Westward

Not too long ago my speaking travels took me to Dodge City, KS. I flew into Wichita by way of St. Louis, and then drove 170 miles west on State Highways 54/400 out to Dodge. The land really flattens out after you leave Wichita. You can see for miles in all directions. It is beautiful country.

My view of this breathtaking part of the world was only marred by those government subsidized windmills that seem to be popping up all over the west “where the coyotes howl and the wind blows free.”

Highways 54/400 run between two indistinct ridges where the wind must continuously blow. I felt surrounded by windmills that, in the distance, looked like giant, white stickmen slowly flailing their arms. Aesthetically, it is quite a price to be paid in the name of “renewable energy.” As someone has said, “The wind blows out on Cape Cod, too, but you won’t find any windmills there.”

My destination was the Boot Hill Casino and Resort in Dodge City, KS where I was speaking for KFCA Insurance. As I drove into town, I had visions of the Long Branch Saloon, The Dodge House Hotel, Marshall Matt Dillion, Chester Good, Festus Hagan, Doc Adams, and, of course, Miss Kitty.

But, alas, Dodge City is not what it used to be.

Driving down Wyatt Earp Boulevard I found Dodge City to look like most mid-sized towns in America. There was a Best Western Hotel along with O’Reilly’s Auto Parts, Kentucky Fried Chicken, McDonald’s, almost every other name-brand establishment you could think of, and a host of Mexican restaurants. When I arrived at Boot Hill Museum, I was shocked to find an Applebee’s Restaurant to be within a stone’s throw. I must admit the Boot Hill of yesteryear and the aura of the old West seemed a million miles away. The thought occurred to me, “Matt Dillion would roll over in his grave if he could see Dodge City now.”

The first evening I decided to enjoy some Mexican cuisine. I found it at El Charro Mexican Restaurant on W. Wyatt Earp Blvd. Best chili relleno I have ever tasted. As I finished cleaning my plate, I thought “that was larapin!” The ghost of Festus Hagan had to be nearby.

The accommodations at the Hampton Inn which is a part of the Boot Hill Casino and Resort were first rate. I enjoyed a restful night’s sleep in preparation the next day’s keynote speech. I found my audience of Kansan’s to be great people who laughed easily.

After the afternoon’s presentation I returned to El Charro for another go at the chili relleno! It was that good! But duty called. I had to be in Wichita on the next day for another speech, so I found myself “getting the heck out of Dodge!”

The sun was at my back as I drove the 170 miles back to Wichita. If it had not been for those darn windmills I would have been in paradise. For some reason my selective vision didn’t block out the windmills like it does telephone poles and lines. There they were, again, buggering up the landscape. I ignored them the best I could.

In Wichita I stayed at the Homewood Suites Hotel, another Hilton property. Great accommodations make for pleasant travels. The audience next day was friendly as anticipated. My keynote ended at promptly 3:30 PM. My flight was scheduled to leave at 5:05 PM sharp. It made for a mad dash across town in my rental car. I arrived at my gate with time to spare.

The state of Kansas has many nicknames – The Sunflower State, The Wheat State and The Jayhawk State. No matter what you call Kansas it remains a centerpiece of the sweeping “fruited plain.”  I can hardly wait to go back.

Copyright 2022 by Jack McCall   

Pre-Holiday Thoughts

Can you believe it? It’s late October. As I write this column, it seems everyone is in a panic to be ready for Halloween. October is almost gone and I am left still wondering where September went. Unbelievably, the Holiday Season is upon us. Sometimes I wish things would slow down a bit. I cringe at the thought I will blink and it will be November.

 Every November, my wife, Kathy, and I Christmas shop in Gatlinburg. We think we are getting ahead of the “Christmas rush.” I’m thinking, “What’s the rush?” or “Why all the rush?”

 We shop all the outlets in Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge to “save” money. Of course, while we are “saving” money we spend in the neighborhood of $500 on hotel, food, etc. It’s a strange concept, this idea of spending money while you are of “saving” money. But more importantly, we are beating the “rush.”

 Dr. Jerry Zimbardo, Professor of Psychology, wrote in Psychology Today, “The devil’s strategy for our times is to trivialize human existence in a number of ways: by isolating us from one another while

creating the delusion that the reasons are time pressures, work demands, or anxieties created by economic uncertainty.”

 Not only do we find ourselves being isolated from one another, but we also find ourselves losing focus on that which is most important.

 As we plunge head-long into the Holidays here are a few things to think about:

 Consider your citizenship. Is this not a great country? – The United States of America, “the land of the free and the home of the brave.”

 As Thanksgiving Day approaches may we breathe the prayer, “Long may our land be bright with freedom’s holy light. Protect us by Thy might, great God, our King.”

 A speaking engagement took me to Albuquerque, NM a few years ago. The landscape there is called “high desert.” While I was there, I witnessed an event for which Albuquerque is world famous - The annual launching of hundreds of hot air balloons. It was spectacular!

 I am constantly amazed by our nation’s grandeur. From the Grand Canyon, to the Columbia River Gorge, to the Great Smokey Mountains, to the Shenandoah Valley, to the Atlantic shore to the high desert of New Mexico…my list could go on and on. It is no wonder we call her “America, the beautiful.”

 Consider your friends. I like to think I have many friends. They are as diverse as these United States. They all have their particular strengths and weaknesses. Friends make our lives rich. Take care to take care of your friends.

 Count your blessings. Our lives are filled with challenges. We’ve all suffered some disappointments and setbacks. If we focus on the bad, we often lose sight of the good.

 Get a jump on Thanksgiving Day. Start counting your blessings in advance. Cultivate the “attitude of gratitude” all the way through the Holiday season. As the folks at Al-Anon say, “It works if you work it.”

 Take some time to reflect. A lot of water has gone under the bridge (or over the dam.) Many lessons have been learned. And we’ve all enjoyed some wonderful experiences along the way. It is important that we, occasionally, take a deep drink from the past and savor the best moments and experiences of our lives.

 The Holidays are a great time to recall the memories of those whom we will miss this year…those who made Thanksgivings and Christmases of the past special.  Find yourself a rocking chair, pour yourself a cup of coffee, hot tea, or hot chocolate, and sit a spell.

 You might even cry a few tears…Happy Tears.

 Dig a little deeper. Do a little research on the first Thanksgiving celebration. Re-connect with those first pilgrims who stepped on our shores. Get to know them a little better. Be reminded of their courage and resolve in the face of hardship.

 When Thanksgiving Day is past, take out the old family Bible and begin reading of the events which led up to the cradle in Bethlehem. Unless you cultivate the soil of your soul, this blessed season will come and go, and you might not be touched by the wonder of it all.

 So, here’s to a warm and wonderful Holiday Season. We all have ground work to do to make it so.

 And remember. The most important things in life are not things.

Copyright 2022 by Jack McCall         

Going Fishing

I had the good privilege of traveling to Lancaster, TN. a couple of weekends back. Lancaster, pronounced “Lank’cas ster” by some, and “Lanks’ ster” by most who are from there, is a quiet community tucked away between Gordonsville, TN, and Center Hill Dam on State Highway 264. The occasion was a fish fry in support of 6th District United States Congressman, John Rose.

It was a perfect day for the event – mild temperatures graced the sun-drenched countryside. But as I prepared to make the drive from Hartsville, my mind was 60 years or more away.

As a boy, I had made the trip from our farm in Carthage to Center Hill Lake on fishing outings with my father many times. There were four of us boys, so we got to go two-at-a-time. Fishing with my father holds some of my fondest boyhood memories.

Before I reached Carthage, I had already gotten ahead of myself. I recalled how Old Highway 52S once meandered through South Carthage on its way to Gordonsville. And in my mind’s eye, I traveled through Gordonsville and crossed the railroad tracks on the east side of town. Then I relived taking the circuitous route which led up-and-down-and-around by Temperance Hall, through Lancaster, and on to Center Hill Dam. You might say I arrived in Lancaster that day before I got there.

When my brothers and I were growing boys, my mother was in charge of waking us on mornings when there was hay to be hauled, Johnson grass to be chopped, and tobacco to be worked. Some mornings it was hard for her to get us going. But on the days we were going fishing, my father would come to our bedroom door in the wee hours of the morning and whisper, “Boys, let’s go!” We would kick the cover off the bed!

A day of fishing with Frank McCall held much promise. Not only was he a skilled and patient teacher, he was simply a pleasure to be around.

I think I enjoyed straight-line fishing for crappie most. To me, there is hardly anything more beautiful that a big, black, “slab” crappie lying on its side at the top of the water. Casting for largemouth bass was much more challenging, especially for boys. I promise, on the days we fished for bass, our father spent more time getting us un-hung than he did fishing. I couldn’t count the times he cradled the handle of the boat paddle in the crook of his arm and pulled the boat into shore to retrieve a tangled fishing plug, which was usually hung up in a tree limb. And he would always tease, “Boys, are you fishin’ or squirrel huntin’?”

And then, there was the food. Stopping for lunch might have been the high point of the day. I don’t believe boloney and crackers ever tasted so good! And there were 16 Oz, Pepsis (in returnable bottles,) Beany Weenies, canned sardines (one of my father’s favorites), sliced cheese; and to top it all off, a dime cake. I have to explain here. When soft drinks and candy bars only cost a nickel, a ten-cent cake was a big deal. There were Banana Flips, Jim Jams, SnowBalls, Hostess Cup Cakes and Twinkies, and Dolly Madison French Pastries (cream filled in chocolate or vanilla.) For this country boy, if just for a day, it was like dining at the king’s table.

So, on that Saturday afternoon in Lancaster, I enjoyed reconnecting with old friends, and enjoying some great food. But you might say I spent most of my thinking time wetting a hook.

I must admit the fishing has never been better.

Copyright 2022 by Jack McCall

Harvest Time

I love the fall of the year. There’s just something about it that brings a feeling of satisfaction to my bones. For me, it starts when the leaves on the trees begin to make a different sound at the stirring of the wind. And then comes the morning I walk outside and the air has an unexpected bite in it. That sends me back inside looking for a flannel shirt. Soft flannel is hard to beat when the temperature starts to fall. The next experience to which I look forward is catching the first smell of smoke from a fireplace.

 But I think I treasure the fall season most because it speaks of harvest time. Harvest time – one writer referred to it as that time “when the frost is on the pumpkin and the corn is in the shock.”

 Harvest time -- when you gather in the fruit of that which you planted in the spring and nurtured through the summer. Harvest time –to put it another way—when you go about reaping what you sowed.

 I’ve seen a few harvests in my time. I was in on putting two dozen or more tobacco crops to rest. There’s no feeling like the bone-tired satisfaction one experiences when the last tobacco stalk is cut and spiked, and the last stick is hung in the barn.

 And corn crops? I’ve seen a few of them finished off as well. Most of the corn crops I saw were gathered by hand and scooped from the wagon through a high window in the corn crib. The door to the corn crib was boarded up so the corn could not fall out into the hallway of the feed barn. We pulled the ears of corn out from between the boards until we could create a space for opening the crib door.

 There’s nothing like the feel and smell of a corn crib….corn shucks, corn silk, and corn cobs. And there were rats, mice, and chicken snakes.

 Whenever I see a corn field, golden tanned with the coming on of harvest, the best feelings are conjured up for me.

 And there were fall hay crops which we stacked high in the old feed barn. Over the log pen, the stoutest part of the barn’s structure, we stacked fall hay all the way to the barn’s tin roof. It was a mountain of hay. Newly baled, fall hay safely in the barn -- now that’s a different smell altogether.

 In my boyhood days, calf crops were usually sold in the fall of the year. And the second of two sets of “top” hogs went to market about that time as well.

 Harvest time is a time for “taking stock,” or assessing your situation – for taking a backwards glance. And it is a time for being thankful.

 I have often considered the many advantages of growing up on a farm.  One thing you learn on the farm is the rhythm of the seasons and the “flow” of nature. Actually, it is more “picked up” than learned. It is something that seeps into your bones. You experience, firsthand, the miracle of planting and harvesting, of sowing and reaping. You learn that a crop must be defended and cared for, that there are certain processes that must be followed. You also learn what works and what does not.

 And you learn not to apologize when you take in a bumper crop. You also learn not to complain when the harvest comes up short. It is all a part of the life experience. As the New York Yankee great, Casey Stengel, once said,

“You win some, you lose some, and a few get rained out.” So it is with the harvest.

 God is a genius. He placed harvest time just before wintertime. In the winter we have time to review the past year and contemplate the spring. How much will we plant in the spring? If the harvest was disappointing, will we find the courage to plant again?

 But planting must go on. Without sowing there can be no reaping.

 I guess, above all, a farm is wonderful place for learning to trust the Lord of the harvest.

  Copyright 2022 by Jack McCall  

Inspiration

Job declared “Man who is born of woman is a few days and full of trouble.”

Over three thousand years later, American writer and philosopher, Henry David Thoreau wrote, “The mass of men live lives of quiet desperation.” M. Scott Peck in his modern masterpiece, The Road Less Traveled, put it even more succinctly. He wrote “Life is difficult.” Chief Ten Bears in the movie, The Outlaw Josey Wales, referred to our time here as “the struggle of life.” An old hymn from my childhood echoes these words: “It’s not an easy road.”

 Any way you slice it, we all encounter bumps in the road of life. Some of those “bumps” are no more than minor inconveniences and aggravations. Others are nothing short of devastating. Everyone experiences disappointments of one degree or another.

At the ending of the movie, Old Yeller; the father, played by Fess Parker, shares some interesting words with his son, Travis:

“Now and then, for no good reason a man can figure out, life will hall off and knock him flat - slam him against the ground so hard it seems like all his insides is busting. But it’s not all like that. Some of it is mighty fine. You can’t afford to waste the good part frettin’ about the bad. That makes it all bad.

But I’ll tell you a trick that’s sometimes a big help. You start lookin’ around for something good to take the place of the bad. As a general rule, you can find it.”

I must admit. It takes a lot to get me down. I am, by nature and by training, an eternal optimist. But sometimes I get that for which Memphis, TN is famous…”the blues.” I can’t fully explain it, but every now and then things just seem to pile up on me, and I feel overwhelmed by life. Such was the case not so long ago.

After a trying weekend, I found myself on Sunday evening wondering how in the world I could take on Monday. It was going to be a demanding day, and I was about spent before it even arrived.

Late Sunday night I drifted off into a restless sleep.

The next morning force of habit pulled me out of bed. To put it mildly, I was not feeling one bit less discombobulated. I did manage to pull the things together that I would need for the coming day.    

Just after daylight I stepped out into the morning air. The birds which sing just at the breaking of dawn were already gone. It was pleasantly cool and unusually quiet. I hesitated for a bit to drink in the moment. Then, I heard him.

No further away than the edge of my yard, but well out of sight; his song rang out, sharply and distinctly, “Bob White!”

It was music to my ears! Only a country boy or girl would know the call of a Bob White quail.

“Well, good morning, Mr. Robert White quail!” I said out loud (and half-way to myself.)

“Bob White!” he called out again.

I waited.

“Bob White!” he trumpeted the third time.

He had found a familiar rhythm of which I have become so fond over the years.

I paused for a few minutes to feel grateful for growing up in rural America…for knowing about “Bob White” quails …and robins …and mockingbirds…and woodpeckers… and red-winged blackbirds.

Mr. Bob White called out a dozen times or more before I was on my way. I was feeling better already!

Strangely, the next thing I noticed was the homes of two of my neighbors. Sitting side by side, they were beautifully landscaped, the grass newly mowed. I can’t explain it, but the most pleasant feeling came over me as I thought about my neighbors.

Next, I came upon a little hayfield. No more than two acres, it is where spotted goats can usually be seen grazing. But it had been cut for hay in late summer.  And on this morning, it was dotted with square bales of hay. Five perfectly straight rows, with no more than ten bales in each row, lay neatly in this little field.  It spoke to me of order. Suddenly, the whole world made more sense. I felt energized. And I found myself getting back my second wind. 

We all can use some inspiration now and then. I have always contended that you can find it if you look for it. But there is more to it than that.

I would not have thought of a Bob White quail, or a neighbor’s yard or a little field of hay. There was something very deep going on here.

Sometimes I pray for ears that can hear, eyes that can see, and a heart of deeper understanding.

Copyright 2022 by Jack McCall

Home Fires

Seems like as far back as my earliest memories I can see flickering flames dancing in a fireplace. I don’t recall much about the log house in which we first lived, but I remember the fireplace. Maybe it was the warmth of the fire, or the mesmerizing rhythm of the rolling flames. Whatever the reason, I can’t help but smile when I go back down the halls of my memories and find myself in front of a fire.        

Of course, our ancestors sat in front of a fire for thousands of years. Some would say it is in our DNA to be intrigued by fire.       

 I can only tell you this: Each fall when leaves begin to turn, and I hear the haunting call of geese in flight or feel the bite of frosty air on my face, I get a little homesick. And I begin to look for smoke circling out of a chimney, and I have a longing to breath in the smell of smoke from a hardwood fire.       

There is something special about “wood” heat. When you come in out of the cold, the smell of the fire and the feel of the warm air has a quality about it that says, “welcome home.”        

My maternal grandfather’s house in the Brim Hollow featured a big, open fireplace. It would accommodate a back log 9 to 12 inches “through” (diameter). At night, just before going to bed, my grandfather would “bank up” the ashes against the back log; which, in effect, put the fire out for the night. The next morning, he would rake the ashes back from the back log exposing the embers that had smoldered during the night. A piece or two of kindling, and more firewood would bring the fire back to life in a sudden burst of flames. You might say my grandfather was the self-appointed “thermostat.”      

An Ashley wood heater was the centerpiece in the living room in the house where I grew up. My mother was the keeper of the flame. My father (sometimes reluctantly) kept the front porch stocked with firewood, but my mother “tended” the fire. And she had her preferences when it came to the kind of wood he supplied. To my father, “a tree was a tree.”      

My late mother use to say, “hackberry burns about the same whether green or dry.” She preferred Ash.       

To his credit, my father consistently provided an excellent supply of cedar kindling each year. In the spring, he would secure a pickup truck load of cedar slabs (trimmings) from the J. C. Owen sawmill. (That was years before the Owens made the transition from producing cedar boards to making cedar bedding.)       

My father would pile the cedar slabs in an out-of-the-way location and let them “dry out” all summer. At the first hint of winter, he would attach a frame to the front of our John Deere tractor. The frame featured a small, round sawmill blade driven by a 6 inch-wide, black belt which was “hooked up” to the tractor. There’s no sound like the whine of a sawmill blade crawling through dry cedar. My brothers and I would “feed” the slabs onto the frame, and my father carefully guided the wood into the whirling saw blade. The sound of the saw, and the smell of cedar, and the yielding of tired, young muscles; and being a part of a job needing to be done made for an experience to be re-visited and treasured over a lifetime.        

There’s nothing quite like cedar kindling for firing up a fire. My father made sure we had an abundant supply.         

Today, I live in a climate-controlled dwelling. There is a thermostat on the wall. At the touch of a button, I choose the temperature I desire. The air in my house is a bit too sterile for me.         

But that doesn’t keep me from going back to feeling the warmth of a fire on my face and the smell of smoke and dried cedar.  It not only warms my heart, it strengthens the marrow in my bones.

Copyright 2022 by Jack McCall  

Dropping Sticks

 I found myself in deep thought as I “studied” a patch (field) of tobacco one day last week. The last time I was assigned a job in a tobacco harvest it amounted to the simple task of dropping sticks. 

Now, to the uneducated, the term “dropping sticks” might sound a bit foreign. It is not like you are walking through a tobacco patch and accidently let some sticks fall to the ground – like “dropping a stick.” Veterans of the tobacco patch, on the other hand, know that dropping sticks is a very important part of the tobacco cutting (harvesting) process.

In years gone by, when cutting and spiking tobacco was a two man operation, tobacco sticks were dropped on the ground between the two rows to be cut. As the cutter downed the two rows in front of him, he reached down, picked up a tobacco stick and handed it to the spiker. Then, he cut the next 5 or 6 stalks of tobacco and passed them back to be spiked. As the plants were cut and spiked, another tobacco stick magically appeared in the row. Best I can recall, my brothers and I were taught to lay (or drop) the sticks end-to-end, or let them overlap an inch or two. It was no small feat to tote an arm-load of tobacco sticks through big tobacco when dropping sticks that way. You kind of had to walk sideways.

In today’s world most tobacco it cut and piled by the cutters – 5 or 6 stalks to the pile. Later, when the tobacco has “fallen” (wilted), the same ones who cut the tobacco come back and spike it. Even though the process is different, tobacco sticks still have to be “dropped.”

On the farm where I grew up my father had a simple philosophy when it came to cutting tobacco – “Make it easy on the man who follows you.” So, we were taught “the art of dropping sticks.” It involved two unspoken maxims: (1) Don’t make the spiker have to hunt for the stick. (2) If possible have the stick land with the high end of the stick near the butt-ends of the stalks in the pile. That may sound a bit technical, but it was really very simple – “Pay attention to what you are doing.”

I found early in my career you have much more control over where and how a tobacco stick lands if you spin it as you let it go. That is especially true if you are dropping sticks on more than one row as you go through the tobacco patch. Anyway, I was afforded the chance to apply my skill the last time I approached the task.

As I “studied” the tobacco patch I remembered a bundle of 50 tobacco sticks was a heavy load, especially when I was a boy.         

I smiled as I remembered the many personalities of tobacco sticks. Some were fashioned from a tree limb – dark in color – round and straight. Others were of the “split-out” variety – irregular in shape and one-of-a-kind. There were skinny ones and heavy ones – some so big they felt like 2 by 4’s. And there were slick ones and splintery ones. And later, the cut-out, sawmill variety (Sticks void of personality.)  My thoughts took me right back to tobacco stick dropping heaven. I recalled the unmistakable sound (Like a “clap” of thunder.) of bundles of tobacco sticks as they landed on a wagon, and the feel of tight, grass strings in my hands, and of barn dust and spider webs.

That night I found myself dropping sticks in my dreams.

 Copyright 2022 by Jack McCall

Never Give Up

In this writer’s opinion, Winston Churchill was the greatest man of the last century. Known as the “British Bulldog” he was the epitome of determination and resoluteness.  

After the miraculous evacuation at Dunkirk in World War II where the British and French armies escaped certain disaster, it appeared the invasion of “The Island” by the German army was inevitable. On June 4, 1940, Churchill closed his speech to The House of Commons with these words:  

“Even though large tracts of Europe and many old and famous States have fallen or may fall into the grip of the Gestapo and all the odious apparatus of Nazi rule, we shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end, we shall fight in France, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender….”

In the course of my years, I have observed friends and family and neighbors and total strangers meet with what I have come to call “crushing circumstances.”  There is so much tragedy in our world. Sometimes it is beyond explanation – the depth of heartache and despair - unfathomable.

It may come as a singular, catastrophic event as in a senseless death, or a tragic accident, or “Stage IV cancer,” or “I want a divorce.” Or, “crushing circumstances” can unfold as a series of setbacks, one right after the other. Like body punches in the early rounds of a boxing match, each one takes its toll. You’ve heard it said, “When it rains it pours.”

Whatever the circumstances may be there is something in all of us that whispers, from time to time, “Why don’t you just give up?” It is a ghostly whisper - that whisper which beckons us to “Throw in the towel,” or worse yet, suggests “It’s no use.” It is a temptation of a ghastly sort.

As I write, on the wall behind me, hangs a photograph of Winston Churchill which overlooks my workspace. It is a prized possession. It is Sir Winston to a tee - his penetrating eyes, his set jaw, his face lined with the wisdom and experience of many years. Underneath the photograph is another of his quotes:

 “Never flinch, never weary, never despair.”

Which brings to mind words of Paul, the apostle: “We are hard-pressed on every side yet not crushed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; stuck down, but not destroyed…..” The apostle’s words sound almost “Churchillian.”  Or should I say Churchill’s words sound Paulinian?  

There is a great little stanza in Rudyard Kipling’s poem titled, “If” that goes like this:

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

    To serve your turn long after they are gone,   

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

    To serve your turn long after they are gone,   

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the will which says to them, “Hold on!”

Sometimes we simply must hold on until the light returns.

On October 29, 1941, in a speech to the boys at Harrow School, Churchill spoke these words: "Never, never, in nothing great or small, large or petty, never give in except to convictions of honor and good sense. Never yield to force; never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy.''

And now, back to the apostle Paul, who wrote: “And let us not be weary in well doing; for in due season we shall reap if we faint not.”

There are a number of ways of saying that. Let me give it a try.

“No matter what happens to you in life, never grow tired of fighting the good fight. For in time, the payoff will come if you don’t give up.

We have Joseph Fort Newton to thank for these words:

“We cannot tell what may happen to us in this 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.”

Copyright 2022 by Jack McCall