That's Cold!

My speaking travels have taken some interesting twists and turns over the years. One was particularly interesting.

One winter I received a phone call from a speaker’s bureau with which I had worked for several years. The call came just after noon. The owner of the bureau asked if I was available to do a speaking engagement “in the next few days.” I informed him that I was, indeed, available. He then asked if I would be willing to make a speaking engagement in Grand Forks, ND on the upcoming Wednesday morning.

As it turns out, two speakers were hopelessly snowed in near Chicago, and neither could make it to Grand Forks. Fortunately, we found out, I could fly “over” the snowstorm from Nashville to Minneapolis and “beyond” the snowstorm from Minneapolis to Grand Forks.

In checking with the airline, I found I could take a 6 am flight out of Nashville on Tuesday morning which would get me into Grand Forks by 4 pm on Tuesday afternoon. That was certainly practical, and workable.

In the hour that followed, as he shared specific details of the speaking engagement. Over several phone conversations, it became apparent that the bureau owner preferred that I leave Nashville earlier. In researching airline schedules, he found a Delta flight which departed Nashville at 6 pm, Monday, arriving Grand Forks at 10:55 pm on the same day. He almost insisted I take the earlier flight “to make sure I got there.”

So, after a few frantic hours of reorganizing the coming week, I found myself in the Nashville International Airport awaiting the departure of my 10:55 pm flight. As I sat in the terminal waiting area collecting my thoughts, I received an email from Delta Airlines on my cell phone informing me that my Minneapolis to Grand Forks flight was going to be delayed one hour, making my arrival time approximately midnight. I breathed a deep, long, tired sigh of resignation. I could see a long night ahead.

When I arrived on time in Minneapolis, I found the second leg of my trip had been delayed for another hour.

Now, I have traveled enough over the years to have learned how to make use of down time in an airport, but four hours is a stretch.

Fortunately, a girl’s high school ice hockey team, on its way back home to Winnipeg, was sharing the same flight with me. They were most entertaining. Their antics and the book I were reading seemed to make the time fly. These girls were all over the airport, laughing, listening to their iPod, horsing around, and bantering back and forth.

By the time we boarded the plane, they were worn out. The one-hour flight to Grand Forks was very quiet.

I arrived in Grand Forks, ND at 2:35 am CDT on Tuesday morning. The temperature was minus 20 degrees with a wind chill of minus 35.

When I was a boy growing up and attending public schools, most classrooms had a room called the cloak (or coat) room. Over the years, I have noticed cloak rooms in all kinds of buildings here in the south. They can be found in hotels, theaters, symphony halls, churches, etc. Thing is, they are used very rarely.

Over the course of my professional speaking career, I have been to the Dakotas many times. And here is one thing I have noticed. In that part of the world, they have cloak rooms…and they use them. In the wintertime you see cloak rooms crammed full of coats - coats hanging everywhere! And now, I am sure why.  I thought I had felt cold until I ran into minus 20 degrees. I find you have to be careful how you breathe.

From the first time I met some of the farmers from what former WSMV weatherman, Bill Hall used to call the “upper-Mid-west”, I sensed them to be a hardy kind of people.  They must be to survive the winters up there.

While visiting with some of the farmers who attended the meeting where I spoke, I ran into one older man who shared an observation.

As we talked about the cold of the night before, he said, “I had an old Angus cow deliver a calf out in the open in a minus 35 wind chill last night. She licked him off and got him up; and he got a belly-full of warm milk. He was standing beside her this morning.”

“When you live off the land, you see miracles every day,” he beamed.

The light in his eyes was worth the trip.

 Copyright 2026 by Jack McCall     

Changing Times

In 1973, I found myself, just barely out of college, managing a livestock market in Woodbury, TN. The facility, owned by Mid-State Producers, was managed by Tennessee Livestock Producers, a service company of the Tennessee Farm Bureau Federation. The market eventually became one of the largest feeder pig sales in all of Tennessee. I must admit the success of the market was not due to my management skills. It was simply a matter of being in the right place at the right time.

In those days, many a part-time farmer had a wooded lot or shed where he raised a few feeder pigs. My market drew customers from as far away as Chattanooga. Many would arrive at the market as early as 2:00AM in order to get their pigs unloaded and make it back home in time to go to work at their regular jobs. Fortunately, I had in my employment a crusty, old fox hunter named Ben Davenport, who, fresh off a fox hunt would arrive at the market in the wee hours of the morning to start checking farmers in.

Before the 70’s had passed, Tennessee had become the 5th largest feeder pig producing state in the nation, shipping over 1,000,000 feeder pigs per year.

Remember the adage from the wisdom of the ages: “And it came to pass?” Well, it did.

A few years back, I made speaking presentations on succeeding Tuesdays for The Mascahhaffs, LLC, a family hog operation based in Carlyle, IL. The Maschhaff’s bill their company as “Progressive farming…family style.” Theirs is quite an operation.

I drove up on each Monday and stayed at the Hilton Garden Inn just outside of East St. Louis in O’Fallon, Il. On an interesting note, when I drove over to Carlyle, I passed through Lebanon…Illinois, and when I arrived in Carlyle, I saw a road sign that read, “Nashville 20 miles.” That was Nashville, IL, of course.

When I arrived at the Maschhoff’s central office on the first Tuesday, I was in for a treat. I found that brothers Ken and Dave, fresh out of college in the late 1970’s; borrowed $3500 from an uncle and bought a half interest in their parent’s hog operation to get their start. They quickly expanded from 150 to 700 sows. Today, the Maschhoffs manage 200,000 sows. (That’s not a misprint.) That’s right -200,000! In a given year, they market through their network of producers 5.45 million market hogs. The Maschhoffs are the 5th largest pork producers in the U.S.

And, interestingly, they have managed to maintain a “family feel” in their vast operation. It was most refreshing to spend time with their management team.

In looking further back into their family history, I was amused to find the generation of brothers before Ken and Dave once expanded their operation by purchasing a ton truck which allowed them to haul 23 market hogs at one time.

Today, the Maschhoffs have an entire department which is exclusively devoted to washing and sanitizing the trailers which haul pigs to market.

The Maschhoffs take pride in the fact their operation provides pork for 16,000,000 consumers.

I well remember when our neighbors use to get together at “hog killin’ time.” As I young boy I was fascinated to see knives being sharpened, wash tubs being cleaned, scalding boxes being set, and fires prepared. It seemed like every neighbor who showed up to help brought a special skill to the event. I especially remember my mother grinding and “working up” sausage on the kitchen table. All told, we rarely processed more than a half-dozen hogs. That’s a long way from 5.45 million!

Bob Dylan was right when he sang, “the times, they are a’ changin’.”

Copyright 2026 by Jack McCall     

January 9th and 15th

I suppose January 9 and 15 will come and go without much fanfare this year. Of course, that depends on one’s perspective. January 9th marks the birthday of my late father, Frank Thomas McCall, SR. Born in 1922, my father was the eldest of nine children born to D.T (David Thomas) and Amy Manning McCall.

Dad passed away on Father’s Day, 2003.

On the 9th I will pause to reflect on his life and influence. I will think about his patience, his kindness, and his bashful smile. And I will recall his big, working-man’s hands, his silver hair, and his eyes of soft, sky-blue.

My father loved the land and he had the “gift” of mechanical genius which few possess. It can be said of him, “he never met an internal combustion engine he didn’t like” - (or couldn’t master).

He failed the 1st grade, or as they said back in his day, he was “held back” a grade; which turned out to be of good fortune for him. That landed him in the same class year as my mother. His elementary school years were spent in Carthage. Hers were spent in Riddleton.

They met as freshmen in the fall of 1937 at Carthage High School (Class of 1941.) Four years later, my mother would graduate Valedictorian of her class.

My father struggled during those four years. As a matter of fact, my father failed freshman, sophomore, and junior English. During his senior year he re-took all three along with senior English and any other required courses.

According to my mother, she had warned him if he didn’t graduate, they “were through.”

To this day he holds a record since 1941 at Carthage (now Smith County) High School – he passed four years of English in one year!

It is also to his credit that he bested my mother in one subject – typing. In typing class, he sat two seats behind my mother in the row to her immediate left. In “timing” tests she could hear him “burning up the keys” behind her, and she would lose her concentration resulting in his “beating her badly.”

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 who taught by his example. I miss him.

My late mother was born on January 15, 1923. She “went on to her reward” in the fall of 2013. I still catch myself thinking of things I need to ask her.

Her occupation back in her day would have been listed as “housewife” or “homemaker.” She could have been an outstanding professional in any field of endeavor. She was a counselor to many, and possessed wisdom far beyond her education.

As my father taught by example, my mother taught by instruction. She was always teaching. “Every situation can make you or break you” was one of her favorite maxims.

In our formative years, when my brothers, my sister and I went out on dates, her parting words were, “Do as well as you have been taught” or “Do as well as you know.” That left us with little room for erring.

Her favorite scripture can be found in Proverbs 3:5-6: “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge Him and he will direct your paths.”

And quietly, subtly, as if she were tapping with a velvet covered hammer, she drove deeply into the hearts and minds of her children the great truth, “A good name is rather to be chosen that great riches, and loving favor rather than silver and gold.”

As I enter the autumn of my life I find the influence of the lives of my parents –my father’s example and my mother’s teaching – has greater impact on my own life now than ever before.

So, as this January comes around, I am inspired to live as my father lived, to teach as my mother taught, and honor their memories with thanksgiving.

Copyright 2026 by Jack McCall

Post Christmas and Pre New Year's Thoughts

For me Christmas Day came faster and passed more quickly this year than in years past. I think Thanksgiving Day showing up later on the calendar had something to do with it. I also blame the time change for throwing off my mental clock. Seems I heard more people complaining about traffic this year. The term “Christmas rush” may have to be changed to “Christmas rampage.”  I sensed a weariness in many this Holiday season. With the passing of time, it is becoming more difficult to “rest beside the weary road and hear the angels sing.”

In spite of the hustle and bustle I found great “comfort and joy” in a variety of Holiday sounds. Every year I rediscover great voices of the past, especially the “crooners.” This year names like Jerry Vale, Vic Demone, Mel Torme, Frankie Avalon, Mario Lanza and Paul Anka reappeared from the past. I especially enjoyed the unique voices of Ella Fitzgerald, Wayne Newton and Kate Smith.

I once heard someone say, “We do not sing because we are happy. We are happy because we sing.” It is the same with listening to great music.

The story was once told of the great actress and singer, Mary Martin. According to the story, she became very nervous one evening right before going on stage. Her director, sensing her dilemma, calmed her with these words:

“Mary,

 ‘A bell is not a bell until you ring it.

 A song is not a song until you sing it.

Love in the heart was not put there to stay.

Love is not love until you give it away.’    

Go out there and love your audience!”

This Christmas just passed I sensed that great singers of yesteryear loved their audiences.

I came across two great Christmas prayers this year. The first was written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. I think both are appropriate for moving from Christmas into a new year.

“Loving Father, help us remember the birth of Jesus, that we may share in the song of angels, the gladness of the shepherds and the wisdom of the Wise Men.

Close the door of hate and open the door of love all over the world.

Let kindness come with every gift and good desires with every greeting.

Deliver us from evil by the blessing which Christ brings and teach us to be merry with clear hearts.

May the Christmas morning make us happy to be thy children, and the Christmas evening {and the New Year, (words added by this writer)} bring us to our beds with grateful thoughts, forgiving and forgiven, for Jesus’ sake.”

The second is credited to the New York Life Insurance Company, written in a time when great companies and corporations valued their people over profits. 

“Let us pray that strength and courage abundant be given to all who work for a world of reason and understanding * that the good that lies in every man’s heart may day by day be magnified * that men will come to see more clearly not that which divides them, but that which unites them * that each hour may bring us closer to a final victory, not of nation over nation, but of man over his own evils and weaknesses * that the true spirit of this Christmas Season – its joys, its beauty, its hope, and above all its abiding faith – may live among us * that the blessing of peace be ours – the peace to build and grow, to live in harmony and sympathy with others, and to plan for a future with confidence.”  

 Happy New Year!

Copyright 2025 By Jack McCall                                                             

The Greatest Story to Ever Unfold

It is a story of vast extremes…of a star and a stable…of angels and shepherds…of the most expensive gifts and the most inexpensive cloth…of time and eternity…of a holy God and sinful man.

Of Bethlehem, Phillips Brooks would write, “The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.”

And so it was. All came together on that night in a stable in Bethlehem.

Before his birth, the angel of the Lord had instructed Mary to name her son Jesus: “For he shall save his people from their sins.”

Centuries before Mary brought her firstborn into the world, the prophet Isaiah would declare Him “Wonderful Counselor, the mighty God, the everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace.”

But the story goes back much further than that. Even before God created the heavens and the earth, the Lamb had been slain.

It seems God never does anything as an afterthought. Ancient wisdom declares, “The wheels of time grind slowly, but they grind exceedingly fine.” God took His time in letting this story unfold. He used the passing of centuries to reveal many things, not the least of which is the blindness of our stubborn human hearts.

No human being has impacted history like this babe born in a stable and laid in a manger. It is little wonder he is known by so many names: Advocate; Lamb of God; The Resurrection and The Life; Shepherd and Bishop of Souls; Judge; Lord of Lords; Man of Sorrows; Head of the Church; Master; Faithful and True Witness; Rock; High Priest; The Door; Living Water; Bread of Life; Rose of Sharon; Alpha and Omega; True Vine; Messiah; Teacher; Holy One; Mediator; The Beloved; Branch; Carpenter; Good Shepherd; Light of the World; Image of the Invisible God; The Word; Chief Cornerstone; Savior; Servant; Author and Finisher of Our Faith; The Almighty; Everlasting Father; Shiloh; Lion of the Tribe of Judah; I Am; King of Kings; Prince of Peace; Bridegroom; Only Begotten Son; Wonderful Counselor; Immanuel; Son of Man; Dayspring; The Amen; King of the Jews; Prophet; Redeemer; Anchor; Bright Morning Star; The Way, The Truth and The Life.

But he is best known as “Jesus, the Christ, the only begotten Son of God.”

Regardless of what we choose to call him, “there is none other name under heaven given among men, whereby we must be saved.”

It seems there was some debate during his life as to whom Jesus really was. One day he asked Simon Peter this penetrating question: “But whom say ye that I am?” Simon Peter’s response was simple and straightforward. “Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God.”

Jesus, in so many words, explained to Simon that he hadn’t figured that out on his own, but God had revealed it to him.

And so it is. If we are to have this Jesus revealed to us it must be experientially. God, the Father, must seek us, He must find us, He must draw us by His spirit to himself and He must save us. It is ALL of grace. It is a gift, just like the babe born in a stable and laid in a manger.

Until God reveals Himself to us personally the Christmas story remains just that, a story…a story to be speculated upon and to be believed or disbelieved.

But if we come to know Him, the story takes on a breathtaking dimension… one “joy unspeakable and full of glory.” For God hath revealed Himself unto us in the form of his only begotten Son, “full of grace and truth.”

It is little wonder the angels sang, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will to men.”

May your Christmas be Merry and Bright!

Copyright 2021 by Jack McCall

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