Red Rock Ride

I had the privilege of making the Red Rock Ride a few weeks back. It was the culmination of several serendipitous events over many years. All was set in motion in organic chemistry class at the University of Tennessee in around 1972. On a spring day, my lab partner introduced himself. He was one with a big smile and neatly cut auburn hair.

“Hi,” he said, “I’m Dickie Reese.”

“You wouldn’t be any kin to Dick Reese, would you?” I asked.

It was a dumb question now that I think about it.

“He was my father,” he said.

Having grown up in livestock circles and having worked livestock markets in my late teen years, I knew of Dick Reese. He and his brother were renown, if not famous, mule traders - I suppose the best-known mule men east of the Mississippi River. I also knew Dick Reese had been killed in a trucking accident some years before.

So, there in organic chemistry lab, a life-long friendship was forged. Which once again proves the old saying, “It’s not the grades you make, it’s the hands you shake.”

In the ensuing years I was introduced to Dickie’s brother and partner, Rufus. And I learned that Reese Brothers were suppliers of most of the famous Grand Canyon mules. Dickie, Rufus and I have had many conversations through the years

Of course, my love for mules goes back further than that day in chemistry lab. My maternal grandfather, Will Herod Brim, owned two mules, Kate and Liz (That’s “Liz”, with a long “I,” as in Liza Minnelli.) As a boy I spent many an hour in the feed barn shucking and shelling corn intoxicated by the pungent smell of the mule stable. It was an experience I have never gotten past.

So, after talking about it, dreaming about it, and looking forward to it, I found myself on the back of a mule headed into the Grand Canyon on September 10, 2000. My mule’s name was Wilford. Over the next ten years, I would ride into the Grand Canyon 18 times. I have ridden mules named Wilford, Mutton, Skid-mark, Budreau, Gizmo, Willow, Katie, Mister, Junky, Wyatt, Josie, Goldie, Lucy, Hoodoo, and Little Jed. Willow and Mutton were forgettable as they were both “plodders”. Skid-mark was unforgettable as he hopped down every step going into the canyon leaving skid marks on my backside. All my rides took me to Phantom Ranch by way of the South Rim of the Grand Canyon.

After a few years, Rufus suggested I take the Red Rock Ride. He told me of the Mangum family, some of whom I later met at a few Reese Bros. mule sales. Really nice folks. So, in 2015, I booked the Red Rock Ride. A few weeks before I was to go, my wife, Kathy, was diagnosed with stage 2 cervical cancer, and the trip was off.

Ten years later, and one year after Kathy’s passing, I booked the ride again. In a much needed get-a-way, once again, I found myself on the back of a mule. Her name was “Cardi B.” Named after a famous female rapper I had never heard of, she was a fine ride. On the last day of the ride into the Grand Canyon, I rode “Bert.”

Before I left for my trip, one of my friends, a horseman, said, “Jack, you are going to be sore like you can’t imagine!”

On the Red Rock Ride, we covered approximately 86 miles in six days. I saw Zion Canyon, Brice Canyon, Butch Cassidy Canyon, the North Rim of the Grand Canyon and two other canyons all from the back of a mule – all breath-taking.

I discovered the term “saddle sore” is based on an old, Native American Indian word which means “too old to ride a horse” (or in this case, a mule.) Just kidding.

It was the trip of a lifetime. If I live long enough, I will do it again.

Copyright 2025, by Jack McCall

Home Remedies

This time of year, as summer is upon us, I reminisce of summers past. It always takes me wandering down the hallways of my memory to my boyhood days in the Brim Hollow. When I go back there, the first thing I think of is speckled butter beans.

That thought finds me in my Granny Lena’s garden. And I am reminded how the runners from the butter beans plants climbed the cane poles set on four corners in the rows like skinny Indian tee pees. While she picked butter beans I meandered among the beans poles and played in the rows.

The big rock back step was our favorite place to sit and shell butterbeans in the cool of the afternoon. And the finished produce? Nothing tasted so good as fresh butter beans, pinkish-grey in color and flavored with seasoned meat. Makes me long for a mess of butter beans right now.

But my most vivid memory is my first encounter with chiggers. One of the first summers I spent in the Brim Hollow I experienced the mother of all cases of chiggers. Today we would call what I had an “infestation.” In those days people called it a “case” of the chiggers. People would say, “He’s got a ‘good’ or ‘bad’ case of the chiggers.” Either ‘good’ or ‘bad’ meant bad.

I learned first-hand that a large number of chigger bites concentrated in a small area could inflict some serious pain on a boy in very sensitive places. When I found myself in such a grievous situation, Granny Lena would put a spoonful of fried meat grease in a fruit jar lid and send me to the privacy of the next room to anoint myself. I also learned that if you had scratched the top off the chigger bites the fried meat grease burned like fire until it began to sooth.

Because of my past experiences, I have no love lost for chiggers.

Back in those days a boy ran bare footed from the first warm day of spring until beyond the first frost. One pair of shoes was good for a winter … or two. In my bare-footed days I stepped on honey bees, rusty nails, broken glass, prickly pears, cockle burrs, thorns, briars, sharp rocks, fodder worms, stinging weeds and you name it. By the time fall rolled around the bottoms of my feet were as brown as the top of a biscuit and as tough as shoe leather. Of course, bare footed boys were susceptible to certain parasites.

One summer, upon arriving in the Brim Hollow for a two week stay, I began to complain of the belly ache on the second day. After observing my laying around and moaning and groaning for a day or two, my Pa Rube pronounced his diagnosis.

“I believe he’s wormy,” he declared to Granny Lena, “And I’ve got just the cure.”

The next morning he headed up the hollow to where he knew a patch of wild garlic grew. He returned shortly with a brown paper sack filled with bulbs of wild garlic. As he dumped the contents of the sack out on the table, I noticed that the bulbs ranged in size from a golf ball to a small tangerine. He took one of the larger ones, cut the tops out of it, removed the roots and cleaned it. Then he handed it to me and said, “Here, eat this.”

I adored my Pa Rube. Anything he told me to do, I would try. I took the bulb of garlic and bit into it like I was eating an apple. I learned two things in an instant. Wild garlic tastes like a bitter onion and it is hot as blazes!

I managed to get the first bite chewed up and swallowed. Then I began my protest.

“Pa, I can’t!” I cried.

“Yes, you can!” he countered.

“I can’t!” I continued.

“You’ve got to eat it all! It’s the only way you can get better!” he insisted.

Handing me a cold biscuit, he said, “Here try this biscuit with it.”

It was easier to stomach with a biscuit. I managed to get the whole thing down. The next morning I ate three biscuits with my garlic.

For the next seven days I woke up every morning to chase down wild garlic with a biscuit.

After checking the slop jar on the third day, Granny Lena announced that progress was being made. She had seen visual evidence that the stomach worms had decided to get out of town. I must admit I could not blame them for vacating the premises. That wild garlic was killing me.

On the seventh day I was pronounced cured, my gastro-intestinal tract free of any unwanted inhabitants.

And my belly? It did not hurt one time for the remainder of the summer.

I would not have admitted it if it had.

And so, I learned, in those summers in the Brim Hollow, of the wonders of home remedies, and of the curative qualities of fried meat grease and wild garlic.

I’ll bet we would be healthier and happier today if we employed more home remedies. I’ll bet our health costs would go down as well.

Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

Summer's Here

Ok, I know, officially, the first day of summer is another week or so away. But for me, summer has arrived. Already a bunch of summer time things are going on. Late rains postponed this year’s spring hay crop. Now farmers are dodging rain showers as they try get the hay crop in.

Speaking of hay, don’t you love the smell of newly mowed hay? It is a smell like no other. I especially enjoy it now that I am no longer called to the hay fields to haul square bales. Those were the days! Hot and dusty are words that come to mind. There is hardly any heat that compares to the stagnant air high in a hay loft.

And dust? My father grew a lot of red clover and Laredo soybean hay. If either got wet, those dark green leaves turned black. The dust that came with that hay was almost unbearable. Why, I believe I’ve blown a black bale of hay out of my nose a few times! When my brothers and I complained to our father about black leaves and coarse stems, he had two comebacks. “They’ll (the cows) eat every bite of it!” he’d exclaim, or “It’ll beat a snowball!”

Of course, it’s the time of year for thistles. I hate thistles. Whenever I see a thistle in one of my pastures, I bristle. (That’s almost poetic.) As in, “I bristle at a thistle.” I know, I know, we are not supposed to hate. When I find myself hating a thistle I take comfort in Ecclesiastes 3:8” … a time to love and a time to hate…” I also take action. I rarely check cows without the company of my trusted hoe. This year my hoe and I have inflicted some serious damage on the thistle crop. Going to battle against thistles is a summer thing. I try to head them off before they head out.

Speaking of checking cows, most of the spring calves have arrived. I love to watch them grow. Shaded pastures and lazy creeks running cool make for a scene right out of paradise. I almost feel sorry for all those city folks who know nothing of country living.

Many years ago, my friend, Johnny Godwin, who grew up in Midland, TX (where he said they had ONE tree) and his wife, Phyllis flew to Tennessee by commercial airline. “When we looked down from that plane and saw ‘the greenest state in the land of the free’ we decided we were never going back to live in Texas!” Johnny said. They have lived here ever since. Summer time showcases the “green” of our beloved Tennessee.

And summer speaks of gardens in our part of the world. Soon gardens will be coming “in.” My brothers, Tom and John are the garden growers in our family. There is nothing quite like fresh vegetables “right out of the garden.” Hats off to my friend, Jackie Oldham, who will share his sweet corn with “half of Dixon Springs.” If you want to see a great garden, slow down next time you are driving through Dixon Springs in Smith County. You can’t miss it.

Of course, summer time is a time for cooking out [That is opposed to “eating out.” ] Bring on the grills. And speaking of grills, here’s a little promo for the beef industry. A few steak houses are now offering a cut called a “flat iron” steak. It is a less expensive cut (about 3 to 5 dollars less than a rib eye.) I asked the meat cutter at Kroger the other day about the “flat iron.” “Oh, yes, “he said. “It’s called the poor man’s sirloin.” You might want to give it a try. I suggest you marinate it in your favorite marinade with some garlic at home or try the “flat iron” wherever it is offered.

And then, there is summertime heat. On one of these hot summer afternoons I suggest you make a tall pitcher of lemonade (with real lemons) or fix yourself a glass of sweet, iced tea, take off your shoes, and go bare-footed. You might even go down to the creek and go wadin’.

There’s much pleasure to be had in “the good ole summer time.”

 Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall  

A Lot of Bull - Part 2

Sometime in the late 1960’s or early 1970’s (I can’t remember the exact date), my grandfather, D.T. McCall, and I went on a mission to purchase a herd bull at Coley Hereford Farm’s annual production sale in Lafayette, TN. (You may want to go back and read last week’s column for details leading up to our partnership.)

There is nothing quite like an auction, especially a livestock auction. My first exposure to livestock auctions came when I was a sophomore in high school when I began clerking the sale at Farmers Commission Company in South Carthage, TN for Mr. Bobby Woodard. The late, Jerry Johnson, was the auctioneer back in those days. Jerry Johnson was one of the best. He was smart, and he was fast! Jerry liked to sell “single shots” at the rate of four-a-minute. It was nothing short of madness trying to keep up with him. After college, I worked with Jerry at Mid-State Producers in Woodbury, TN. I learned there is a lot more going on in an auction than meets the eye. A great auctioneer is part entertainer, part evangelist, part salesman and part psychologist. For me, a livestock auction is an exciting place to be.

A private, annual production sale, on a home farm or ranch, is another matter entirely. To me, it is pure Americana - a solid family of people who love the land and the livestock they produce offering the best of their efforts to the world. It doesn’t get any better than that.

The year of our bull purchase my grandfather and I arrived early at Coley Hereford Farm to inspect the bulls one last time before the auction. My grandfather didn’t know I had already settled on one particular bull. I wrote last week that my choice was out of a cow numbered “344.”

It was a “banner” day – the crowd, the smell of the barn, the cattle in “show” condition, the auction ring with knee-deep shavings, the excitement of the auction atmosphere. “Exhilarating” is the word that comes to mind.

The auctioneer that day was “Ham” Hamilton. He was one of the best in the business. He knew all the tricks. He knew when to stop and do some selling, and he knew how to keep the crowd involved in the auction. He knew when to tell a joke and when to be serious. One of my favorite “Ham” Hamilton jokes told that day goes like this:

A man, well up in years, on a visit with his doctor complains, “Doc, I’ve got a problem!”

“What’s the problem?” asks the doctor.

“Every morning at 6:30 mother nature calls,” says the man.

“Are you telling me you have a “movement” every morning at 6:30?” asks the doctor.

“That’s right,” says the man. “Every morning at 6:30, 7 days week.”

“Why that’s not a problem!” exclaimed the doctor. “For a man your age to be that regular, that’s a blessing!”

“No it’s not!” lamented the man. “I don’t wake up until 7:00!!!”

The auction was in full swing when “our” bull entered the ring. My heart was pounding so hard I could hardly get my breath. In that small auction ring, I must admit, he looked bigger and better than ever! I’m not sure if the auctioneer “started” him at $500 or $1000. I got “in” at $1400.

My grandfather and I were sitting on the second row. When I bid $1600, he leaned into me and whispered “Are we in?”

“Yes sir,” I replied. Then, I bid $1800.

“Is that us?” he inquired.  There was a note of concern in his voice.

“Uh huh,” I responded, indicating we still had the bid. Then, I bid $2000.

He leaned into me again and meekly whispered, “If we wait, we might buy one of those younger bulls for a lot less money.”

“Yes, sir,” I answered. Then I bid $2200……. and held my breath.

The auctioneer pounded his gavel.

“Sold……to the young man on the second row! “

I rose to my feet and announced, “D.T. and Jack McCall, Carthage, TN!”

We had just purchased a lot of bull!

That auction was one of the few times in my life when I found I had the upper hand on my grandfather, D.T. McCall!

 Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall      

Memorial Day

Memorial Day is a United States federal holiday observed on the last Monday of May. Formally known as Decoration Day, it commemorates U.S. men and women who died in military service. According to Wikipedia, Decoration Day was first observed on May 30, 1868. The alternative name of Memorial Day was first used in 1882. It was declared the official name by federal law in 1967.

On June 28, 1968, the United States Congress passed the Uniform Holidays Bill, which moved three holidays from their traditional dates to a specific Monday in order to create a convenient three-day weekend. The change moved Memorial Day from its traditional May 30 date to the last Monday in May. The law took effect in 1971.

I remember well, as a boy, the considerable effort made by communities in observing Decoration Day. Cemeteries and graveyards were mowed and trimmed well in advance and graves were decorated with beautiful flowers.

Decoration Day was first observed to honor the fallen in the Civil War.

The day’s celebration was expanded after World War I.

Many people observe this holiday by visiting cemeteries and memorials. With the passing of the years, others have chosen this day to honor all dead, not just those who died in military service.

Some Americans view Memorial Day as the unofficial beginning of summer and Labor Day as the unofficial end of the season. Sadly, for an increasing number of Americans, Memorial Day is viewed as, simply, another paid holiday.

It is vitally important to the health of a free society that we remember – that we remember who we are, that we remember our journey as a nation, that we remember our freedom has come at no small price. We must remember that thousands upon thousands of lives have been cut short in freedom’s cause. We must never forget their bravery and courage. 

This Memorial Day week I will visit the graves of my grandparents.

They were soldiers in a different struggle. But they were soldiers – good soldiers.

My grandmother, Amy Manning McCall, was one of the sweetest, kindest persons I have ever known. Hugging her was like hugging a big, down-filled pillow. I never heard her speak an unkind word.

My grandfather, D.T. McCall had a wily, cantankerousness about him.

If ever I met a “natural born” salesman, it was D.T McCall. He had the savvy, the drive, the creativity, the optimism, the desire to solve the customer’s problem, the spizzerinctum, all the great salesmen have. He was the downright toughest man I ever met. I will honor his memory this week.

My grandmother, Lena Bradford Brim, was a little bow-legged woman. In the Riddleton Community of yester-year she was known to all as “Miss Lena.”

She was an excellent seamstress, an even better cook; and well into her nineties, she could work a crossword puzzle with the best of them. If she said it once, she said it a thousand times: “Be the job big or small, do it well or not at all.”

My grandfather, Will Herod Brim, known to many as “John Reuben,” died on November 12, 1963. The past 62 years seem like a blur. But my memories of him are still vibrant. I’ll recall my favorites this Memorial Day week.  

I’ve always contended that Middle Tennessee was a great place to grow up.

There were so many fine people whom I remember.

And I could write a book about my late mother and father, Mary Helen Brim McCall and Frank T. McCall, and my late wife of almost 44 years, Kathy Oakley McCall. But I’ll save that for another day.

This Memorial Day don’t let the opportunity to offer prayers of thanks for those you have known and loved pass you by.

 Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

A Lot of Bull

My parents didn’t expend a large amount of cash on my college education, but they made many indirect contributions. When my brothers and I reached the age of 13, my father purchased and gave to each of us a “three-in-one package.” For the uneducated on such matters, a three-in-one package is a cow that has been bred back with a calf at her side – hence, a cow, a calf and another on the way, or “three-in-one.” He purchased our packages from my grandfather, D.T. McCall, who took great pride in raising Tennessee Walking Horses, Hampshire hogs, and Horned Hereford cattle. That “three-in-one” got me started in the cattle business, and sparked my love for Horned Herefords.

A few years later, my father allowed me to purchase seven heifers from Mr. Floyd Petty whose farm was located in Defeated, TN. We always referred to them as the “Petty” heifers. My next purchase was made when Mr. Charles Patrick, Fayetteville, TN., dispersed his herd of fine Horned Herefords in the late 1960’s. I remember well the day when the late Dee Coley helped me pick two of the best open heifers which sold at the Patrick auction.  We always referred to them as the “Patrick” heifers.

As my interest in cattle, and especially Horned Herefords, grew I became well acquainted with all the folks at Coley Hereford Farm in Lafayette, TN, or more specifically, Webbtown, TN. Coley Hereford Farms gained national attention in the Horned Hereford business in the 1960’s and 70’s because of a bull named “Mischief 678.” The Coley’s had purchased a train carload of cows by a bull named Silver Domino; and the mating of those cows with Mischief 678 was a winning formula. “678” was owned by the Coley’s in partnership with Malm Hereford Ranch, New Mexico; Robert Meeks, Meeks Herefords in Texas, and Mr. George Harris, of Winona, MS. “678 had a tremendous impact on the Horned Hereford breed, and I wanted to own one of his sons.

My dilemma was a simple one. If you own a bunch of cows and heifers, you need a bull. And I wanted a good one. As I recall, I had about a thousand dollars in my bull budget – not enough to purchase a big son of “678.” Then, good fortune came my way.

It’s hard to explain good fortune. I must admit I have had my share. This particular good fortune came in the form of an offer from my grandfather, D.T. McCall. Somehow, he heard I was in the market for a herd bull, and he offered to go “halfers” with me on the purchase. That’s right! I buy the bull – he pays half the cost. Suddenly, my purchasing power had grown dramatically. Now I could buy a lot more bull!

Coley Hereford Farm had a big annual production sale back in the day. It was an event! Buyers from all over the country came to purchase cattle from the Coley’s. I had become good friends with the Coley boys, Bob, Jim, Tommy, and Johnny. Their fathers, Dee and Clyde, kind of took me under their wings. They were good men, and their boys are still good men.

I was a regular visitor at the Coley’s, and had been given “a bird’s eye” view of the next crop of bulls. The Silver Domino cows were all “numbered” with a 300 series of numbers. At one time “390” was one of the most popular cows in the Horned Hereford bred. Over one span of time she produced seven herd bulls in a row. The year I purchased my “678” son, her yearling son went to Oklahoma and sold in the auction for $6000. That was big price for a bull in the 1960’s.

That year, over a six month period leading up to the Coley’s sale, I evaluated the bulls which would be in the sale many times. By sale day, I had settled on one particular yearling. His mama was the biggest cow on the Coley farm. She was big and long. Her number was “344.” Dee Coley once said, “’344” was so long you would shut the gate on her twice before she got through it!”

As sale day approached, I could hardly contain my excitement. My grandfather didn’t know it, but he and I were going to buy a lot of bull!

Next week, I’ll let you know how the auction went.

        Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall   

Old Country Stores

It is sad to say country stores are becoming a thing of the past. There are still some around, but they are becoming “few and far between.” And the more modern versions are “not like they used to be”, only an attempt at what once was.

Recently, I was told where I could still get a freshly made boloney sandwich at a country store. This one is as close to an original as you might find. My informant told of how I could get a boloney sandwich, chips, and a drink for “around five dollars.” This, I had to see.

So, I stopped by the old store which looks much like it did years and years ago. As I stepped through the front door my mind was flooded with memories of the past - the smells, the feel.

I approached the sales counter where the young lady stood behind.

“Is it too late in the afternoon to get a boloney sandwich? I asked.

“What do you want on it?” she said, dryly.

“A little mayonnaise,” I said.

“Cheese?” she asked, dryly, again.

“Sure!” I answered.

She turned and quietly disappeared in the back.

I left the counter to explore the store.

In the back I found antique shelving showcasing items not to be had in other places. Garden implements made of sturdy metal stood waiting to be employed. For a few moments I just stood there and smiled.

The thought of the boloney sandwich turned me back toward the front of the store. I approached a stand-up drink cooler to see the price of a 12 oz. can of Pepsi was 61 cents. I didn’t even check the price on the bag of chips I picked up.

Back at the counter my sandwich was waiting. As I reached in my shirt pocket I realized I had left my cash at home. I also noticed a sign which read “All credit card purchases under $5.00 will receive a 50-cent charge. I was sure I was safe. The lady behind the counter rang up the sale.

“That will be four dollars and sixty-one cents,” she said, dryly. I was glad to pay the extra 50 cents. I handed her my credit card. She produced a receipt.

After sprawling my signature at the bottom of the receipt, I drew a smiley face. She smiled for the first time. I grinned to myself as I left the store with my prize. Boloney, fresh, light bread, cheese, and chips never tasted so good.

This simple pause in time afforded me time to go back in time to country stores of the past. Once again, I walked on creaking, oiled floors and felt the cool air stirred by ancient ceiling fans that rocked as they turned. I felt the heat from pot-bellied stoves that glowed red in the coldest wintertime, drawing men who made their living off the land to it like a magnet. And I saw farmers gathered ‘round, sitting in straight-back chairs sharing the news of the day, cracking jokes, and telling tales, some of which were hard to believe.

And, of course, I remembered old fashioned cheddar hoop cheese. Now that was “real” cheese, with the kind of flavor which would overwhelm a cracker. (A 22 lb., red rind block can still be had in some places for around $130 bucks.) If you had a good slicer, that would make 22 fine Christmas presents at an average price of $5.91.

Oh, to see boloney and cheese sliced right in front of you and spread out lunch on a table covered with red checkered oil cloth in the back of an old country store! I still see visions of sardines, Vienna sausages, potted meat, Beanie Weenies, and Louisiana Hot Sauce.

But the flavors are just not quite the same.

Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

Family Vacation

The Frank McCall family took our first official family vacation in the summer of 1962. Two purchases made that vacation possible. In the fall of 1961 my father purchased our first family automobile, a 1961 Chevrolet Parkwood station wagon. Prior to that purchase we did all of our traveling in a farm pickup truck. Yes, it was beginning to get a little crowded for a family of seven.

Then, in the summer of 1962, he bought a camping tent. It was a monstrous thing, fully eight feet by eight feet square and fashioned from a heavy dark green tarpaulin material. When folded up it made a cumbersome bundle that weighed every ounce of sixty pounds. Before it could be set up an elaborate framework of aluminum poles had to be put in place to support the body of the tent.

In July of 1962 we took the first of what would be a number of camping trips in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.

On one trip we camped in the Chimney Tops camp ground just inside the national park. We put up our tent around mid-afternoon. That evening our mother prepared a savory dish of pork and beans and ground beef in a black iron skillet on our Coleman gas stove. Ah, there’s nothing like camping in the great outdoors to whet one’s appetite! When supper was over my mother decided to leave the skillet on the concrete picnic table and wash it the next morning. After straightening up the campsite, we retired just after dark as everyone was tired. .We had a big day ahead of us on the morrow.

Our station wagon was parked squarely in front of our tent, creating a walk space no wider than three feet between the two. The door of the tent opened directly in front of the back door on the passenger side of the car.

My mother and father bedded down in the station wagon on a bed fully equipped with air mattresses, pillows and quilts. My brothers Tom, John, Dewey, and I, along with our cousin, Ray McCall, Jr., took up residence in the tent. We all settled down for a night’s sleep that was slow in coming.

The campground had just fallen quiet, when our mother, in a startled whisper, called out, “Boys, there’s a bear on the picnic table!” We all sprang into a sitting position. She had rolled the car window down about an inch so we could hear her warning.

“Don’t come out of the tent!” she whispered, “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

The bear seemed preoccupied with something on the picnic table. But after a few minutes he climbed down off the table and headed toward the car.

My mother, a note of desperation now in her voice, whispered, “He’s coming this way!”

The bear ambled on down between the station wagon and the tent. My mother and father could see the top of his back as he passed by the car. Dewey was sitting up near the front corner of the tent. He felt the bear brush the side of the tent as he went by. That was one tent full of big-eyed little boys!

The bear, his curiosity satisfied, left our campsite to explore other opportunities and did not return. We were not in danger. I did, however, notice that Dewey slept with one eye open for the rest of the night.

The next morning we found our black iron skillet licked cleaner than a whistle.

That is one bear tale that will never be forgotten.

Over the course of the next two or three days we would see seventeen bears counting the one that cleaned our skillet. Of course, some of us didn’t see him, but we had witnesses and enough physical evidence to count him in with the others. Among that number were a mama bear and two small cubs we saw on the roadway up to Clingman’s Dome.

Over the mountains at a trading post in Cherokee, North Carolina, we saw a bear in a cage that could drink Nehi sodas. Located at the front of the cage at floor level was a wood-framed opening about twelve inches wide and five inches high. Tourists could purchase a Nehi for ten cents and give it to the bear. When an opened bottle was placed at the opening, the bear would take it between his paws and pull it under the opening without spilling a drop. Then he would raise the bottle, turn it up, and guzzle it down.

He drank Nehi after Nehi after Nehi. We watched him drink half a dozen in a row until

he was about to pop. I kept thinking, “Now, that is one lucky bear!”

We would return to the Great Smoky Mountains to camp many times, but we would never see that many bears again.

Nor would we ever leave a dirty skillet on a picnic table.

Copyright 2018 by Jack McCall