Back the The Brim Hollow

My wife, Kathy, and I made our annual November trip to the Gatlinburg/Pigeon Forge area to Christmas shop a few weeks ago. After over four decades of marriage, I suppose most couples settle into some kind of routine. Our mornings play out like this. She sleeps late, and I do breakfast on my own.

I am now convinced 90% of the people who travel to Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge never enjoy pancakes at home. That’s the reason they all show up at pancake houses to stand in line for hours waiting to wade into the sticky, culinary delight. I, for one, do not enjoy standing in line in sub-freezing temperatures, so I get out early and beat the on-foot traffic.

The early morning usually finds me at the Log Cabin Pancake House on Airport Road in Gatlinburg. Not only do they know me there, but they also serve a great breakfast at a reasonable price. I say a reasonable price because I now limit myself, most of the time, to the “child’s/senior plate” – one egg, two strips of bacon and four mini-pancakes, with drink included.

The giant poplar wood beams that support the rafters, the large, gas fireplaces, (They once burned real wood) and the many relics of the past scattered throughout the restaurant have a way of taking me back to The Brim Hollow. Horse drawn plows, their plow handles made smooth by time and age, cry out to me from the outside shed of the restaurant each time I walk by. As I drink in those things which stir old memories, I experience the warmest feelings.

Once more, I see my Granny Lena sitting in a cane-bottomed chair, its back as straight as hers, as she worked the butter churn – up-and-down – with a resolve that yielded the fineness butter and callused hands.

The sight of a hand-cranked corn sheller sent me back to the feed barn where I learned to love the smell of mules; and up the ladder where I found safety when the hallway became too busy. In the corn crib, I recalled a pyramid of red corn cobs that reached almost to the ceiling; and a mountain of corn shucks that finished filling the crib where a boy could dive in and lose himself to the world outside.

As I sat and studied the flickering flames in the fireplace, I found myself in front of another fireplace, many miles and many years ago. And I felt the warmth of the fire on my face, and I smelled a thousand smells - the smoke from the fire, a chicken pot pie just removed from the oven of the wood stove, my grandfather’s flannel shirts, the inside of the smokehouse, and the intoxicating air in my grandmother’s flower garden.

And once again I stood beside the branch (My grandmother’s word for creek) and watched the refreshing flow from up the hollow, fed by a-half-dozen springs which drew up water, crystal-clear and cold, and sweet to the taste, from deep within the earth.

In the winters of my youth, I often laid in the safety and warmth of a feather bed at night and listened to the haunting whistle of the wind as it swept through the hollow. The high ridges that framed the hollow and the trees laid bare for winter made for a sound unlike any other I have ever known. I heard that sound again.

I have often wished every person had a “Brim Hollow” in their life – a place to which you could return, if only in your mind, from time to time; and find peace and solitude – a place where you could find a “grounding” - a place where life seemed to make more sense. If you have such a place, you are richly blessed.

Copyright 2022 by Jack McCall

After the Game - Part 2

In my last post I wrote of leaving a high school basketball game one evening as heavy snow was arriving, and how my trip home in our farm pickup truck was delayed by my unwisely deciding to grab a bite to eat at a local restaurant. At the column’s end I was facing three challenges to overcome on my way home - the first being my making it up the hill to the Carthage city square. I backed up around a curve to attempt a “running start,” took a deep breath, a pressed the accelerator.

The momentum I gained coming out of the curve sent my truck easily up the hill with tires spinning. As I passed the building on my right that once had housed the old Carthage Grocery and Locker Plant, I breathed a sign of relief. I eased on up to Main Street and stopped at the traffic light. One down, two to go.

 I turned right and started down the center of town. The Cordell Hull Bridge loomed before me. I knew the bridge would be especially slick and treacherous. I made the turn onto the bridge with as much speed as I could safely gather. The truck fish-tailed its way to the highest point on the bridge. I relaxed and touched the break as I started down the other side. I touched the brake again. The truck slipped and slid easily as I brought it to a precarious stop at the end of the bridge. Two down, one to go.

 Now I looked ahead to the biggest obstacle between me and home, the big hill that stood just east of Watervale (better known as Punch, Tennessee, USA to many) on Highway 70. As I paused on the end of the bridge, I considered two options. I could take the hill on straight up or turn off Highway 70 onto the Old County House Road and avoid the hill altogether. Those thoughts weighed on my mind as I pulled off the end of the bridge and turned west.

 The stretch of highway that ran below the bluff was as slick as I ever remember it.

I slipped and slid until I was out from under its dark shadow. I crossed the Hogan’s Creek Bridge and eased along at 40 miles per hour. I made it up the rise past the entrance to Old 70 to the stretch of road that straightened out past Carthage General Hospital. All the while I was contemplating the hill and the Old County House Road. At the end of the straight stretch I topped the rise in the road past the triangle where Jess Hackett lived. As I started down the other side I strained my eyes to get a view of the big hill ahead.

In the distance on the dark hillside I could see the tail lights of stranded vehicles on both sides of the road. My decision was made. But it was made too late.

 The entrance to the Old County House Road was right on me and I was caught in the middle of making two mistakes. I was going too fast, and I had to make my turn too sharply.

 As I went into the turn, I felt the back of the truck swinging around to my left. It slid faster. I was almost sideways when the strangest thing happened. Instead of sliding off the road where I would have obviously flipped and rolled down a steep embankment, the wooden livestock bed of the truck hit the stop sign on the edge of the road. When I say the stop sign, I do not mean the stop sign post. I mean the thin metal, octagonal shaped sign itself. The sign acted like a spring and pitched the back of the truck back out in the middle of the road, correcting my course. I was on my way. I blinked in disbelief as I made the next curve and continued on the snow-covered gravel road. The rest of my trip was a piece of cake, although it took three tries to get up the hill to our house.

 When I walked in the house, my mother met me at the door.

  “Where have you been?” she asked. The tone of her voice fell somewhere between concern and annoyance.

 “At the ballgame,” I answered nonchalantly.

 “At eleven o’clock at night?” she pressed.

 “Well, no ma’am,” I answered. “I went to Sherry’s Diner to get something to eat after the game.”

 I didn’t like the way she looked at me.

Then she said, “The next time the game is over and it’s snowing like this, you get yourself straight home. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, ma’am,’ I answered.

“You could end up in a ditch somewhere on a night like this,” she warned.

I could not have agreed more.

But I did not end up in a ditch that night. I ended up in a soft bed with warm covers.

I have never believed in luck. But I have had my share of good fortune.

As I look back over my life, I have a great sense of comfort in knowing that Someone was watching over me.

Copyright 2022 by Jack McCall

After the Game - Part One

It just doesn’t snow in these parts like it once did. When I was a boy attending school in Smith County, we could look forward to two or three big snows every winter. I say “big” in the sense that they were big snowfalls for our region of the world, usually four to six inches in accumulation. Students could count on missing at least ten days of school due to snow. One winter we were out of school for almost a month of school days. That year the temperature hovered around zero degrees for over two weeks. Most of the snow that fell that winter stayed around for while. It was glorious, at least temporarily, from a student’s point of view.

But weather patterns have changed, as they have throughout the long history of mankind (I still have not bought into the concept of “global warming”). But some things have not changed – like the accuracy of the weather forecasters. When it came to predicting snowfalls, the weatherman rarely got it right back in my day. Today they have Doppler radar along with computer models and imaging and the weatherpersons (I’m trying to be politically correct here) still muddle through the snow forecasts. That, of course, creates a dilemma for school officials as it always has. Questions like these must be addressed: Do we close school ahead of the forecasted snow? Do we let school out early? Do we start back two hours late? Do we cancel the basketball game? Do we cancel one and not the other? At best, it’s like rolling the dice……which brings us to a January Tuesday night in 1969.

Heavy snow had been predicted for that Tuesday. School students were excited and school officials were concerned. All day we waited. The snow never came. The end of the school day came - still no snow. The next issue was the Tuesday night basketball game. How do you cancel the game when there is no snow and you just finished a full day of school? A decision was made. The game was on. Hopefully, we could get the games in before the snow arrived. The weather forecasters were insistent that the snow would arrive.

During the basketball games people were constantly checking outside for signs of snow. The games concluded with not one trace of snow in the air. The crowd dispersed and everyone went home. The last of the members of the boy’s team, of which I was one, were the last to leave the gym that night.

As I stepped out of the gym and into the night air, I could hardly believe my eyes.

Looking up through the glow of the street lights I was met by an incredibly heavy, wet snowfall, some snowflakes appearing as big as quarters. Like floating goose down, it drifted steadily downward in seemingly endless supply. The scene had all the makings of a winter wonderland. And it was sticking fast.

I should have realized immediately that two things were not in my favor. One, on my way home I would be driving a two-wheel drive pickup truck with no extra weight over the rear axle. And two, I would be driving on snow-covered roads.

Oh, the foolishness of youth. I was 17 years old and I had other things on my mind –namely, food and conversation.

My only option for late night fast food in Carthage that night was Sherry’s Diner. I took off in that direction not taking into account it was located at the bottom of the hill just off the town square.    

The cooks there put together a chuck wagon steak sandwich as good as any I ever ate. I had a chuck wagon on my mind when I arrived at the diner that night. I did not notice that a half inch of snow had accumulated in the foregoing ten minutes. I soon settled into conversation with my friends, hardly noticing that there weren’t many of them joining me, and that none of them lived outside the city limits.  

An hour passed. The diner was closing. It was time to head home. As I stepped outside I met my second surprise of the night. I was looking at four or more inches of deep fresh snow. I paused to make this observation: When heavy snow is falling fast it can accumulate in a hurry!

I now took full stock of my dilemma with a renewed sense of urgency – two-wheel drive pickup truck with a light backend facing heavy snow on the roads.

My father had taught me four rules for driving in snow: use the highest gear possible, go easy on the accelerator, go easy on the break, and avoid making sudden turns.

 I considered all that as I started the pick-up and pulled out on the street. I tested the road surface by giving the engine a little extra gas. As the truck fish tailed, I thought “slicker than a peeled onion!” I backed up into the curve that veered around the Carthage Shirt Factory to get a running start, and took on the first of the three major challenges that lay between me and home -  the hill that would take me up to the Carthage square.

 Stayed tuned for the rest of the story when I reveal where I spent the night that night, and how I arrived there in After the Game - Part 2.

 Copyright 2022 by Jack McCall

Country Ham and Red-eyed Gravy

You might say I was introduced to country ham and red-eyed gravy at a very early age. When I was five months old my mother began to tear the middle out of biscuits and soak them in red-eyed gravy for my breakfast. She declared that I could put away “some more” biscuits and red-eyed gravy. Her telling the story inspired me to pen these poetic lines:

 When she spooned in a bite, I would grin

as the red-eyed gravy ran down my chin.

 The late Dewey King Knight, a neighbor who married my father’s double first cousin, Lucy McCall, would stop by our house two or three mornings a week just to find out how many biscuit middles I had eaten for breakfast. He got a kick out of hearing I had eaten a half-dozen or more.

 I was hooked on country ham long before medical science discovered cholesterol to be an enemy of the human circulatory system.

My former neighbor for over 35 years, Jerald Shivers, used to drive a delivery route for the Colonial Baking Company. Jerald insisted there were only two kinds of bread and both began with a “C”...Colonial Bread and corn bread.

Well, for me there’s only one kind of real ham and it also begins with a “C” - country ham.

I know, I know. There are sugar cured hams and the like. But most of them are actually pork shoulders.

On occasion, I have ordered ham and eggs for breakfast in a restaurant and the waitress asked, “Would you like city ham or country ham?” I did my best to hide my look of dismay. Quite frankly, I have difficulty using the word “city” and the word “ham” in the same sentence. There is nothing “city” about ham.

 The curing of real country ham is becoming a lost art. Oh, the days when the meat box was filled to the top with pork and salt, and the smell of hickory smoke penetrated the air. Smokehouses of the past were filled with the most delightful aromas. The rich smells left behind over the years by slow smoke and curing meat are indescribable. My best attempt would be to say it had a delicious earthiness about it.

When I was a boy, our family celebrated Christmas each year with my Granny Lena’s family, the Bradfords, on the Sunday after Christmas in New Middleton. The event took place at the home of my great-uncle, Carson “Stumpy” Bradford.

The Christmas dinner table always showcased three kinds of ham. One was a

big sugar-cured ham, tender, pink and sweet. Then, there was a big platter of fried country ham. The third ham was an old country ham that had been boiled. It was prepared to perfection. It had a deep, rich wine-red color to it. And the fat was creamy yellow in color. And salty!?! Who wee! If you ate much of that ham, your tongue would be raw. And you would have to spend the rest of the day around the watering hole trying to quench your thirst.

But that ham was fantastic! A piece of it would flavor everything else you had on your plate. Never was a common biscuit so honored as to have a piece of that ham laid between it. It makes me thirsty just to think about it.

One of my favorite restaurants is the Log Cabin Pancake House in Gatlinburg, Tn. Once or twice a year, I visit there for breakfast. When I do, I order country ham and eggs. It is real country ham, center-sliced. That piece of ham is so big it hangs off each side of the plate. It takes no small amount of resolve to eat a whole center slice of real country ham. So far, I’ve always been up to the task. When I am finished, my plate is clean and the little bowl that held the red-eyed gravy is empty. The only thing left is the round ham bone. And I chew the last remnants of ham off it.        

When I was growing up, my mother would often say, “Moderation in all

things.” In my humble opinion, a center slice of real country ham twice a year is not going to hurt anybody.

And it won’t hurt you either. Makes you hungry just thinking about it, doesn’t it? If you, by chance, aren’t living out in the “country,” it will take you back there.

Copyright 2022 by Jack McCall

Thoughts for this Time of Year

Sometimes you come upon fresh ideas in the most unusual places.

Our family - all 16 of us - enjoyed fall break in Destin, FL. a couple of weeks back. We stayed in a three-story beach house – the same house we stayed in the year before. Sixteen human beings in the same house for a week can present all kinds of challenges.

I recall a little girl’s letter in a book titled Letters to God. She wrote:

Dear God,

 “I know you love all people, everywhere, all the time. There are only four in my family, and sometimes, I just can’t do it.”

Love,

Maggie

Well, we had a splendid time! Except for an occasional cry from one of the little folks, (I explained to them one cannot cry on vacation which dried up tears rather quickly.) Things could not have gone any better.

I was pleased to be re-introduced to a decorative wall treatment in the bedroom my wife, Kathy, and I occupied. It bore the thoughts of the late NCAA men’s basketball coach, Jim Valvano. Valvano coached North Carolina State University to a NCAA Division I National Championship in 1983. His reaction to the last-minute heroics in the finals of that national championship game, as he franticly searched for someone to hug, is the stuff of legends.

But Valvano became most famous for his valiant fight against cancer (adenocarcinoma) which resulted in his death in 1993 at age 47. Known by his peers as “Jimmy V,” he was founder of the “V” Foundation, which since its inception has raised millions and millions of dollars for cancer research.

In his acceptance speech for the Arthur Ashe Courage and Humanitarian Award, two months before his death, Valvano described what he considered to be a “full day,” – a day in which you do three things - laugh, think, and cry.

Laugh. Yet frankly, I think, we as modern Americans, laugh far too infrequently. Not only do we take ourselves too seriously, we tend to take everything too seriously. Life can be a grind, and it can grind you into powder. A healthy sense of humor can go a long way in taking some of the grind out of the grind. We could all lighten up a bit. And opportunities to laugh surround us all the time.  

One night, during our fall vacation, I suggested our boys and their wives have a night away from the kids. Unfortunately, I failed to mention my plan to my wife, Kathy, so, she went with them. That left me at the vacation house with 7 of our grandchildren. I have found when things get really quiet - too quiet - something is usually going on. Time to investigate.

I found the three boys, ages 7,7, and 6, sitting on a bunkbed, their backs against the wall, like birds on a wire; their full attention on an iPad held by the middle bird.

“Are you boys watching something that’s good for you?” I asked.

“Yes, sir!” came their answer in unison.

As I turned to leave the room, satisfied I had monitored the situation properly, one boy piped up, “Can we watch one thing that is inappropriate?”

 “Absolutely not!” I fired in as serious a voice as I could muster.             

Now that was funny! (I waited until I was well out into the hall before I laughed.)

You’ve heard it said, “He who laughs last, laughs loudest.” Sales motivator, Zig Ziglar, used to say, “He who laughs, lasts!” It is important to laugh every time you have the opportunity.

Think. Ralph Waldo Emerson said the hardest work in all the world is thinking. It is hard not to follow the herd. We are inundated with so much information and misinformation today which, as C.S. Lewis observed, “rushes at us like a bunch of wild animals.” Living well calls for clear thinking.

Cry. There is so much sadness in the world. It is important to allow life to “touch” you. Indeed, we are all in this thing together. It is easy to play it safe and insulate ourselves from the pain of life. And you can do that, but as Lewis said, when we do, “we pass into a seasonless world where we laugh, but not with all our laughter, and cry, but not with all our tears.”

I think Jim Valvano was right. On a day you laugh, think, and cry - now, that’s a “full day.”      

Copyright 2022 by Jack McCall

Thanksgiving A Time for Reflection

Every year as Thanksgiving Day rolls around I spend quite a bit of time in reflection. And I mostly think about the people I have known throughout the years. In real estate they say the three most important things are location, location, location. In life I think the three most important things are relationships, relationships, relationships.

I have known some wonderful people in my time. Many of them are dead and gone now. But they still exert a powerful influence on my life. I could name names, but that might get me in trouble.

Many of the men I have admired most were men of the country church I attended as boy. One in particular use to repeat this line each time he prayed: “And Lord, I would not fail to thank you for that day down in the old cow lot when you spoke peace to my troubled soul.” Now, those words will stick with you!

 Most of them were men who lived quiet lives, taking the good and bad as it came without boasting or complaining. They loved their families and their God, and left the world in better shape than they found it. I think of them often, and just as often, I offer a prayer of thanks that I had the privilege of knowing them.

And, at this time of year, I think often of my most influential teachers, especially the ones who challenged me. I am grateful for their guidance and influence.

And along the way, I, like many of my readers, have had some wonderful mentors. “Mentor,” as defined by Webster is “a wise adviser; a trusted teacher and counselor.” It seems at different junctures in my life the right person has shown up at exactly the right time to help me along the way. Their showing up has always had a sense of mystery about it – not easily explained, but deeply appreciated. I am thankful for my mentors. Each will receive a call from me in the next few days.

I will spend some time this week thinking of my late father and my late mother. I am one of those fortunate sons who can say my father was the best man I have ever known. My father lived, what you might call, an un-hurried life. One of his brothers affectionately nicknamed him “Lightning.” My father loved the land. He was a solid as a rock. I miss his bashful smile.

My mother, on the other hand, was one of the most intelligent persons I have ever known. And she was as tough as nails. (Until her grandchildren came along.) =) She had a memory like a steel trap. I wish you could have known her. She’s been gone these nine years. I think of a question I need to ask her almost every day.

I declare. I think my parents’ lives have had a greater influence on me since they’ve been gone that when they were still here - just another one of life’s strange twists.

You can bet I will stop and give thanks for them, and many precious memories this Thanksgiving.

And friends. What would we do, and where would we be without our friends? As my friend and business motivational speaker Jim Rohn says, “If I were wrongly accused and stuck in a Mexican jail, I have a few friends who would come and get me. It wouldn’t matter the day or hour. They would come. They would spend any amount of money and do whatever it took to get me out.” Now that’s a friend. I have a few friends like that. If you do, be thankful.

Speaking of friends, “There is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother.” If you have such a friend, “Be thankful unto Him and bless His name.”

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours!

Copyright by Jack McCall 2022

The Holidays

With the Holiday Season upon us, I have been thinking of how to get the most out of this special time of the year. It has been estimated that we Americans just spent 8 billion dollars on Halloween. That’s right - $8 billion. And it was over in a night.

Now we are headed headlong toward Thanksgiving. Christmas will be here “before you know it.” Sometimes I find the “speed’ of life a bit unsettling. I am not alone.

So, here are a few suggestions to help you get the most out of the days immediately ahead.

Be thankful. Start early. Don’t wait until Thanksgiving Day to count your blessings. I have long suggested a little exercise that works wonders. Take a sheet of paper and write down the 25 things for which you are most grateful. That’s right, twenty-five. Take your time. Writing things down will force you to focus…and think. If you really want to “walk where angels trod,” (take your thinking to a higher level) make a new list of 25 every day for the next 30 days.

Here’s what will happen: After a day or two, your top ten things (maybe up to 15) will fall right into place. As you work your way down your list, you will begin to look for new things to add. This will make you become more aware of all that surrounds you. You will begin to look for things for which you are thankful.

Sales motivational speaker, Zig Ziglar, used to say, in his patented southern drawl, “People find fault like there’s a reward for it.”  Don’t let that be you! Look for the good and be thankful.

Be generous. The Good Book says when you give, do it secretly, and “don’t let your left hand know what your right hand is doing.” Think of creative ways to help someone. The Nashville Rescue Mission does a great work. You can provide a meal for less than $2.50. Mail a check. When you see a need this Holiday Season, fill it. Be generous.

Be thoughtful. Now that all the ugly political ads are behind us (at least for the time being), let’s concentrate of all that unites us instead of what divides us. We all could use a long drink from “the milk of human kindness.” The late Glen Campbell once sang, “And if you try a little kindness, you’ll overlook the blindness of the narrow minded people on the narrow minded street.” Be thoughtful.

Be aware. The ancient scriptures warn, “Be sober, be vigilant,” translated, “Be on guard,be watchful.” Why? Because of the adversary. We warn our children and grandchildren all the time, “Be careful.”

In years gone by when I would share with my late mother some of the trials and tribulations we were going through with our teenage boys, she would counsel, “Son, it’s a dangerous world out there.” And so, it is.

There are so many things that attempt to rob us of the joys of the Holiday Season. The increasing intrusion of technology into our lives, the rush to shop, busy schedules, and financial pressures, to name a few. We are busy, busy, busy. It requires quiet minds and hearts to be truly thankful; and to fully experience the hallowedness of “Silent Night, Holy Night.” Be aware.

Be patient. We are about to enter the season of long lines and traffic snarls. Remember the two rules: Rule #1 – “Don’t sweat the small stuff.” Rule #2 – “Everything is small stuff.” Well, maybe.

If it won’t matter 100 years from now, it probably doesn’t matter. As a friend of mine says from time to time, “The main thing is to make sure the main thing is the main thing.”

So, if you find yourself being overwhelmed in the days ahead, be reminded “This too shall pass.” Be patient.

And finally, be happy! Abraham Lincoln quipped, “Most people are about as happy as they make up their mind to be.” Make up your mind and be happy.

The best is yet to come.

Copyright  2022 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 pretty 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 of time. It seems as though 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 homeowners 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-sleeve 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 a time or two.  Both my younger brothers eventually wore that shirt. 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 2022 by Jack McCall