concerned about the lives of dogs and cats than the souls of men and women. That should give us pause for some serious thought.

Here’s another. It bothers me when I am sitting in a restaurant and I observe a couple (usually a married couple); and both spend more of their evening looking at their mobile devices instead of looking into each other’s eyes.

I will take it one step farther. When I see young parents (and some grandparents) hand their little ones an iPad or cell phone to keep them “entertained” at dinner in a restaurant I am prone to ask myself, “Whatever became of “‘Be still and sit up at the table” and table manners and conversation? It just bothers me.

And here’s something else. It bothers me when some in our society, under the guise of “political correctness” try to equate “disapproval” with “hate.” It is an egregious error in thinking.

It bothers me when, in the words of my late mother, people “strain at a knat and swallow a camel.” It is almost mystifying.

It bothers me that I have accomplished so much less in my life than I could have. It almost haunts me.

It bothers me that so many young parents I observe are much more interested in how they look than how their children are behaving.    

It bothers me, when after a long, tiring day; I grab the TV remote, with over 200 channels from which to choose, and I can hardly find anything to watch which is intellectually or emotionally stimulating. The shallowness of what it takes to entertain us as a society borders on appalling.

Of course, there are many other things which bother me. Football stadiums are being filled and churches are empty. Concerts are being sold out and symphony halls struggle to fill seats. Entertainment and acquisition (buying stuff) have robbed us of our sense of wonder.

And it seems, far too many people simply don’t care. And that bothers me.

Copyright 2026 by Jack McCall

The Sunny Side of the Street

My late mother, Mary Helen Brim McCall was an advocate for living on “the sunny side of the street.” She often spoke of the “sunny side of life.” When I was growing up I figured the other side must be the “cloudy side of the street.” I determined I didn’t want to spend much of my time there.

Through the years I have met many a soul who allowed themselves to be lured over to the cloudy side – the side where the sun doesn’t shine through. They seem to go through life with a furrowed brow and with their lip pooched out. You know some of those people. The ones who are always attending a party – a pity party. They have decided life is out to get them. Their unhappiness is not their fault. You might call them the “blamers.” They blame their wife, or their husband, or their parents, or their children, or the government, or their neighbors, or….God for their troubles. It’s never their fault. The thought of crossing over to the sunny side of the street terrifies these folks because it would mean taking responsibility for their attitudes and, hence, their lives. It’s just easier to hide under the clouds, or so it seems.

These sad people never seemed to grasp what an old black preacher preached many years ago, “All God’s chil’en got troubles.”

Many years ago, a 100 year-old man was the guest on the Johnny Carson Show. The old man was something else! He was bright–eyed, energetic and a real cut-up. His enthusiasm for life was obviously contagious, and the audience loved him. At the end of the interview, Mr. Carson observed, “You are obviously a happy person.”

Then, Mr. Carson asked, “What is the secret of your happiness?”

“Well,” answered the old gentleman, “when I wake up in the morning I figure I have two choices. I can be happy, or I can be unhappy. And I choose to be happy!” Now those are words to live by!

President Abraham Lincoln, who had his share of troubles, said, “People are about as happy as they make up their mind to be.”

I suppose we all, from time to time, find ourselves on the cloudy side of the street. But it is very important not to linger there too long.

Many years ago, my brother, John’s son, Carson, came home from school one day in a foul mood. He was just a boy then, only 7 or 8 years old. As he entered the kitchen at the old home place, my mother noticed he was “all out of sorts.” His head was down and he was swinging his head from side to side.

“What’s wrong with you, boy?” my mother asked.

Without looking up, he answered, “I don’t know, Ma. I think I’ve got a bad attitude.”

“Well, hold your horses right there!” she said. “We’ve got to have a long talk!”

Every time she shared that story with me her eyes would fill up with tears.

They had that long talk. I don’t know what was said. But she assured me he never came home with a bad attitude after that day. Sometimes we need directions to find the “sunny side of the street.”

I have a life-long friend who has had his share of troubles. One day as we talked, he observed, “Jack, there have been very few times in my life when I was firing on all 8 cylinders.”  I was reminded of the title of the late comedienne, Gilda Radner’ book, It’s Always Something.

How about these words to live by from Joseph Fort Newton? “We cannot tell what may happen to us in the strange medley of life.  But we can decide what happens in us, how we take it, what we do with it – and that is what really counts in the end.”

It is what we do with the circumstances of our lives that determines which side of the street we live on – the cloudy side or the sunny side.

I wish you well, fellow pilgrim. And I hope we meet someday on this journey called life. Look for me on the sunny side of the street.

 Copyright 2026 by Jack McCall

It's a Small World

The deck on the house where I live faces the eastern horizon. In recent years from that deck, I have witnessed no small number of magnificent sunrises. One day last week as I stepped out into the morning I encountered another delightful surprise.

It appeared as though the sun’s rays were streaming directly at me barely above ground level. The sunlight, in concert with the glistening dew, highlighted hundreds of tiny spider webs as they lay motionless in the morning grass. I paused to marvel at the scene before me.

No, on second thought, there were not hundreds of tiny spider webs – there were thousands. Like tiny patterns crocheted with diamonds, they sparkled throughout the length and breadth of my front yard.

Curiously, I ventured out into the yard for further inspection. As I knelt to get a closer look, I noticed some were almost symmetrical in design, while others took the shape of the varying levels of grass.

“Why so many?” I wondered. Then as I continued walking, I noticed hundreds of tiny grasshopper-like critters flitting before me just above the grass.

“Ah ha!” I laughed. “Many traps set for many preys.”

I knelt again to carefully inspect one of the diminutive snares. At its center lay a tiny spider, its legs drawn close drawn in close. Orange red in color, it looked like a little red ant as it lay motionless…waiting.

“What a small world in which it operates,” I thought.

Compared to the larger eco-system of the earth, that little spider’s world is, indeed, a tiny, tiny one. Compared to the ever-expanding universe, the world we know as our earth is even tinier. And yet there are smaller worlds within our world.

We have learned that termites can digest wood fiber only because of the tiny bacteria that live in their gastrointestinal tracts. Now that’s a small world. Within our own bodies white corpuscles spend their lives on search and destroy missions - another small world. And then there is the world of the single cell…infinitesimally small.

Against the backdrop of the universe, David the shepherd king was moved to proclaim, “When I consider Thy heavens, the work of Thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which Thou hast ordained; What is man that Thou art mindful of him?” 

Most of us spend about one-third of our time asleep. We spend another third in and around our homes. The other third – a little more, a little less - we spend in our work world. When you really think about it, our individual worlds are fairly…small.

Today’s larger world now finds itself being influenced by sweeping and unsettling political winds. Clear thinkers are acutely aware of America’s accelerated moral decline.  The Judeo-Christian work ethic upon which our nation was founded and under whose influence it grew strong is under increasing attack. Principles of hard work and integrity and honesty and commitment and a strict moral code are going out of style, it seems.

In Jesus’ address known as the Sermon on the Mount, he tenderly challenged children of God by saying, “You are the salt of the earth. You are the light of the world.”

I am a Southerner by birth and by choice. Consequently, I enjoy good southern food. When I think about southern food I think fatback, salt pork, ham hock and fried- meat grease. All of which are loaded with salt. Salt is still king as a preservative

and as a flavor enhancer. If you want flavor, bring on the salt.

One of our privileges as God’s children is to bring flavor to an otherwise tasteless world. Words that come to mind are kindness, patience, love, joy, gentleness, meekness, longsuffering, and peace, to name a few.

We are also called to bring light to a dark world. Paul the Apostle offered things upon which we might set our minds – things just and honest and pure and lovely and of a good report. Add to that list hope and optimism and courage and faith and a good example, and the darkness must seek another place to flourish.

Salt and light.  Never underestimate the influence you have in your world.

It’s not that big of a place.

Copyright 2026 by Jack McCall       

A Long Hot Summer

This recent dry spell did some serious damage to pastures and the spring hay crop. On the day temperatures reached 90 degrees accompanied by a brutally dry wind, I was pained to witness the results. Local reports say the spring hay crop has been cut to 1/3. Fortunately, the rain finally arrived in Middle Tennessee saving pastures in the short run. Hopefully the fall hay crop will fare better.

The spring drought reminded me of a few summers of the past, especially in the Brim Hollow. One summer was a dry one to remember.

By the time the Brim Hollow was passed down to our family crop land had been reduced to a minimum. A few fields which once grew hillside corn had become rough pastureland, hard to keep cut back. Garden plots of the past and parcels which once grew tobacco provided limited grazing for a few cows. One plot, high in the hollow, lay below a rocky ridge where we grew tobacco for several summers. We called that tobacco patch, “the mountain.” The soil there was rich, but rocky. We called the rocks “mountain gravel.” The rocks featured sharp edges which were murder on bare feet. A tobacco setter would never have made it up on “the mountain.” Besides, the rocks would have cut off fingers on a drag setter. We always “pegged” tobacco on the mountain. It was so high up, and so steep coming down, we hauled the tobacco down on a mule “slid” the first year. In later years, my father locked a wheel on the wagon with a chain to keep the load of tobacco from pushing the tractor off the hill. “The mountain” grew “frog-eyed” tobacco, brilliant in golden color, but light in weight.

Back to that dry summer. It was July in my 13th year when our family took our second or third family vacation. The vacation was made possible when my father purchased our first car in the fall of 1962. It was a 1961 Chevrolet Parkwood station wagon. Prior to that purchase our family of 7 traveled in the cab of a pickup truck. (You may read about that in one of my books.) On this vacation, my brother, Tom, fully 16 years old, was left behind to check on our livestock.

Of all the wonderful features of the Brim Hollow, water was not one of them. In the driest summers even the well houses ran dry. If it were not for a deep well near the home place, household water would not have been available.

On the second day of our vacation, Tom checked the water in the Brim Hollow. The well house which fed the watering troughs had run completely dry. There was nothing to do but haul water. Fortunately, there was an ever-running spring near the hollow located on the “Big Jim” Yancey farm. Tom called Big Jim to get permission to get access to the spring, called “The Big Spring.”  The Big Spring ran cold and deep. Where it reached the surface, you could have run a pickup truck into it. Legend has it that many years ago, before its opening was reduced in size, an ox cart, two oxen, and a driver fell into it and were never seen again. My father warned Tom to “be careful.”

For the next week, Tom filled two 55-gallon barrels with water, one 5-gallon bucket-at-a-time and hauled water into the Brim Hollow. Before the drought finally broke, my father cut down trees so our cows could eat the leaves. It was a strange sight to see cows stampeding off the hills, bellowing as they came, when they heard the chainsaw fire up.

Some dry spells you never forget.

Copyright 2026 by Jack McCall    

Tobacco Setting Time

By this time of year in days gone by my father would have gathered up every bushel basket, wash tub, orange crate and pasteboard box he could get his hands on. It was time to pull tobacco plants.

When the tobacco ground was worked up to his satisfaction, we would gather early one morning and head for the tobacco plant bed. My father had his own method of pulling tobacco plants. Over the years, I came to call it “grazing” a plant bed. The first time through we selected only the biggest and strongest plants. As we did, we carefully removed the yellow and white leaves that grew near the roots of the plants and deposited them outside the plant bed. Under my father’s careful supervision we could pull enough plants off a 100 foot plant bed to set an acre of tobacco and return two days later and hardly recognize the plant bed had been touched. The only sign was all the yellow and white leaves on the ground along the sides of the plant bed.

Then, we would “graze” the bed again and give it a few days to recover. After all our tobacco was set out there were always plenty of plants left over for our neighbors and friends. When the plants were pulled and the containers filled we headed for the tobacco patch.

For most of the years I helped with the raising of the crop, we set tobacco with a New Idea “drag” tobacco setter. Unlike the reel type tobacco setters that came later, the drag setter required both timing and skill on the part of the operator. That is because the operators determined the spacing of the plants. If both riders didn’t hit the water at precisely the right time the spacing would be off.

As we started on the first patch, my mother would make an inspection of the first few rows to make sure we were in rhythm. I can hear her now if we got started off on the wrong foot: “Boys, you’re setting them two and two! Somebody’s not hitting the water!” She would stay around until we got back on track.

My big brother Tom and I were usually called on to ride the tobacco setter. It took me years to figure out how I got the job of riding the setter on the left-hand side. I think it was a matter of seniority. I became, by training, a left-handed tobacco setter.

There are so many things I remember from my tobacco setting days and that old tobacco setter.

I remember the feel of the soft earth closing in around my fingers as I released the tobacco plant to begin the next stage of its growth. I can also remember how an ill-timed rock could catch your finger between the packing wheels and almost mash it off. I have finished a few tobacco setting seasons with a black and blue fingernail.

And I can still hear the rhythmic sound of metal on metal as the watering mechanism released each measure of water for the thirsty plants. And I remember the water.

Sometimes it was pond water and sometimes it was creek water. Best I can recall, we never used a drop of “city” water to set tobacco. Regardless of the source, the inside of the tobacco setter’s water tank smelled the same. It was a musty, metal smell. Unforgettable.

My brothers, John and Dewey, usually followed the setter. It was not a hard job, but a necessary one. My brother Tom and I would occasionally set a plant upside down to keep them on their toes. If they were paying attention, a complaint would be raised as soon as the inverted plant cleared the back of the setter. If they didn’t catch it, they would be called upon to get their mind on their business.

My late father took great pride in laying off straight tobacco rows. To him, every phase of growing a tobacco crop was a special occasion. He seemed especially excited at tobacco setting time.

I can see him now, turned half-way around in the tractor seat like a trail boss on a cattle drive tuning in his saddle to look back and survey the herd. A new tobacco crop was coming to life.

And, somehow, I was blessed to be a part of it all.

Copyright by 2026 by Jack McCall

The Smell of Skunks and Hogs

I suppose, of all the smells of country living, the smell of skunks or hogs is the most odoriferous (I was going to write “odorous”, but I discovered the word “odoriferous” when I looked it up in Webster’s Dictionary.) Of course, the smell of rotten eggs should be right up there with skunks and hogs, but the smell of rotten eggs just doesn’t have the staying-around power of the other two. I have been hit with a rotten egg in the middle of a corn cob battle, I have been sprayed in the face by a skunk, and I have worked around hogs most of my life, so I know of what I am writing.

Several years ago there was a rabies epidemic among the Middle Tennessee skunk population. You might remember that summer. Skunks seemed to be everywhere. I would guess, over the period of a week or two, I saw at least a dozen or more dead skunks on the highways and country roads in various places. The entire skunk population was very active. It was most unusual.

I have a long-time friend named Mack Jordon who lives in Chapel Hill, Tennessee. We talk on the phone regularly. In the latter part of that same summer, the subject of skunks came up in one of our conversations.  He informed me that one of his neighbors had killed over twenty skunks in a very short period. It appears skunks were acting strangely all over the Middle Tennessee area.

Mack retired from working for the Tennessee Farm Bureau Federation several years ago. But after his retirement, he continued to attend the Annual Tennessee Farm Bureau Convention held in Nashville each year. In early December following the afore-mentioned summer, he was again in Nashville attending the annual convention.

At the convention Mack noticed that his friends and acquaintances were giving him funny looks whenever they approached him to exchange pleasantries. It became so obvious that he asked an old friend if there was something wrong with him. The friend, who was a true friend, said, “Yes, Mack, you smell like a skunk!”

That set into motion a thorough investigation. Over the next few days, Mack found out not only did his clothes smell like a skunk, but everything in his house also smelled like a skunk.

Come to find out, several weeks earlier, one of those skunks his neighbor shot had crawled up under Mack’s house and died.  Slowly, but surely, and ever so subtly, that skunk smell had infiltrated his entire house. Anything that was permeable had to go. All his family’s clothes had to be sent to the dry cleaners for special cleaning, same for all the drapes. All the carpet had to be replaced. All the cloth furniture had to be removed and required special fumigation. His wife even took advantage of the opportunity and changed out the kitchen cabinets.

Fortunately, for Mack, his homeowner’s insurance covered the cost of all the damages (except for the kitchen cabinets). Mack came away from the experience with a new respect for skunk power.

When I was a boy, I was sprayed directly in the face by a baby skunk. Don’t let the word “baby” fool you. Those little buggers come into this world loaded for bear. At point blank range, skunk spray does not smell like skunk. It is pure ammonia. It is way beyond nauseating. And it is blinding to the eyes. My hair turned green.

On the day that skunk sprayed me, I was wearing an orange, short-sleeved shirt handed down from my brother Tom. Of course, those were the days when you didn’t throw anything away. After washing me in a Purex bleach bath, my mother ran that orange shirt through the washing machine for a time or two.  Both my younger brothers wore it later on. But my mother testified that every time she ironed that shirt in the ensuing years, she got a whiff of skunk smell. Now that’s staying power.

Copyright 2026 by Jack McCall

Post Mother's Day Thoughts

Mother’s Day was different at our house this year. As most of my readers know, my wife of 43 years, Kathy, passed away just after Mother’s Day two years ago. She complained of a headache on a Wednesday and slipped away just after midnight a week later. The year which followed left my family and me in a fog. I can hardly remember Christmas 2024. We found ourselves simply going through the motions. Our children and grandchildren declined to even talk about her. I guess it was just too painful. I liken it to the experience of having the breath knocked out of you. It’s hard to talk when you can’t get your breath.

Kathy’s childhood best friend, Betty Lou Taylor gave her the nickname “Kat Kat.” Anyone who loved her and knew her well called by that name.

Christmas 2025 was different. I suggested, and the family agreed, we would do Christmas the way Kat Kat did Christmas. So, I ordered matching pajamas for the grandchildren, spent too much money on presents, and on Christmas Day saw to it that presents were opened one-at-a-time the way Kat Kat would have wanted. I also made sure the same, exact amount of money was spent on each grandchild. She would have been proud. And we sat around and told our favorite Kat Kat stories of Christmases past.

Coming out of the fog, this past Mother’s Day was different, too. They say time heals all wounds. As the outlaw Josey Wales would say, “I reckon so.” I’m not sure all wounds are ever completely healed. At least we finally reach a point where we can catch our breath and maybe breathe a little easier.

This Mother’s Day gave me a chance to pause and celebrate the life of our sons’ mother. She was something else! Her father has always described her as “a people person.” And that she was.

I first saw her when I was the lead singer in a rock and roll band called The Second Generation. At the time I was 17. She was 15, a cute skinny little blonde. I asked around, got her phone number, and asked her for a date.

We eventually went “steady,” then broke up as teenagers often do. The second time she wouldn’t take me back, and we went our separate ways. But by then, with wisdom which far exceeded my age I had decided, “This girl has the biggest feeling heart of anyone I have ever met.” That would remain true throughout her lifetime.

She ended up in Oxford, MS at Ole Miss, I at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville. Over the next 10 years, I only saw her once or twice. Then, through a fortuitous sequence of events we were re-introduced – she was still a “people person,” she still had “that big feeling heart,” she was a little older, she was a lot wiser. It only made sense that I asked her to marry me. She said, “Let’s do it.”  I couldn’t believe it!

I could write a book about her, now. She gave me three big, healthy, baby boys. She would be so proud of them now, and I’m sure she is.

As a professional, she managed doctor’s offices, dentist’s offices, and the office of a chancellor. Her organizational skills were unmatched, her calligraphy style, impeccable.

She was a faithful friend to many, and social status meant nothing to her. I could never quite decide if she was a liberal conservative or a conservative liberal. Her faith was rock solid, and she faced death calmly and without a hint of fear. She was a faithful wife, a dedicated mother and grandmother.

 Over the years one of our favorite exchanges, often late at night, went like this:

 “You are my favorite in the whole wide world!” I would say.

 And she would softly whisper, “You’re my favorite.”

 She lived a life worthy of celebration.

 Copyright 2026 by Jack McCall