The Coming of Spring

I grew up in tobacco country - lived it, breathed it. They said back then raising a tobacco crop took 13 months out of the year. My father believed every word of it. If he wasn’t growing tobacco he was thinking about it. It never consumed him, but he was a master of his craft.

With the coming of March, he would have already swung into action. February 24 was his target date. I like to think he chose that date because it marked the birth of his first-born son, but it was just a good excuse to get an early start. March frosts were his enemy, but he was willing to take the risk. He hovered over his plant beds like a mother hen. If a late freeze was in the weather forecast, he would double or triple the plant bed canvas to protect emerging plants. I remember the time he built fires all around the plant beds that burned all night to stave off the frost. In all the years I knew him, he never lost a plant bed to the cold. He would wait with childlike wonder to see those tiny green dots appear (thousands of them) against the backdrop of dark earth.

Weeks before the tobacco beds were prepared, he had already removed the canvases from the tier poles in the tobacco barn. They had been woven like the braids in Samson’s beard and hung there to keep them clean and out of reach of mice and rats. Each canvas had been inspected and evaluated as to its usefulness. He knew how to make a canvas last.

Next, he would bring the New Idea tobacco setter out of the shed and inspect it from stem to stern. It was of the “drag setter” variety. (More on that later.) It received a good dose of grease. Hoses and couplings were inspected. He left nothing to chance. In all the years I worked with him as part of the tobacco setting crew, we never experienced a mechanical breakdown.

The water pump driven by a 2 H.P. Briggs and Stratton engine was also given a good going over. He fine turned it, so on tobacco setting day, it fired with the first pull of the rope. There were no delays when it was time to refill the water tank on the setter.

Long before the tobacco plants were young and growing, he had cleaned the cow manure out of the feed barn and delivered it to the tobacco patches. He did so one-manure-fork-load-at-a-time. It was back-breaking work. He pitched the manure onto a flatbed wagon and scattered it on the tobacco patches one-manure-fork-load-at-a-time. He never complained. When he turned the manure and the cover crop under, the stage was set. Hungry plants would grow dark and green.

My mother only helped with his tobacco crops on two occasions. On the mornings we pulled plants (Some called it drawing slips.) she helped until around 10:00 and then went to the house to cook dinner for the “hands” (as in hired hands), but it was mostly us. Then, when we started setting, she would follow the setter for about two rounds to make sure my brother, Tom, and I had our timing down. If you ever set tobacco on a drag setter, you would understand. Sometimes she would call out, “Boys, you’re setting ‘em two by two! Get your timing right!” That meant one of us was missing the water. We straightened that out in a hurry.

Ahh, to get your hands in the dirt again! And witness the miracle of the seed, and the soil, and the sun. It makes me want to take off my shoes and walk in earth made soft and smooth and ready for setting tobacco.

Copyright 2026 by Jack McCall

Time Flies

Our oldest trio of granddaughters turn 13, 15, and 16 this year. That’s right, 13, 15, and 16. It is just as hard to believe their fathers are now in their forties. How I managed not to grow older while all this was happening is still a mystery to me.

Just yesterday I was a bare-footed, country boy whiling away the hours in Brim Hollow. Just yesterday I was party of a labor force that culminated in a tobacco or hay crop coming to completion. Just yesterday I took stock of all the lessons I had been taught, gathered my wits, and headed off to college. It seems it was only yesterday.

Just yesterday, after surviving at least one broken heart, I asked a feisty, little blue-eyed blonde to marry me. She said yes, just yesterday.

Just yesterday I was standing in a labor and delivery room holding a miracle when a nurse turned to me and said, “We’re going to let the father take him down to the nurse’s station and weigh him” - 8 lbs. 15 ¼ oz. My, how time flies. His two brothers came shortly thereafter – big, healthy boys. The three of them are the greatest gifts I have ever received. I will forever be thankful to God, and for their mother.

My late mother used to say, “When you look back on your life, it seems like a dream.” I would agree.

Over the years I have gone back and visited so many people in that dream.

My little maternal grandmother never learned to drive. The story goes of how, when she was trying to learn on the Brim Hollow Road, my grandfather was so critical of her attempt, she “threw up her hands” and never tried again. After that day, he did all the driving. At the entrance to the hollow was what we called “the hollow gate.” It had to be opened and closed at every exit and return.

One night my grandmother and grandfather found themselves caught in a violent rainstorm as they approached the hollow gate. My grandfather went into a rage as he would have to get out in the rain and open the gate. He left the truck to open the gate and was “soaked through” when he got back in the truck. He pulled the truck up and then got out again to close the gate. Soaked, again. When he crawled back in the truck his rant continued.

My grandmother’s response became the stuff of legend in our family’s story.

“Rave on, big boy! There’s plenty of water to cool you off!”

The hollow gate was supported by a long, heavy, wire cable which kept it from “dragging.” When I rode with my grandfather, I was the designated gate opener. I opened, closed and “latched” that gate hundreds of times. I got pretty good at it. I last opened and closed it for my grandfather in the fall of ’69. He died that year. I was 12 years old.  That, too, seems like yesterday.

For a stretch of about 30 years, I had the privilege of traveling these United States as a part of the professional speaking circuit. In those years, I covered all 50 States. Americans are great people no matter where you find them. And most share the same concerns. I have visited so many wonderful places and met so many fine people. But, even now, as I look back, my many travels seem like a dream.

Moses, in Psalms 90, wrote, “We spend our years as a tale that is told.”

 And so, it is.

 Time marches on, waits for no one, and will tell.

 In the words of the Outlaw Josey Wales, “I reckon so.”

    Copyright 2026 by Jack McCall

Lard Stand

 I must admit I am on a mission. Among the many subjects discussed at the breakfast table where I meet with a few friends on wintry mornings is the proper cooking of a country ham. This subject was given special consideration during the Holidays just past.

As we discussed the proper way to boil a country ham, the use of a lard stand was naturally introduced into the conversation. It was eventually mentioned that a good lard stand is hard to find.

I owned a good lard stand once upon a time. As I recall, I purchased it at a local grocery store. But that was long ago and far away – maybe three decades ago. I secured it for the sole purpose of boiling a country ham. Having sought the advice of many an old timer, I followed their directions to a “T.” I placed the ham in the lard stand, covered it with water, lifted it by its handles (which was not an easy task), placed it on the big eye of the stove, and waited for the water to boil. (That took a long time.)

When the water reached a hard boil, I let the water roll for a bit before placing the lid on the lard stand. Removing it to the pantry, I set it on a quilt I had folded to the size of a large pillow. I tightly wrapped the lard stand which was as hot as blazes with two more quilts and then topped it with two more. I remember smiling at the thoroughness of my effort.

Twenty-four hours later I unwrapped the stand to find the water so hot I couldn’t hold my fingers in it. The ham was fall-off-the-bone tender. Success!

Country ham cooked in a lard stand takes me farther back across the years when my family made the trip across the county to New Middleton, TN, each Sunday after Christmas. (To a small boy it might as well have been across the country.) Our destination was the home of one Carson “Stumpy” Bradford. We called him Uncle Stumpy. Seems he lost the first joint of an index finger when he was younger, hence the nickname “Stumpy.” He and his wife, Aunt Alma, never had children of their own, so the Christmas celebration, when all the Bradfords and most of their kin showed up, was their day. It was quite a gathering.

The food was unmatched in quantity and quality. The smell of fresh tea brewing, fresh- cut lemon, and the aroma of rich coffee from a 30-cup percolator will forever be etched in my brain. 

The country ham served that day was the best I have ever eaten. Every day of two-years-old, it had a most unusual color, almost burgundy as I recall. And salty?! There was enough salt in one piece to season your whole plate. I declare, if you ate a piece of that ham by itself it would leave your tongue raw. Unforgettable!

So, I’m on a mission – a mission to find a good lard stand. My friends say a good lard stand must have welded seams to endure boiling water. They say some variations of lard stands today have glued seams which simply won’t do. I’ve searched the internet for the proper variety but have come up short so far. Vintage (or antique) stands can be had, but who wants to pay $150.00 to boil a ham?

If one of my readers knows a source of the kind I am looking for, please let me know. I have threatened to buy up a whole supply and hold them until next Christmas.

I thought I had found a suitable substitute a few weeks back at TSC. It is a Behrens Trash/Utility Can. It certainly looked the part. But alas, I read the label carefully –“Dry Storage Only.” Well, spit!

My search goes on.

If you know where to find a good lard stand, you may text me @ 615-973-8645.

Copyright 2026 by Jack McCall

The Olden Days

From time to time one of my granddaughters will ask me to tell her about “the olden days.” Quite frankly, when I think of the olden days I conger up pictures of frontiersmen with long rifles crossing the Appalachian Mountains, of log cabins, and of covered wagons crossing the Great Plains. On the other hand, she is inquiring about life in the 1950’s and 1960’s.

When I studied American History in high school an account of World War II was limited to two short paragraphs in the back of the history book. My granddaughters were born 10 years or more after 911. I guess you might say these are what will be considered the olden days for their grandchildren.

My granddaughters listen in wide-eyed wonder as I tell them of how things use to be.

As a boy, I had the great privilege of spending considerable blocks of time with my maternal grandparents in the Brim Hollow. It afforded me the opportunity to look further back than most of my contemporaries. My grandfather Brim was ultra conservative. A child of the 1800’s, he preferred a simpler life.

When I tell my granddaughters about a house with no running water and of taking hikes to the outhouse well past dark, they stare in disbelief. And no air conditioning? To them it is unimaginable.

I tell them of a lone fireplace in the living room (It also doubled as the main bedroom.) and the wood stove in the kitchen. I tell them of how ice would form in the water glass left sitting on the hearth after the fire went out on the coldest nights. They cannot believe, as a boy, I slept under a mountain of quilts in a room with no heat source in the dead of winter.

When I share with them how my grandmother Lena, who stood all of 5 foot-one, use to wring the necks of chickens and prepare them for frying, they wrinkle their noses and squint their eyes as if to say “phew wee!”  Unfortunately, the closest most children come to a chicken these days is a McNugget.

A while back I was with one of my granddaughters at a high school football game. As we were observing fans as they passed by, I noticed a young lady whose jeans could be described as what my late mother would have called “thread bare.” I promise you, there was more skin showing on her thighs and calves than denim. (It reminded me of the fictitious title of a western movie I heard of once upon a time, “When the Lone Ranger Ripped his Pants, They Found his Hide Out.” 

“Look at that poor girl!” I said to my granddaughter, “her jeans are worn out!”

“Daddy Jack,” she replied. “That’s the style!” Of course, I knew that.

In the olden days, we patched holes in our pants. I remember the overalls my   grandfather Brim use to wear. Some pairs had patches on patches.

In the olden days, what we called a “co-cola” was a rare treat. The word “co-cola” covered everything from an “RC” to a “Pepsi” and included a “7 Up, “Dr Pepper,” “Upper 10, “Coca-Cola,” “Double Cola,” “Delish,” “Nehi,” “Nu-Grape,” “Orange Crush”(The list seemed endless.) And the price? A nickel. That’s right - 5 cents.

When I was a boy, if I walked into a country store with a nickel in my pocket, I thought I had the world by the tail.

In the olden days, a 5-year-old boy could be sent on an errand that took him on a deserted country road with no fear of danger or harm. In those days everyone knew you, and everyone was “looking out” for you. It was a simpler time.

I met a distinguished gentleman from Texas at a wedding a few years ago. He talked of times past.

“I wish we could go back,” he said. He spoke of a time when you could leave your keys in the car when you parked in town. And of a time when you left your house unlocked when you were away.

That’s how things were in the olden days. I’m glad I grew up back then.

Copyright 2026 by Jack McCall 

According to Wikipedia “optimism” is a mental attitude reflecting a belief or hope that the outcome of some specific endeavor, or outcomes in general, will be positive, favorable, and desirable.

Webster’s Dictionary reads:

n.    The belief that good will prevail. 2. Cheerful hopefulness.

Optimism finds its roots in the Latin word “optimum” which means “best.”

I have noticed with the passing of the years that a creeping pessimism seems to be permeating our society. This has been brought on, in no small part, by a national media which consistently presents man at his worst. Sadly, much of the buying public seems to have an insatiable appetite for the gruesome, mysterious, and sensational.

Then, too, many conversations seem to center around the uncertainty of the future. Generations X and Y and now the millennials are constantly hearing “the Social Security System will be bankrupt by year XXXX or “I’m not worried about our generation, but I am concerned about my children and grandchildren.”

Of course, the concept of what has been called “creeping socialism” taking root before our very eyes should be a point of concern for all.

And then, the impersonalness (for lack of a better word) - [absence of human warmth or feeling] of big government and large corporations leaves us feeling like we are on the outside looking in –simply a means to an end.

All the above, added to an obvious decline in morality in our nation and the world at large contribute to a mood of pessimism.

So why be optimistic about the future?

We have plenty of reasons. Here are a few.

The “great experiment” in human freedom known as the United States of America remains the world’s brightest hope. I know. I know. There are still those who decry the failings of our republic and the evils of capitalism. But in the end, our nation represents the best the world has to offer.

When disasters strike in the world, the U.S, is always there first with the most. Our country’s founding was rooted in the Judeo-Christian work ethic which has sustained it to this very day.

French political scientist and historian, Alexis De Tocqueville, who came to America and studied our society in great detail in the early 19th century concluded, “America is great because America is good. When she ceases to be good she will cease to be great.”

America is still great because of the greatness of its people. The fact remains that the majority of our people want to, and most often, do the right thing.

Then, too, we have reason to be optimistic because of the indomitable human spirit.

Early in my professional speaking career, I enrolled in the Dale Carnegie course. You remember Dale Carnegie – “If you act enthusiastic, you become enthusiastic.” Part of the curriculum included a memory course. We were also trained in how to overcome stage fright.

As a part of our training each participant was required to tell a personal story in front of the class. One story I shall never forget.

When it came her time, a conservatively dressed woman of middle age approached the podium. She was attractive, but not beautiful. Her hair was auburn. She smiled a sad smile as she began. Her story went something like this:

“Shortly after World War II began I met the love of my life. He was the finest man. Eventually, he signed up for the Navy to serve the war effort. It was the right thing to do. He did his basic training on the west coast.

We decided we would get married before he shipped out. So, a month before he was to leave, I flew to California and we were married. It was the best month of my life.

Two months after his departure, I found I was pregnant. We were so excited.

Then, three months later, I received a letter informing me my husband’s ship had been sunk and he was presumed dead.

And there I was…alone. The reality of my situation was beyond crushing. My unborn baby, a little boy, would never know the wonderful man his father was, and I would probably bring him up… alone.”

Then, she smiled that sad smile again and continued.

“But you know what I found out? I found out that no matter how devastating the circumstances, no matter how your heart might be broken, you can find a way to make it. You may find it in your faith, you may find it in your friends, or you may find it by reaching deep down inside yourself. But you can make it.”

She smiled that smile again.

“By the way, my little boy turned out to be a very fine young man, just like his father.”

In my lifetime I have witnessed so many who have faced crushing disappointment and heartaches beyond human imagination, and yet so many did so with such dignity and courage. The indomitable human spirit - it is great cause for optimism.

And finally, the words of a Christmas carol, The Bells of Christmas, are still fresh in my mind – “the wrong shall fail, the right prevail, with peace on earth goodwill to men.”

 Keep your chin up!

 Copyright 2026 by Jack McCall     

Wonders

You’ve heard of the Seven Wonders of the World? Actually, they fall into two categories: The Seven Wonders of the Ancient World and the Seven Natural Wonders of the World. The Seven Wonders of the Ancient World were: The Great Pyramid of Giza, The Hanging Gardens of Babylon, The Statue of Zeus at Olympia, The Temple of Artemis at Ephesus, The Mausoleum at Halicarnassus, The Colossus at Rhodes, and The Lighthouse of Alexandria. The earliest lists had the Ishtar Gate as the seventh wonder of the world instead of the Lighthouse of Alexandria. The list known today was compiled in the Middle Ages by which time many of the sites were no longer in existence. Today, the only ancient world wonder that still exists is the Great Pyramid of Giza. Hold that thought.

The Seven Natural Wonders of the Natural World include the Aurora Borealis in Africa, The Grand Canyon in North America, the Paricutin Volcano in North America (Mexico), Victoria Falls in Africa, the Great Barrier Reef in Oceania, Mount Everest in Asia, and the Harbor of Rio de Janeiro. All are truly wonders.

Except for the Great Pyramid at Giza, the Wonders of the Ancient World are now shadows of the past. And the Natural Wonders of the World will only remain as long as this world lasts. All these wonders were, and are, passing away.

There is still a greater wonder found in the Holy Bible in Romans 3:29, “Is He the God of the Jews only? Is He not also of the Gentiles? Yes, of the Gentiles also.”

Speaking of this verse, theologian Charles Hodge said, “We are so familiar with the truth contained in these words that we do not appreciate its importance. Accustomed to the varied beauties of the earth, we behold its manifold wonders without emotion; we seldom even raise our eyes to look at the beauteous canopy of heaven, which every night is spread over our heads. The blind, however, when suddenly restored to sight, behold with ecstasy what we regard with indifference. Thus, the truth that God is not a national God, not the God of any tribe or people, but the God and Father of all mankind, however little it may affect us, filled the apostles with astonishment and delight. They were slow at arriving at the knowledge of this truth; they had no clear conception of it until after the day of Pentecost; the effusion of the spirit which they then received produced a most remarkable change in their views and feelings. Before that event they were Jews: afterwards, they were Christians.”

In his little gem of a book titled, On this Day, author Robert J. Morgan wrote, “Ralph Waldo Emerson observed that if the constellations appeared once only in a thousand years, what an exciting event it would be. Because they’re there every night, we barely look. We should all be challenged to “Never lose a sense of wonder.” God’s mercies are new every morning, and we are surrounded by miracles every day.

Oh, that we might live out our days in childlike wonder of God’s creation and his goodness to the children of men.

Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

Stress

I’m not quite sure when the word “stress” became so prominent in the modern vocabulary. When I was growing up the word was seldom used. My mother, a father’s wife, and busy homemaker, and mother of five never mentioned the word “stress” in our hearing, and I know she was often times pushed to the limits of her endurance. She certainly never mentioned the possibility of enrolling in a “stress seminar.” That’s because there was no such thing as a stress seminar in the 1950’s and 1960’s. World War II was still fresh in everyone’s memory. Consequently, hardship, difficulty, and sacrifice were considered a part of the human experience.

Our eldest son began to use the word “stress” rather handily when he was attending college. He would call home from time to time and lament, “Mom, Dad, I am so stressed!” I had difficulty understanding his dilemma as I did not remember stress being a part of my college experience. Not that I didn’t have some tense moments and a few close calls and at least one broken heart, but “stress?” I don’t remember feeling “stressed.”

The greatest teacher in human history warned of “perilous times.” The word “perilous” can mean “dangerous”, “risky,” “uncertain” which leads to another phrase, as in, “stressful times.” And these are certainly stressful times – made more stressful by words and phrases like “unsustainable” and “pandemic” and “systemic racism” and “social distancing” and (who would have imagined it), “masking.”

So, here are a few suggestions to help better handle the stress of our times.

Take a walk. Dr. Norman Vincent Peale, author of the multi-million selling book, The Power of Positive Thinking, was a great believer in taking a daily walk. Dr. Peale pastored Marble Collegiate Church in New York City and remained busy on the professional speaking circuit well into his 80’s. He was known to take a one-mile walk each day. He was oft to say, “miss a meal if you must, but don’t miss taking a walk.” My late mother offered many maxims, especially in her later years. One of my favorites was, “Work as long as you can, and keep moving.” The human body was built to move. Take a walk. It is a great stress reliever.

Keep in touch. Masks and social distancing are driving us farther apart, literally. Call up a friend and inquire as to how they are doing. Concentrate on being a good listener. Everyone needs a chance to share their feelings and their point of view.

Hug somebody. I know. I know. We are being conditioned to avoid shaking hands, so hugs are definitely off limits. I saw a sign in a hotel lobby this past weekend which suggested “keeping physical contact to a minimum” by “nodding,” “waving,” “saluting,” “elbow bumping,” “hat tipping,” and “foot shaking?” I’m not for foot shaking. Some one might think you were trying to trip them.

Back to hugging. Under current medical guidelines one should avoid the indiscriminate hugging of the general public. However, may I make a suggestion? Within the safe confines of home and family, for heaven’s sake, hug the people you love. Hug your wife. Hug your husband. Hug your children. Hug your grandchildren. Hug your dog. We human beings (At least most of us.) need to experience physical contact. It’s a great stress beater.

Stay connected to your spiritual roots. Don’t lose sight of the big picture. As my brother use to say about issues which we found stressful, “It won’t matter a hundred years from now.”

Copyright 2026 by Jack McCall 

Alarmists

Webster’s Dictionary defines alarmist as “one disposed to expect or prophesy calamity.”

When I was a student at The University of Tennessee many years ago I took a course in microbiology. The class met on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. My professor was a Dr. Mundt (May he rest in peace.) About every third class day Dr. Mundt would go on a rant concerning the bacteria growing in our refrigerators. He warned of impending sickness and even death coming to my classmates and me due to eating bacteria laden leftovers. I spent most of the quarter (It was before school years were divided into semesters) expecting some of my classmates to die any day. Fortunately, we all made it through. Since that day I have heard of no one dying from eating leftovers.

I am sure Dr. Mundt’s warnings were based on some clinical study in which laboratory mice were fed leftover pizza resulting in sickness and death. Of course, the mice might not have died from bacterial invasion. They could have had an allergic reaction to pepperoni.

I’m sure Dr. Mundt, a scientist, meant well, but I took his warnings with “a grain of salt.” I had learned in health class as a seventh grader that the human body is “fearfully and wonderfully made” and, therefore, equipped with a host of defense mechanisms. Among them are the human skin (a wonder in itself) the mucous membrane, the lymphatic system, and, of course, the body’s immune system. (I’ve always had great respect for white blood cells. They are at work 24/7.)

Since my college days I have eaten a ton of leftovers. So far, I have not died.

Before eating leftovers, I give them a three-way test – the eye test, the smell test and the taste test. If something green is growing on it, I throw it out. If it doesn’t smell right, I will discard it. If it passes the first two tests, I will taste it. If it tastes ok, I eat it. If some bacteria goes undetected, I trust my body’s defenses to take care of me.

I have noticed as of late a proliferation of alarmists. From weather forecasters to climate change advocates, to medical “experts;” you name it, it’s BAD, and it could get worse!

In the early spring of this year I heard a “weather girl” - (Excuse me, please. Let me be politically correct here) – a young, weather person who was female, say, in describing an approaching storm front, “There could be strong winds with the possibility softball sized hail.”

I immediately pictured balls of ice the size of grapefruits falling from the sky having picked up considerable momentum after plummeting for a few miles.

Of course, it didn’t happen. The best the TV station could do the next day to cover its tracks was report a roof had been blown off a mobile home near the Alabama line.

Who is to be believed anymore?

I, for one, choose to go with probabilities rather than possibilities.

There is a possibility that a super-sized meteor could strike the earth, knocking the earth out of its orbit and we would all be toast – possible, but not probable.

There is a possibility I could die in a plane crash the next time I choose to fly commercially - possible, but I like my odds to make the trip safely.

The odds are much higher that I will die in a car crash. I choose to keep driving.

You get where I’m going.

Before you react to the “chicken littles” of the world, best you check the sky for yourself.

Copyright 2026 by Jack McCall