Return to the Brim Hollow

Strange how it draws me back there, after all these years.

My maternal grandfather, Will Herod Brim, was an odd fellow. Very few people knew him well, and that suited him just fine. He wore his feelings on his sleeve, was superstitious to a fault, and was “as tight as the bark on a tree.”

For the twelve short years I knew him, I could find no fault in him.

He and my Granny Lena lived in a house with no running water. I’m no stranger to an outhouse, a slop jar, a wash pan, a two-and-half bushel, galvanized wash tub, or a feather bed. In a moment’s recall I can feel the heat from a rolling fire in an oversized fireplace or winter’s chill in a bedroom where there was no heat.

They lived in The Brim Hollow, a property that’s been in the family since long before the Civil War. I spent many a day there (Sometimes weeks at-a-time.) in my formative years. In a strange way I came to know “the hollow” as I like to think it came to know me.

So much of the hollow mystique is linked to “him” – the smell of his flannel shirts, the boom of his laughter, the lovelight in his eyes. He thought I was “the finest thing.” And he made me feel that way.

In spite of his thriftiness, he said a man should wear a good hat, good shoes, and own “a good suit of clothes.” He wore a Stetson, Red Wings, and he had a fine, pinstripe suit. To this day I insist on Stetson hats, and I have worn out several pairs of Red Wing Shoes. You will find Hickey Freeman suits in my closet.

He wore a heavy denim “jumper” in the wintertime - the Sears and Roebuck kind. I still have it. The tag in the collar reads “Roebuck.” I guess he purchased it before “Roebuck” became Sears and Roebuck. He last wore it in the fall of 1963. I wore it last week when I returned to the Brim Hollow.

The old hollow calls me when the snow falls. It’s a strange calling. I find the Brim Hollow under a blanket of snow to be like no place on earth. I could hardly wait for morning to come after the recent snowfall. I dressed in layers of winter clothes, loaded my 410-shotgun, and switched my vehicle to 4-wheel drive.  Soon I was on the hollow road. Leaving my 4-Runner at the first deep creek bed, I prepared for the hike that lay ahead. At first, I donned sunglasses to protect my eyes on this bright morning. But in a moment, I removed them to witness the sacred whiteness. I felt my heartbeat quickening as the only sound I could hear was the continual crunching of the snow under my Red Wings.  Suddenly, I found myself far removed from the world in which I am living out my life.

As the ghostly form of the old homeplace came into view I felt a deep sense of “belonging.” So very many of the sights and sounds and smells and experiences and feelings known to me over six decades ago returned to dance in my head.

And in this silent world of white, cold and still, I was humbled to find myself reconnected to this place I had once known.

         Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall    

Adventures in Grandparenting

In my immediate family, there are 15 of us now – three sons, three daughters-in-law, eight grandchildren (5 girls, 3 boys), and me. I am discovering that it becomes increasingly harder to try and fill the shoes of a kind and loving mother and grandmother.

The following story is true. The names have been changed or omitted to protect the innocent…or the guilty.

Last week one of my sons, acting as agent for his son, contacted me to see if a grandson could “spend the night” at my house. The wheels were already turning as the plan was to invite the other two boy cousins. Calls were made, permissions granted, the fix was in. I didn’t have a chance. Just after dark three energetic 9-year-olds, give or take a few months, stormed my castle. They are good boys, but they are boys. Every square inch of the house became their kingdom.  

They ran, they played, they wrestled, they argued, they surfed the internet, and they built a fort with quilts and blankets in the living room. It was all good. As bedtime approached, I called them in for negotiations.

“Can we go to Early Bird (A local restaurant) for breakfast?” one asked.

That was not in my initial plan, but I complied.

“Sure!” I said, “What time are you guys going to bed?”

“Now, Daddy Jack, I drive a hard bargain!” one replied, sternly.

“How about nine-thirty?”  He said, with a smile.

“You got it!” I said. “In the bed by nine-thirty, and we go to the Early Bird.”

“Can we take a bath first?” they asked.

“Go for it!” I said.

I went straight to the bedroom and crashed. It was 9:00PM.

 At 10:30PM I was awakened from a deep sleep by three boys standing beside my bed.

 “Can we sleep with you?” One asked.

 “Come on!” 

The snuggler in the bunch crawled right up against me and curled his arm around my neck. He would soon turn and sleep with his knees in my back. I woke up an hour later with a foot in my face. At 2:00 AM I gave it up and moved to the den and the comfort of my Lazy Boy.

In the wee hours of the morning, I was awakened by loud conversation two rooms away. They were wide awake. I groped for the light switch on the lamp to see what time it was. The clock read “4:00.” I hoped they would go back to sleep. I turned out the light and waited. In a moment I heard them coming.

 “Daddy Jack, we’ve awoken and can’t go back to sleep!” one offered.

 “We will go play in the living room where you can’t hear us,” another chimed in.

 “Sounds good!” I managed to say.

 I headed back to my bedroom.

 At 4:35 AM they were standing beside my bed again.

“We can’t get waked up, Daddy Jack,” one whispered. “Can we take another bath?”

“You bet! Go for it!” I said.

For the next 30 minutes I heard water running and boys talking and laughing until I collapsed into oblivion.

At 5:55AM they were back again.

“Are you ready to go to the Early Bird, Daddy Jack? The leader asked.

Through a foggy brain, I heard myself say, “I’m ready!”

We did the Early Bird up right. Two of them drank coffee; the third had a big Dr. Pepper and a refill.

I later found three boys can go through thirteen bath towels while taking two baths. 

I heard one of the boys, when arriving home, went to bed at 5:30 in the afternoon and slept until the next morning. 

The following day all three went back to school.

I am still in recovery.

Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

Post Holiday Throughts

Ok. So, I probably listened to more Christmas music this past Christmas season than ever before. Several factors contributed to this new reality.

Some years ago, as part of her Christmas present, I gave my late wife, Kathy, a subscription to Sirius XM Radio. Somehow, in the ensuing years, I continued to renew her subscription although she no longer considered it a part of her Christmas present. The subscription was tied to her Toyota 4-Runner. As most of my readers are aware, Kathy passed away in May of last year. My sons saw to it that the 4-Runner became mine along with Sirius XM. Kathy, a devoted Beatles fan, had enjoyed the Beatles Channel for many years.

As Thanksgiving neared, I found Channel 71, titled “Christmas Traditions” on Sirius XM. It was “love at first hear.” The channel featured “the crooners of the 50’s and 60’s,” some of whom I had almost forgotten. It was refreshing to be reminded of the great voices of Jack Jones, Jerry Vale, Mario Lanza, Wayne Newton, Paul Anka, Judy Garland, Peggy Lee, Jo Stafford, Doris Day, Rosemary Clooney, Patty Page and others. And, of course, there were the great voices which we expect to hear each Holiday season – Bing Crosby, Andy Williams, Nat King Cole, Perry Como, Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, Johnny Mathis, Barry Manilow, Burl Ives, and many others.

At my house I have a CD player which accommodates 25 compact discs. The deck features a bottom labeled “random.” Hit that button and a “computer” inside the player chooses the next selection from over 500 Christmas songs. The music provided ever-present “company” for me in an otherwise empty house throughout the Holidays. This year, whether in my car or in my house, I found Christmas music to be my constant companion. It fed my mind and blessed my soul.

I have a dear friend from my hometown who starts listening to Christmas each year on October 1st. That means she enjoys the music of the Holidays for a full quarter of each year…or more. I manage to hold off until Thanksgiving, but I have been known to pull out a few of my favorite Christmas CDs in July just to enjoy a taste of the spirit of the season.

For years I have purchased one new Christmas CD each time the Holidays roll around. It is a special purchase carefully selected. When you live as long as I have the CDs mount up. This year I discovered the marvelous voice of a young Ella Fitzgerald on Sirius XM. I found Ms. Fitzgerald has recorded several CDs over the years. I have a tough choice to make.

If you should add to your Christmas music collection each year, let me make a few suggestions. (lt is never too early to shop for great CDs.) Some of the best are becoming in short supply.

I would certainly recommend That Holiday Feeling with Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gorme, The Complete RCA Victor Christmas Recordings of Eddie Arnold, Let It Be Christmas by Alan Jackson, and Home for The Holidays by Glen Campbell. Each one is a classic.

By the way, now’s the time during the slow winter months to update your Thanksgiving and Christmas cards mailing list.

I had breakfast at a local restaurant with my three grandsons this week. One asked if he could make an announcement to those patrons enjoying an early breakfast.

 “Sure,” I said.

Once he had everyone’s attention, he announced, “I hope you all have a great day! Go out there and make it count!”

Out of the mouths of babes. May you go out there and make your days count in 2025.

Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall.

The Year of our Lord

In keeping with tradition, on New Year’s Day I shall eat black-eyed peas and hog’s jowl. When I was growing up, we called it “hog jaw.” It doesn’t really matter what you call it. It’s good! And I’m here to say it must be good for you. 

They say it will bring you good luck if you eat black-eyed peas and hog’s jowl on New Year’s Day. I purchased my hog’s jowl in “the piece” in late December. Once I bought it, I couldn’t wait until 2025. I hand-sliced it with a sharp carving knife, cutting little notches in the skin so it would not curl while it fried. I will enjoy hog’s jowl on New Year’s Day and beyond. It’s good when it’s hot, and it’s even better when it’s cold. 

Eating hog’s jowl takes me back to my boyhood days. My mama always matched up fried hog’s jowl with fresh, fried corn or cream style corn out of a can. I ate a whole can of cream style corn once when I was on a hog’s jowl binge.         

I know. I know. You cholesterol fanatics out there are gasping in horror as you read this. But know this. If it kills me, I died happy.         

As to whether or not the black-eyed peas and hog’s jowl will bring me good luck, it matters not. I was never much of a believer in luck. Good fortune – yes, but luck – I’m not so sure.          

Someone once said, “The harder I work, the luckier I get.” 

It seems to me that what we often refer to as “luck” (I am speaking here of good luck, of course) is more the result of wise decisions, hard work, and right living than anything else.          

And, yet, I constantly catch my self wishing someone, “Good luck!”           

Maybe we should recognize good fortune and “good luck” for what they really are: blessings. 

When asked how they are doing, a few of my friends will respond, “Better than I deserve!”  

That holds true for most of us – most of the time. 

My plan is “to hit the ground running” in 2025. Well, here I am, and I haven’t managed to work my way up to a good trot so far.

I need another week to get ready for 2025. 

In my younger days we use to joke, “Getting ready to get ready is harder than getting ready.” As this year begins, I’m still in the “getting ready to get ready stage.”

But I have decided one thing. I’m going to keep it simpler in 2025. I’m going for less fun and more joy – which means I’m expecting 2025 to be harder for me than 2024. It’s a choice I am making. 

I had a rather eye-opening experience a few years ago while traveling south on Interstate 59 in southern Mississippi. I met a car going the wrong way on my side of the freeway. Now, that will get your attention! I looked out ahead, and here it came!  

I took to the right lane and the driver of the oncoming car took the left lane. My first reaction as the car flew by was to pray for the people coming behind me!  

I have often reflected on that southern Mississippi experience. 

Seems I meet a lot of people these days who are headed the wrong way. It’s a broad way, you know. And many of us know where it leads. The other way is hard and narrow, but it leads to life. 

I believe where there is life, there is hope. And where there is life it is never too late to right your ship. 

So, as 2024 begins to unfold, I will wish you well, but I will not wish you “good luck.” I will simply offer this blessing: 

“The Lord bless you and keep you; the Lord make His face to shine upon you, and be gracious unto you; the Lord lift up His countenance upon you, and give you peace.”  

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall

Country Ham and Red-EyeD Gravy

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

The late Dewey King Knight, a neighbor who married my father’s double first

cousin, Lucy McCall, would stop by our house two or three mornings a week just to find out how many biscuit middles I had eaten for breakfast. He got a kick out of hearing I had eaten a half-dozen or more.

I was hooked on country ham long before medical science discovered cholesterol to be an enemy of the human circulatory system. My former neighbor for over 30 years, Jerald Shivers, used to drive a delivery route for the Colonial Baking Company. Jerald insisted there were only two kinds of bread and both began with a “C” - Colonial Bread and corn bread.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When I was growing up, my mother would often say, “Moderation in all things.” In my humble opinion, a center slice of real country ham twice a year is not going to hurt anybody.

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

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall

Treasures

I was near Darien, Georgia some time back. Darien is located about 15 miles north of Brunswick on Interstate 95 in southern Georgia. I had stopped at exit 49 just west of Darien to shop at an outlet mall.

The mall is conveniently located on the route to a number of destinations where I have made speaking presentations in the past. I am very familiar with its layout. It has a Ruby Tuesday’s restaurant and a number of anchor stores - Ralph Lauren Polo, Ann Taylor, etc. Since I was in no particular hurry, I had time to browse.                

As I strolled the sidewalk, I was amazed to see how many stores were vacant. In one of the more secluded areas of the mall I saw a sign that read “Thrift Store.” That piqued my interest. The store was a church affiliated entity. A sign on the door read, “Cash or local check only.” I decided to give the store a look.

Everything about the store had a modest quality about it. Shelves filled with odds and ends beckoned me to take a closer look. There were antique, tinted mason jars, China cups, odd pieces of cookware, and old record albums - nothing of particular interest to me on that day.                 

After a few minutes, my curiosity satisfied, I turned to leave the store. That’s when I saw it. High on a shelf, in an oddly, out-of-the-way spot, it sat serenely. I stepped closer to get a better look. Matted and framed, in precise needle-pointed letters, it read,  

“Let the words of my mouth

and the meditation of my heart

be acceptable in Thy sight, O Lord,

my strength and my Redeemer.”                  

                        PS 19:14

 It was supported by a small wooden stand. I carefully took it down from the shelf to study its craftsmanship. The needlework was beautifully detailed, its green matting, slightly faded, but its gold frame had weathered time well. Its back was tightly sealed with aging, heavy brown paper. It was, in my estimation, a small masterpiece. Then, I noticed the price - $4.

 “Four dollars,” I whispered to myself.    

I found myself shaking my head. I was looking at a treasure and it only cost four dollars.    

As I held the frame in my hands, and prized it for its great value, I perceived it had been fashioned by one of God’s children, a loving mother or grandmother many years before. My best guess was that instead of being passed down, it had been set aside. And it ended up in, of all places, a thrift store.

Once fashioned by loving hands; it now, after many years, had made its way back into loving hands…mine. 

Sometimes, when I least expect it, God taps me on the shoulder and says, “Here, take a look at this.” This was one of those moments.

A few years ago I was making the drive from Charleston, SC to Myrtle Beach on US Highway 17. As I cruised northward at a leisurely speed, I spied what had every appearance of an old country store on the right-hand side of the road. I did a quick double-take and looked closer. The sign on the front read, “Carolina Country Store.” That called for a u-turn!     

I pulled up in front of the store facing south. As I approached the entrance, I read another sign posted inconspicuously on the screen door. It read,

“Shirt on and pants up or no service!”

I knew I was going to like this place.

Inside I found so many things which took me back to country stores of long ago – a creaky, oiled floor’ ancient wooden shelves, signs advertising products of the past. And to my absolute delight, in the center of the store, I found an open-top drink cooler. Inside stood an army of Nehis, RC’s, and Dr.Peppers, in original glass bottles, standing neck-deep in cold ice water. I could hardly believe my eyes!

I drew a cold, orange Nehi from among its frosty companions and headed to the counter. The proprietor rang it up on the cash register - $1.29 – worth every penny.

He handed me a flat bottle opener that was kept hidden under the register. I put it to good use.

Then, I took a long, cool swig from that orange Nehi. You remember a “swig” don’t you? Taking a swig is much better than taking a drink. When you take a swig, you take your time. I took my time.       

And driving up Highway 17, I took a trip – back in time- to country stores of yesteryear. Another unexpected treasure – this one found in rural South Carolina.

It seems like treasures can be found everywhere. But you have to be looking for them.

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall                    

Take Your Time

I’ve often heard people say, as words of encouragement, “Take your time.” Sometimes it was advice given to a person recovering from surgery or an injury or an illness - “Take your time.” On other occasions it was offered to someone who was grieving over a great loss –“Take your time.” And I’ve heard it said when an individual was attempting a task which required their full concentration and focus –“Take your time.”

C.S. Lewis, in his classic, Mere Christianity, observed: “The real problem of the Christian life comes where people do not usually look for it. It comes the very moment you wake up each morning. All your wishes and hopes for the day rush at you like wild animals. And the first job each morning consists simply in shoving them all back; in listening to that other voice, taking that other point of view, letting that other, larger, stronger, quieter life come flowing in. And so on, all day. Standing back from all your natural fussings and frettings; coming in out of the wind.”

In today’s world that problem is not limited to Christianity. As a recent TV commercial spelled out, “Life comes at you fast!” We talk of a fast pace, we eat fast food and we clamor for our computers and mobile devices to be faster.

To paraphrase the late, John Powell, “We are not sure where we (the world) are headed but we are making record speed.”

Even the Holidays seemed to approach this year at a record clip. Of course, Christmas stuff has been showing up at the Cracker Barrel and Wal-Mart and other fine retailers in August for years now. But this year TV advertisers started putting on the full court press in early November. It all seems rather maddening.

So, as the Holidays are upon us, let me offer a suggestion – “Take your time.”

Take time to reflect. It was Socrates who said, “The unexamined life is not worth living.” We humans are inclined to look back on the valleys through which we have come and overlook the mountain tops. Sometimes a look back helps us summon the courage to look ahead.

Take time to appreciate your freedom. Most of us Americans have lived, and will probably die, as free men and women. Our freedom is a priceless gift. Not that it came without a price, but that it is beyond having a price attached to it.

Take time to consider your friends. Friends are another priceless gift. In the words of George Eliot, “A friend is one whom one may pour out the contents of one’s heart, chaff and wheat together, knowing that gentle hands will take and sift it, keep what is worth keeping, and with a breath of kindness, blow the rest away.” If you have such a friend (or friends) you understand true riches.

Take time to write some thank you notes (or letters.) I have a few notes and letters which I received over 20 years ago. I still go back and read them from time to time. As William Barclay said, “Many a time a word of praise or thanks or appreciation or cheer has kept a man (or woman) on his feet.” Go ahead and write that note or letter you have been putting off.

Take time to experience a sense of wonder. It seems in today’s world we have lost our sense of wonder at the altar of entertainment and acquisition.

Many years ago, I asked a newly-made friend where he grew up.

“In front of a television set,” he dryly responded.

Today, video games and mobile devices suck the mental energy right out of our children and grandchildren if we allow it to happen.

Best we take in a few more sunrises and sunsets, and gaze into the Milky Way galaxy on a starry night. And consider the fact that we have been “fearfully and wonderfully made.”

So, as the Holidays are upon us, take your time and “smell the coffee”… and the cinnamon and the roses and any other delicious smells that make you feel warm inside.

As I finished this column, I suddenly felt the warmth of a room heated by a wood stove and breathed in the smell of cedar.

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall  

The Sears Christmas Wish Book

I’m not really sure when the commercialization of Christmas began to impact modern America in dramatic fashion. Maybe it was in the 1960’s. If not that early, it certainly was underway by the 1970’s.

The first signs, I think, were when Christmas displays began to appear in retail stores as early as August. I was a young man when I first remember the subject being discussed among churchgoing people with no small amount of consternation. “The very idea of pushing Christmas merchandise before summer was over!”

Well, that hasn’t changed much in the succeeding 30 or 40 years. Christmas merchandise still makes it appearance in August each year. I have noticed that Halloween has made a big push in recent years. Early Christmas displays are somewhat overshadowed in August, September, and October by all the Halloween stuff. (If you care to look deeply enough, you might find that a bit unsettling, too.)

When Halloween passes and all the candy and costumes are gone, the Christmas push is fully underway. Strangely, the loser seems to be Thanksgiving Day. It’s hard to imagine…. Thanksgiving lost between the “marketing” of Halloween and Christmas. I, personally, find that unsettling, too. It is, unfortunately, a sign of the times.

In the days of my youth, it seemed Christmas was not given much thought until Thanksgiving Day was past. It was about that time, (by design, I’m sure) that the Sears Roebuck and Company Christmas Wish Book arrived in the mail at Route 2, Carthage, Tn. That’s when my brothers, my sister and I got really serious about Christmas, especially Santa Claus. For the next four weeks, we gave that Wish Book a going over.

At the McCall household, Santa Claus relied heavily on Sears Roebuck and Company. So, the McCall children took shopping the Wish Book very seriously. That wish book got very little rest. With four boys and a girl actively “shopping”, it meant the catalog was in use during most waking hours. This led to many a heated fuss.

When the issue of time with the catalog became hotly contested, my mother served as referee. I distinctly remember many conversations relating to the Wish Book.

“Mama, make him give me the Christmas catalog! He’s been looking at it for an hour!” a brother would say. 

Sometimes, to keep the peace, my mother would impose a 30 minute limit.

The next one in line for the catalog would watch the clock. Invariably, that yielded this announcement: “Mama, his 30 minutes are up. Make him give it to me!”

“Give your brother the catalog!” she would declare.

The one giving up the Wish Book would hand it over to the one waiting for it and snarl, “You big baby!”

For over a month it was passed around, day and night. What to choose? How to decide?

I’ve spent many an hour studying the pages of a Sears Wish Book. Back and forth, page by page. And I changed my mind a thousand times. I would go to bed thinking about my possible choices. Then, the next morning I would need to see the catalog again.

Sometimes it became miss-placed which created a household crisis. Years later, looking back, I suspected my mother hid the darn thing just to cut down on the racket.  

By the time Christmas arrived, that Wish Book was missing its front and back covers, was dog-eared and as limp as a dish rag.

Sometimes we changed our minds at the last minute and put in our order to Santa Claus too late, and didn’t get exactly what we asked for. But no one was ever unhappy on Christmas morning.

As I recall, the Sears Wish Book was delivered to our mailbox at no cost back in those days. But price or no price, we surely got our money’s worth.

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall