The Old Feed Barn

 I spent many an hour in our old feed barn. To a boy it seemed vast in its size and expanse. I became intimately familiar with each stable and hallway. I  especially enjoyed the large barn loft which provided endless opportunities for exploring. But I suppose the old corn crib stands out most in my memory.

Situated on the west side of our barn it featured a 4’x4’ “window” all of 10 feet above ground level. It allowed a man, with corn scoop in hand, to stand on a wagon bed and “pitch” ear corn into the crib. The crib’s wooden floor lay two feet above ground. When the crib was filled to the window, it showcased a mountain of ear corn no less than 8 feet tall. As the crib filled with corn each fall, my father placed boards, each above the other, at the crib door to keep the corn from flowing out into the upper hallway. As the level of corn was reduced, the boards came down one at a time. Working your way through that door was challenging to say the least. It was important to avoid a corn avalanche.

A crib filled with ear corn had two best friends – barn cats and chicken snakes. My brothers and I were given strict instructions to leave the chicken snakes alone. They played an important role in keeping rodent numbers down. And any mice the snakes didn’t get, the barn cats did.

I had a silent arrangement with the chicken snakes – “You don’t bother me, I don’t bother you.” I will admit, though, it’s a bit unsettling to be sitting in a pile of shucks while shucking corn and happen upon a snake’s “shedding.” You knew the snake couldn’t be too far away.

Our feed barn always featured a good number of barn cats. My father encouraged their multiplying – more cats, fewer rats. Sometimes, to the cats’ delight, he provided them with a pan of warm cow’s milk. I’ve watched a throng of cats sit patiently in hopes of getting in on the cow’s milk. My father was skilled in the art of milking a cow. He could squeeze a cow’s tit and hit a cat’s mouth with a stream of milk all the way across barn hallway. To see a cat licking fresh warm milk off its face is a picture I will not soon forget.

I was often sent on a mission to find new egg nests in the mountain of square baled hay stacked high in the barn loft. It seemed the hens preferred the higher elevations. The secret was to find the nests before they had been there too long. A nest filled with eggs (I’m talking two dozen or more.) was not always a good find, especially in the summertime. Good, fertile eggs could go bad pretty quickly. I learned to hold an egg up to my ear and shake it gently. A bad egg is a dead give-away. (They don’t teach these things in schools these days.)

Is there anything that smells worse than a rotten egg? I was sprayed in the face by a baby skunk one time. It was bad. It was nauseating. It was debilitating. But it didn’t make me want to lose by breakfast like the smell of a rotten egg. 

A feed barn presented the perfect setting for a corn cob battle. The corn crib provided an ample supply of ammunition, and there were plenty of places to hide and stage forays.

I remember one particularly heated battle involving the Ellenburg brothers. That day, I got hit in the head with a wet corn cob. I found out that a wet corn cob gathered much more velocity than a dry one. The battle went back and forth until someone discovered a nest of rotten eggs. I was the first casualty. That brought the corn cob battle to a screeching halt!

Copyright 2022 by Jack McCall

August Mornings

 The coming of August marks a fascinating time of the year for me. It is usually in the month named after Caesar Augustus that the rustle of leaves stirred by the wind takes on a different sound. It is to me the first sign that fall is near. But August mornings are of particular interest to me. There is something about them that takes me back in time. It may be the feel of the early morning air or a combination of the sounds and smells of late summer. Whatever it is, I find myself suddenly standing in tall weeds at the edge of a tobacco patch an hour before first light. The dew is cold and thick as I am, by the light of pickup truck headlamps, tying a large piece of plastic around my waist to cover my legs. Without the makeshift rain skirt, the first sticks of tobacco, heavy with dew, would give me a soaking. It is one thing to be cold (and the early morning had a chill about it). It is another thing to be cold and wet. 

By mid-morning the dew is long gone and now the culprit is the August sun.

The morning has been turned from cool to suffocating, the temperature climbing a sweltering 30 degrees. I manage not to be wet by the dew, but now I cannot avoid being drenched with sweat….next stop, the tobacco barn.

Growing up, I was usually the tobacco hanger in the top of the barn. There is one advantage to that. You handle fewer sticks of tobacco. The disadvantage is this: you are up near the tin roof. It was like an oven. It is amazing the relief the slightest hint of a breeze can bring when you are hanging tobacco in a barn that is almost full.

I reckon I took part in raising no less than 25 crops of tobacco. When you have survived that many crop years you have seen about all there is to see about a tobacco crop. Most of those years were pre-MH-30 and Royal MH-30. We pulled a lot of suckers. In some wet years, we pulled suckers twice. When you are shorter than the tobacco is tall, it’s hard to find air to breath.

For most of the years I was involved in raising the crops, allotment was based on acreage instead of poundage. Whether we raised two acres or twelve, it seemed like getting the first half of the crop cut, spiked and hung in the barn was at least bearable. The second half just about killed us. By the end of the harvest, you were as tired when you got out of the bed in the morning as you were when you laid down the night before.

And the labor supply? Except for a neighbor occasionally and a high school boy or two for a few days, we were it. My father, my three brothers and I weathered the load.

(My sister sometimes reminds me that she drove the tractor for the tobacco haulers when she was old enough.) We suffered it out with every crop. We celebrated when the last stalk was cut. We celebrated when the last stick was picked up. And we celebrated when the last stick was hung.

Over the years, I have observed many tobacco crops being raised by other farmers.

My experienced eyes have given cause for me to make many assessments as I considered different phases of various crops. A few of the comments that I have made in my self-talk are: “That tobacco needs a rain,” “Somebody needs to find their hoe,” “That tobacco is burning up!” (or in my father’s words) “That’s a fine piece of tobacco,” or “One more rain and that crop is made.”

A few years ago I drove by a large field of tobacco. We call them fields today instead of patches. This particular tobacco was golden in color, the top leaves long and spread off. I observed to myself, “That tobacco needs to be cut.”

Not many days went by and I passed that same field again. To my amazement, the tobacco was gone! Cut, spiked, hauled, gone! A labor force from south of the border had made short work of the situation. It kind of made me mad! I said to myself, “No one suffered with that crop like we would have. We would have had to fight it to the bitter end to finish that field.”

That brings me back to the subject of August mornings.

To this day, on some mornings in the eighth month of the year, I will walk out of the house and into the morning air; and there is a stirring of my memory. And I can’t prevent the smile from coming across my face as I whisper to myself, “I’m glad I don’t have to go to the tobacco patch this morning.”

But even as I think it and say it; I have a strange longing to return to those days – if just for a moment.

  Copyright 2022 by Jack McCall

Smoking in the Brim Hollow

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I will say this. If I am ever accused of illegally purchasing cigarettes as a minor, bet they would have a hard time finding witnesses.

Copyright 2022 by Jack McCall    

Sayings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright 2022 by Jack McCall

Count Your Blessings

We take so many things for granted in this great country of ours. Did you know in 1922 (less than 100 years ago) only 3% of the farms in the U.S. had electricity? Not until 1935, (just 83 years ago), with the formation of the Rural Electrification Administration, did electric power begin to become available on a grand scale for rural America.

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

My eldest son’s water heater “went out” a while back. It took him a day or two to line up a plumber. He and his oldest daughter came to our house one night to take a shower. It seems they preferred hot water to cold. His wife, Emily, went to a neighbor’s house to shower. Reminded me of the old saying, “You don’t miss the water till the well runs dry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright 2022 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 have 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 can 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‘en time with ground-in dirty on his knees and on the heels of his hands. Tired bodies made for the best sleep.

I learned many life lessons down those tobacco rows. Sometimes when I think back on those days, I can smell the musty earth and feel the soft dirt in my hands.

 Copyright 2017 by Jack McCall

Luckenbach, Texas

A few years back Kathy and I were in San Antonio, TX where I was speaking for a conference. While there, it was recommended to us that we take in the Alamo Creek General Store and Café in Fredericksburg, TX. Since Fredericksburg was only 50 miles north, we decided to drive up and have a burger. While we were there someone recommended we stop by Luckenbach on our way back down to San Antonio.

The town of Luckenbach (pronounced Luke-in-bach) was made famous by a song. Surely you have heard the lyrics: “…Willie, Waylon and the boys…”      

When we left Fredericksburg, Kathy and I were on a mission to see Luckenbach, TX. We had no idea what to expect.

About ten miles out of Fredericksburg, we began to see make-shift, dilapidated signs which read: “Don’t miss ‘uptown’ Luckenbach”, “Stop in ‘uptown’ Luckenbach,” and “See ‘uptown’ Luckenbach.”      

“What do you think?” I asked Kathy. 

“I’m not sure,” she said. 

Soon we spotted a sign with an arrow pointing left which read, “Uptown Luckenbach.” Best we could tell it amounted to a feed mill and a souvenir shop housed in a block building. As we pulled in front of the souvenir shop another sign read: “This is it.”

“This can’t be it,” Kathy groaned.

“Let’s check it out!” I said, as enthusiastically as I knew how.

A dirt path took us past an area caged in with chicken wire. Inside were rows of roughly constructed shelves displaying pieces of granite of odd shapes and sizes.  The polished side of each piece bore the etching “Luckenbach, Texas.”

There were several signs which spoke of “armadillos.”  I supposed that explained the chicken wire. While in “uptown” I failed to see even one of those critters.

We stepped inside the souvenir shop which was unattended. There was plenty of signage giving directions on how to serve yourself.  We purchased a refrigerator magnet and a small piece of granite (both had Luckenbach, Texas written on them), and two caps. After placing our money in the designated, covered crock-jar, we made our get-a-way.

As we headed for the car, Kathy moaned, “This can’t be it!”

Her words turned out to be correct. About a mile down the road we saw another sign. It read: “Luckenbach, Texas – Downtown Loop.”

The loop turned out to be a gravel road which led to what looked like a small county fair grounds. A young man seated in a folding chair motioned for us to turn into a dirt parking lot filled with pickup trucks and cars covered with Texas dust. Turns out a car show was in full swing. We walked down to the entrance gate and paid the five-dollar fee to get into the car show. Once we were through the gate, we found ourselves right smack in the middle of downtown Luckenbach, Texas.

The sign on the most prominent building read:

U.S. Post-Office

1850    Luckenbach, TX.   1971

Well, that building turned out to be the gift shop. A cantina had been added on to the back. Just out back beyond the cantina stood an outdoor stage where a band was hammering out country-rock music. The stage was flanked on the right by a small western hat shop and flanked on the left by a men’s and women’s restroom building that looked like an old barn shed. That was about it.

We later learned that a local, accomplished guitarist and folklorist named Hondo Crouch purchased the town of Luckenbach, which at the time had a population of 3, in 1970. I could only assume that is why the post office closed in 1971.

Today, Luckenbach is a favorite watering hole for the locals. In the summertime live music is played every day on the Luckenbach stage.

If you are ever within a hundred miles, I would strongly suggest you see Luckenbach - just for bragging rights if for no other reason.

From the moment we left the downtown loop I will forever be able to say, when the subject of Luckenbach, Texas comes up – “I’ve been there.”

Copyright 2022 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 2022 by Jack McCall