Fear

I had the privilege of being a part of the professional speaking circuit for over 35 years, being a “full-timer” from 2000 to 2020. During those years, I traveled and made speaking presentations in all 50 of these United States. It was a wonderful and fulfilling experience to work with speaker’s bureaus, and meeting planners; and speaking before a wide variety of audiences.

My first experience in front of an “audience” came in my 17th year when a crusty, old Sunday School teacher named Reece Enoch suggested I teach his adult class. Teaching the Bible became my “calling.” You might say I have been “at it” for 55 years now.

hat teaching experience and my work on the professional speaking platform has landed me in many a church. Over the years I have filled in for preachers, performed wedding ceremonies, and delivered eulogies at funerals. Sometimes the weight of responsibility has been overwhelming.

I have never attended a denominational seminary or taken a seminary course. I would stop well short of saying I have been self-taught. I have been schooled, but that is a subject, both deep and strong, which should be saved for another day.  

Somewhere along the way I was introduced to the concept of “the whole council of God.” You’ve heard the saying, “a little knowledge is a dangerous thing?” So, it is with the Bible.

I have come to know there are “silver threads” that run throughout the scriptures from Genesis to the Book of Revelation. Among those silver threads are God’s Grace, Faith, and His patience and longsuffering toward humankind to name a few.

But one which rings out; and is especially fitting for these times is the command to “fear not!”

My friend, Dr. Ben Bissell, psychologist and educator, explained in one of his seminars the difference between “fear” and “anxiety” or “being afraid” or “anxious.” He gives this example.

If on a hike on a trail in the Great Smokey Mountains you met another hiker who informed you he saw a big bear back up the trail, then, you might become “anxious.” You might, or might not, ever see the bear, but the possibility of seeing a bear creates anxiety. Anxiety is driven by possibility.

On the other hand, if you continue your hike, and encounter that big bear, now you have a reason to be afraid. Fear has a definite source.

At the beginning of World War II, President Franklin Roosevelt sought to calm a nation by saying, “We have nothing to fear, but fear itself.” That sounded good, but it simply wasn’t true.

When the 12 spies were sent to spy out the land of promise, they did a thorough job of evaluating, and brought back an accurate assessment. But the majority brought back “an evil report,” speaking of giants and a land which would devour the people. And the hearts of the people “melted.” (with fear.)  Of course, we know the rest of the story. Undealt with fear paralyzes.

And the word came to Joshua, “Be strong and of a good courage, be not afraid, neither be dismayed….”

Remember the man who received only one talent? Do you know why he buried it? He said, “I was afraid.”

Mark Twain once said, “I’m an old man, and I have seen a lot of trouble - most of which never happened.

Someone once said, “Never take inventory of your fears.”

Jesus said, “Be anxious for nothing…”

I had great respect for the late Dr. Norman Vincent Peale. He once quoted a line from a book titled Fear, by Boswell Kane.

It goes like this: “Be bold, and mighty powers will come to your aid!”

I believe that to be true.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall                   

A 1960 Chevrolet

There aren’t many objects (things) that deeply captivate  my memory. Most of my most vivid recollections are tied to people and experiences. Usually some kind of strong emotion is involved. But when this time of year rolls around, I always think of a dark blue, 1960 Chevrolet. The image is crystal clear and lasting.

High school football season is in full swing. During my school days in the 1950’s and 1960’s high school football was a big deal in our part of the world.

It was during those years in the 1950’s and 1960’s that the late Turney Ford became a Middle Tennessee high school football coaching legend. At the height of his coaching popularity in 1959, the football boosters in Carthage (Smith County) presented Coach Ford with a new 1960 Chevrolet. It was dark blue. As you might recall the 1960 Chevys had the big fins on the back corners, as did the 1959 models. I was eight years old, and I was some more impressed. A new car! I thought it was beautiful.

Experiences impact our psyche more or less due to our particular perspectives. Up until 1959 my family had never owned a car. Our primary means of transportation was a pick-up truck. My father bought new pick-up trucks in 1948, 1958, and 1968.  It was 1961 when we acquired our first car, a Chevrolet Parkwood station wagon. My experience observing the citizenry of Carthage giving Coach Ford a brand new car made a life-long impression on me. Coach Ford drove that car for years. Seeing that 1960 Chevy always made me smile.

The closest thing to a play-off back in those years was the Tobacco Bowl played in Hartsville. To quote sports announcer Keith Jackson, the Tobacco Bowl was “the granddaddy of them all.”  It was the premier high school football bowl game in all of Middle Tennessee. And in many of those years it pitted Turney Ford’s Carthage Owls against the other best team the mid-state  had to offer. Battle Ground Academy (BGA) usually comes to mind when I recall Tobacco Bowls of the past. The Tobacco Bowl was a happening.

A half-time feature of every Tobacco Bowl was the Tennessee A&I marching band. Tennessee A&I was later named Tennessee State University. The A&I marching band was worth the price of the ticket. The band was spectacular. I always arrived early just to see the band members get off the Trailway buses.  The half-time show - you had to see to believe. I had never seen marching in quarter time until I saw the A&I band. And the band members could play instruments like no other band I have ever heard. Like I said, the Tobacco bowl was a happening.

And the games were always “slobber knockers,” hard fought and played with tremendous pride. It was before the days of weight rooms and strength and conditioning programs. Most football players, like the earliest and best Roman soldiers, were boys who came right off the farm. They were strong and tough as pine knots from haling hay and cutting tobacco and digging post holes and milking cows and pulling up stumps with their bare hands.

To many, those were the glory days of Carthage High School football. State championships were mythical, play-offs were in the future, and Carthage was considered a mid-state powerhouse coached by a legend. 

But much like today, a coach’s job is only as safe as last year’s won-loss record. Eventually Coach Turney Ford fell out of favor with the powers that be and was replaced. He moved on to Gordonsville High School where he continued to build on his legend. The last time I attended a football game in Gordonsville I smiled when I read the sign which read, “Turney Ford Field.”

Turney Ford was a great coach and a good man, and he helped shape the lives of many fine young men.

I can see him now, climbing behind the wheel of that dark blue, 1960 Chevrolet.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall                               

Home Fires

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall  

Soft Places

I stepped out into the morning air this past weekend and knew fall had   arrived. Autumn officially began at 2:50 a.m. EDT on Saturday, September 23. Seems it was right on time. I checked the temp on my iPhone - 50 degrees.

That’s all the excuse I needed to bring out a flannel shirt. I am convinced  flannel shirts; soft, comfortable, jeans and old boots are three of life’s simple pleasures.

You’ve heard the saying, “When the going gets tough, the tough get going?” Well, that’s all well and good, but sometimes you need to land in a soft place. Sometimes, you need to catch your breath. Sometimes, you have a need to feel softness. That’s one reason I like flannel shirts.

My late mother used to say, “This life is no place for the faint hearted.” She was “spot on.”

M. Scott Peck began his classic book titled, The Road Less Traveled, with these words, “Life is Difficult.” He suggested the sooner you figure that out, and accept it as true, the sooner success will come to you, the easier will be your journey.

 With that in mind, best we find places to rest mind, body and soul. Why not start with a flannel shirt when fall weather begins? Of course, there are other soft things and places that provide respite. A big, cushy recliner can offer welcome rest to tired bones. And how often have we failed to give thanks for a warm, soft bed when winter chills come calling?

I have often found a soft place in the fellowship of family and friends. I once observed a young, Hispanic father patiently working with his two pre-kindergarten daughters in a restaurant. As I prepared to leave, I stopped and complimented him on his efforts. I shall never forget his beaming smile, nor his words.

“Oh, sir!” he said. “Family is everything!” I believe that is true.

I tell young men, “Take care of your family.” A stable home life provides shelter from life’s storms. It is one of life’s softest places.

Another soft place can be found in the loving eyes of a friend. Everybody  needs a friend. Sometimes that friend might be a dog or a cat. In the words of songwriter, Tom T. Hall, “Old dogs care about you even when you make mistakes.” Unconditional love is another of life’s softest places.

 And then, there are memories - memories of people you have known – the “salt of the earth” kind of people. The writer of the Letter to the Hebrews referred to them as “a cloud of witnesses.” Thoughts of their kind bring rest and renewed courage to tired spirits.

Sometimes I find a soft place in the simple task of folding clothes, or ironing a shirt (That’s a lost art.), or polishing shoes, or canning green tomato pickle – simple, mundane tasks in which you can “lose” yourself.

Of course, get-a-ways are nice. Sometimes, you just need to get away. We all have experienced times “when we couldn’t see the forest for the trees.” Times when life was so busy and moving so fast that we lost perspective. I have found a soft place in riding a mule into the Grand Canyon many times, or visiting the Columbia River Gorge in Oregon, or duck hunting in Canada, or driving in the Great Smokey Mountains.

Legend tells of how John, the Apostle, was one day relaxing as he tinkered with a pet bird. Someone asked if he had nothing better to do than focus his attention on such a trivial matter. To which he replied, “The bow that is always bent soon ceases to shoot straight.”

Soft places. We all need them. We all long to find them. Sometimes they are right in front of us, and we fail to see them. God’s speed in finding yours.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

Albert B. McCall

I had the privilege of speaking at an uncle’s funeral two weeks ago. His name was Albert Burr “A. B.” McCall. Known to thousands of Middle Tennesseans as the silver-haired spokesman for D.T. McCall and Sons on WSMV’s Ralph Emory Show, he was a driving force in turning a small-town furniture store into a multi-million- dollar business.

Born the fourth child (third son) to David Thomas (D.T.) McCall and Amy Manning McCall, he seemed destined for a career in business. His father was an accomplished salesman, beginning his career driving a mule wagon as he sold his wares throughout Middle Tennessee. He began by selling (and trading) chickens and eggs. That led him to represent the Corn King and Morman companies as he delivered animal feed supplement products to farms for miles around.

In the earliest days of my career in livestock marketing, I was asked by countless farmers of his generation, “Are you any kin to D.T. McCall? He’s been on my farm!” As a salesman, D.T. McCall took his products to his customer’s farms. As a marketer, A.B. McCall came into their livingrooms.

In the beginning of his longstanding relationship with WSMV Television and The Ralph Emory Show, it was a reach, and somewhat of a risk, for a business in a small town to pay $200 for 30 seconds of airtime. But that $1000 dollars per week made “D.T. McCall and Sons” a household name. For many years, Middle Tennessee woke up to the live music and antics on the Ralph Emory Show at 5:00AM. A. B. McCall was right in the middle of it all. Whether he was promoting an outhouse race, bedroom furniture made of “real tree wood,” or a microwave oven that would “brown a biscuit,” he was laughing, smiling, and saying, “Heyyyyy!”

The entire WSM (later WSMV), Channel 4 viewing area opened up to D.T McCall and Sons - from Harriman to Hohenwald, from southern Kentucky to northern Alabama - all became McCall’s marketing domain.

But A. B. McCall was more than a marketing wizard. His marketing savvy was complimented by his buying prowess. He knew how, and when, to buy. He bought right and he bought “big.” In its day, he purchased Ashley Wood Heaters by the boxcar load. He purchased entire inventories of air conditioners from bankrupt hotel projects. He was a master at taking advantage of year-end closeouts. Come late December, manufacturers knew who to call if they needed to move inventory. A. B. McCall would buy in volume, and he would pay “cash.”

He liked to tell about a “buy” from time to time. One day he told me of this one. “Pigman,” he said. (He called all the sons of his older brother, Frank, “Pigman.”) “I had a company call yesterday trying to sell me 200 dishwashers… in almond (color.) The price was right, so I bought ALL of ‘em.” Then, he laughed, and said, “It may take me two years to move ‘em, but I will sell ‘em for less than the competition can buy ‘em!”

I said at his funeral; in a small-town sense, A. B. McCall was liken to a Harvey Firestone, or a Goodyear, or a Rockefeller, or a J.P. Morgan. He simply found himself in a smaller pond.

He was personal friends of, and adviser to governors. He was as comfortable talking on the phone with George H.W. Bush as he was making small talk with dirt farmers and sharecroppers.

Toward the end of his working days, he was offered a chance to teach a business course at Cumberland University. He told me all about it. It pleased him immensely.

“They asked me if I needed a book for the course,” he said.

“I told them I wrote the book!”

A.    B. McCall, dead at age 94.

He was one-of-a-kind.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

Hot Weather, Cold Water, and Other Things

Well, several weeks ago I wrote about the subtle signs of fall’s approach. Wouldn’t you know the next thing we would experience would be a week of blazing heat. Of course, the news media and weather forecasters played the heat for all it was worth as usual. I can only guess it increases viewership.

I had a friend send this text. “You would think by listening to the news that it’s never been hot in August!”

“You know what we used to do when it got this hot in August?” said an old timer.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“We went right ahead with what we were doing!” he snarled.

Over the weekend, before the heat eased off, I had the opportunity to take a long walk in the evening in a nearby city. I realized after the first mile I should drink some extra water. So, I stopped and purchased a bottle. The water was ice cold, and I don’t especially like drinking really cold water.

So, for a moment, I pretended. I pretended I was in a corn field, or a hay field, or in a tobacco patch many years ago. I thought of how hot it was, and how refreshing a cold drink of water would be. And I remembered how head-splitting cold the water from a water jug was. I drank the whole bottle.

In days gone by, we took water to the fields in a big-mouth, glass, gallon jug. We filled the jug with ice cubes (from ice trays) and finished filling the jug with water. (It was well water.) Then, we wrapped the jug with old newspapers, and slipped it into a big, brown grocery sack. If the top of the sack was folded down tightly, the ice would last all day. And the water? Cold as ice. The first water from the jug had to be sipped slowly unless you wanted a headache.

My friend, Dr. Paul Enoch, tells back when he was a boy how he and his father were suckering tobacco on a miserably hot day. Paul kept begging Mr. Enoch to let him go back to the house to get water. His father refused and insisted they keep working. When they came to the end of a row, his father spotted a water jug from days before resting in the shade of a tobacco plant.

Of course, the temperature of the water was that of the air outside, and anyone knows water left in the field for days takes on a musty smell.

Paul, desperate for a drink, removed the top, and exclaimed, “Daddy, this water is hot!”

“It will put out a fire, won’t it!” his father replied. They continued working.

My brothers and I had the privilege of working side-by-side with our father for some of our best years. Of course, as boys are prone to do, we complained. We complained about the heat. We complained about the sweat bees. We complained when we finished a row and he insisted we do another. Complain, complain, complain. His patience seemed unending.

One day, he had had enough. He threw down his hoe in the corn row, and with disgust, he said, “Well, let’s just let the Johnsongrass take the corn!”

With that said, he started walking toward the pickup truck. He was not bluffing. Or maybe he was. It took some begging on our part to get him to come back and continue chopping Johnsongrass. That ended the complaining.

I’ve noticed our grandchildren run out of gas very quickly when called to a task. Whether picking up sticks in the yard, unloading wood, or generally cleaning up, they don’t last very long. I sometimes wonder how they will do when life gets hard for them. And I often wonder what they have on their minds – how they are being “conditioned” by the world.

The other day, one asked me, “What would happen if the world blew up?” I thought, “What a heavy thought for a little boy.”

I reminded him of a song titled, “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands.”

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

Looking Back

A few weeks back I was on my way to an early morning appointment in a nearby town. I must say I was enjoying the absence of traffic as I sped toward my destination. Coming out of curves, I was fully accelerating in order to be on time. My vehicle seemed unusually responsive.

As I rounded a turn in the road, I was suddenly met with a most familiar sight. A number of cars and pickup trucks were parked in an open field. And in the edge of a tobacco patch, a man stood tall on a flatbed wagon. Men and boys were handing sticks of yellow tobacco up to open arms.

I hit my brakes, and for a fraction of a second, I considered stopping and handing up a few sticks “just for old time’s sake.” My next thought was “Nah!” and I hit the accelerator.

This time of year, so many sights and sounds and smells take me back to the days when tobacco was king in this part of the world. I am not one to live in the past, but I find it refreshing to visit bygone days from time to time.

I was driving through a pasture last week and came upon a tangled mass of “yellow vine.” (Some folks around here call it “love vine.”) The sight of it surely took me back in time. Somehow that pesky parasite always found a way to wind up in our tobacco plant beds every year. I decided it must have been somewhere in the tobacco seeds. Every year, there it was. My father believed in saving every tobacco plant. So, the yellow vine had to go. I have untangled plenty of yellow vine in my time and tracked it down to its host plant. Somewhere you could find it attached to the spongy stem of a plant, forming a slightly raised ridge. A pocket knife, or the fingernail of your index finger was good for peeling off the ridge. Once done, the tobacco plant was as good as new. I can never remember “yellow vine” making it to one of our tobacco patches.

I love old barns, especially old tobacco barns. It makes me sad to see so many standing empty these days. Oh, the stories they could tell.   

A group of old tobacco “hands” were discussing “hanging” tobacco around the breakfast table at a local restaurant the other day.

One said, “The hardest job in the barn was “handing” off the wagon because you had to handle every stick.”

“Or, working the bottom tier because you had to reach down, and hand up!” another chimed in.

“The easiest job was hanging in the top of the barn,” another added. “You only had to handle one out of every 4 or 5 sticks.”

“Yeah, but you had to deal with yellow jackets and red wasps in the top,” another said.

“It was ALL hard work!” said another.

“I hated it when the man hanging above was raining sweat down on me!” one declared.

“Me, too!” said one.

“Up in the barn, when the air was not moving, it was like being in an oven!” one remarked.

“Uh huh,” said another. “Remember how the tin roof would ‘pop’ on the hottest days?”

“I don’t miss them days!’ declared one who had been listening carefully.

“Me, neither,” said one old timer in a low voice.

Frankly, I don’t miss the hard work. But I do miss the people with whom I worked, hand-in-hand. People who showed up on time and worked hard with no complaints.

I like to think those of my generation grew up in “a golden age.” Best we pass along what we learned to the coming generations.

  Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall

Some like it hot

I am one who enjoys spicy food. Hot peppers have always been my friends. Well, most of the time. I have a few experiences when they got the best of me.

Many years ago, when I was single, still living at home, and working in the livestock industry, I stopped at a little country store. The store   was once owned and operated by my late, great uncle George Dewey Manning. Later the same store was run by a cousin, John A. McCall. On this occasion the store proprietor was Danny Woodard. That day I was looking forward to having a bologna (bolony) sandwich.

There is something special about a bologna sandwich freshly put together in a country store. Oh, the days of the past! - Fresh light bread straight out of the bag, thick bolony, rolled right off the slicer, mustard, mayonnaise, salad dressing, or Louisianna Hot Sause. The only way to make it better was to add a big slice of ripe tomato.

As Danny delivered my sandwich that day, he casually asked, “Do you like hot peppers?”

“I sure do” I replied.

“A highway patrol buddy of mine left this sack-full this morning,” he continued. “Want to try ‘em?” He pushed a small, brown paper sack toward me.

“Sure!” I said as I reached into the sack. I withdrew three green peppers - three to four inches long and no bigger around that #2 pencil.

“Thanks!” I said, “I’ll enjoy these with my sandwich.”

Danny smiled a devilish smile.

I returned to my vehicle, but before I hit the road, I unwrapped my sandwich and took a big bite. Then, I reached for one of the peppers and bit off half of it. I chewed twice, maybe three times, and suddenly the pepper exploded in my mouth! When I say “exploded” I mean inside my entire mouth – top, inside my cheeks, under my tongue and halfway down my throat! As I write this column, I have broken out in a sweat just thinking about it. I was gasping for air as I reached for my soft drink. This fire had to be put out. I pushed back the bill of my cap as sweat ran down my face.

“Whoa!” I thought. “That is hot!”

It took three more bites of the sandwich to bring things under control. I ate all three of the peppers. The flavor was great. I learned later they were green cayenne peppers. I haven’t eaten one with a sandwich since.

In later years, I was introduced to habaneros and ghost peppers. They bring another level of heat.

I especially like to use these “hot babies” when making tomato juice. Both habaneros and ghost peppers give tomato juice a great flavor and a nice “kick.” But I found I needed to dehydrate them in harvest season in order to have them year around. That got interesting the first time I attempted to dehydrate a batch.

I think I read something like this on the internet: “Do not dehydrate hot peppers in a closed space.” Well, I ignored that warning.

One evening before I left my office, (I had a small kitchen there.) I loaded up my dehydrator with habanero and ghost peppers and plugged it in the electrical socket.

The next morning when I walked into the office my eyes began to burn. After a very few moments, I began to cough uncontrollably as I tried to deal with the discomfort in my airways. Fortunately, my interoffice door was closed off and I could escape there. For two days windows and the front door remained open as the floor fan droned. Lesson learned.

Here’s a recipe for great, hot tomato juice. Three dehydrated habaneros (six halves) added to six quarts of juice. Cook the habaneros with the cut-up tomatoes before you turn them into juice. Makes for great favor – but hot.

Copyright 2023 by Jack McCall