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

Mother's Day

Mother’s Day is this Sunday. And I must admit, my thoughts of Mother’s Day have changed over the years. For the 15th time, my mother will be absent when our family gets together to celebrate her day.

In my earliest years, I called her “Mama.” In later years, when my brothers, my sister and I thought we had become sophisticated (high school days), we started calling her “Mother.” (At first, she didn’t like it, but she went along with it.)

“What’s wrong with calling me ‘Mama’?” she protested.

When the grandchildren came along, we all started calling her “Ma.”

When Ma passed away in 2011, people would often ask, “What was the cause of your mother’s death?”

My reply was simple: “She was just a tired old soldier.” At age 88, her life was spent…spent on her family and her friends.

My first concrete memories of my mother take me back to my fourth year. That’s the year my brother, John, was born. I don’t remember the bed in which I slept, but I vividly remember dreaming of witches at night. I would wake up in the night screaming and crying. The witches would be right up in my face laughing hysterically. It made for one terrified little boy.   

It created a dilemma for my mother because baby John was sleeping in her bed. She solved the problem by putting me in the baby bed and rolling it up alongside her bed. I remember slipping my hand and arm through the rails of the baby bed and my mama holding my hand as I drifted off to sleep.

That solved the witch problem. In this wide world, there was no witch who was a match for my mama. That singular experience marked the beginning of my mama’s teaching me not to be afraid.

I have heard that a parent’s greatest accomplishment is to transfer a child’s hand from their hand into God’s hand. I am indebted to both my father and my mother for doing that for me, but I especially owe my mother.

My brothers, my sister and I had the privilege of being close by as our parents aged. It was especially so in their latter days.

As my mother’s life drew closer to the end, I had time to reflect on so many great memories of her younger days - so many wonderful, shared experiences. And as I did, I came face to face with the fact that I was “a mama’s boy.”

Through the years I’ve often heard it said of a boy or man, “Oh, he’s a mama’s boy.” That comment was usually made in a derogatory manner, implying the person was a wimp, or spoiled, or immature, or too attached to one’s mother.        

As I contemplated the thought of my being a “mama’s boy,” it occurred to me, “How selfish of me to single myself out as the “mama’s boy” among my mother’s sons. The fact is all four of my mother’s sons were “mama’s boys.” Why, even my sister was a “mama’s boy” (if she had been a boy.) I guess you could just call her a “mama’s girl.” And there is a simple reason why. We adored our mother. She was quite a person.           

My brother John, after much thought and prayerful consideration, came up with two words to describe our mother. He said she was “a giver” and “a talker.” And that she was.  She loved people…all kinds of people. And she was one of the most selfless people I have ever known.

I am most proud to admit I was a “mama’s boy.” I guess I am still. And I miss her so.

You might say I am in a quandary as to how I will celebrate Mother’s Day this year. I could visit her grave, but she’s not there.

I think I will spend some extra time in prayer thanking God for the gift of my mother. And in doing so I will celebrate her life as I recall the best of times spent with her.

And I will look forward to seeing her again. It’s just a matter of time.

Copyright 2026 by Jack McCall

My, How Things Have Changed

Organized baseball didn’t come to Carthage, TN until the spring of 1963. That’s the spring I entered my 12th year. Most of my friends were well versed in baseball beforehand. We grew up playing ball in back yards, cow pastures, etc. Some called it “sand lot” baseball. When I say, “organized baseball,” I’m referring to Little League Baseball and Babe Ruth League. My first year of Little League ball was my last and only year. Not that the ball we played before Little League was not “organized.” It was organized alright, but we did the organizing. We scheduled games, chose sides, made the rules, and settled arguments. Our parents were hardly involved at all.

When the first official Little League season opened, we showed up ready to play. It was glorious!

My brothers and I played “backyard” baseball. Each spring I took it upon myself to secure the “official league” baseball. We played ball with one baseball and one bat. When our friends joined us for games, we only needed half a compliment of baseball gloves as gloves were swapped when teams changed sides.

First base lay just beside the garden gate. Second base was located next to the well house. Third base was placed at the back steps. Any ball hit to deep right field ended up in the garden. A home run to deep center field could usually be retrieved from the henhouse. A ball hit sharply to left field would be stopped by the side of the house. (In all the years we played we never broke a window.)

Most of our games ended when darkness fell or we lost the ball. By mid-summer when the weeds and grass had grown tall, a ball hit into the garden was not a good thing. A search would ensue. Sometimes the search would end at dark which meant the ball would soak up the next morning’s dew, or worse yet, it got rained on. As summer progressed the ball got heavier. If the ball was lost and found several times stitches began to break. That called for black tape (of the cloth variety). By summer’s end the ball was bigger, heavier, and black. The games went on.

The first thing I noticed when I joined the Little League team was the coach produced a box which contained a dozen baseballs. That’s right, one dozen! I had never seen so many baseballs. Not only I, but all of my friends, had grown up with a great appreciation for baseballs. At our games, when a ball was hit foul, a dozen or more kids would make a mad dash to retrieve that ball. Usually, it could be turned back in for a snow cone or a soft drink. A high premium was placed on a baseball.

Almost thirty years later, when my sons began to play organized ball, I noticed their teams had five-gallon buckets filled with baseballs. And bats? They had dozens! I am ashamed to admit it, but I knew the world had changed when I forked over $149 to purchase a baseball bat. That’s right, $149 for a metal “stick.” A stick!

I have been informed that the best bats for youth baseball today can cost up to $500. And periodically an expert can come to the park and check the bat to insure it is still “sound.” Cost? A mere $200. I am left to wonder; can a special bat make that much difference in a kid’s performance?

And oh, yes; I attended a Little League game last week. When a ball was hit foul, no one even noticed. An older gentleman finally moseyed over and picked it up. I guess he appreciated a good baseball.

Copyright 2026 by Jack McCall

Amazing Grace

Savannah, GA has become one of my favorite southern cities. Fortunately, it is also a favorite convention city as well. For that reason, I have traveled to visit Savannah many times over the years. On a few occasions, clients have put me up in the Westin Hotel and Convention Center located across the river. But I most often stay in a hotel right on the river front.

It is a special treat for me to visit the Savannah River Front. The pace there is leisurely and the food is terrific.

On one trip, I stayed at the Hilton Desoto Hotel in the downtown area. When I arrived there, I found the hotel to be over a mile from the river front. As good fortune would have it, the weather was ideal. The first evening found me taking a leisurely walk to my favorite restaurant. Little did I know I would be introduced to a part of Savannah that I had never seen.

What I discovered was a maze of cross streets giving way to beautiful historic squares. Towering, live oak trees graced the squares and streets as if they were standing guard over hallowed ground; their low, graceful limbs, hanging heavy with beards of silver Spanish moss.

It was eerily quiet in the evening air as I walked along. I stopped to read the inscription on the monument honoring English General James Edward Oglethorpe, who in cooperation with Chief Moto Chi Chi of the Creek Indians, founded the Colony of Georgia.  I also discovered that half-breed, Mary Musgrove served as interpreter between the two and was instrumental in the negotiation of treaties. (I’m quite sure the term “half-breed” is no longer politically correct. As I understand it, my great-grandmother on the McCall side was a half-breed. So, there you have it.) Family records suggest I am 1/16 Cherokee or Choctaw.

I also discovered that President George Washington made a southern tour in 1781 where he visited the church founded by John Wesley and paid his respects to the widow of fallen Revolutionary War hero, General Nathanial Green of Rhode Island.

The ground on which I was walking was so steep in Revolutionary War and Civil War history, I found myself deeply moved.

As I left the downtown area for the river front, my mind turned to the thought of supper. (I say supper instead of dinner because I am in the deep, south on this evening.) But as I enjoyed the evening’s meal my thoughts returned again and again to my aforementioned walk. I was anxious to get started back to the hotel.

Soon, I was climbing the cobbled street that led me up and away from the river. As I entered the first of the squares which would take me back to my hotel, I noticed the night air was as pleasant as it could possibly have been. The evening was quiet and tranquil. Under the canopy of those live oak trees, I stopped to savor the moment. Then I heard it.

Just ahead, in the next square, a saxophone began to blare out the notes of  “Amazing Grace.” I   hurried ahead to see the player. On a park bench he sat, with a music stand in front of him. Sheets of music were awkwardly attached to the stand with giant paper clips. The player, an old, black gentleman, graced with curly white hair and beard, struggled with the notes as he played; but his rendition was nothing short of magical.

I eased around behind him out of sight and found a seat on a park bench where I feasted on the notes of his playing. He finished all too soon. As I sat in the stillness, giving thanks for the moment, I was treated to the most unexpected and delightful surprise. He began to play again. It was the same song – “Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound” – only, this time, he played the flute. The sound from his instrument was light and sweet and joyful. The notes of his playing soared….as did my heart. Again, he finished all too soon.

There was a bucket sitting at his feet. You can bet I paid him well. But how do you compensate for that which is priceless? 

Copyright 2026 by Jack McCall