going home

As the wheels of our jet plane touched down last Wednesday the 23rd. of February on our runway at the Houston Intercontinental Airport, Pretty shared the news that Texas governor Greg Abbott had sent a letter to the Department of Family and Protective Services, calling on licensed professionals and the general public to report the parents of transgender minors to state authorities if it appeared the minors were receiving gender affirming medical care which would now be considered child abuse. I tried to process that bombshell news as our plane screeched to a halt and taxied to our gate. No time really for deep thought as we disembarked and joined the hordes of passengers trying to find the baggage carousel while throngs of people pushed against us moving in the opposite direction to board flights bound for who knows where. We must have looked like ants that had lost their GPS – going back and forth, to and fro, hurry, hurry.

Pretty blamed my break up with Texas on the weather. We left temperatures in the sunny 70s in South Carolina only to be met by a ferocious cold wind as soon as we stepped outside the Houston terminal. Jesus Cristus, we were freezing. Our motel for the first two nights of our visit was on Lake Conroe near Montgomery where Pretty and I had a home for four years, and the woman who checked me in that first night punished me for my comment on her not wearing a mask while advertising Covid safety protocols on their website. She put us in a room facing the lake, but it was only accessible by carrying our luggage through a wind tunnel with gusts of hurricane force. I recognized revenge when I felt it; I was chilled to the bone. Pretty was, too. I also recognized the look she gave me when we got to our room, the look that meant why can’t you leave things alone just once, Boomer?

Texas was the place I’d been born in 1946, the place I had been educated by public schools through high school, the place I had graduated from college, the place where I had my first grown-up job at what was then a Big Eight accounting firm in downtown Houston, and finally the state I left a year later in 1968 to seek my fortune in a city that was as foreign to me as South Carolina was to South Dakota. For the next fifty plus years no matter where I roamed I always flew and/or drove home to Texas for Christmas and usually in the summer time to reconnect with family and friends; to celebrate the mystique of the spirit that defined native Texans as, well, native – to renew the bond I had with the land itself. When my mother became someone else who couldn’t remember how to play the piano and was in a memory care unit in Houston, I stayed for long periods of time in the state with Pretty’s encouragement to be with her.

This visit, however, was our first trip back since 2017. That would be five years in case anyone is counting. New knees and Covid were the main culprits in my sabbatical from the state. Yet here we were for four nights and days that would be filled with visits to family and friends who had kept in touch over the years: meeting friends at a favorite Mexican restaurant the first night we were there, taking donuts to talk to three little boys who were small when we last saw them but now had grown up and were taking classes online; calling on a cousin who will be 98 this month and still going strong, another cousin who now at 81 is the primary caregiver for her husband she has always adored, two first cousins who met us for lunch and brought pictures from the past that sparked memories, memories.

The weather was cold and gloomy every day we were there which gave the countryside a harshness I had never associated with the rolling hills that I claimed to be my country. The cattle now grazing needed hay from the ranchers to make it through the unsparing times. Pretty and I drove through my home town the second day of our visit on the way to the little cemetery where most of my family were buried. I felt sadness as I saw what was left of the town and home I loved. Nothing remained but the remnants of wooden houses in severe disrepair and falling down brick buildings. The town was no more.

Russia invaded Ukraine the second day we were in Texas. When we were in our motel rooms at night, I watched the news on tv. Pretty followed the events on Twitter during the day and kept me up to speed. Regardless of the source, everyone agreed that the not unexpected invasion of a sovereign democracy had begun. Local news in Houston typically focused on murders in the city every day until the devastating international tragedy began and replaced the stories. I was not in a good place when I announced to Pretty and cousins at lunch the next day that this was my last trip to Texas until they brought my ashes in a nicely decorated urn to the little cemetery on one of the rolling hills of Grimes County.

That was overly dramatic and untrue. Of course I will go back – hopefully not in an urn. The ACLU has filed suit against the state of Texas to protect the rights of transgender minors and their parents. Pretty managed to locate wonderfully warm coats and sweaters for us on Day Two, thank goodness. We ate our comfort Mexican food in a different place every day – even at the Houston airport when we had time for margaritas before the flight home. I loved being with friends and family, and I also loved going to watch the Gamecock women’s basketball team beat the Aggies on their home court in College Station. As a UT grad in rival territory, I was thrilled with the final score 89 – 48. We had an hour’s drive to get back to our motel room on Lake Conroe after the game, but when we walked through the wind tunnel to get to our room, I didn’t even notice the cold.

the Fabulous Huss Brothers

l. to r. Dwight (11), George (9) and Oscar (13)

Thanks to Becky for the photo!


Stay safe, stay sane, get vaccinated, boosted and please stay tuned.

About Sheila Morris

Sheila Morris is a personal historian, essayist with humorist tendencies, lesbian activist, truth seeker and speaker in the tradition of other female Texas storytellers including her paternal grandmother. In December, 2017, the University of South Carolina Press published her collection of first-person accounts of a few of the people primarily responsible for the development of LGBTQ organizations in South Carolina. Southern Perspectives on the Queer Movement: Committed to Home will resonate with everyone interested in LGBTQ history in the South during the tumultuous times from the AIDS pandemic to marriage equality. She has published five nonfiction books including two memoirs, an essay compilation and two collections of her favorite blogs from I'll Call It Like I See It. Her first book, Deep in the Heart: A Memoir of Love and Longing received a Golden Crown Literary Society Award in 2008. Her writings have been included in various anthologies - most recently the 2017 Saints and Sinners Literary Magazine. Her latest book, Four Ticket Ride, was released in January, 2019. She is a displaced Texan living in South Carolina with her wife Teresa Williams and their dogs Spike, Charly and Carl. She is also Naynay to her two granddaughters Ella and Molly James who light up her life for real. Born in rural Grimes County, Texas in 1946 her Texas roots still run wide and deep.
This entry was posted in family life, Lesbian Literary, Life, Personal, politics, Reflections, Slice of Life, sports, The Way Life Is, The Way Life Should Be and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

8 Responses to going home

  1. Robyn Whyte says:

    I wish I had known you guys were in the area. I too was in Houston this past weekend visiting friends, and drove home through Conroe on Sunday morning The weather was awful and the news worse. Texas our Texas….what???

    Liked by 1 person

    • Oh gosh, now that’s a huge disappointment. Would so very much love to see you!
      Doesn’t seem like the Texas I loved…clearly.
      That Greg A is a ridiculous governor – who elected him??


  2. Wayside Artist says:

    I can’t believe how big the Huss Brothers are. My goodness!! But what a joy to be reunited.
    I’m so sad your home town has succumbed to neglect. It looms large in my imagination. I can’t help but wonder after stolen Baby Jesus. It will remain the mystery of ages. I’m also afraid to ask if you saw your two horse friends. The comings and goings of horses almost always ends heartbreak for me. I love them all too much.
    My niece, her husband, and my young grand nephew moved to San Antonio over MLK Day weekend dealing with ice, snow, and bitter cold through Tennessee, Arkansas, and North Texas. They left Pennsylvania during a winter warm spell. No room for coats in car or van they didn’t take them!!! My wise sister-in-law rescued a few from the donate pile, maiing a packagel a few days later. Neither of them follow current events closely enough to know this is becoming a Texas winter thing.
    Since I’ve already written an essay, so as to the rest of your post, let me say: Go Beto!!!

    Liked by 1 person

    • Aha – you now have family in Texas – God love them.
      I wish they had moved to San Antonio when it was a wonderful city with a riverwalk I’ll alway store in my memory bank. Hopefully.
      I pity them without any coats. What a nightmare, but your sister-in-law was brilliant!
      I’m so excited for your gallery participation – I’m waiting for you to be “discovered.” By someone other than your poor friends.
      I asked the Fabulous Huss Brothers about my horse friends. They said Farmer Dave who used to live there has moved to East Texas – too many people in Montgomery these days. It’s booming as much as Richards failed. Worsham Street looks different too, of course. Still many of my friends, but now high fences between neighbors which I found distressing.
      Go Beto!!!!!!
      Love and hugs from your friends in South Carolina which I am singing praises for this week


  3. cindy knoke says:

    An imploding world is a hostile place.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. You were brave to comment on masks, we hear awful stories. How lovely to catch up with family and friends, especially the now huge Huss brothers! Politics in America is beyond us at the moment but we love being kept in the loop by you…

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thank you, Annie. Forgot to mention the cat fleeing the photo was Gilbert, a cat the Huss family had when we lived on Worsham. Now of undetermined age and still Oscar’s favorite! Gilbert paid as much attention to me on this visit as he did when I was at the Huss home regularly: none! It was a good reminder of why Carport Kitty ignores me except at meal times!


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