The Chicken House

Back in my boyhood days, the chicken house was a center of activity in The Brim Hollow. Actually, it was one building that accommodated two different houses – the chicken house and the hen house. Rectangular in shape, it featured a dividing wall in its center with wooden floors. The front of the building was boarded half-way to the roof. Chicken wire covered the large windows. In the winter, heavy, black paper was tacked up to keep out the cold.

A path led from the side door of the Brim home place, past the smokehouse, over a two-log footbridge that crossed the branch, and ended at the steps of the hen house.

Because it was built on a slope, the floor was at least four feet above ground level on the hen house side. It took two big steps to get up into the henhouse. It was, of course, equipped with a maze of roosting poles that ran perpendicular to the entrance. At dusk, when the hens went to roost we shut the hen house door for the night.

Just to the right of the hen house door, a row of laying nests was attached to the outside wall. Covered with a narrow tin roof, it was located about four feet above the ground. In my younger days, I was not tall enough to peer into the nests when gathering the eggs, and I was not brave enough to reach into each nest and “feel” for eggs. (Chicken snakes were known to crawl into nests sometimes.) So, I took along a wooden box on which to stand. (Better to be safe, than sorry!)

During the day the hens were relatively safe from predators. Their number-one enemies were red-tailed hawks (My grandfather called them hen hawks.)

He said a hen hawk could carry off a hen in a minute. He also said a hen hawk would get a baby goat.

I vividly remember the sight of hens ducking and running for cover when the shadow of a hawk swept silently across the ground.

The hens rarely ventured past the tree line up into the hollow. My grandfather hung hub caps and aluminum pie pans in the low hanging tree limbs to scare away the hawks.

The other section of the chicken house was used for starting and growing frying chickens. I helped my grandmother start several batches of chicks in my younger days. In some years we gathered up the newly hatched chicks from the settin’ hens. I recall a few years when we purchased chicks from the feed store. I especially remember the purple medicine my grandmother put in the chicken water. She would fill up a half-gallon mason jar with water and add the purple medicine. Then she would put a glass waterer on top of the jar and quickly turn it upside down. As a boy, I never could figure out why that purple water didn’t run out of the mason jar on its own. But it didn’t.

Those chicks would walk up to it, take a drink, and point their beaks to the sky.

The chicks were fed chicken scratch (ground shelled corn) and Purina Groweena (I think that’s what it was called), and they grew like they were shot out of a gun. Once they were off to a good start, they were allowed to leave the chicken house through a small door in the back. At night they returned and the door was shut tight.

In a few short weeks some of the chicks began to grow thick, red combs. That wasn’t good …. for the chick. That meant they were boys; and they were headed for the frying pan. Some of the pullets met a similar fate. A few of the best were kept to become layers.

My grandmother, who stood less than of 5 foot-2, could not only ring the neck of a chicken; she could pluck and clean a chicken. I always made myself scarce when she was plucking and cleaning.

I shall never forget the smell of scalded feathers or the sight of chicken entrails in the dish pan.

And my Granny Lena could cook fried chicken with the best of them.

In the modern age that led to sophisticated pressure cookers and secret recipes, Granny Lena could have taken a woodburning cook stove, a black iron skillet, a little lard and a farm-raised chicken and given Colonel Harland Sanders a run for his money.

Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

Yesterday's Discipline

Gone are the days when we employed the liberal use of spanking and, dare I say, “whippings” as a form of disciplining our children. Some young courageous parents are still holding the line. And I say more power to them. But in today’s permissive society, those who choose to discipline effectively must do so with greater caution.

When I was a boy, if you got a whipping at school, you could expect another one when you got home. And whoever heard of a “time out?” I remember a few times when my father said “time’s up!”

When it comes to disciplining a child, my philosophy finds its foundation in two verses found in the book of Proverbs from the Bible. “Foolishness is bound up in the heart of a child, but the rod of correction will drive it far from him.” Proverbs 22:15

“Do not withhold discipline from a child; if you punish him with a rod he will not die.” Proverbs 23:13

Show me all the research that you want to dig up that suggests that corporal punishment is detrimental to a child’s mental and emotional development, and I’ll show you a society that is coming apart at the seams.

I guess you could say I come from a long line of disciplinarians and those who were disciplined.

My grandfather, Will Herod Brim was a character in his own right. As a school boy he was always getting into trouble. His most famous prank involved the Riddleton school house. One winter’s day he climbed up on the roof and stuffed the chimney with wet burlap sacks. Needless to say, that smoked everyone out of the building.

One school year, he received a whipping every single day from the principal, Mr. Huffines. I say every single day; actually, there was one day that he was not whipped.

He was halfway through his two-mile walk home after school when he realized that he had missed his whipping that day. He walked all the way back to school and found the principal and said, “Mr. Huff, did you forget something?”

“What did I forget, Herod?” Mr. Huff asked. The boy who would one day be my grandfather said, “You didn’t whip me today!”

“Well, come here!” barked the principle. Mr. Huff then proceeded to give him “the whipping of my life.” He later admitted that the next time he missed a whipping he “kept his mouth shut and went on home.”

After my grandfather was married, and in his thirties, he came to the house early one morning from working with his father. His face was bloody, all the skin was missing from the bridge of his nose, and one eye was swelling shut. My grandmother, taken back by the sight, exclaimed, “What happened to you?”

“I sassed Pappy, and he hit me with a wagon standard,” he replied

I’ve seen a few wagon standards in my time. Most were rough-hewn 2x4’s made from heavy timber. I wouldn’t want to be hit with one. My great-grandfather was a little man, but evidently, he didn’t “take any lip.”

Herod Brim’s only daughter, my mother, preferred a peach tree limb as her favorite instrument of discipline. When my brothers, my sister and I were growing up my mother came close to killing two peach trees in our yard because of her high demand for limbs. Sometimes she added insult to injury by sending the offender to get the limb which she would use. If we came back with one too small, she would send us back for a bigger one.

My brother Dewey was known for laughing in the face of a whipping. As the old folks might say, “a whipping never did him any good.” On a sunny afternoon when he was a small boy, he was using a stick to hit the clean bed sheets that my mother had just hung out on the clothesline. She told him to stop it because he was getting dirt on her clean sheets. He refused, so my mother proceeded to spank him with her hand. She grabbed him by the right hand and began to dust his bottom with her left hand. As she did, he began to run in a circle, laughing as he ran. The more she spanked, the faster he ran. My mother began to get dizzy. So, she stopped and said, “Ok, Mister, I’ll fix you.”

With that said, she backed Dewey up to a small locust tree. Then she took a wet, cloth diaper, wrapped it around his waist like a belt and tied him to the tree. As she left him to go in the house for another basket of clothes, she said, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He cried like a baby. As someone once said, “There are more ways to skin a cat than to choke him on butter.”

When she returned, Dewey promised to never hit her clean sheets again.

I think he would rather have been hit with a wagon standard.

Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

Big Brother's Day

Well, Spring Break has overtaken us. The Easter Holiday will soon be upon us closely followed by Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. Each is a special time of reflection and celebration. From time to time, I entertain the idea of calling for a new holiday celebration. I think I would call it Big Brother’s Day.

I suppose, not to be sexist, we could call it “Big Brother’s and Big Sister’s Day,” or it might be more appropriate to call it “Brothers and Sisters Day.” But I have a big brother bias, so I’m more inclined to call my version “Big Brother’s Day.”

When it comes to big brothers, I have one of the very finest. His name is Tom.

The day I was born at Martha Gaston Hospital in Lebanon, TN, my big brother, who was all of three years old at the time, walked the halls spreading the word to each stranger he met, “Hi, I’ve got a new baby brother. His name is Jack.”

If someone asked his name, he answered, “Tom Cat.”

Over the years, my big brother has taken great pride in his younger siblings.  Whether it was athletic contests, hog shows, or any other special events, our big brother always showed up. He not only invested his time, but also his resources. My younger brothers, my sister, and I have reaped the benefits of his wisdom, his leadership and

his example.

I cannot count the times he has come to my rescue. I know of one time he saved my life.

In our earliest days, we lived in a house on the D.T. McCall farm. A central feature of the house was a big, rectangular log cabin. In time, a kitchen was added to the west end. Not far from the kitchen steps, a big, wooden gate led to the barn lot. The feed barn stood no more than a hundred yards from the house.

Just to the right of the road leading to the feed barn, stood a lone, towering cedar tree. Beneath the tree, a wet-weather pond sprawled out into the barn lot. In the springtime the pond grew to a depth of two feet or more at its center. As summer came on, it was reduced to a wallowing hole for my grandfather’s hogs.

For my brother and me, that barn lot was a favorite place to play. Because of the pond, my mother had given Tom special instructions, in detail, regarding my safety.

Then came the day, she looked out the kitchen window to view a scene that took her breath. Two little boys, covered in black, pond mud were coming up through the barn lot toward the gate. She ran out of the house to meet us.

Tom was resolutely leading me by the hand back to the house. I, reluctantly, was following along. 

My mother tells us we were covered in pond mud from the top of our heads to the soles of our bare feet. But the black pond grime could not obscure Tom’s glowing face. With great pride, through shining eyes, he called out to her, “I did what you told me to do, Momma! Our baby got in the pond, but I didn’t leave him to come and get you. I stayed with him, Momma. I stayed with him ‘til I got him out! I did what you told me to do!”

Tom was five years old when he pulled me out of that pond.

Fast forward to the fall of 1965.

I was somewhat apprehensive as I began my freshman year in high school. Eight grade boys who were looking forward to high school heard stories of beltlines and worse things done to them by upperclassmen.

On my first day as a freshman, I was standing in the hall with two of my buddies when two seniors approached us.  One of the upperclassmen grabbed one of my friends by the arm, and then, with the stone of his class ring turned to the inside of his hand, the senior popped a knot on the top of my friend’s head.

As my buddy grimaced in pain, the senior grabbed my arm with every intention of giving me the same medicine. That is when the other senior said, “Leave him alone. That’s Tom’s brother.” My antagonist let go of my arm.

Over the next couple of weeks, those words became music to my ears: “Don’t bother him, he’s Tom’s little brother.”  “Leave him alone. He’s Tom’s brother.” By the third week, upperclassmen were calling me “Little Tom.” It was not a bad place to be.

So, I’m big on big brothers.

The passing of the years has not changed his looking out for his younger siblings. To me, that’s a cause for celebration.

On my “Big Brothers Day” holiday we could celebrate the lives of our big brothers or little brothers or even our big sisters and little sisters. And those who don’t have natural brothers or sisters, as well as those who do, could celebrate the lives of their brothers and sisters in Christ.

Or we could take it a step farther, and, on that day, celebrate the brotherhood and sisterhood of mankind. We could even consider loving our enemies on that day. The possibilities are endless.

Just a thought, but I think I could be on to something here.

Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

The Changing Nashville Skyline

I don’t make it into downtown Nashville very often. For years, coming from the east, I made it to Nashville International Airport countless times where I could view Nashville from a distance. When I occasionally ventured into the downtown area it was usually at night. Consequently, I paid very little attention to the changing skyline.

Well, a couple of weeks ago my work took me downtown three mornings in a row. I found myself somewhere between shell-shocked and amazed. When did all this happen?

First, I had to search to spot the “batman” building. Not that long ago it was the big dog of downtown high rises. I didn’t even try to find the L&C tower. It is now like the first little buttercup in the spring lost in the tall grass.

Once upon a time, The Life and Casualty building could be seen over 20 miles away from Jenning’s Knob, the highest point above sea level in Wison County. Not anymore.

Growing up as a boy near Carthage, Tennessee, Nashville seemed so very far away. It was a big deal in our household when someone went “all the way” to Nashville. Riding the escalators at Harvey’s or taking in a movie at the Tennessean Theater on Church Street was an over-the-top experience. In later years, when I finally secured my driver’s license, taking a date to the movies at 100 Oaks Mall and stopping at Shoney’s on Thompson Lane, was a really big deal.

On his return to the farm after World War II my father probably never ventured more than 50 miles from home over a half-dozen times. Nashville seemed to be as far as he ever wanted to go. And he didn’t make the trip unless it was necessary.

In his declining years, when my father began to experience dementia, our family made an exhaustive effort to get to the bottom of his issues. Along with memory loss, he began to have difficulty keeping his balance. We visited neurologists and tried physical therapy. Eventually, he was referred to a major Nashville hospital for an MRI. He was not happy there. To make matters worse, he was required to stay overnight.

It was decided I would take the night shift. My mother and my brother, John, would return the next morning and take him home. He and I were in for an eventful night. At that time in the evolution of healthcare, large hospitals were experimenting with a concept called “total nursing care” which, in this case, meant one RN was assigned to 4-5 patients during the night. Our nurse had her hands full. The patient across the hall must have been a real booger as he required most of her attention. When the nurse realized I was there for the night, she thanked me and interrupted the evening as little as possible.

Around 10:00 PM my father and I fell into a routine. Every 10 or 15 minutes, he would roust and say, “let’s get out of here”, and then, attempt to get out of the bed, sometimes throwing one leg over the bedrail.

I would counter with, “Dad, remember. Ma and John are coming in the morning to take you home.”

“Ok,” he would say as he laid back down.

This went on into the wee hours of the morning until we both had had enough of each other. That’s when he decided to change his strategy.

First, he sized me up. I could see the wheels turning in his mind. Then, he started the negotiation. He pointed to the cabinet at the foot of his bed.

“My clothes are in that cabinet right over there,” he said. There was cunning in his eyes.

“If you will bring me my clothes, I’ll put ’em on and we can slip right out of here, and “they” will never know it!”

“Why, we could go all the way to Nashville, and “they” wouldn’t know a thing!” he said slyly.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him we were in Nashville.

But in his mind, Nashville was still a faraway place where we could never be found out.

Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

Mental Health

I read an interesting cover story in USA Today recently about Baby Boomers (those born from 1946 -1964.) It seems more and more “boomers” are “running, cycling, swimming, boot camping – doing just about anything that will keep them fit, outdoors and among friends.”

As we ‘boomer’s’ age we seem to be placing much more emphasis on our physical health than our parents did. That is largely due to the fact that our parents lived a lifestyle which was much less sedentary than ours. Their very way of life kept them physically fit.

Because life expectancies continue to get longer, they are now saying age 60 for the “boomers” is the new 40.

      When I approached retirement age, I found myself struggling to keep up a routine of walking two miles every day. When I considered my late father walking two miles just for the sake of walking, I had to laugh. At age 70 he was fit, trim and as solid as a rock.

Maintaining our physical health should certainly be one of our top priorities if we are to continue to be happy and productive. But it is important that we address our mental health as well.

I shall never forget an old preacher who used to visit the church where I grew up at revival time. When called upon to pray, he would say, as a part of his prayer, “And Lord, I want to thank you that I woke up this morning and put my feet on the floor in a sound mind.”

Certainly, a sound mind is something for which we should be grateful, and a subject we might do well to give more thought.

The great Dr. William Menninger, founder of the Menninger Foundation in Topeka, KS, gave us a fine definition of a sound mind, or mental health.

He said, in essence, “Let us define mental health as the adjustment of human beings to the world and to each other with a maximum of efficiency and happiness.”

Dr. Menninger went on to say “It is the ability to maintain an even temper, an alert intelligence, socially considerate behavior, and a happy disposition.”

The late Earl Nightingale wrote, “As we grow up, these four sides of our personalities should also develop, so that, ideally, we become totally mature people. But what actually happens (and it’s much easier to see it in another person than in ourselves) is that we usually grow up in some areas of our life and stay childish in others: we tend to grow up lopsided.”

I have given these four areas considerable thought over the years.

Maintaining an even temper is not an easy task. Someone once said, “It is better to have a cool head and a heart on fire than to be a cold-hearted, hot head.” Anger, if not carefully managed, can destroy relationships and even impact one’s physical health. It has a way of eating away at one’s personality.  A marvelous rule of thumb comes from the Good Book, “Let not the sun go down on your wrath.” A well placed “I’m sorry” can sometimes work wonders.

In order to enjoy an alert intelligence, we must continue to challenge our minds. My late grandmother, Lena Brim enjoyed a sharp mind well into her nineties.  She constantly stimulated her brain by working crossword puzzles. There are millions of “pathways” in the human brain. When they stop being used, they stop being usable.

The subject of socially considerate behavior baffles me most. Why can’t we be kind and considerate to other people? Have we become so obsessed with “me” that we have no room for others? I firmly believe that most mental illness can be traced to “me-i-tis.”

Many years ago, a 100 year-old man was a guest on the Johnny Carson Show. As he talked with his host, the old gentleman laughed easily and was a general cut-up.

“You seem to be a very happy person,” Mr. Carson observed.

“What is the secret to your happiness?”

“Well,” said the old gentleman, “I figure when I get up in the morning I have two choices. I can be happy, or I can be unhappy. I simply choose to be happy.”

I believe maintaining our mental health, like happiness, is a choice. But after we make our choice, there remains much work to be done.

Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

The Rifleman

I can well remember black and white television. I can also remember the Sunday evening our entire family loaded up in our pickup truck and went over to a neighbor’s house to get our first look at television in living color. It was a few years before my father brought home our first color set.

My brothers and I grew up watching three channels. Later on, if you had a special antennae, you could pick up Channel 17. Then, still later, Channel 30 came along. But, for the most part, it was three channels.

I’m proud to say, my wife Kathy and I raised our three boys on those five basic channels. Not until our youngest graduated from high school in 2002 did I break down and install DIRECTV. That’s not to say I didn’t endure plenty of grief over the years for my unwillingness to go multi-channel via satellite. But I held my ground as long as I could.

Suddenly, we had over two hundred channels. And I promise you, sometimes, in the years that followed, I have found myself sitting there after going through the channel menu and thinking, “There’s not a thing on tonight that’s worth watching!”

Then my youngest son Joseph saved the day when he suggested I add the Outdoor Channel and the Western Channel. Happy days were here again!

Not too long ago I was having a conversation with a young man who finished college last fall.

“What’s your favorite western?” I asked.

He gave me a blank look and responded, “What’s a western?”

I didn’t know what to say.

“What’s a western?” Why, no wonder the world is going to Hades in a hand basket! What is a western, my eye!

Recently, I was re-introduced to the classic western series, The Rifleman. Now, there’s a real western for you. Starring Chuck Connors as Lucas McCain, The Rifleman showcases all the drama and excitement of the old west. Lucas is, what would be called today, a single parent raising his son Mark. Played by Johnny Crawford, Mark is a good boy. I know he is a good boy because his main lines in the series are “Yes sir, Pa!” “Why, no sir, Pa!” “I’m sorry, Pa” and “Sure, Pa!”

When Lucas tells Mark to do something, he does it. Mark is a good boy. I know of a bunch of childhood actors whose lives turned out to be train wrecks. But I’ll bet Johnny Crawford grew up to be a fine man. He’s got that look in his eyes.

Lucas has this specially modified rifle which fires automatically when he pumps its lever. A ring in the lever affords him great freedom in welding his firearm. Lucas McCain can pump a dozen rounds through that Winchester faster than a cat can lick his whiskers. He doesn’t have to call on his rifle in every episode, but he rarely goes anywhere without it.

Lucas and Mark seem to spend a lot of time in town. That’s where most of the action takes place. The other two main characters are the sheriff, Micah, Lucas’s trusted friend and “Miss” Millie, who operates the general store.

In most westerns, the general store operator is a wimpy little man who wears glasses - not so on The Rifleman. “Miss” Millie is a sweet little thing; and, as Mark says, “purdy, too!” I think Lucas is a little “sweet” on “Miss” Millie. But if he is, their courtship is limited to an occasional invitation out to the McCain Ranch for supper. Lucas is much too focused on raising his son to have much time for courtin’.

According to Mark, Lucas is a great cook, especially when it comes to baking apple pie. However, on the show, Lucas spends precious little time in the kitchen.

In every episode of the Rifleman, an important lesson in life is brought to light. The show usually ends with Lucas pointing out that lesson to his son Mark.

I found I could sit down in front of my television precisely 22 minutes before bedtime; and, if I fast forwarded through the commercials, I could watch an entire episode of The Rifleman and still get to bed on time.

And the lessons Lucas teaches his son leave me with the best feelings. I go off to bed with good thoughts in my head.

Good wholesome entertainment is hard to come by these days – the kind that takes you back to the thrilling days of yesteryear when doing the right thing and living right meant something.

It makes me a little homesick just thinking about it.

Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

Trucks, Cars, and Push Buttons

My three brothers, my sister, and I grew up on a 67acre farm in a simple, white-framed, farmhouse. As our family grew, the house was “added on to” twice. The house featured one small bathroom. A second bathroom was planned for the second addition but was never finished until after the five of us moved on. Among our mother’s many fine attributes, she was a woman of extraordinary patience.

Our first three cars were pickup trucks. Our father saw that a truck lasted ten years. One of his familiar quotes was, “Oil is the life of an engine.” He purchased new GMC’s in 1948, 1958, and 1968. The ’48 model always seemed a bit sluggish to me. It featured a 4-in-the -floor, including a “granny low” gear. I declare that truck could have pulled big oak stumps out of the ground if the chain didn’t break. It was forest-green in color with a matching green, wooden, stock rack. In the lowest gear, it roared as it lurched forward. I called it the “green monster”. The ’58 featured a 3-speed-on-the-column, was leaner, quicker, but less powerful than the ’48. It was red with a matching bed. By the time the ’68 came along, my brother Tom was headed to the University of Tennessee. The ’68 featured a white cab and an orange stock rack. It was much lighter than its predecessor and geared so high it couldn’t pull a fat tick off a dog’s ear.

My father purchased our first car in the fall of 1961. He waited until the new models (’62’s) came out to cash in on a discount. Speaking of cash, that’s what he paid Jim Reed Chevrolet for it. It was a “plain Jane” 1961 Chevrolet Parkwood station wagon.  It came with a manual transmission and without air conditioning. I don’t recall it having a radio. Upon my mother’s insistence, my father installed plastic seat covers. In the hottest part of the summer, if you sweated enough, you could find yourself sticking to the car seat. If you wanted cooler air, you manually rolled the window down.

All three of the trucks I knew along with the station wagon could be started with a key, which reminds me of a trip I took recently.

I picked up a rental car at National Car Rental at a distant airport. The young man behind the counter in handing me the “keys,” named the make and model and said, “you will like this one!”  In order not to cast disparagement on the car company, the make and model will remain nameless.

I was not surprised to find it was a “keyless” model as most cars and trucks are of that variety these days. I was surprised when I had difficulty finding the gear shifter. Finally, there it was, a small black and silver device about the size of a plastic TicTac box, attached to the steering column. On the flat side were four letters, D, N, P, and R. D, N, and R were on a vertical line. The P was beside the N. I figured out what they stood for.

I don’t mind pushing buttons. I do it all the time. Elevators have buttons to push as do microwaves, cellphones, vending machines and the like. And I don’t expect a microwave to have an ignition key and a gear shifter. But these are cars and trucks for crying out loud. Chrysler Corporation tried pushbutton gears years ago, and it didn’t turn out so well.

After becoming accustomed to all the latest technology on the car, I settled into a comfortable routine of driving. On the second day I had not driven 10 miles when a steaming cup of coffee appeared on the instrument panel with a message which read, “Would you like to take a break?”

Before I could catch myself, I answered out loud, in an annoying voice, “No, I would not like to take a break!”

My next thought was, “I am talking to this car!”

When I returned home, I was relieved to climb inside my 2002 Toyota Tacoma pickup. In the floor I found a clutch petal, a break petal, and an accelerator (We used to call it a “foot feed.”) In the consol I found my trusted 5-speed gear shifter. I started it with an ignition key.

Neither I nor my truck said a word all the way home.

Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall

Life by the Numbers

My friend, Dr. Donna Shaffer, has written an interesting book titled The Roller Coaster Called Life. In the book she refers to life stories as being “defining moments” in our lives. We all have these “defining moments.” Strangely, that got me to thinking about numbers. 

I also think there are defining numbers in each of our lives. Here are a few of mine.

“10” – That’s how many pounds I weighed when I was born. You couldn’t tell by looking at me.

“5” – In birth order, I am the second of five. You might call me a “middle child”, sort of.  

“40” – When I took my first job at the G&R Dairy Chef (Later Brenda’s Restaurant), the going hourly rate was 40 cents.  My job began in the fall of 1963.

“15” – That’s how old I was when I made peace with God. Some people call it being saved. Others call it being “born again.” Still others call it a “conversion experience.” Call it what you will. That was the age I made “my calling and election sure.” Since then, I have “been kept by the power of His might.”

“16” – That was the year I got my first “store bought” haircut. Up until then, my mother cut my hair, along with my three brothers’. There were a few early years when my father welded the scissors and clippers, but my mother took over when he started “soup-bowling” our haircut.

“1969” – That’s the year I graduated from Carthage High School.

“55” – That was my number in the U.S. Military Draft Lottery.

“19”- I was fully 19 years old when I first fell in love. That summer was the shortest summer of my life.

“1973” – In ’73 I graduated from the University of Tennessee. Look back to my high school graduation date. That’s right, I graduated in four years. That feat is not accomplished much these days.     

“1979” – That’s the year a blue-eyed blonde named Kathy Oakley and I were married.

“8 lbs. 15 ¼ oz.” – Our first son, J. Brim, tipped the scale at that exact weight. He turns 45   in a few months. It doesn’t seem like so long ago when the nurse turned to me in the hospital delivery room, handed him to me, as she announced to everyone in the room, “We’re going to let his father take him down to the nursery and weigh him.” I promise you. It seems like yesterday.

My mother use to say, “Looking back, it all seems like a dream.”

“45” – That blue-eyed blonde and I were married for almost that many years!

“3” -   That’s a big number around our house these days. We have three fine grown sons; and now, 8 finer grandchildren.

“63” – In my head, that’s how old I am. I know. I know. According to my birth date, I’m 73. But that just doesn’t work for me. So, do me a big favor and don’t try to tell me any different.

“81” – My father, Frank T. McCall crossed over to the other side at that age.

“22” – This Father’s Day he will have been gone twenty-two years. It doesn’t seem like that long ago when I got the call.

“88”– My mother made it to eighty-eight. If she had not worked so hard she would probably still be going strong.

“62” – My grandfather, Will Herod Brim, died on November 12, 1963. That’s sixty-two years ago this fall. Like my mother said, it’s like a dream. 

“1 million-plus” - That’s the number of blessings I’ve known in my lifetime.

“1” – Along this fascinating journey called life, I have tried to keep God first. I have failed Him often, but He has NEVER failed me.

“1000” – When I get to heaven, I’m going to find a rocking chair and sit in it for a thousand years. After a thousand years, I’ll start rocking.

Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall