Jalapeno Jelly

In this episode of Being There, I read “Jalapeño Jelly,” a deeply reflective piece written by my father, Gene McCalmont, during a particularly difficult season in 2003.

Set against a cold motorcycle ride through East Texas, this story weaves together moments of loss, grief, family, and quiet resilience. It moves through the passing of loved ones, unexpected tragedy, and the emotional weight of a year that tested everything—while still holding onto glimpses of joy.

What emerges is a simple but lasting perspective: life is a balance. The sweetness and the heat. The joy and the pain. Much like the taste of jalapeño jelly itself.

This is one of his more personal writings—and one that continues to resonate in a very real way.

If you’ve ever gone through a season where everything seemed heavy, but still found small moments that carried you forward, this one will likely stay with you.

Transcript

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Welcome to the Being There Podcast. Stories from the Road, where we keep the rubber side down. These are stories written by my father, Gene McAlmott. Commentary by his son, me, John McCalmott. This is episode 12, Jalapeno Jolly. Written October 28, 2003. This story was written in the summer of 2003, which had been a particularly difficult year for the author's family. The story explores these troubled times as the author searches for happiness in the simple things in life. The first cold front of the season arrived in East Texas a little earlier than expected. My thin riding jacket was little protection from the bone chilling wind rolling over the small fly screen on my F six hundred fifty GS. A sprinkling of rain wetted my face shield and soaked my lightweight riding gloves. My hands were chilled to the numbness, and my arms were beginning to ache from the creeping cold. These last forty miles would test my resolve. I ride alone a lot these days. I kind of like it that way sometimes. Although having someone to share this misery with would have been welcomed. Motorcyclists are mostly solitary creatures, even when riding in a group. We like to think of ourselves as social and gregarious, but it's hard to share your thoughts once the earplugs go in and the helmet goes on. When I pull down the face shield, I am mostly alone with no one to talk to save myself. I've had some good conversations with myself. The sign ahead said, Nacados, 35 miles. This last year was one I wouldn't care to repeat. I had been full of regrets and loss, yet lightly sprinkled with hope and joy. It was like bitter, unsweetened chocolate with a cherry center. Bev had lost her mother in early spring to Alzheimer's disease. It wasn't unexpected. It was even welcomed. We watched her slip away after spending her last years in a vegetative state. She was cremated in April. We all had a good laugh when the postman delivered Grandma to our door in a black plastic box. Bev's dad had been living with us for the last five years, and his life was as comfortable as we could make it. But I could see that he had lost his reason to live now that grandma was gone. I could smell the wet pine trees. Nacados, thirty miles. Kurt was a likable sort of guy, full of life and promise. He and my son John had been friends for many years. That call, Sunday afternoon from John, carried the worst of news. Kirk had lost his life in a senseless motorcycle accident. John could barely speak as he recanted the story. Kirk had apparently drifted off while riding home after a late night party. The concrete bridge pillar he sideswiped had ripped him off his bike. He had been taken to the hospital via care flight and had survived just long enough to say goodbye to his parents. His little girl misses him. We all miss him. A tiny stream of water had found its way down my collar. Nacados. Twenty-five miles. I hadn't seen my daughter Kim in almost a year. Her teaching assignment at the air base in northern Japan kept her busy and a long way from home. Seeing her again was an emotional experience. We hugged for an hour. I didn't want to let her go. She was planning a summer of travel, movies, and motorcycle rides with the old man. John had found a new love and they would be over for dinner on Sunday. All was right with the world. At midnight, her fourth day home, the paramedics loaded Bev's dad into the ambulance for the ride to the hospital emergency room. Nacados twenty miles. I remember watching the old man laying in his hospital bed connected to tubes and wires struggling for his next breath. A lifetime of smoking had finally taken its toll and even a hundred percent oxygen could not sustain him. The past forty days of ICU had shattered our summer plans and brought the family to the edge of exhaustion. Part of him was ready to die, part was not. But he had run out of time. On day forty two he died, surrounded by those he loved most. Removing the oxygen mast was the hardest thing we've ever done. Nacadosha's fifteen miles. Life is ever changing, like the oily patterns of this freshly black topped, wet highway. Intricate threads of color and form weave a tapestry of pain and pleasure, of loss and gain. John and Lucia's Italian style wedding in Watkins Glen had raised our spirits. Lucia was a beautiful bride, and their happiness brought great joy to the family. Nacados ten miles. I didn't want her to go, but she has her own life. I hugged Kim maybe a little too hard as she and Bev boarded the plane to Japan. At least she would have Mom with her for a couple of weeks. Once again I found myself alone. Nacados, five miles. I parked the bike next to the trailer and threw some dried wood into the fire pit. A nice fire would chase away the memory of a cold ride. With my wet gear spread out to dry, and a small glass of scotch in hand, I drew my chair closer to the fire. Steam rolled off my wet boots and jeans as warmth grew from both inside and out. The last lingering rays of sunlight beamed through the parting clouds like searchlights from heaven. I've come to know in life as the sweet, fiery taste of jalapeno jelly on a salty tostada chip. The sweet balance of fire and salt. The joy balance the sadness and loss. I think it's like that with most things. I look for joy a lot more these days. It's the sweetness of life. Jalapeno jelly. You know, there's a lot to unpack in this article. A lot had gone on that year. I got married to my beautiful wife Lucia. We have two kids now. I understand having children that are about to leave a lot of what my dad is saying here. My grandfather was so important to me in my life. I was truly blessed with two incredible male role models that could not have been more polar opposites. My grandfather and my father. And losing grandpa was was difficult. I was actually the one that pulled the oxygen from him. My mom desperately grasping to straws to hope that there was something else we could do. But Grandpa had always told me, he said, John, when it's time, it's time, and you've got to be strong, and you've got to make a stand for me to go. And um, of course, he said it much differently. Bring a shotgun to the hospital and get me out of my misery. Well, you can't do that, but I did push for the oxygen to be removed, and I held my grandfather's hand as he slipped away into another world. And of course, I also did that for my father. Those are uh memories that get etched into your mind and filed away in a special part that you never ever forget. Kurt was at my house just two weeks before he passed away, having dinner with Lucia and I. He was uh forced to be reckoned with. His personality was massive. He was a great dude and uh enthusiastic about everything he did, including motorcycle riding. And he has always been West. His daughter now has graduated college and moved on. His parents are still alive. We correspond via Christmas cards and photos. The Italian wedding that my father described, well, it was just that. It was just like my big fat Greek wedding. Me, my mom and dad, my sister, uh, my very closest friends in the world, Mike, Dave, Richard, Mike Adrian running HD Cam the entire time, which was unheard of of recording anything in HD back then. Yes, I'm dating myself. And of course, 500 of Lucia's Italian relatives. Well, not not quite 500, but you know what I mean. It was a spectacular time. I don't remember the last time I had jalapeno jelly on a salted tostada chip, but uh I can guarantee you after reading this, I'm gonna go find some. Throw a fire in the fire pit, pour a glass of scotch, sit back, realize what an amazing life I have. If this stirs your soul like it stirs mine, and you enjoyed today's episode, be sure to subscribe and follow the podcast so you don't miss future readings and commentary. All written material featured in this podcast is the original work of my father and used with his permission. The thoughts and opinions I share are my own. This recording is for personal listening only. My voice likeness and performance are protected and may not be recorded, reproduced, or used in any form of AI training, cloning, or synthetic replication without my explicit written consent. Thanks again for being here. Until next time, keep the rubber side down and save travels.