The Smells and Delights of Christmases Past

I was cleaning out a fence row over the weekend. I say I was “cleaning,” when I was just beginning. It’s not like the fence row was in bad shape. The four stains of barb wire had taken on some blackberry briars and a few cedar bushes over the years. I was determined to clean the fence up a bite-at-a-time, thirty minutes here, an hour there. My tools of choice were a hand-held, battery powered chain saw and a hedge trimmer. Both meant I was not too terribly serious. The hedge trimmer took care of the briars rather handily, though I did more bending than I wish I had. The cedar bushes were more of a challenge. In the heat of the battle, I turned to the hedge trimmer to free the cedar limbs from the barb wire. As I cut through the heavy evergreen the unmistakable, rich smell of cedar filled my nostrils, and my head. Suddenly, I was taken back to Christmases of yesteryear.

The Christmas trees in the home of Frank and Mary Helen McCall were always of the cedar variety. Each fall my brothers and I would scout the fence rows and forests for the perfect tree. We never found one. We came close a few times, but a perfect cedar always escaped us. (We invariably ended up turning the “bad side” to the corner of the room.) Unlike the Christmas song which goes, “There is a tree in the Grand Hotel, one at the park as well, the sturdy kind that doesn’t mind the snow,” ours were always the kind that struggled to hold up the Christmas lights. And we had bubble lights! The boughs never broke, but they surely did bend. Our Christmas cedars did well to hold up construction paper chains and strings of popcorn held together by sewing thread. And, of course, there were icicles, those delicate, shimmering stains of aluminum which added luster to the bubbling lights.

By today’s standards our lowly Christmas cedar trees were a rather pitiful sight. They would have given Good Ol’ Charlie Brown’s sad little Christmas tree a run for its money.

But what I remember most is the smell of those trees. To come in out of the cold in December and smell the smoke from a fireplace or woodstove mingled with the deep, rich smell of cedar has to be one of life’s greatest little pleasures. Sometimes I like to think that is what heaven will smell like.

And at our house Christmas morning was filled with the smell of apples, and oranges, and bananas. It’s the only time of the year that fruit came to us by the bag full. It took me a few years to figure out my mother’s strategy behind all that fruit. She would magically transform those apples and oranges and bananas into her famous Christmas fruit salad made delectable by a thick, creamy, yellow sauce rich with lemon juice, pineapple juice, county eggs and sugar. All the fruit, to use my mother’s words, was “cut up by hand” and the sauce had to simmer for two hours. The results were worth every bit of the time and sacrifice.

And who could forget the smell of haystacks (caramel and coconut), coconut filled bon bons (four colors -yellow, pink, white, and dark brown), chocolate covered vanilla drops, and orange slices?  I still remember the smell of a Milk Way bar on Christmas morning.

Over the years I have been tempted to bring in a cedar tree and hide it behind the couch just for the smell. But I decided it might dry out and burn the house down. So, in the future, I guess I’ll settled for cleaning out fence rows around Christmas time and sticking my face in a cedar bush where I will let the smell transport me to simple place in time.

Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

Green Walnuts and Tobacco Gum

Last fall, while on a hike in the Brim Hollow, I picked up a bucket-full of green walnuts. My first thought was to dump them on my concrete driveway and run over them with the car for a few days. That’s the way we de-hulled them back in my boyhood days, but we had gravel driveways back then.

Eventually, I poured them in a grocery sack, stored them in my garage and forgot about them. My original plan was to let them dry out, shell them and bake some chocolate chip cookies with real, Brim Hollow walnuts in them. “Ah, the best laid plans of mice and men.”

A few weeks back, I picked up another sack full of green walnuts. I decided to de-hull these with a claw hammer and my pocketknife.

I had finished my work on the first two when I remembered from my youth how green walnuts will stain your hands. As I opted for a pair of leather gloves, I noticed the thumb and forefinger on my right hand were already walnut stained.

When I finished de-hulling the big sack of green walnuts, I was surprised to see how my volume of walnuts had decreased. That reminded me of the time my brothers and I decided to sell some walnuts. It takes a ton of de-hulled walnuts to fill a 100-pound sack. I think we sold them for five dollars per hundred.

After I finished the job, I wondered how long it would be before the walnuts were dried well enough to eat. That’s when I thought about last year’s walnuts.

Well, I found them still in the sack and dried to perfection. I’ve spent about an hour each evening over the past few days shelling walnuts. I’ll have my walnut chocolate chip cookies for the holidays this year.

I still, however, have a walnut stained thumb and forefinger from the second sack of walnuts.

The stain on my hand is an amber color almost identical to the stain left by tobacco sap.  My left hand used to bear the same color stain after spiking tobacco for a few days.

Tobacco gum stain is very different.  It is darker, but much easier to wash off your hands.  Of course, tobacco gum stain, or build-up, from topping, suckering, or cutting tobacco is different from tobacco gum acquired from stripping tobacco.  The latter is drier and easier to scrape off.

The thought of tobacco gum takes me back to this time of year in days gone by.

October and November found my father, Frank McCall, in a tobacco barn almost every day, except Sunday.  His approach was much like the lesson from AESOP’s “The Tortoise and the Hare.” “Slow and steady wins the race.”  He was relentless.  If tobacco was “in order” he was in the tobacco barn . . . no diversions, no days off.

In my mind’s eyes, I can still see him standing before a make-shift table stripping tobacco.  I recall with special fondness the days when tobacco was tied in “hands.”  My father took great pride in handling each step of the process, down to the tying of each hand.

I also recall his pleasure in chewing tobacco.  There was a time when many people “rolled their own” cigarettes.  My father “chewed his own.” I’ve seen him countless times, as he walked through a tobacco barn, reach up and pull off the tip-end of a tobacco leaf from a stalk hanging overhead.  He would examine the leaf, blow the dust off, roll it up, and slip it inside his jaw.  Best I recall, he never used a spit cup.

I stand amazed at how the simplest thing can spark a memory . . . like green walnuts or tobacco gum.

I think I’m going to pick up some more walnuts before the squirrels get them. I like wearing stains on my hands.

Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

A Warm Place

Well, the first frost of the fall showed itself last week. To be perfectly honest, I enjoyed breathing in the air on that first frosty morning.  As I observed a few farmers huddled in the warmth of their pickup truck cabs, I was reminded of some of the cold mornings of my youth. When cold spells came one right after another, it seemed folks were content to simply try and “ride out” the winter.

 Winter chores were few and most days were spent trying to find a warm place to hold up. One favorite spot was the local country store.

In my boyhood days, most communities had a country store or general merchandise store. Along with local churches, these stores served as the principle gathering places in the community.

During bitterly cold weather, farmers would get out in the morning and tend to chores that had to be done. Among those chores in the coldest weather were checking on new-born calves, breaking ice on ponds and replenishing wood and coal supplies. With the morning chores behind them, most farmers would head for the country store.

I remember with great fondness three particular country stores: Dewey Manning’s General Merchandise in Watervale, TN, (later John A. McCall’s Store), Leonard Carter’s Store in Riddleton, TN, and Ralph Holbrook’s General Merchandise in New Middleton.

 Most country stores featured, somewhere near the back of the store, a pot-bellied stove. In the winter, it attracted farmers like flies. On some winter days you could walk in a store and not be able to see the stove for the farmers gathered around it. Farmers would be warming their hands or their backsides as they shared stories of the past night and morning. Topics of discussion would range from what their thermometer read that morning to how thick the ice was on their ponds.

 I always found the pot-bellied store in a country store to be most interesting. Some store proprietors would set a pan of water on top of the stove to keep the air from getting too dry. Sometimes the stove would get so hot the stove door or stove top would glow red from the fire inside. Occasionally, someone would spit on the stove, and the spittle would dance and hiss until it vaporized.

 A cardboard box half-filled with sawdust served as a spittoon. It usually sat right in front of the stove to accommodate the tobacco chewers. Some smokers used that box to snuff out their cigarettes. Others carefully poked their cigarette butts through the vents in the stove door.

 Most country stores had oiled wood floors that made a creaking sound when you walked on them. To recall that sound today is like music to my ears.

 And of course, every country store had a counter or table where food could be consumed. For some reason, red and white checked oil cloth comes to my mind. And a prominent feature of every eating place was a bottle of Louisiana Hot Sauce.

 I wonder how many tons of bologna and cheese have been eaten in country stores over the history of time. That would be worth looking into. Bologna and crackers, cheese and crackers, Beenie Weenies, Vienna sausage, potted meat, “Possum” brand sardines and crackers, to name a few delicacies, have made many a meal.

 On the subject of cheese - the cheese that was once eaten on crackers in country stores was real cheese - not like the “cheese product” found in grocery stores and on fast-food burgers today. It was cheese sliced right off the loaf, and it tasted like cheese.

 A few weeks ago, I purchased a pound of that real cheese in the deli department at a local supermarket. The cost? - $6.99 per pound. I watched the person slice it off the big loaf. I peeled the plastic off each time I enjoyed a slice.  I ate cheese and crackers for two weeks. It was worth every penny.

 A while back I went looking for some “Possum” brand sardines. They’re not around anymore. I tried two or three different brands of sardines to resurrect a memory, but it’s not the same. Sardines are no longer crammed in a can. I opened one can, and it had three little fish in it. And they had plenty of wiggle room!

Oh, the days of pot-bellied stoves and creaking floors and real cheese and “Possum” brand sardines. Warms me up just thinking about them.

Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

What became of Halloween

When I was a growing boy Halloween was just not that big of a deal. I mean, there was trick-or-treating and a few minor pranks pulled, but that was about it.

There were two pranks that became the stuff of rural legend in our part of the country. On one prank, a group of high school boys took a mule wagon apart and re-assembled it on top of a general store. In yet another episode, a bunch of boys took white paint and zebra stripped a farmer’s mule. They even painted white circles around the mule’s eyes. It is told that the next morning, the farmer was surprised and even the mule had a funny look on his face.

Another popular Halloween prank (or trick) was often discussed among my boyhood friends. First, you shoveled a fresh pile of cow manure into a big, brown paper grocery sack. Then, you carefully took the sack to town and placed it on someone’s front porch, just in front of the door.  After tearing the top of the sack open, you wadded up a few newspaper pages and placed them on top of the sack. Then, you set the paper on fire, rang the door bell, and ran.

Under ideal conditions, the victim would open the front door, see the paper ablaze, rush outside and attempt to stomp out the fire.  The second most desired circumstance would be that the stomper was wearing his house shoes. The very best situation would be for him to be barefooted.

I never tried this particular prank, but I had friends who did and reported excellent results.

During my sophomore year at the University of Tennessee I lived on a farm out in the Concord community of Knoxville. On Halloween night of that year, I failed to get away from the campus before dark. As I was driving back to my residence, I had an uneasy feeling about being out after dark on Halloween night.

I was making my final turn for home onto Concord Road when I noticed a suspicious looking car coming in my direction.  As we met, I heard a “thud” and “splat” sound as something impacted the driver’s side door on my car. At the same instant I felt the slightest sensation of wetness on my face. It was almost like a burst of mist.

Surprised and bewildered, I put my hand to my face. I hardly felt any wetness.

The situation made no sense. All my car windows were up.

When I arrived at the farmhouse I surveyed the damage with a flashlight. At the top of my car door, I found a slight, smooth dimple in the metal just below the vent window, obviously made by the egg that had left its contents all over the side of my car.

As you may recall, vehicles in the 1960’s had a small, triangular shaped “vent” window in the driver’s and passenger’s front doors. Unlike the small windows in pickup truck doors, the windows in cars couldn’t be locked shut. It took me a few minutes to figure out the mystery.

The force of the egg impacting the car door had pushed the vent window open, ever so slightly, allowing some of its content to make it inside the car.

That was confirmed when I made it inside the house and looked in the bathroom mirror. To my surprise, I had orange egg yolk on the left side of my face, in my eyebrow and in my hair.

I will say I took some satisfaction in the fact that the egg throwing Halloween prankster could never have imagined the success of his foray.

Alas, no one throws eggs anymore. And no one rolls yards on Halloween.

Back when I was a boy, pranksters used to set car tires on fire on back roads.

You don’t see that anymore. The EPA would be on your trail.

 All in all, it was a safer time back when I was trick-or-treating. My parents would drop me off in town around dusk on Halloween night and pick me up at the pre-arranged place about ten o’clock. And people didn’t spend a lot of money on Halloween.

I marvel when I see the elaborate display of Halloween costumes and candies at Wal-Mart. If you are wondering how much money American’s will spend on Halloween this year - the National Retail Federation estimates a record 13.1 billion dollars.  That’s right - - - $13.1 billion.  According to their numbers the average person celebrating will spend $114.45. 

I, for one, will not spend that much money on Halloween this year.  I have, however, kept my eyes open as I’ve driven the country roads for the past few days, and I do have a half gallon of white paint left over from painting the ceilings in my house a few years back.

If you, by chance, have a black mule, you might want to put him in the barn on Halloween night.

Copyright 2025 Jack McCall

The Missing Landmark

Seems the biggest news lately in our little corner of the world has been the implosion of the nuclear cooling tower once located at what came to be known as the Hartsville Nuclear site. Although the tower was located across the county line in Smith County, it was given the name “Hartsville” as Hartsville was the nearest incorporated township. For almost 50 years the tower stood tall and foreboding - a reminder of a failed attempt to bring nuclear power to our part of the world in the decade of the 1970’s.

Most everyone in these parts has a story to tell about “the nuclear plant.” If you didn’t work there, you knew someone who did. It was a boom-or-bust time. Fast food establishments flourished. Busloads of craftsmen came from far away. High wages and high waste were the order of the day.

And then one day the work came to a halt. Left behind were empty apartments and abandoned trailer parks. One cooling tower was finished, another aborted leaving only its base behind. Erie memories of the ghost towns of the old West came to the minds of some. Economic aftershocks were felt for years. But the cooling tower remained. Like a tall, strong, sleepy giant standing guard over our hills, fields and beloved Cumberland River, the tower became an oh-so familiar part of the landscape. And now, it’s gone.

I was there to see it fall. In eight seconds, it disappeared like the wicked witch of the West in The Wizard of Oz – as though the very ground that once gave it footing swallowed it up.

Our three grandsons wanted to see it. I was brave and offered to let them spend the night before. A granddaughter asked to go along (with a friend) in the early morning hours. The boys arrived at my house around 8:30PM. To say they were “pumped” is an understatement. One’s father threatened his life if all three were not in bed by 9:00. His parting words were: “I’m going to call back when I get home (five minutes away) and you had better be in bed!” That put the fear of God in them. They were in bed before 9:00 – a small miracle. The next morning one asked, “Did he call back last night?” I have yet to answer his question.

They were up by 4:30 AM - raring to go. We picked up granddaughter, Jane, and her aunt, Kloe (of similar age) and were parked in a lot on the Power Com/Core Civic side of the TVA site by 5:30AM. As we sat in the dark, I remembered I had been placed on a list of public officials who would be given access to the TVA property at the main entrance.

“Let’s go!” I said.

I wheeled out of the dark parking lot and headed for Highway 25. When I entered the TVA property I could see three checkpoints. I made it through the first two without incident. When I arrived at checkpoint three, a young lady holding a clipboard smiled and asked, “who are you?”

“I’m Mayor McCall. I think I’m on your list,” I said.

“Jack McCall? she asked.

“Yes ma’am,” I answered.

As she highlighted my name, she looked to the passenger seat and asked, “who is she?”

“Oh, she’s, my granddaughter!” I said, proudly.

“You can’t go in here!” she said rather sharply.

“No problem!” I said with a smile. “I’ll turn this buggy around!” Daylight was coming fast!

Back to Highway 25 we went. And back to the original parking area. This time I took a gravel road to a higher vantage point. It turned out to be fortuitous.

The boys counted down the last minute, and the tower disappeared from sight. Gone!   

Gone like so many things which you see slip into the past if you are around long enough.

But I have a feeling one of these mornings when I am driving through Hiwassee or cruising down Highway 25 – one of those days when the morning mist is hovering softly over the surrounding hills – I will look and see the ghost of that old tower standing tall and majestically like the tired old friend it became to be.

Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall 

Tobacco Leaves

I’ve seen some beautiful sights in my time. Many of them take me back to my formative years -- a set of mama cows with their calves out in lush spring pasture, rows of square bales of hay lined up across a hay field, dark green corn fields in full tassel and a patch of tobacco, yellow as a pumpkin, ready to be cut. And I have always considered a tobacco leaf a beautiful thing. Maybe it is because tobacco played such a major role in the early years of my life. Tobacco put food on our table, clothes on our backs, and a roof over our heads. Tobacco made it possible for my brothers, my sister, and me to attend college.

I learned how to work hard in a tobacco patch. And I learned about perseverance there -- you finished the job even if you were exhausted, and you came back the next day whether you felt like it or not. Raising a crop of tobacco is where my father taught me to take pride in the quality of my work. To me, a tobacco leaf is a beautiful thing.

My brothers and I made our first serious money the year our father offered us the “leaf’ money. For all the leaves we picked up in the tobacco patch and the tobacco barn, we got the money. We became tobacco leaf vacuum cleaners. Not a leaf escaped us. We were leaf hawks. We got them all. That year we bought every rubber band the Ben Franklin 5&10 Cent Store had for sale. All the brown leaves that were half-way cured were banded in hands and hung on tobacco sticks. We carefully slipped the rubber bands down the leaves to give the stems room to finish curing. If the leaves had fat stems, we threaded them on electric fence wire. It was a simple process.

We attached the wire to the end of a tobacco stick, then ran the wire down the top of the stick. Then we threaded them, alternating the leaves on each side of the stick to keep them separated. When they were fully cured, it was not easy to get them off the wire. But it was worth the effort.

My father did not believe in leaving a leaf in the tobacco patch. I must give him credit. He had an eye for good tobacco. He also had an ear for breaking leaves. If we were cutting tobacco and he heard a leaf break, it would stop him in histracks. If the transgressor was one of my brothers or me, a look was all it took. If the one breaking the leaf was a high school boy working with us for the first time, one of two things happened. My father would either instruct one of his sons to show the young man how it was done correctly, or my father would stop and patiently show how it was done. Breaking leaves was simply unacceptable.

Many a time while loading a load of tobacco, my father would point to the ground and say, “Pitch that leaf on the wagon.” But not the years when my brothers and I were the leaf hawks! If a broken leaf was clinging precariously to a tobacco stalk, we took it -- no need to take the chance of it not making it to the barn.

When my father looked back on a tobacco patch after the last stick had been hauled to the barn, he liked to see two things – no tobacco leaves left on the ground, and no weeds standing in the field. His tobacco patches looked like they had been swept clean. It’s just the way he went about his business.

In his declining years, my father would, while riding down the road, point to a recently harvested field of tobacco and observe, “Look a-yonder. Why, you can’t see the ground for the tobacco leaves!” Then he would shake his head in disbelief.

He would have had a hard time accepting the way tobacco was grown in the years after he retired when tobacco harvesters were paid by the stick and speed took precedence over quality of workmanship. Sadly, raising tobacco in this part of the world has almost become a thing of the past.  

I still think a tobacco leaf is a beautiful thing. When I see one, I see dollar signs. And it is hard for me to imagine, as it would have been for my father, leaving dollars lying on the ground.

Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall

Remembering the Tobacco Bowl

(From Chester Davis general chairman of the Tobacco Bowl, 1961.)

“Acclaimed by sportswriters and football fans as one of the most astounding successes in high school post season games, the Tobacco Bowl has developed into one of the greatest attractions in the state. All games have been given the widest publicity through the press, radio, and television.

The largest network of radio stations ever to carry a post season high school grid classic east of the Rocky Mountains, is carrying today’s game with Jud Collins and Larry Munson at the microphone.”

And so, it was. From 1954 until 1985 when a state playoff system came to be, the Hartsville Tobacco Bowl reigned supreme. Rivaled only in post season play by Nashville’s Clinic Bowl, the Tobacco Bowl was a classic. Each year it featured two of Middle Tennessee’s powerhouse football programs. Tennessee’s governor arrived by helicopter. U.S. Senators came. Elected official from far and wide made it a point to be there.

And each year the Tennessee A & I band provided the half-time entertainment. I am told it was a sight to see as the band marched down the hill from Historic Ward School. And the half-time show was second to none. When I attended the Tobacco Bowl in 1970 the band was delivered by motor coach and disembarked just outside the stadium. To see the band members coming off the buses as they marched in ¼ time was a scene I shall never forget. 

This year, as a special tribute to Tobacco Bowls of the past, the Grammy Award winning Tennessee State University Aristocrats of Bands will once again return to the Creek Bank as the Trousdale County Yellow Jackets take on the Smith County Owls on Friday night, September 26.

Legendary high school coaches, Jim B. Satterfield and Turney Ford showcased their squads in seven Tobacco Bowls - Trousdale County in 1965, 1970, and 1984; and Smith County in 1957, 1958, 1959, 1960, respectively.

The attached graphic lists the teams which played in the Tobacco Bowl over the years and how they fared.

If you were a player, cheerleader, or if you were in the crowd at a Tobacco Bowl, you are cordially invited to take a walk down memory lane and join us for an evening of football nostalgia as the Tennessee State University Aristocrat of Bands takes the field at halftime on Friday, September 26.

Come see us in Hartsville!

For ticket information, visit: https://gofan.co/event/3957792

 Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall  

Built to Last

“Built to Last” was a popular slogan used by the Ford Motor Corporation beginning in 1998. You have to admit it is catchy. “Built to Last” has a nice ring to it.

But alas, it seems fewer and fewer products are built to last these days. My observation has been that more and more products are built to “get by” or temporarily fill the need.

I was visiting with a farmer friend a few mornings back when he observed that steel fence posts (t-posts) just aren’t what they used to be.

“Give ‘em 5-10 years, “he said, “and they will rust and break off in the ground. They just don’t last like they used to.”

He was correct. Those steel posts made 50 years ago are still as solid as a rock. I pulled one out of the ground a while back. It had a good “feel” to it – solid and strong. I relocated it in another fence. It will be good for another fifty years.

Many years ago, I discovered a shoe store in east Nashville called “Abe’s Shoe Repair.” It was run by a little Jewish man named….well, “Abe.” Mr. Abe had the inside track on a plentiful supply of high-quality, pre-worn shoes. I don’t know where they originated. Didn’t matter to me.

He first introduced me to Johnston-Murphy’s top line of shoes called Crown Aristocrats. Back then, those shoes retailed for $200-$300. They still do today. Of course, at Abe’s I only paid pennies on the dollar. I have owned many pairs of Crown Aristocrats. Constructed with real “shoe leather,” they are built to last. Over the years, I have re-soled some pairs three or four times. Quality will always bear out the test of time.

Today, shoes are made to meet the eye test, but not the time test. I am amazed at how cheaply shoes are put together. Dress shoes are made of such cheap leather they won’t even “hold” a shine. And sports (track) shoes are made of such flimsy material they never last long. But it seems today’s young consumers aren’t concerned. When a pair wears out, just buy another pair.

Early in my career when I worked for the Tennessee Department of Agriculture, one of my responsibilities was grading feeder pigs for various livestock markets. At the Pulaski Feeder Pig Market, the man responsible for “sizing” (sorting) pigs was called “Old Folks.” Old Folks was a tall, black man who probably looked 20 years younger than his actual age. He was strong and agile, and moved like a cat. His conversation style was always pleasant and animated. Sometimes he waxed philosophical.

“They just don’t make stuff like they used to,” he said one morning. “Why, when I was a young man you could buy a pair “overhauls” (overalls) for a ‘dolla.’ And the denim in ‘em was so heavy you could stand ‘em in the corner! And denim shirts? They jest cost fifty cents, and they would wear like iron!” You might say they were built to last.

I could identify with Old Folks. When I was a boy, the start of a new school year meant at least one new pair of blue jeans from Sear, Roebuck, and Co. for my brothers and me. The denim in those new jeans was so stiff it would rub your hide raw behind your knees on the first day of school. Made you reach for the Cloverine Salve when you got home.

Of course, we all know the story on jeans today. Many pairs are built to look like they have been worn. Certainly not built to last. I think they are called “retros.”

Whether it’s metal fence posts, shoes, jeans, socks, underwear, or a whole host of other products, you have to be a discriminating buyer these days to make sure “you get what you pay for.”

Here’s a great quote from John Ruskin (1819-1900):

“There is hardly anything in the world that some man cannot make a little worse and sell a little cheaper, and the people who consider price only are this man's lawful prey.”

Can quality products still be had in today’s super competitive, sales-driven environment? Of course, but you better be prepared to set your satchel down.

Copyright 2025 by Jack McCall