When the Heat is On

This past week’s sweltering heat took me back to the days when I was young and strong, and burley tobacco was king in Middle Tennessee and other parts of our great state. Days when weather forecasters spoke not of the heat index. If you grew up on a farm no one had to tell you how hot it was. And we didn’t have to be warned about dehydration. If you were hot and sweaty, you had sense enough to drink lots of water. When we were experiencing a heat wave nationwide, we were not warned of 150 million being at risk as if we didn’t know how to take care of ourselves. Someone looked in on elderly neighbors who might be vulnerable, and pets and livestock were afforded adequate water and shade.

And no one spoke of global warning or climate change in those days as if it were something of which no one was aware. Best I can surmise the earth’s temperature has fluctuated over thousands, maybe millions of years. I took note that not much was said of climate change recently when we were enjoying an unusually cool late spring and early summer.

During harvest time if the weather was extremely hot, we went with it. I remember loading tobacco before daylight, and unloading until the heat was unbearable. (Somewhere around 10:00AM on the hottest days.) If the dew was heavy, we fashioned “skirts” out of plastic and secured it around our waists with grass string. That prevented the dew from soaking our clothes and giving us a case of “tobacco poisoning.” If we were cutting tobacco, we started around 4:00 PM which exposed the tobacco to enough sun to allow it to “fall,” (wilt) without it sunburning. Spiking started at daylight on the next morning. 

Someone once said their father was a reasonable man. “He only required that we work a half-day. And he didn’t care which 12 hours it was!”

In harvest time we managed to get in 10-12 hours a day regardless of the heat. And in those days, there was no government mandate that required us to take breaks. Our father was also a reasonable man. If the weather allowed us to work throughout the day, we took an extended rest after dinner (noon meal) to let our food settle.  

Speaking of “dinner,” I think there were “high school” boys who would have worked for us for free just for the chance to sit at our mother’s table. Meals at our house were a “happening.” My mother never claimed to be a great cook, but he did say, “I can put plenty of good “grub” on the table.” And that she did.

I recall with fondness the Hawkins boys, Bobby and Stanley; the Denton brothers, Thomas, and Jim Dave; the McClenahan boys, Janson, Chris and Richard and so many others who graced our dinner table; and brought their wholesomeness and youthful energy to our workdays.

And I recall one young man who, till this very day, claims my mother saved his life when he overheated one scorching August day.

Looking back across the years I have come to realize so many of my generation in this part of the world cut their working teeth in tobacco patches, tobacco barns, hay fields, and corn fields. It was hard work, that which we experienced there. But at the time, I don’t think we realized how hard it was. It was simply that which we were called to do as part of a farming family. But it gave us roots, and to many, it gave wings.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

Stormy Weather

My wife has a dog. My wife loves her dog. I love my wife. That does not mean I love her dog. I like her dog, but I don’t love her dog. In our almost 44 years of marriage, she has had a dog. Not the same dog, let me remind you. Best I can remember, there have been four of them, all miniature schnauzers. Brandy, Reebok (my least favorite), and Belle have since gone on to Doggy Heaven. Now we have Chancy. Kathy loves Chancy. I like Chancy.

That’s not to say I cannot love a dog. I have loved some dogs in my time. But I grew up in a world where dogs lived outside the house. My wife’s dogs have always lived inside our house and slept in our bed. I realize after all these years my wife made a great concession when her dog didn’t accompany us on our honeymoon. But when we returned home, there was the dog.

I had a dog that I loved once upon a time. I purchased her through a friend from a veterinarian in Chattanooga. I bought her sight-unseen. She arrived by UPS in a little doggy carrier. When she stepped out of the box, I realized I had been sent the runt of the litter. She was tiny. I named her “Lit’l Bit.”

I sat her beside me on the truck seat and started home. Two things happened that day that endeared her to me for the rest of her life. I stopped at McDonald’s and purchased a quarter pounder. When she smelled it, she went nuts! (In a cute kind of way.) She was starved. I fed her the hamburger patty, a bite-at-a-time, as fast as I could pull it apart. I ate the bun. Then I stopped at the Coop and bought her a flea collar. I sized it and placed it around her neck. When I did, the fleas almost ran me out of the truck cab.

We made a trip to the local veterinarian the next day and she received all her shots, worming, etc. For the next two weeks she began to make a comeback, but then she started tiring easily when we took long walks.  Sometimes she just sat down as if she didn’t want to go with me. I thought, at first, she wasn’t training like I had hoped. Soon I realized something was wrong.

So, I took her back to see the vet. As he was in the middle of a thorough examination, I quipped, “Doc, you think she’s going to make it?”

“I don’t know,” he said, thoughtfully, as he turned to me. I did not like the tone in his voice. “She has a bad case of whipworms,” he continued. “We’ll see.”

I buried “Lit’l Bit” two days later. It was a private ceremony – just my dog and me. It was in my 26th year. I cried like a baby.             

I have come to find out dogs are somewhat like people when they begin to grow old. They start acting a little cranky. They become more fractious.

Chancy hates fireworks and stormy weather. She can hear thunder when it is still miles away. It makes her stir crazy. Then she begins to hyperventilate. It is hard to sleep when one of your bed partners is hyperventilating.

One morning last week, I think it was Wednesday, I was awakened at 2:30 am by heavy breathing. Chancy was right beside my head. Outside the thunder was rolling. I had no choice but to retire to my recliner in the den.

I decided to sit quietly and enjoy the storm. It was spectacular! Delayed strikes of lightning lit up the inside of the house and the thunder crashed. I marveled at the power of nature.

Years ago, part of my job responsibility with the Department of Agriculture-State of Tennessee was grading a feeder pig sale in Unionville, TN. In the stockyard there was a bulletin board where some resourceful person posted little quotes and newspaper and magazine clippings. I shall never forget a particular quote I noticed early one morning.

“Stormy weather comes our way from time to time to remind us we aren’t really in control of anything.”  

I once read of One who, in the middle of a great storm, rebuked the wind and the waves and all became still.

If Kathy’s dog knew that we both would sleep better.

  Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

The Finer Things

I have been privileged to enjoy some of the finer things in life. Just this past Sunday I enjoyed a Sunday dinner (lunch) of Peaches and Cream corn-on-the-cob, fresh green beans (Romas), a home-grown tomato of the Pink Girl variety along with a slice of purple onion. It doesn’t get any better than that.

It took me back to the days of my boyhood when we lived out of the garden in the summertime. When each vegetable came “in” we dove in. Green onions came first, then the first corn, squash, and cucumbers. Green peas, green beans, okra, cabbage, and all the others soon followed. On the 4th of July, we dug potatoes. It was an event!

I came to appreciate the value of a garden, and its importance to the livelihood of a small farming operation. We always ate well. My mother used to say living on a farm where you raised most of your food almost made you recession proof.

When my brothers and I were going to school, we started the day with a bowl of oatmeal or a bowl of white rice. My mother said, “it would stick to your ribs.” It was years later when I realized she fed us breakfast for pennies-a-day.

Sunday dinner was always the same – fried chicken, mashed potatoes, biscuits and gravy, and green peas (Minnesota Valley was her favorite brand.) In our big family everyone got one piece of chicken – no more, no less. Which reminds me of a gravestone I once saw at the Haunted Mansion at Disney World.

Beneath this stone lies Les Moore.

Took three slugs from a Forty-four.

No Les, No Moore.

But I digress.

My father loved the land. It seemed it seeped into his pores. He understood the rhythm of the seasons, and how seed and the soil responded to proper care. You might say he was in tune with nature. He taught by example, and never appeared to be in a hurry. I am one of those fortunate sons who can say my father was the best man I have ever known. It was a fine thing to be called his son.

My mother was a teacher in every sense of the word. She was not a teacher by profession, although she did teach at Riddleton School shortly after graduating from high school. She taught her sons and daughter proper use of the mother language from morning to night. Our home became her classroom. She was best at teaching in the school of life. Her words of wisdom echo across the years.

“Son,” she would say, “every situation can make you or break you.”

“It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good.”

“The answer to every problem can be found in the Bible.”

“A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches.”

“Bread cast on the water will return after many days.”

“Moderation in all things.”

“Be not weary in well doing, for in due season you will reap if you faint not.”

She taught her children to think for themselves – the deeper thoughts. She imparted to us a gift that has kept on giving – another of the finer things in life.

We worked hard on those 67 acres. We came to know how bone-tired was rewarded by a good night’s sleep. How to face the next day - rain or shine, hot or cold, rested or still tired – without complaint. And how to come to the end of the   day with a grateful heart - in my father’s words, “thankful for our many blessings.” It was a fine way to live.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

The Coaster Wagon

Dr. James W. Garrett was our family doctor when my brothers and I were boys. He told my mother in the early days, “Mrs. McCall, your family has a history of diabetes. Whatever you do, don’t let your boys get fat.”

He was 50 years ahead of his time. Today we live in a world where children grow up as “couch potatoes,” with their eyes glued to a TV or computer screen, or mobile device of some sort, and live sedentary lifestyles. Consequently, obesity among children is growing at an alarming rate, perpetuating a diabetes crisis.

My mother acted on Dr. Garrett’s advice to ensure her boys stayed skinny. Of course, that was not a problem on the farm where we grew up. After we were old enough to help our father with the tobacco and hay crops, he made sure we stayed in great shape. And prior to our learning to work hard, we played hard.

We played all over that sixty-acre farm. We climbed trees. We built houses and hide-outs. We made mud pies. We rode bicycles. We played ball. It was easy to stay skinny. Then too, there were so many of us we never had an overabundance of food. We had plenty to eat, but we didn’t overeat. And, like I said, we played hard.    

One of my favorite things my brother, Tom, and I did was ride a coaster wagon off the hill behind our feed barn. I don’t remember when we got our first coaster wagon. I do remember it wasn’t new. My father built a plywood flatbed the exact size of the original Radio Flyer frame. It was a thing of beauty.

Just behind our feed barn lay a hill that sloped sharply toward the river bottom. The dirt road that led off the hill was at least 100 yards in length and turned sharply to the left at the bottom of the hill.

In the curve at the bottom of the hill, tractor tires and truck tires had ground the dirt into a soft powder. It was as fine as powdered sugar and saddle brown in color.    

My brother and I would spend entire mornings and sometimes most of an afternoon on different days riding that wagon off the hill. I would ride in the front of the wagon. My brother would lay the wagon tongue over my shoulder, climb in behind me, and off the hill we would go. It was absolutely breathtaking!

At the bottom of the hill, if we didn’t make the curve, the wagon would dump us into the bank of the curve and the dust would fly.

Of course, the hardest part of the ride was pulling the wagon back up the hill. We took turns. It was no small task. In the summertime, the sweat rolled off us, which means when we were dumped at the bottom of the hill, all that dust stuck to us. By the end of the day, dirt would ring the creases of our necks, and our toenails and fingernails would be black underneath.

At night, before our baths, our father took pleasure in gathering us into his lap one-at-a-time and checking to make sure the wigglies were cleaned out from between our toes. After our baths (and there was always a considerable amount of silt left in the tub), our mother would inspect our ears. Sometimes she would look in our ears and say, “Whoo, I believe a rooster slept in there last night!”

I will never forget that coaster wagon, and the thrill of flying off that hill. And how much work it took to get back to the top. Those were carefree days – the kind of days that are worth remembering.

I can’t, however, remember the last time I found wigglies between my toes.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

Memories of the Brim Hollow

I had trouble falling asleep a few nights back. The still of the night offers a great time to clear your thoughts. As I lay in the darkness, I was transported back to summer nights in the Brim Hollow. Some memories can remain incredibly vivid after over half a century.

If you have never fallen asleep to the sound of gentle rain falling on a tin roof, you have missed one of life’s unique pleasures. In the Brim Hollow the only buffer between a wide-eyed boy and that tin roof was the attic floor. The sound of the rain was pure and clean. When the rain was falling softly, I remember smiling a smile of satisfaction as I sank into the fold of a feather bed. Nothing like it.

On the other hand, when the rains came with a vengeance, the sound was deafening. You couldn’t hear yourself talk, much less hear anyone speaking from across the room. Sometimes the rain would suddenly stop, followed by an eerie silence.

Quite often, when a storm front is passing through, I have a hankering to load up my truck and head to the Brim Hollow just to sit in the old house and listen to the rain.

On clear summer nights I would lie in that feather bed and take in the sounds of the night. Through an open window covered only by a screen came a symphony of nature. It was hard to recognize individual voices as there were so many. Only those who have had the pleasure of listening in on summer nights fully understand.

And then there was the wind, softly, gently playing in the trees creating just enough stir to bring relief from the summer heat. And I remember the droning of an oscillating floor fan (General Electric) as it rotated back and forth.

On summer days when I rode my stick horse into the wilds of the hollow in search of desperados wearing black hats, I recall the smell of the tall weeds that provided cover from the bad guys for my horse and me. And down well-worn paths I learned to watch for stinging weeds which had the habit of reaching out to inflict pain of bare legs.

When my pursuit of the enemy required that I dismount and crawl down chicken paths under a canopy of towering weeds, I was careful where I placed my hands. A cowboy with chicken poop on his trigger finger would have been a disgrace.

Summertime called for picking blackberries. It was the only time my grandmother, Lena, ventured deep within the bowels of the hollow. The first year I went along, she took no measures to protect me from chiggers. They ate me alive. It was the only time I recall my mother becoming really angry with her mother. My recovery was long and painful. The itching brought on by chiggers is nothing short of tormenting.

In the Brim Hollow we drank from a water bucket filled with water drawn up from a deep well. And then there were the spring houses where cool, clear spring water rose to the surface from deep within the earth - water so pure it had a sweetness about it.

Those spring houses and other springs fed the branch which ran for most of the summer. On the hottest days I found relief by “playing in the creek.” Unfortunately, that is an art lost to younger generations – “playing in the creek.” There is much to be learned there.

My days spent in the Brim Hollow are long gone. But sometimes I close my eyes and I hear the rain and taste the spring water and feel cool water on my feet.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall      

Rest

I read a marvelously written book a few years back. Published in 1974, it is titled A Reason to Live, A Reason to Die. The author, the late John Powell, wrote a series of thought-provoking books. One of my favorites, titled Fully Human, Fully Alive is certainly worth the read.

When I read A Reason to Live, A Reason to Die I was especially struck by one line which seemed to jump off the page. It goes like this: “The pulse and rhythm of human life has quickened so suddenly that all those who want to keep up must run.” If we were running to keep up in 1974, we surely must be sprinting to keep up almost 50 years later.

On one hand, the technologies which were supposed to make our lives less complicated and more efficient have only served to bring added pressure and speed up all areas of life. Schedules seem more jampacked than ever; and the pressure to perform has been ratcheted up due to ever-increasing competition.

Life in the 21st century has become one big pressure cooker. We are pressed, stressed, and easily depressed. Seems everyone could use a little rest.

Speaking of rest, one of my greatest concerns for the generations to follow is a lack of “quiet time” – a time to reflect and think.  And the excuse? “We don’t have time.”

A few days ago, I was visiting with a young professional who happens to be at the top of his game, career wise. The nature of his job responsibilities dictates his being pulled and pushed in many directions.

“Sometimes, I wish I could just sit alone in a room for an hour and stare at the wall,” he said.

“Then, that’s what you should do,” I answered.

The fact is, we all need to “get away” from time to time, which brings me back to the subject of “rest.”

Even the Creator rested from his labors on the 7th day. And the rules laid down in early human history called for the land to rest from time to time.

I was not there when the earliest decisions were made, but it seems the reality of day and night calls for an interlude of rest for us humans.

The fact is, we all need time to refresh, regroup, revitalize, refocus…to rest.

Legend has it that the Apostle John was once relaxing and amusing himself by playing with a small, pet bird.

As he did, an onlooker snarled, “Don’t you have something better to do than play with that bird?”

To which, the Apostle calmly replied, “The bow which is always bent will soon cease to shoot straight.”

And so, it is.

Dr. Hugh Green, Sr. was a great friend of our family. He was an excellent country doctor. He lamented to my mother once of how he had stopped attending church. It seems he couldn’t escape the pressures of doctoring because fellow church goers were always asking for medical advice and inquiring about the health of sick folks.

“Mary Helen,” he said. “Rest for me is going out to the farm and cleaning out a fence row.” Well said. Sometimes the most mundane tasks can provide needed rest.

Of course, there is rest for the body and rest for the mind. Sometimes a good night’s sleep can solve a world of problems.

It has been said that “fatigue makes cowards of us all.” If you want to keep fighting the good fight, best you take some time to catch your breath.

 Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

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