Encouragement

The story goes that, many years ago, the great American inventor, Thomas Alva Edison, was attending a convening of forward thinkers in a major city. Henry Ford, who would become America’s foremost car maker, was in attendance.

During the convention, Edison was seated at a table attempting to explain the workings of the internal combustion engine to a group of onlookers. During his discussion, Ford walked up and began listening to Edison’s presentation.

Suddenly, Ford stepped forward and began to pound his fist on the table, as he exclaimed, “You’ve got it, young man! You’ve got it!”

Years later, Edison would say, “The sound of that man’s hand pounding on that table has meant worlds to me!”

I suppose we all could use a bit of encouragement or affirmation from time to time. One of my favorite quotes comes from Biblical scholar, William Barclay:

“One of the highest duties is the duty of encouragement. It is easy to laugh at men’s ideals; it is easy to pour cold water on their enthusiasm; it is easy to discourage others. The world is full of discouragers. We have a Christian duty to encourage one another. Many a time a word of praise or thanks or appreciation or cheer has kept a man on his feet. Blessed is the man (or woman) who speaks such a word.”

A popular cliché goes like this: “Life is hard by the yard, but a cinch by the inch.” Well, that sounds nice, but sometimes life is hard even when you take it an inch at a time. Sometimes, to use the words of Rudyard Kipling from his poem entitled ‘If,” you must “hold on when there is nothing in you except the Will which says to you, “Hold on!”

There are so many great writings I fear are being lost to the past. Here’s one I share as an encouragement to you. It is titled “Desiderata.”

“Go placidly amid the noise and the haste and learn what peace may be in silence. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; listen to others, even the dull and ignorant; they, too, have their story. If you compare yourself with others you may become vain and bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.”

“Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals and everywhere life is full of heroism.”

“Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love, for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass. Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune, but do not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.”

 “Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace with your soul. With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world.”

 Over the years, I have consistently found the words of ancient hymns to be a rich source of encouragement. One of my favorites goes like this, “Be faithful weary pilgrim, the morning I can see…”

 Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

Dropping Sticks

I found myself dropping sticks in a tobacco patch one day last week. Well, in a way. I was caught up in a trip down memory lane.

Now, to the uneducated, the term “dropping sticks” might sound a bit foreign. It is not like you are walking through a tobacco patch and accidently let some sticks fall to the ground – like “dropping a stick.” Veterans of the tobacco patch, on the other hand, know that dropping sticks is a very important part of the tobacco cutting (harvesting) process.

In years gone by, when cutting and spiking tobacco was a two man operation, tobacco sticks were dropped on the ground between the two rows to be cut. As the cutter downed the two rows in front of him, he reached down, picked up a tobacco stick and handed it to the spiker. Then, he cut the next 5 or 6 stalks of tobacco and passed them back to be spiked. As the plants were cut and spiked, another tobacco stick magically appeared in the row. Best I can recall, my brothers and I were taught to lay (or drop) the sticks end-to-end, or let them overlap an inch or two. It was no small feat to tote an arm-load of tobacco sticks through big tobacco when dropping sticks that way. You kind of had to walk sideways.

In later years, and in today’s world most tobacco is cut and piled by the cutters – 5 or 6 stalks to the pile. Later, when the tobacco has “fallen” (wilted), the same ones who cut the tobacco come back and spike it. Even though the process is different, tobacco sticks still have to be “dropped.”

On the farm where I grew up my father had a simple philosophy when it came to cutting tobacco – “Make it easy on the man who follows you.” So, we were taught “the art” of dropping sticks. It involved two unspoken maxims: (1) Don’t make the spiker have to hunt for the stick. (2) If possible have the stick land with the high end of the stick near the butt-ends of the stalks in the pile. That may sound a bit technical, but it was really very simple – “Pay attention to what you are doing.”

I found early in my career you had much more control over where and how a tobacco stick landed if you spun it as you let it go. That is especially true if you were dropping sticks on more than one row as you walked through the tobacco patch. The thought of strategically landing tobacco sticks years ago brought a smile to my face.           

The next thing I remembered was the weight of a bundle of 50 tobacco sticks. In this summer’s heat I would have been sweatin’ like a pig by the time I had unloaded the bundles at the tobacco patch.

I was pleased, once again, to recall the many personalities of tobacco sticks. I remembered some fashioned from a tree limb – dark in color – round and straight. And there were still a few of the “split-out” variety – irregular in shape and one-of-a-kind. There were skinny ones and heavy ones – some so big they felt like 2 by 4’s (And a chore to make the spike fit on.) And there were slick ones and splintery ones. It took me back to tobacco stick dropping heaven.

I miss those old tobacco patches. I suppose the sights, sounds, smells, and the “feel” of tobacco stalks, tobacco sticks, tobacco gum and tobacco knives became a part of me somewhere along the way.

Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

Roots and Wings

I read somewhere a few years ago the two greatest things we can give our children are “roots and wings.” By “roots” the writer meant a foundation for building a life, or that which provides a stable anchor against life’s challenges and storms. By “wings” he meant a life’s vision and the courage to fulfill one’s life’s calling. Both roots and wings are necessary for one to live well. The two go hand in hand.

I am part of that generation called the “baby boomers,” the post-WWII generation born from 1946 to 1964. Sadly, it seems, we, as a generation, dropped the ball somewhere along the way. Many (or most) of those of the generations following us, known as Generation X, Generation Y, and the Millenniums, seem to be woefully lacking when it comes to “roots and wings.” I suppose there are many reasons.

The United States of America came out of World War II as the undisputed champion of the world. And, as she flexed her economic muscles, more people made more money faster than at any other time in the history of mankind. Those of the WWII Generation made it look easy; but having seen the hardships of the Great Depression, they worked long and hard, and were committed to providing a better life for their families.

I remember my mother, when stressing the importance of a college education, saying, over and over again, “I don’t want you to have to work as hard as your father did.”

The prosperity of the post WWII era made life easier for us Baby Boomers. In some ways, that was not a good thing.  We, in turn, attempted to make it easier for the next generation.

For the Baby Boomers, there was an “expectation” for us to do as well as our parents. The next generation came along and felt “entitled” to live as well as their parents.

So, we are left with the cold reality that two generations made it too easy for the generations which followed.

Here’s a haunting quote: “Men work hard to make money, so their sons won’t have to endure the hardships that made men out of their fathers.”

And here’s something else to consider. They say there are no atheists in foxholes. I would submit there are fewer atheists when thousands and thousands of mothers and fathers have sons who are in foxholes.

Those of the WWII Generation came out of the war with a renewed vision of God. I would submit our mothers and fathers believed in God because they “knew” God. They had “experienced” God. Sadly, too many of my generation, the Baby Boomers, came to believe in God because their parents believed in God. That’s called “running on someone else’s gasoline.”  What do you tell the next generation about God when you have been running on someone else’s gasoline?

I once had a dear friend, now deceased, whose daughter, after finishing college; married a young man from Peru. She had grown up Baptist. He had grown up Catholic. Over the years, they seemed to enjoy a solid marriage, but they never could find any common religious ground from which to teach their children.  

“They tried for years to settle on a church to take the kids and never could,” he once lamented to me. “So, the children have always seemed to be adrift, religiously speaking.”

“So they have no spiritual roots,” I offered.

“No spiritual roots,” he said sadly, as he shook his head. I felt a deep sadness for my friend.

It was the greatest of all teachers who said:

“Therefore whosoever heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them, I will liken him unto a wise man, which built his house upon a rock: And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell not: for it was founded upon a rock.”

 You know, solid foundations and deep roots have a lot in common. They are both needful and necessary in navigating the storms of life.

 “But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.” Isaiah 40:31

 Roots and wings - essentials in building a meaningful life.

 Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

Heroes

I’ve always been careful about picking heroes. Too often you end up being disappointed. But I do have a few. You might say they picked me.

I suppose my first hero was my father. I am one of those fortunate sons who can say my father was the best man I have ever known. He was a prince of a man – quiet and shy - solid as a rock. He was one with the land and he had a natural feel for the miracle of the seed and the sun and the soil.

Never once did I see him angry. There was a reasonableness about him that drew people to him. Looking back, I realize now it was not only a pleasure, but a privilege to work with him side by side.

In all the years I knew him, he never disappointed me, not once.

I found my next hero to be my brother, Tom. God is a master at choosing the eldest. A man of solid character like our father, he saved my life at least once and saved my hide on more than one occasion. It is a fine thing to have an older brother you can look up to.

Next on my list of heroes would be my maternal grandfather, Will Herod Brim. Known by his friends as “John Reuben,” I called him “Pa Reub.” He lived in the Brim Hollow, in a house with no bathroom and no running water. He died of a third heart attack in his 69th year. I was 12. In the short time I knew and loved him, more than anyone else, he galvanized my self-esteem. I shall never forget the feel of his whiskered old face, the smell of his flannel shirts, or the light in his eyes. There are some people you would like to forget, there are a few who are unforgettable.

And then, there was Charlie Midgett. We called him “Mr. Charlie.” Long before Sunday School became a feature of country Baptist churches Mr. Charlie was a catalyst in nurturing a Sunday School in the little country church I attended as a boy. In some ways, I think he considered it his life’s work. He was forever promoting Sunday School. When the big snow falls came, he would drive his tractor and hay wagon around the community making sure kids made it to Sunday School. Countless lives have been impacted over many years by the dedication of Charlie Midgett. His work was the stuff of heroes.

The next hero I would mention was a man named Claude Harris. He was the best boss for whom I worked in all my working years. It was my plan when I finished my studies at the University of Tennessee to work for him. My plans took a detour when I was recruited to operate a livestock market for Tennessee Livestock Producers hardly a week after I finished school.

Mr. Harris was the supervisor for livestock grading for the Tennessee Department of Agriculture for many years. Thanks to him, Dr. John Reagan, and a series of conservative Commissioners of Agriculture, Tennessee boasted one of the most consistent livestock grading services among all the Southeastern states. The grading service remained virtually unchanged by turnover in Tennessee’s Governor’s office for decades.

From Gladeville, TN, (“The Glade”) in Wilson County, Claude Harris was a serious and accomplished breeder of Hereford cattle. He was smart, cut from conservative cloth, and took a commonsense approach to life, every day. He was the kind of man you wanted to work for.

So, when I completed my work in livestock market management, I went to work for him. Never once did he show up unannounced at a worksite that I was not glad to see him.

Our three sons were born during the five years I worked under his supervision. Although he and I never discussed it, he made sure my schedule kept me close to home when babies were due. It was a touch of kindness never to be forgotten. Speaking of sons, he and “Miss” Nelda raised three fine sons of their own, Mike, Keith, and Steve. All three are “chips off the old block.”

Far too few people know, but the people who knew him know that Claude Harris was a giant in the Tennessee livestock industry. I’m sure he never saw himself that way. But that is what makes for real heroes.

  Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall    

Tobacco Rows

I’ve spent some time traveling down rows of tobacco. In freshly plowed ground, I’ve struggled to keep my balance as I lugged a pressure sprayer filled with insecticide. At other times, I’ve walked, almost leisurely, with a hoe in my hands as I looked for stubborn weeds or grass. Then, again, I’ve walked briskly down the rows topping tobacco trying my best to keep up with the torrid pace set by my late father.

He could take two rows at a time, topping with both hands, and never seem to slow down. And I’ve cut and spiked tobacco in rows that seemed to grow longer by the minute.

But my favorite recollections of tobacco rows were of the times when I was a small boy, probably 10 years old. That was a time when a boy was expected to help, but not to carry the full responsibility of an adult.

I remember the days before sucker control, the days before MH-30 and later, Royal MH-30. Anyone familiar with tobacco knows that three suckers appear in the top of a tobacco plant soon after it is topped (when the terminal bud is removed.) And when those three suckers are removed the plant will “sucker” from top to bottom.

As growth inhibitors, the MH-30 family of sucker control products; under proper conditions, brought sucker grown to a halt. But they also slowed the growth of the tobacco plant.

In the early days of sucker control products, my father felt he got the most growth from his tobacco if we removed the initial top suckers after topping before he applied MH-30. It meant more work, but it made for longer top leaves in the tobacco plants.

Needless to say, we pulled a lot of suckers in my growing up years.

In the years prior to the arrival of MH-30, there were times when we were forced to pull suckers from top to bottom.

As a boy, I got the job of crawling down the row and pulling the bottom suckers. There is a world unto itself near the ground in a patch of mature tobacco.

Hidden under a canopy of big, broad, drooping tobacco leaves, you could barely see the sky. Except in the hottest weather, the ground was cool and moist, made more so by suckers removed in earlier days. Sometimes suckers, fading from green to pale yellow, almost covered the ground. It made for a smell unique to the tobacco world.

And then, there was the soil; deliciously soft and brown, giving up an occasional flint rock or arrowhead – soil which had a rich, clean smell about it. It was the kind of dirt that felt good in your hands as you rubbed off accumulated tobacco gum.

One year, after a prolonged dry spell, my father opted to “prime” one particular patch of tobacco. Down the rows my brothers and I went, removing the brown leaves from the bottom of each stalk of tobacco. As we worked along, we created piles of leaves at varying intervals.  Later, the leaves were picked up and moved to the tobacco barn for spreading out, or stringing up. That year, I was just the right size for the job. It was the only time I remember when working in tobacco was fun.

Of course, working in tall tobacco when you are a boy has another advantage. Because no one can see you, they don’t know exactly where you are. So, you could slip in a little “rest” now and then. My brothers contended I was really good at taking breaks in tall tobacco. Of course, I accused them of the same.

Those were good days. A boy came out of the tobacco patch at quit‘n time with ground-in dirty on his knees and on the heal of his hands. Tired bodies make for the best sleep.

I learned many of life’s lessons down those tobacco rows.

 Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

Charleston

I was in Charleston, SC a few summers back. My Southwest Airlines flight had a 3:10 PM arrival, and it was on time on a hot, humid day. I picked up my bags and went in search of a ride to my hotel. I take a hotel shuttle whenever I can. Sometimes a hotel shuttle is not available. This was the case in Charleston. A friendly lady at the information desk said I had two options: A regular shuttle or a taxi.

As I walked outside the terminal and headed in the direction of the transportation island, I saw a sign which read: Taxi to downtown - $30 or wait for 15 minutes and the shuttle is $12. I decided to wait for the shuttle.

The transportation coordinator directed me to a white van. As I climbed inside the shuttle, I greeted two women passengers sitting in the second row. I took my seat in the back. I immediately noticed the van’s engine was not running, consequently no cool air was blowing. It was a sweltering 98 degrees outside in the Carolina sun. It had to be well over 100 degrees with a heat index beyond 110 inside the van. It was so hot it was funny. The other two passengers and I began to lightheartedly discuss or predicament. Ten minutes passed with absolutely no air movement. It felt like an oven inside the shuttle. One woman laughed as she finished sweating off the last remnants of her make-up. After what seemed like an hour and 15 minutes our shuttle driver, an older black man showed up.

“I guess I could start the engine and get the air conditioner going,” he offered in a rather weak and embarrassed tone of voice. All three passengers looked at each other as we collectively rolled our eyes. For the next five minutes the air conditioner struggled to abate the heat. It was like throwing an ice cube in the ocean.

Finally, the driver returned and steered our shuttle in the direction of one of the Old South’s great cities. We had three stops to make. Mine would be the last one. In ten minutes we were negotiating the streets of downtown Charleston.

Our first stop was the Charleston Marriott. The woman who had sweated off all her make-up got out there.

Next, our driver took us meandering through an old residential section of downtown Charleston. The houses were all two-story and stacked together like building blocks. All were connected by narrow streets and back allies. At our second stop, the other woman looked a bit confused as she disembarked from the shuttle. It seemed she was in disbelief that her daughter lived at the address to which she had been delivered. She hesitated outside the house, called her daughter on her cell phone; and after a brief conversation, began to climb the stairs that led to the second floor.

As the shuttle pulled away, the driver looked back to make sure the woman made it inside. Then, we were on our way.

After winding our way through traffic for the next five minutes we came upon a discouraging sight. In front of us, down a long street, at least twenty cars were backed up at a traffic light. My driver hesitated for a split second as he sized up the situation. Then, he eased out into the left lane and began to pass the other cars. That is when I realized we were not on a one-way street. He continued down the street at a steady rate of speed.

At that moment a car turned down the street at the stop light and headed in our direction. The other driver slowed for a moment when he saw us coming. My driver didn’t blink, or brake. He kept right on going. I began to think, “This has all the makings of a game of chicken or a slow-speed head-on collision.”

Only two car lengths separated us when suddenly, my driver made a hard left turn and headed down a narrow ally. At the far end, I could see one of those storage pods sitting half-way out into the ally. A car was parked on the other side. The gap between the two was ever so narrow. My driver was not daunted. As we silently sized up the situation, he decided to go for it. I promise you, there was less than three inches clearance on each side of the shuttle as we sliced through.

Once we cleared the eye of that needle, he accelerated to the end of the ally. Two cars were approaching from the left. My driver decided he could beat them. A hard right turn took us out into the street. I cringed, expecting to hear the sound of horns glaring.  No horns. My driver was on a roll!

At the end of that street, he hesitated as he looked to his left.

Nothing coming! Again, we surged out into the street. Ahead, I could see the traffic light that had all the cars backed up. It was green! As the shuttle blew under it, I looked to my right. The line of twenty cars had grown to thirty or more. I smiled to myself.

I leaned forward in my seat.

“Nice piece of driving,” I said to my driver.

He could not hide his pleasure.

“I’ve been driving a shuttle or a taxi since 1978,” he offered, with a broad smile. “I know all these streets.”

“What is your name?” I asked.

“William!” he said. His voice had a proud ring to it.

I will not soon forget William. There is nothing quite as comforting, or exciting, as being in the hands of someone who knows what they’re doing.

 Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

Independence Day

As this Fourth of July rolls around, our great country has a storied history upon which we may reflect – the bravery of the first settlers, among them the Pilgrims; the genius of the founding fathers; and so many men and women who have died for the cause of freedom.

The American “experiment” remains one of the greatest accomplishments in the course of human freedom. There is little doubt that the Creator of all men had a hand in the survival of what began as 13 fledgling colonies.

At no other time in human history has so much genius in the form of a handful of men shown up in the same place at the same time, dedicated to the same great undertaking. The names of Washington, Jefferson, Adams, Madison, and Franklin will forever be linked with freedom’s cause.

In giving up her sovereignty of the American colonies, what appeared to be a disaster for England actually resulted in her salvation less than 200 years later.

No nation has influenced the freedom of the world like America.

But America’s freedom has exacted a great price. Through the course of history, streams and rivers and ocean tides have run red with the blood of America’s sons and daughters.

Hundreds of thousands have made the ultimate sacrifice to secure and defend our freedoms. Countless numbers of our best and brightest died too soon.

Sometimes I think their mothers and fathers may have paid as great a price.

So many mothers saw their babies leave for foreign shores never to return.

What a price laid at freedom’s alter!

And then there were those brave soldiers who returned home never to be quite the same – their psyches inalterably changed by the horrors of war encountered on the seas, on the battlefields and in the air.

When I think of freedom’s great price I am overwhelmed by its likeness to holy ground. And I want to remove my shoes and fall on my face in reverence of its sacredness.

So, to celebrate our freedom I have, with this column, included two stanzas from “The Star-Spangled Banner.” It is important that its words remain familiar, especially those of the second stanza. May you read them thoughtfully.

O say can you see, by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming, Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight, O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming? And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there; O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

O thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand Between their loved homes and the war's desolation. Blest with vict'ry and peace, may the Heav'n rescued land Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation! Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, And this be our motto: 'In God is our trust.' And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! [42]

And in these days when our freedoms are once again under assault, may the words of another song be our constant prayer:

“Long may our land be bright,

With freedom’s holy light,

Protect us by Thy might

Great God, our King!”

Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

Sayings

A few years back, I presented the opportunity for my readers to send in some of the favorite sayings they had heard over the years. The response I received was impressive. I promised it would not be my last column on sayings. After giving the subject some thought you might want to send in one of your favorites. Take the time and send me an email or note or give me a call. You never know what fond memory you might resurrect for someone.

Years ago, my friend, the late Jack Petty, sent in some of his favorites. He said his father used to say somebody “acted like a public fool.” Jack related that he asked his father what the difference was between a public fool and a private fool. Jack said all he got was a hard look! Here are a few more of Jack’s favorites:

“More fun than a barrel of monkeys,” “Up a creek without a paddle,” “A stitch in time saves nine,” and “Swinging for the fence.”

Marian Ann (Mrs. Bill) Cothern quoted a favorite of her late mother-in-law, Clara. If there was a spat in the family she would say, “If people would only just pass and re-pass” (if people would just try to get along.)

Speaking of “getting along,” that’s a saying that is being lost to coming generations. Seems fewer and fewer people know how to get along anymore.

Marion quoted Mrs. Neil Smith as saying, “As handy as a pocket on a shirt.”

Steve Wilmore, who came up with the idea for this column, collected a few favorites from his late mother, Beatrice.

“After being sick at my stomach and throwing up all night, I would hear these words from my mother,” Steve related.

“You look like a sick kitten on a hot rock!”

“If I left a job unfinished,” Steve continued, “she would say, ‘Go back and lick your calf!’”

A few more of her favorites were:

If someone looked bad, she would say “They look like they have been rode hard and put up wet.”

“Full as a tick on a dog’s ear.”

And how about this one? “You need to turn your wanter down.”

Steve said he heard a new one at his brother-in-law’s house once.

Someone said, “Well, drop me in the grease!”

Here are a few more that I have heard over the years:

“Slicker than a peeled onion,” “Dumber than a box of rocks,” and

“Ugly as sin,” And how about this one? “Cold as a stepmother’s kiss.”

There are some great sayings from the Bible which are not direct quotes of scripture. Here are a few;

“Well, land of Goshen!”

“From Dan to Beersheba” (a long way!)

“This, too, shall pass” (from “And it came to pass.”)   

“Just as sure as that coat was Joseph’s ticket to Egypt!”

My grandmother Lena had a favorite that I heard more than a few times. “Be the job, big or small, do it well are not at all.”

 A locally famous character in the Watervale Community used to declare, when emphasizing a point, “Hope I might die!”

When I was attending high school, I often heard that someone was “cruising for a bruising” or “aching for a braking.”

And from “a Kentucky reader” I received an email which read thusly:

“A few years ago we had an abundance of squash, so I let my little daughter, who was around ten years old, take a “mess” to an elderly neighbor. When my daughter returned, she had this puzzled look on her face and said the neighbor said, “much obliged.” My daughter had never heard this expression of thanks before.”

Well, “much obliged” was my late father, Frank McCall’s way of saying “thank you.”  I heard him say it hundreds of times. The thought of those two little words, “much obliged” took me back in time and I was warmed by the memory of my father.

There seems to be an abundance of protesters and protesting going on in our country these days. One is prone to ask, “Who are these people?” Which reminds me of a saying of my late grandfather, D.T. McCall, brought to my attention recently by my late uncle, John E. McCall:

“Pulling mules can’t kick!”

Much obliged to all those who shared their sayings and memories.

copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

Email: jack@jackmccall.com