Gifts

I hardly watch the national news media on television anymore. Nightly news, regardless of the network, is so scripted it is almost unbearable. It is hardly news. Sensationalism seems to be the order of the day. Even the weather forecasters, if they can still be called such, are constantly using words like disastrous, severe, catastrophic, destructive, devastating, etc. As a weather front was moving across the southeast recently, a news commentator reported “putting at least ten million people at risk!” Really?

I am not quite sure how we arrived at a place where bad news sells. I suspect someone (or a group of some ones) somewhere is dictating how news is presented. On the other hand, negativism may have so infiltrated our society that most everyone has come to expect the worst. Whatever the case may be, here we are.

There is so much ugliness in the world. Don’t believe me? Check out any news source. (But don’t make it a habit.) School shootings, murder, lawlessness, subversion, the drug epidemic, suicide, child abuse - the list goes on and on. At this point you may be asking, what does that have to do with “gifts.” Everything.

So how do we counteract all that is wrong and out-of-whack in our world. I’m not sure I have the answers, but I am sure I have one of the answers.

I am convinced every person can bring life or death, light or darkness to most life situations. Take “words” for instance.

You’ve heard it said, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never harm me.” That saying is simply not true. Words can destroy. Sometimes a broken bone is much less serious than a broken spirit. If you should have the gift of encouragement, use it. Every person can use a kind word.

My father was blessed with the gift of mechanical skill. It bordered on genius. When it came to internal combustion engines, he was undaunted by any challenge. He would fearlessly attack any problem. His gift brought life to the day-to-day routine of running a farm. He accomplished his tasks as a man of few words.

My mother, on the other hand, was a talker. She had the gift of counsel. I’m not sure she realized it, as she was selfless in her approach.

That reminds me of a story told by Dr. Charlie Shedd. It seems there was this young girl named Susan who was hosting her birthday party with her friends. Party games were being played and cake and refreshments enjoyed by all. Suddenly, her friends began to chant, “Susan open your presents, open your presents!”

To which Susan replied, “I was having so much fun serving my friends, I forgot I was here!”  Life and light - some people make it look easy.

I know a person who is “a sender of cards.”  It is one of her gifts. I would tell you her name; but she is unaware it is a gift, and she wouldn’t want you to know. If, within her circle of influence, you are sick, or mourning the death of someone near and dear, or just having a hard time; you are going to receive a card. Her husband should have bought stock in Hallmark, American Greetings, and the U S Postal Service. Her effort is relentless, the flow of cards is continuous.

In the parable of the talents, one man received only one. But he hid his because “he was afraid.” Gifts are like talents, and everyone has at least one. Don’t be afraid to use yours.

Our world could use your light.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

Quality and Durability

Have you noticed how nothing seems to hold up or last like it used to? It covers the entire gambit from household appliances to underwear. In the case of appliances, repair costs seem to necessitate replacement rather than a repair. An example would be flat screen televisions. If one breaks down, it is simply more economical to discard it and start all over.

In the case of underwear, material keeps becoming cheaper and cheaper. And it is not limited to underwear. Shirts can be purchased these days that will shrink up to half their original size after the first washing.

Speaking of shirts, my late mother taught me a lot about buying shirts when I was just a boy. Back in the 50’s and 60’s our family swore by the Sear, Roebuck & Company. The “Sear- Roebuck” catalog was a fixture in our household.   

Every winter “Sears” featured a heavy duty, flannel shirt called “Field Master.” I recall the price being $7.95. After Christmas the shirts “went on sale” for $5.95. We stocked up! They lasted for many winters.

Thus began my appreciation for quality flannel. I know it will soon be summer, but I am a flannel shirt man. The last few cool mornings I have brought them out again. I’ve instructed my family, when my time comes, to bury me in a flannel shirt, jeans, and a pair of old boots. I figure if I’m going to have to lie there until the Lord returns, I might as well be comfortable.

Speaking of boots, have you noticed these new shoes everybody seems to be wearing these days? I’m not going to mention the brand (or brands) because I refuse to advertise them. They look like they are made of paper-machae! Comfortable? I’m sure. Will they last? Not a chance.

Back to the Sears-Roebuck catalog. After raising boys and having grandchildren, I am very familiar with “booster seats.” When my brothers, my sister and I needed a lift for “sitting up” at the table we were perched on a stack of Sears-Roebuck catalogs – three inches thick and never to be thrown away.   

Early in my work career, I was employed by the State of Tennessee in the Department of Agriculture. My job entailed grading feeder pigs and feeder cattle in livestock markets across the state. One of the feeder pig sales took place in Pulaski, TN. A key person in the feeder pig grading process was the pig “sizer.” That’s the person who sorted the pigs by weight before they were graded and weighed. In Pulaski, he was an old, black gentleman called “Old Folks.”  

Old Folks told of how things were “back in the day.”

“Why,” he’d say. “I remember when you could buy ‘dem heavy, denim shirts for 50 cents! And ‘overhauls’? They was jest a dollar. And they would wear like iron. You know, the denim in them overhauls was so stiff, you could stand ‘em in the corner!”

I remember that kind of denim. When you wore a new pair of blue jeans on the first day of school in the fall, they would chap your legs just behind your knees.

But alas, heavy denim jeans went out when stonewashed jeans came along. Seems the younger generation wanted jeans that appeared to have been worn when they hadn’t been worn at all.

When our eldest son, J. Brim, was a little boy, he hated green vegetables. As we sat at the supper table one evening, insisting he finish his portion of green peas, he began to cry.

As he shook his head back and forth, he said, through his tears, “They just don’t make mamas and daddies like they used to!”

Nor anything else, I suppose.

 Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

Pickup Trucks

I attended a Legislative conference in Gatlinburg, TN last week. It was a gathering of county road supervisors, county commissioners, and county mayors. The meeting was held at the Park Plaza Hotel high above Gatlinburg. The conference featured informative sessions and interesting speakers. I found networking with other mayors to be most beneficial.

I have never seen so many pickup trucks in one parking lot in my life. It got me to thinking about pickup trucks. When I left Gatlinburg, I had pickups on my mind. In three hours of driving, you see lots of pickup trucks, especially if pickups are your focus. Seems Chevrolets are especially popular these days.

My father was a GMC man. He purchased new GMC’s in ’48, ’58, and ’68. “Made in America” was his theme for most of his life.

The 1948 model was forest green in color and came equipped with a 4-speed floor shifter. First gear was a “granny low.” I declare. That truck could have pulled up stumps. It would pull a hay wagon loaded with 100 bales out of the river bottom and never break a sweat.

All three trucks arrived on our farm with a naked frame. My father preferred building custom truck beds. After the flatbed was constructed, he meticulously laid out a plan and built a “cattle rack.” The ’48 was green on green.

The 1958 model holds the most memories for me. By then we were a family of six. From 1959 until 1962 we all crammed into the cab of that truck on Sunday morning and on other family trips. My sister was born in1961 taking up another spot in the cab. My mother used to say we were “crammed in the truck like sardines.” (Of course, back then a can of sardines was packed tightly.) I recently opened a can of sardines to find two little fish that had plenty of room to swim around in the mustard sauce.   

 I learned how to drive a “straight shift” in the ’58, as did my three brothers. My father declared he replaced a clutch for each of us boys during our driver’s training in the hay fields. I can hear him now, as he shouted, “Stop riding the clutch!”

The ’58 was a 3-speed, on the column, and lacked the pulling power of the ’48. It was much lighter, built more for the road. It did well to make it out of the river bottom, loaded with 30 bales of hay. It was red in color, all the way around.

By 1968 my brother, Tom, was a junior at the University of Tennessee. When the models changed, my father bought the ’68. The cab was white - and you guessed it – the cattle rack was orange. I’ll bet we were the only farmers in the world who owned a ½ ton GMC pickup sporting a white cab and a custom built, orange truck bed. Power wise, that’68 wouldn’t pull the hat off your head.

My fondest memories of my father during those years saw him dressed in overalls, with the long sleeves of his shirt rolled up above his elbows. He wore high-top work shoes and what we called a “turtle shell hat.”

Several years after I had moved away and started my own family, I returned to visit the old homeplace one spring day. As I drove up the farm road which led to the house – a gravel road over which I had ridden in all those pickup trucks countless times – I saw him standing by his new pickup truck. It was a Toyota. He was wearing a baseball cap, a short-sleeved shirt, regular work pants, and Nike running shoes.

I could not help but thinking, “Wow, the world has changed!”

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall  

Singing

I sang in a choir Sunday. The production was months in the making. Th choral director, Robert B. Thurman, is a longtime friend. He and my wife Kathy share the same birthday, and the same middle name. He and I go back a long way. He and Kathy go back a longer way. They sang together in a youth group called Good News in the 60’s. Robert, and our late friend, Jere Sinquefield, and I sang together in a trio in the 80’s and 90’s. Because we sang a lot of Gatlin Brothers songs, we called ourselves the Gallatin Brothers. We could have settled for the name The Banker, The Dentist, and Me. Both were more talented than I. You might say I went along for the ride. I have never really enjoyed singing solo but put me in a trio or quartet or choir and I am right at home.

Sunday afternoon at First Presbyterian Church in Gallatin, TN brought a number of wonderful singers together. Many of us had sung together in community choruses throughout the years. It was great to be a part of folks coming together from many different churches and backgrounds to join in singing some of the great songs of the Church. A music ensemble of brass, woodwinds, and percussion enhanced the power of the choral arrangements. And the church was almost filled.

We sang The Star Spangled Banner, America The Beautiful, A Mighty Fortress is Our God, The Midnight Cry, Homeward Bound, and many other classics. Members of the congregation were lavish in their applause. There is no place I would rather have been. Sometimes we are afforded the privilege of being “seated together in heavenly places.”

But alas, the day had a bitter sweetness about it for me. This choral production was a part of Mr. Thurman’s “year of retirement.” His success through the years has been a result of his applied talent, determination, and a talent pool from which he easily drew. I fear there will not be another one like him to come along in our lifetime.

Congregations are aging which places congregational singing at great risk. High school choruses are becoming fewer and farther between. As a people, we are simply singing less.

Someone has said, “We do not sing because we are happy, we are happy because we sing.” Speaking of singing, there is nothing so uplifting as “hearing the rafters ring.” Some of my readers know of what I am writing here.

And singing goes right along with whistling. Have you, by chance, noticed hardly anyone whistles anymore? I am not talking about a loud,  piercing whistle to sound a warning or get attention. I am speaking of whistling a happy tune.

I am a whistler myself. I guess I come from a long line of whistlers. My grandfather, D.T. McCall, was an avowed whistler. As a boy, when I went looking for him at the feed barn, I would hear him before I laid eyes on him. He was always whistling. Family members would attest to the fact he whistled nothing specific. It was more of a little ditty – same tune, over and over again.

Not too long ago I found myself whistling a tune as I boarded a plane. The person in front of me turned and snarled, “What are in such a good mood about?” I was taken aback a bit. It took a few seconds to answer.

“Oh, sorry, sir,” I responded. “I’m not whistling because I’m in a good mood. I’m just working on one.”

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

A Trip

Last week my three brothers, my sister, and I took a trip. Our mission was to attend a funeral to the southeast. My GPS revealed a drive of 114 miles which would take 1 hour and 56 minutes. As we loaded up the extended cab pickup truck, I was relieved to find no one cried, “Shotgun!” or “I’m sitting by the door!” After all these years I suppose a few things have changed.

My sister Shari, and brothers, Tom and Dewey rode in the spacious backseat. After an hour’s drive I was prepared to hear someone complain, “Tell Tom to leave me alone!” or “Tell Shari not to touch me!” or “Dewey’s bothering me!” The complaints never came although I was fully prepared to bark from the driver’s seat, ‘’Don’t make me come back there!” or “Am I going to have to stop this truck?” or “This is the last time I’m taking y’all anywhere!” or “I’m leaving you at home the next time!” But, alas, not one cross word was spoken. Even, brother John, who was riding shotgun, and has been known to stir things up a bit, uttered nary “a discouraging word.”

After 4 hours and over 200 miles in defined space, dominated by pleasant conversation, I concluded we really liked each other.

As we laughed and talked and covered every subject under the sun, we shared a deep sense of gratitude for how we were “raised” (brought up.)

One of the true surprises of my growing older is how very much I enjoy my relationships with my siblings – after all these years. I did not anticipate it being such a blessing. And credit can only go to our father and our mother.

So, it turned out to be a great trip in spite of sad circumstances.

It took me back to the days of our first family vacation. I think it was the summer of 1962. As a family, we had never been outside of Smith County. A trip to the Great Smoky Mountains and Cherokee, NC was like going to the other side of the world. We left our baby sister with relatives, and picked up our cousin, Ray B. McCall, Jr. in Cookeville, TN, and we were on our way. The long drive was uneventful except for the time my father followed through on his threat to pull off on the side of the road if we didn’t settle down. You could have heard a pin drop when he lined up my brothers, Ray B. McCall, Jr., and me along side our station wagon, and headed for the tree line to cut a limb off a tree. I won’t say what happened next, but we didn’t breathe a word for the next 100 miles.

I’ve made many trips to faraway places in my time, but that trip stands out in my memory. We saw 17 bears in the mountains that summer, pitched a big, heavy tarpaulin tent in friendly campgrounds, and ate meals cooked over a campfire. One night my mother left a big, black iron skillet in which she had cooked meat and beans on the picnic table, and a big bear licked it clean. I know it was a big bear because my brother Dewey felt the bear rub the walls of the tent as he walked by. Dewey insisted on sleeping in the station wagon the next night.

Mother’s Day found us back at the farm on Sunday - my brothers, my sister, and me. Of course, there were nieces and nephews, children, and grandchildren.

I was reminded of what a young Hispanic father said to me in a Longhorn Steakhouse one evening when I complimented him on how patiently he worked with his young daughters.

“Oh, sir!” he said, “Family is everything!”

I think he was right.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall            

Memories

My Uncle Charles Hix passed away this past weekend. He was husband to my Aunt Mildred McCall. They met at Tennessee Tech (TPI back then.) Seems they were married forever. Charles Hix was a prince of a man. If I chose one word to describe him, it would be “steady.”

For many years he raised Shorthorn cattle at Sewanee Valley Farm in Cowan, TN. One year when I was a boy, I visited him and his family at the Tennessee State Fair cattle show. They were staying in a small camper on the fairgrounds. I was pleased to join them for breakfast. As we gathered around the table, he pulled out his Bible and read. Then, he blessed the food and his family. Those moments made a lasting impression. I left that day thinking, “If a man reads his Bible and prays at a cattle show, he must do it at home.”

I’m not big on sending Christmas cards, but over twenty years ago I started sending Thanksgiving cards. A Christmas card can easily be lost among many others, but a Thanksgiving card doesn’t have much competition. Uncle Charles and Aunt Mildred were always on my list. His wife of 60 years passed on 10 years ago. I know the last decade was lonely for him. But every Christmas since her death I have received a Christmas card from him with a simple message” “Love, Charles.” Some things are never to be forgotten.

I grew up attending a little country church. If you had such a privilege, you know the old songs of the church were sung over and over, and over again. When I say, “over and over,” I mean sometimes the Sunday School song leader would lead a song, and the church song leader, arriving late, would lead the same song! By the time I reached my young adult years, I had grown somewhat tired of all those songs - knew them all by heart. Little did I realize they were all being stored away, and one day they would re-visit me like old friends. Songs like Love Lifted Me, Standing on the Promises, How Great Thou Art, Amazing Grace, Victory in Jesus, Farther Along, I Love to Tell the Story, In the Sweet By and By, When We All Get to Heaven, Sweet Hour of Prayer, What a Lovely Name – the list seems inexhaustible. And that brings to mind another song, Count Your Blessings. And I often count those songs as one of mine.

At that little country church, we had a time called intermission between Sunday School and “preaching.” Intermission was a big deal. It was time for the men folks to catch up on the latest news and, of course, for the smokers to smoke. One man of whom I was especially fond smoked “roll-your-own” cigarettes. It is a fascinating thing to a small boy to watch a man “roll” a cigarette. A roll-your-own is tapered on both ends. And when a smoker lays one end on his lower lip it sticks there. And as he talks it won’t fall off! The other end just jumps up and down. That whole scene is etched in my memory.

I remember a pair of brown seersucker pants my father wore in the summertime. One Sunday during intermission, as I stood close to him, I decided to hook my arm around his knee. Then, I began to weave in and out between his legs. I could not have been older than 3 or 4 years old. As I continued my antics, I noticed the men standing around were grinning as they watched. One of them was my father!  I looked up suddenly to see a face I was not expecting. I had the wrong seersucker pants by the leg! I let go of him quicker than you could say Jack Robinson. Of course, hearty laughter followed. I can still see that man’s face as it towered above me.         

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

Shoes

I’ve always taken a special interest in the shoes I wear. I suppose it began in my fifth year when my mother purchased my first pair of “store bought” shoes. Chocolate brown in color with “wingtip” stitching in the toe, those Buster Brown high-tops were a thing of beauty. I wore them home. As I tucked the shoebox which held my old, hand-me-downs under my arm, my mother warned, “Jack, whatever you do, don’t wear your new shoes to the barn!”

 You can read how that story played out in my book, titled Snowflakes in Summer Time.

In the late summer of my 12th year, I observed my mother ordering new back-to-school shoes from Sears Roebuck & Co. for my brothers and me. The shoes were of the plain-toed, military type. The price - two pairs for $5. As I thumbed through the catalog, I saw a pair of shoes I liked much better. The price -$7.95.

“Order these for me,” I said to my mother. 

“They are too expensive,” she answered with furrowed brow. “I can put shoes on three of you boys for what they cost.”

“But those are the ones I want,” I countered.

She paused, then took a deep breath and said, “when it gets to where what I buy is not good enough for you, you can get a job, and buy your own shoes.”

I found a job and bought that pair of shoes. I have been buying my shoes ever since.

I was further influenced by something my grandfather Brim once told me. He said a man should wear a good hat, good shoes, and own a good suit of clothes. I own two Stetsons. I’ve always worn good shoes and boots, and I am most comfortable in a Hickey-Freeman.

Early in my career I discovered Johnston-Murphy Crown Aristocrat shoes. They are well-built, top-of-the-line. And they were and are expensive. The last time I checked the price was $295. However, in those days they could be found, pre-owned, at French’s Shoes and Boots in Crossville, TN. and Abe’s Shoe Repair in Nashville, TN. Over the years, I purchased several pairs for under $50. Some of them I have had resoled two or three times. It takes good leather to hold a shine.

Speaking of shoeshines, through the years I have learned from the best. I have spent more time in airports than I would like to admit. But an airport is a great place to grab a shoeshine. Sometimes when I was experiencing a long layover, I would stop to have my shoes rejuvenated, and sometimes I would simply reward myself for a hard day’s work by watching an expert apply his craft. Like I said, I have learned from the best.

The best clean shoes with saddle soap before polishing. I have found a toothbrush to be indispensable when doing so. And the shoe polish they use? Most use Lincoln Stain Wax Shoe Polish - expensive, but it is the best I have found.

Many years ago, I read a great book titled Dress for Success. The writer cautioned “never wear brown shoes with a dark suit.” Well, that flew out the window some time ago. I have never seen so many brown shoes worn with dark suits. It’s just not right!

I see so many young professionals today (mostly men, but some women) dressed in expensive suits and their shoes look like they kicked rocks all their way to work. Maybe it’s just me, but I find myself shaking my head.

Speaking of shoes, my friend, the late Jimmy West, used to say, “People have more fun than anybody, except mules. They sleep with their shoes on.”

  Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall            

Cockleburs

Ok, I will confess. This past fall I allowed the cockleburs to take over my farm. I did not see it coming, but nevertheless, it happened.

For the purpose of clarity, let me simply say we call cockleburs “cuckleburs” where I come from – “cuckle” as in “chuckle” – “cucklebur.”

By definition, Xanthium (cocklebur) is a genius of flowering plant in the tribe Heliantheae within the family Asteraceae, native to the Americas and eastern Asia and parts of south Asia. Bet you didn’t know that.

My cocklebur invasion was only exacerbated (I hate using big words.) by the fact that I have three mules abiding on my spread (farm/Pondarosa.) I’m here to tell you, mules are cocklebur magnets. By early winter, my mules had cuckleburs in their tails, on their legs, on their bellies, on their backs, in their manes and between their ears. There were so many in their tales they walked around with their tails raised. I assumed that was to keep the prickly passengers from poking their posteriors. Their tails were so heavy they were unswishable.

Let me tell you about my mules which were forced to endure cucklebur purgatory.

“Tater Tot” is a retired Grand Canyon Mule. You gotta love a mule named Tater Tot. Sometimes I am tempted to call him “Tater,” but that just wouldn’t be right. I can’t imagine a mule named “Tater.” Out in the Grand Canyon, I have ridden mules named “Budreau,” “HooDoo,” “Skidmark,” “Mutton,” “Gizmo,” “Junky,” “Lucy,” “Little Jed,” and “Mister” among others, but never a “Tater.”  Last year we figured out why TaterTot was retired. When we “mouthed” him we found he had a bunch of molars missing. So, he has trouble grinding his food. He’s as old as Methuselah which means it is hard to keep weight on him. The cuckleburs made him look worse. I’m surprised he held up under their weight.

The other two mules came off a hitch of blazed-face, stocking-legged, sorrels out of Tucson, AZ.  “Iris” is going on 30 years old. Shy and slow to get to know you, she is a sweetheart. “Maggie,” half as old as Iris, is a strong and assertive high-stepper that runs the show. She was the least bothered by the cuckleburs though her thick mane attracted hundreds.

Which, now, begs the question how to rid a mule of cuckleburs? Let me count the ways. First, we tried baby oil. That helped loosen some. But timing is important here. Do you apply the oil and wait for it to work? How long?

I trimmed their manes with dull-pointed scissors. (Never take the chance of stabbing a mule.) The situation was far beyond using clippers. I must say after three attempts I did a pretty darn good job.

Then we discovered “horse mane and tail detangler.”  Who would have thought it? By now, we were closing in on the cuckleburs, aided by spring shedding. But some cuckleburs don’t give up easily.

I heard in bygone days that cotton pickers picked cotton until their fingers bled. I have felt their pain. The last of the cuckleburs did not give up without a fight. It all came down to hand-to-hand combat - no comb or brush or scissors here. It was gore and guts – one cocklebur at-a-time.

It was a cool, breezy, spring afternoon when Tater Tot, Iris, and Maggie were declared “cucklebur free.” I promised each mule this would never happen again. But they seemed too focused on munching on oats to care.

When I was a boy growing up in The Brim Hollow, I suppose I removed a gazzillon stick tights from my socks, jeans, shirts, and short britches. It took determination and patience. Little did I know it would prepare me for bigger battles to come.

I have no fondness for cuckleburs. Neither do my mules.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall