A “Can Do” Attitude

My maternal grandmother, Lena Bradford Brim, was valedictorian of Gordonsville High School, Class of 1916. My mother, her only daughter, was valedictorian of Carthage High School, Class of 1941. Her name was Mary Helen Brim McCall. You might say there were some very intelligent people in my pedigree. Unfortunately, my brothers, my sister, and I fell victim to a concept called “generation skipping.” (Maybe I should be speaking for myself.) But all of our children (the next generation) seem to be adequate in the intelligence department.

I read a marvelous book entitled, Emotional Intelligence a few years back. It was most enlightening. It only served to confirm much of what I had already come to believe – That a healthy mental attitude has as much (or more) to do with success in life as level of intelligence.

When I was a small boy, spending weeks at a time, with my maternal grandparents in The Brim Hollow, I would often answer my grandmother, Lena, in the negative by saying, “Naw!”

“Naw?!?” she would say. “Rats gnaw!”

I soon got the point.

Or, sometimes, when she asked me to meet a task, or fulfill a command, I would answer, “I can’t!”    

“I can’t?” she would scold. “Can’t never did do anything!”

I suppose most of my generation grew up with the story of The Little Red Engine That Could. You remember, “I think I can, I think I can.”

It seems to me we are fast becoming a society filled with excuse makers. People are prone to find more reasons not to try than reasons to try. As someone has said, “If you never try, you will never know.”

I have a wonderful friend. His name is Johnnie Godwin. He is the youngest 86- year-old I have ever known. If ever there was a man with a “can do” attitude, he is the man. When his company “downsized” many years ago, and showed him the door, he never missed a beat. As a matter of fact, he went on to write a book titled, Retirement, Life’s Best Chapter. He later revised the title, but the message was still the same – when life gives you a lemon, you can sour, or you can make lemonade.

Well after his retirement, when a new iPhone came out, Johnnie would hire (on a private basis) the most capable “techy” he could find in the IT department at Best Buy to train him on how to get the most out of his new device. None of this “I can’t keep up with all this new technology” for him.

A few years back Captain D’s, the seafood restaurant, rolled out a new promotion called “We Can Do That!” It was like unto the old Burger King theme, “Have it your way.” According to the promotion, Captain D’s offered great flexibility in filling orders from its menu.

Johnnie was eating in Captain D’s one day and was admiring the promotional material strategically located on his table. It was one of those tri-angle shaped displays. And written thereon, in bold italic, were the words, “We Can Do That!”

My friend, Johnnie Godwin, ever the entrepreneur, thought one of those displays would work well as a prop in a sermon or public speech, so he asked his waitress if he might have one when the promotion came to an end. She told him she would have to ask the manager.

The manager came, and Johnnie made his request, and this is what the manager said: “We can’t do that!”

Maybe we all should take a lesson once again from the Little Red Engine.

You can, if you think you can.           

Or maybe a greater lesson from Paul, the Apostle.

“I can do all things through Christ which strengthens me.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

Dogwoods

The dogwoods are blooming in The Brim Hollow. I knew they would be. I had to go see them. A misty morning met me a few days back as I headed to the place I love dearly. Over the years, I have gone back many times. In more recent years most of my trips have taken place in my mind. I can be there in a minute.

On this day I winced as I thought I might not see the sun, but I knew I would be welcomed by the dogwoods, come rain or shine.

No one has lived in The Brim Hollow since the spring of ’64. It would be a lonely, forlorn place except for the memories. Each time I visit there, the old hollow comes back alive.

And so, it was on this day. As I strolled up the shady lane that leads into the hollow, I was met by a cooling breeze funneled by the hills rising to my left and to my right. It was a familiar breeze - one I have encountered many times. I stopped for a moment to drink it in - afraid I might miss the hollow speaking to me.

Just ahead I got my first glimpse of the dogwoods. High among tall, grey tree trunks a few scattered blooms on skinny branches appeared to be reaching for the sky. Some flowers shout, “Here I am!”  These dainty blossoms seemed to whisper with a bashful shyness. I paused to admire their delicate beauty. There was more to come.

 These are wild dogwoods – unlike the ones you see in yards and parks. Void of any kind of symmetry most “snake” their way upward under a canopy of hardwood trees; sometimes creating two and three levels of blossoms. On this day they were magnificent!

And then, I saw another. Standing against a backdrop of evergreen trees, this one showcased a thousand blossoms. I will look for it again in years to come.

As I ventured deeper into the hollow, dogwoods seemed to be everywhere – high on the hills, and places where I had never seen them before. Suddenly, I was caught up in a sense of wonder. That’s when the hollow came alive, and I began to recall things from years gone by.

Beyond the henhouse I remembered hens running headlong for the safety of the tree line when the shadow of a red-tailed hawk came gliding across the open ground.

The old feed barn no longer smells of mules, but the very thought of it made my nose burn.

And after 60 years I can still remember the light in my grandfather’s eyes, and the smell of his flannel shirts, and the feel of his whiskered old beard; and my grandmother’s - made from scratch – chicken pot pie, and her crabapple jelly, and little biscuits.

The dogwoods are blooming in The Brim Hollow, another testament to the Resurrection. Lord willing, I will see them again before my time is through.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

Things I Can’t Get Used To

My 8th Grade English teacher, Mrs. West, would never have stood for my ending a sentence with a preposition. She certainly would have been opposed to ending a title in like manner. But desperate situations call for desperate measures.

I have always considered myself an optimist. I have come to learn there are two qualities necessary for doing well in a changing world. One is flexibility, the other is imagination. So, you might say I have learned to “roll with the punches.”  But, even with my best effort, there are some things I just can’t get used to.

I can’t get used to all the automobile insurance advertisements on television. Whether it is Progressive, Geico, Allstate, or, even, State Farm. I’ve had enough. I had a hard time enjoying the NCAA Basketball Tournament this year because of all the insurance commercials. They just go on and on. Maybe all the foolishness their marketing companies come up with appeals to the younger generation, but it’s not for me. I can’t get used to it.

I can’t get used to pressing the brake and pushing a button to start an automobile. I was first introduced to the push button jobs when I rented cars in my speaking travels a few years back. I must admit I had considerable difficulty getting out of a few rental car garages until I finally got the hang of it.

Just the other day I was discussing this very subject with a gentleman when he remarked, “I can’t get used to turning a knob to put my wife’s car in ‘drive.’ One day I turned the wrong knob and the radio came on!” See what I mean? The day is fast approaching when a skilled “shade tree” mechanic will no longer be able to repair these modern contraptions.

And here’s something else I can’t get used to. When I say “thank you” to a member of the younger generation, and they answer, “no problem!” No problem? Of course, I probably would have been disinclined to say, “thank you” if there was a problem. How about, “you’re welcome?” That works much better for me.

And here’s a biggie. I can’t get used to being directed to a website when I call any corporation seeking to have a problem resolved. I recently contacted a wireless provider, which shall remain nameless, with an insurance claim. Of course, I was directed to their website, “in order to have my claim processed more quickly.” I have visited that website (and two others) over a dozen times since March 17. Occasionally, I was offered a number to call for “immediate help” only to be directed to a website for “faster” service. It’s a “run around” I can’t get used to.

I can’t get used to the “you deserve” mentality that is being fostered in these United States these days. You see and hear it everywhere. Maybe it began with McDonald’s many years ago. You might remember the jingle, “You deserve a break today, so, get out and get away…to McDonald’s.” You see in all areas of life. “You deserve health insurance. It is your right.” “You deserve to have a cell phone.”  “You deserve a free lunch.” “You deserve to drive a Lexus!”

Come to think about it, when my time is finished on this planet, I will be happy not to get what I deserve.

My late father used to say, “You can get used to anything except a gravel in your shoe.” I am find myself having to re-think that.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

The 4-H Chick Chain

My granddaughters and I have participated in the 4-H Chick Chain for the past few years. Having been away from starting and growing chickens for several decades, it took me a while to get up to speed. After a few tries we figured out what worked and what didn’t work. Last year, granddaughter, Jane, had reserve champion pen at the annual Trousdale County Chick Chain show and sale. Thanks to generous sponsors, she received over $100 in prize money.

After the show I teasingly asked her to split the winnings with me. She refused.

“Jane,” I said, as I chided her. “I don’t understand. I paid the entrance fee, I paid for all the feed, I helped take care of the chickens, and you get all the ribbons and all the prize money! That doesn’t seem fair!”

Her response was quick and cool.

“Daddy Jack, life is not fair!” Out of the mouths of babes!

Of course, under the same game rules, she suggested we participate in the Chick Chain again this year. So, in early March, I contacted Terry Toney at the Trousdale County UT Extension office to sign up again. Unfortunately, I had missed the deadline. The best I could do was ask to be placed on a waiting list. Weeks passed and I found I was third on the waiting list. The prospects for growing chickens in 2023 seemed dim. Actually, I didn’t check to see when the chicks were arriving because my chances appeared so slim.

Well, the chicks did arrive at the local Farmer’s Coop on a Monday. And on that Monday afternoon I received a call.

The voice of the other end of the line went something like this: “Mr. McCall, can you come and pick up your chicks? We had a few cancelations, and you are in!” I tried not to panic.

“How many?” I asked.

“I’m not sure, but I know you probably won’t get any of the Easter egg chicks,” came the response.

“Not a problem,” I said. (I really don’t care for the blue-eggers.) “When can I pick them up?’

“Any time before 4:30,” came the reply.

So, there I was, totally unprepared to take a passel of peepers under my wing. (No pun intended.)  I frantically began to think of feeders, and waterers, and heat lamps.

“And where on earth can I lodge them on the first night?” I wondered. All this was complicated by the fact we were facing the three coldest nights of late spring. I thought of taking them to the feed room in our barn where I normally started our chicks, but the severe cold presented too much of a risk. If the heat lamp happened to malfunction all would be lost.

I decided to let them spend their first night in the storage room/pantry attached to our carport. I didn’t tell my wife, Kathy, but I dropped enough hints so she would not be taken completely surprise. (Desperate situations call for desperate measures.)

Arriving at the Coop at 4:15, I was eager to inspect my brood. A friendly Coop employee informed me “the chicks in the box belong to someone else. All the rest are yours.” Mine were scattered in a large, aluminum water trough – all 18 of them!

Over the next few days I upgraded their living quarters from one rubberized storage bin to another. After the cold weather passed, I moved my little army to the safety of the feed room; and the spacious confines of a large Rubbermaid water trough. I do believe two or three are already trying to fly.

So, Jane and I are back in the laying business.

Life may not always be fair.  But as Fess Parker said in the movie, Old Yellar, “some of it (life) is mighty fine.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall           

First Annual Tobacco Stripping Festival

Ok, so, I have this great idea. You might recall in a recent column I addressed how tobacco stripping used to be. It led me to thinking about growing a half-acre of tobacco this crop year. Well, I’m not thinking about me growing it. I will either have to sub-contract it, or entice a former tobacco grower to buy into my plan. A half-acre would yield approximately 500 sticks of burley tobacco which would work nicely into my plan. It would have to be a collaborative effort.

When I manage to recruit a sufficient number of volunteers, the workload could be spread out so as not to overwork anyone. Barn space would not be an issue as there are plenty of empty tobacco barns in the immediate area. Of course, the entire project would be a labor of love, for soon all will be gone who remember “how it used to be.”

Once the tobacco is cured, the stage will be set for the First Annual Tobacco Stripping Festival. I envision folks coming from miles around just for the privilege of standing at a tobacco stripping table and tying a few hands. I have even considered charging a fee based on time spent at the table, or number of hands tied. (Of course, all monies would go to charity.) If the festival falls on a Saturday, I would seek to find a recording of the late John Ward announcing a University of Tennessee football game. Many a tobacco stripping Saturday was made more pleasant, or even shorted, by John Ward who had a magical way of transporting you from the tobacco barn to Neyland Stadium and Shield-Watkins Field.

And 500 sticks of tobacco would yield a “basket” of tobacco which would require the sticks of handed tobacco to be “booked” down – a great learning experience for the younger crowd.

I can see it now! The nostalgia would be intoxicating!

And while I’m at it, I suppose I should plant a half-acre of corn (or sub-lease it.) No one “gathers” or picks corn by hand anymore. Now that’s an experience that should not be lost to the past. Today, modern combines pick the corn, shuck it, and shell it. The day may come when the combines even spit out Kellogg’s corn flakes!

A young person should be afforded the experience of twisting dried ears of corn from the stalk, and then, shucking bright orange ears of corn. (And the experience of knowing what chapped hands feel like.) Come to think of it, I might have a wooden box constructed for the purpose of shelling corn. I will have to track hold a hand-cranked corn sheller. Youngsters might pay a small fee at the next county fair for the chance to shell a few ears of corn.

You might ask, “Why would you think of going to all the effort to do these things?” My answer is simple. Because important pieces of our past are slowly slipping away.

I have never been one to live in the past. But I think it important to remember from where we have come – to remember that which has contributed to the fabric of our lives. I think it keeps us “grounded.”

I am convinced staying in touch with the best of our past gives us courage to face the uncertainties of the future. And if the memories of stripping tobacco with family and friends, and gathering and shucking and shelling corn by hand does the trick, so be it.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall 

Breakfast with my Grandfathers

My grandfathers were most unusual men. As you have heard people say, “different as daylight and dark.”

My maternal grandfather, Will Herod Brim, was just shy of being a recluse. He spent most of his life in the Brim Hollow. My mother, his only daughter, told that he was never gainfully employed after his father died. He rented out his tobacco base, had a few goats and sheep, and lived off the land. In the twelve years I knew him, he allowed me to see into a world a generation before.

The house he lived in had no running water. Electricity was limited to drop cords in the center of two rooms. Air conditioning amounted to opening a window and hoping for a breeze. In the winter, the house was heated by a large, open fireplace, and a wood burning, cook stove in the kitchen. His meals were as simple as his surroundings.

He ate two hard-boiled eggs at every meal - three times a day, 365 days a year. The routine never varied. He would chop up the still warm eggs with a fork, add a pat of hand-churned butter and a dab of salad dressing, salt and pepper to taste, and combine thoroughly with his fork. He preferred white bread toast cooked to a crisp with his eggs, but relied on saltine crackers from time to time. Occasionally, he would enjoy a piece of fried side meat or fresh tenderloin, but he mostly stuck with his eggs. In the summer, when speckled butter beans came in, and my grandmother seasoned them to perfection, and cooked them to a dull, grey; he would add them to his plate - but always with his eggs.

He sat at a table he had built himself. My mother said the wood from which it was built cost 75 cents. The tabletop was constructed of rough-cut poplar boards and covered with red and white checked oil cloth. The chairs that surrounded the table were of the straight-back, cane-bottom variety.

My paternal grandfather, D.T. McCall was just as unusual, but in a different way. If ever there was a “natural-born salesman” he was one. He loved people and he loved the sales game. He showcased a “can do” attitude years before the phrase was popularized by modern sales motivators. D.T. McCall wore a shirt and tie to work every workday, and his day started at the feed barn. He had no taste in clothes, sometimes wearing a plaid shirt with a plaid tie, with a plaid sport coat. In the middle Tennessee area, his flat-topped, straw hat was legendary. He brought the same flair to the breakfast table.    

“Pa Dave,” as we called him, believed in a big, hardy breakfast. I can never recall his eating lunch. Unlike the kitchen in the Brim Hollow, my “Granny Amy’s” kitchen featured the modern conveniences of her day. She served up poached and sunny-side-up eggs for my grandfather’s breakfast. He liked sausage, bacon, as well as country ham. Toast and biscuits were the order of the day. But the finale to his breakfast each morning I shall never forget. After he has finished his main course, he would fill his plate with All Bran. (I think it was of the Kellogg’s variety.) When I say “fill his plate,” I mean, at least a cupful. That’s a lot of bran. It looked like a haystack in his plate. Speaking of hay, I would rather have tried to eat a block of fescue hay! It got worse.

Then he would take whatever liquid was left on the table and pour it in the top of his pile of bran. I’ve seen it all - coffee, honey, orange juice. Occasionally, I think for effect, he would pour the runny yoke of a poached egg over the bran. It was nothing short of disgusting.

It may have scarred me for life.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

More Pocketknife Rescues

In my last column I wrote of my successful efforts to save pocketknives at security checkpoints in airports and at concert events. I suppose almost anyone who “carries” a pocket knife has been faced with similar dilemmas at one time or another. The reason being a pocketknife becomes a part of the contents of your pocket that is almost “forgotten” until called upon.

Friend, Steve Ellis, tells of how while serving the military in Vietnam he was the only one among his buddies who carried a pocketknife. Said Steve, “You would not believe how many times my buddies asked to borrow my knife! When orders came for me to go home, I left my pocket knife with one of my friends so they would have one to borrow.”  

In the world where I grew up, a pocketknife was almost indispensable – “handy as a pocket on a shirt.” And it seems every knife has an attachment to someone – a memory of a grandfather -a gift from a friend – a link to the past. So, a pocket knife is worth rescuing from time to time.

Which brings me to a Paul McCartney concert at Thompson-Boling Arena on the University of Tennessee campus in Knoxville, TN. That evening I just happened to be carrying a 4-blade, Case XX given to me by a young friend on the day of his wedding – a special gift.

As I approached the security checkpoint, I began to empty my pockets to find, to my dismay, the Case XX. No turning back here - I was a long way from my parked car. The two security guards, both women, were right in front of me. The woman nearest me I determined, by her age and general appearance, to be a person of wisdom and good judgment.

I extended my arm and opened my right hand to show her my knife, and with pleading eyes, I whispered, “What do I do?”

She glanced cautiously to her right and then to her left, and said, “You put it (the knife) in this basket. I will slide it down the table. When you walk through there, pointing to the metal detecting doorway, you  grab the knife and run like #@!%$*^!” I try to write clean column, so I won’t use her exact word, but it’s a place no one wants to go. I did exactly as she directed except for the running part. I did, however, walk away briskly after emptying the basket.

It was a great concert. As I was leaving the arena that night, I was pleased to see the woman who had done me a favor. She was seated with another security guard at the exit doorway. As I walked by, I leaned toward her and, out of the corner of my mouth, I whispered, “thanks for saving my knife.” She didn’t blink. She looked straight ahead with an expressionless face; and with no feeling in her voice, she said, “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

I chuckled as I walked away. “There are still a few people around who have some common sense,” I thought.

A couple of weekends ago, I had to fly to Chicago. Sure enough, when I arrived at airport security in Nashville, I found a pocket knife in my pocket. This time it was a little slender Case called a “toothpick” given to me by one of my sons - another special knife. I couldn’t see giving it up, so I decided to take a chance, It being a tiny knife, I slipped it under my cell phone in my backpack. It passed through security “slicker than a peeled onion.”

Being one who is not inclined to tempt fate, I made arrangements to mail the “toothpick” back home, and not hazard another attempt to get it through security, especially in Chicago. Two weeks later the knife found its way home. The postal service had even placed my envelop inside another, larger “window” envelop to see that the contents arrived safely – a nice touch by the USPS.

So, here’s to all you pocketknife “carryin’”, pocketknife “totin’” folks who value a good pocket knife. They are worth rescuing from time to time, you know. I know the metal in them is not like it used to be, but stainless steel is not so bad.

Speaking of metal, the best “pull” tobacco knife we ever used had a blade fashioned from a piece of fender from a T-Model Ford. It would hold an edge like the pocketknives of old.

As the old timers were oft to say, “They just don’t make metal like they used to.”

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall        

To Save a Pocketknife

I suppose every kid who grew up on a farm came to appreciate the value of a pocketknife. My deep respect for the bladed treasures began with my maternal grandfather, Will Herod Brim. Known in the Riddleton Community of Middle Tennessee as “Mr. Herod” or “John Reuben,”(We called him “Pa Rube.”) he was a pocket  knife “expert.” Long before I came to know him he had perfected the skill of “whittling.” He could roll curled shavings off a good piece of red cedar with the best of them. Fellow whittlers were known to pay him the handsome sum of fifty cents to hone a razor sharp edge on their knives. Herod Brim had a collection of pocket knives and “whet” rocks which he maintained with the greatest of care. When he returned a newly sharpened knife to its owner he would show off his work by shaving the hair off his arm with a blade now “a sharp as a briar.”

When he died, he left me a two-bladed Case, known to some as “an Eisenhower.”  

My love of pocketknives only increased while I was growing up on the farm. When it comes to farm work, you might describe them as “indispensable” – “handy as a pocket on a shirt.” So, it is little wonder I have “carried” or “toted” one for most of my life.

In the 1990’s and the first 20 years of the 21st century I spent more than my share of time in airports. And all too often, I would find a knife in my pocket as I prepared to go through airport security. (They confiscate pocket knives in airports.) In those days, you could walk down to a travel agency by the name of Wright Travel, give them your mailing address and ten bucks, and they would, as a courtesy, mail your knife back home. Eventually, the price increased to fifteen dollars.

In later years, I chose to purchase a house brand of pocketknife at Smoky Mountain Knife Works called a “Rough Rider” for the meager sum of $9. If I got caught with a pocket knife in the airport, I let them have it. I simply considered it my contribution to the Federal Government’s crime fighting efforts.

Which brings me to an evening at the World-Famous Ryman Auditorium in Nashville, Tennessee. Years before I had given my older brother, Tom, a slick, little, yellow, Rough Rider one-blader. (I didn’t tell him how little it cost.) Being more like my aforementioned grandfather than my other brothers and me, he had carried it as his pocket knife of choice for several years, and had told me from time to time how much he liked it.

That night, Tom and his wife, Patsy, had accompanied Kathy and me to the Ryman. As we approached the front door and security check point, Tom revealed the contents of his pocket to find the pocket knife I had given him.

He froze in his tracks.

“Jack, what am I going to do?” he stammered.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

“Give me the knife!” I whispered.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

I had already “cased” the place.

“See that row of shrubs,” I said, calmly. “Remember shrub number three from the left.”

“What are you going to do?” he said, his voice filled with grave concern.

“I’m going to hide this knife at the base of shrub number three. I’ll come back and get it after the concert.”

“What if somebody steals it,” he asked.

“Tom, I’m sure no one will be rummaging through the shrubs in the dark tonight.”

He seemed relieved.

It was a great concert - Ronnie Milsap performing his greatest hits.

At the end of the night, I found the yellow pocketknife, safe and sound, under shrub number three, and returned it to its rightful owner. Pa Rube would have been proud.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall