I'll Call It Like I See It

by sheila morris

Author: Sheila Morris

  • Waging Peace, Fighting Disease, Building Hope: the President from Plains

    Waging Peace, Fighting Disease, Building Hope: the President from Plains


    Following the shady corruption of power in the Nixon administration, the American people were ready for a newcomer outside the beltway of Washington, D. C. In walked Georgia Governor Jimmy Carter (1924 -2024), a peanut farmer from Plains who was a Sunday School teacher in a Baptist church, a man with a reputation for honesty and integrity. He was just the recipe needed in the 1976 election after the Watergate years.

    I had followed and admired Jimmy Carter even before his run for governor of Georgia in 1970 so I was hopeful for what his administration could accomplish from the White House. Alas, being an outsider in Washington must be much more difficult  than I thought; for Jimmy and Rosalyn Carter it was a mountain too high to climb. The many good measures he accomplished including the Camp David Accords were often lost in the rhetoric surrounding the hostages in Iran that were released on the day Ronald Reagan took office at the end of Carter’s one term.

    Jimmy Carter was only 56 years old when he left the Oval Office for his home in Plains, Georgia, in 1981. He remained a constant voice for the poor and disenfranchised from his post-presidency bully pulpit throughout his life. In 2002 Carter was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for his open resistance to the War in Iraq in addition to his countless contributions toward creating and preserving democracy around the world. The Carter Center in Atlanta has been a model for presidential libraries, a thriving institution whose motto is “Waging Peace, Fighting Disease, Building Hope.”

    During the last years President Carter not only wrote thirty books but also found a passion for painting. Pretty and I are always grateful for the Christmas cards we have received every year from Rosalyn and Jimmy Carter, and we are particularly happy whenever the cards are works of art by the former president.

    2023 Christmas card from the Carter Center was this self-portrait

    One of my favorite memories of President Carter took place in his hometown of Plains when Pretty and I were part of a tour group sponsored by the Carter Center in 2002. We were running late for our lunch with the group, had picked up our plates at the buffet, and had begun to select our food when I heard a voice behind me say, do you have plans to sit with anyone? I turned to see Jimmy Carter in line behind me and almost fainted. Rosalyn and I would like for you two to join us at our table. We sat down beside them, and I immediately became mute. Pretty, on the other hand, carried the day with her entertaining chatter with President and Mrs. Carter as we dined on fried chicken, mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, and delicious desserts. I think I was finally able to speak but made an inane remark that was unremarkable. Jimmy and Rosalyn sharing fried chicken with Pretty and me – they couldn’t have been more gracious, more engaged. I remember wondering how many dignitaries had eaten fried chicken with them at a White House state dinner.

    Rosalyn and Jimmy Carter working together on Carter Center project

    I find it difficult to say goodbye to former President James E. Carter, Jr. He has been a part of my political consciousness for the past fifty-five years – more than two-thirds of my life. He was an uncommon man, flawed like the rest of us, but someone who came from a tiny town in Georgia to tackle the world’s problems from his unique position in American life.

    Rest in the peace that passes all understanding, Mr. President. You earned it.

  • above, beyond and served with Buddy Biscuits

    above, beyond and served with Buddy Biscuits


    Spike to Charly: Listen, did you hear that? I think the old woman is scraping the bottom of our food box.

    So what? Charly said.

    So what? SO WHAT? I’ll tell you so what. It’s nearly six o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, and we’re going to be out of food tomorrow unless our Great Provider manages to contact Woody’s Pet Supplies in the next few minutes. No food for our meals, not to mention we’re out of Buddy Biscuits. When will herself learn to make reminder lists.

    ********************

    Point taken. Shoulda, woulda, coulda made a list, but no worries. I left a voice mail for Davis, the young owner of Woody’s who occasionally bailed me out of my emergency orders by delivering the dog food on his way home from the store after he locked up at seven o’clock. I tried not to take advantage, but he wouldn’t be surprised by my predicament on the weekend before Christmas.

    He didn’t call back, though, nor did he come by our carport Saturday night. Sigh. Davis must have been swamped with last minute Christmas shoppers, I thought. Well, good for him. Pretty and I had supported his business since it opened in the summer of 2022, watched his inventory grow, celebrated with him when he found a good groomer to add those services so if he was too busy to call me, I was really happy for him. There was no possibility Spike, Charly, or Carl would go hungry when we could feed them leftovers.

    ******************

    Sunday morning my little terrier Carl and I were in the kitchen staring at three empty dog dishes. It was 8:00 a.m. which was when the dogs ate breakfast. Carl looked from me to his empty dish with alarm.

    Spike and Charly had begun barking from their posts in the den when they heard their dishes rattling around.

    I was startled by a knock on our kitchen door; a man stood at the bottom of our steps waving at me. No one came to see us at this hour, but he looked familiar so I walked toward the door. There stood Davis with a huge bag of dog food and two boxes of Buddy Biscuits. I’m sorry I didn’t get these to you last night, he said, but we were busy so I didn’t listen to my messages until this morning. When I heard yours, I drove to the store to get what you needed.

    *******************

    Kindness is contagious. I will treasure many moments with family and friends during this 2024 holiday season, will be moved over and over again by thoughtful gifts and gestures, by music and memories that inspire good moods, by stories that remind me joy and laughter are still possible with faith in a future of possibilities for people of good will. All is not lost.

    But I hope I always remember Davis appearing on my doorstep at 8 o’clock on a Sunday morning the weekend before Christmas with peanut butter Buddy Biscuits for Spike, Charly and Carl. That was service above and beyond – kindness that should be celebrated regardless of the holidays we observe.

  • Untitled post 22952

    “Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

    Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse…”

    Blah, blah. Blah, blah. Boring, super boring. Everybody knows the 1823 Moore version, but who knows the 1963 Morris version??

    My daddy always loved poetry and music so when he gave me these words at Christmas my senior year in high school, I wasn’t surprised. I don’t remember if he mentioned they were part of the lyrics from a song called A Letter from Santa written by Mickey Maguire (more remembered for Christmas classic I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus). I do remember I laughed out loud. I probably also couldn’t believe my dad had actually written the word “ass” in something he gave me – my parents refused to use what they considered to be vulgar language; I’m sure “ass” was a hard no. Maybe this rite of passage made it funnier to me.

    But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,

    Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

    **********************

    For the grown-ups.

  • We Three Kings of Cardinal Drive

    We Three Kings of Cardinal Drive


    Jesus saith unto him, Rise, take up thy bed, and walk. (Gospel of John)

    Every morning at five o’clock King Carl saith unto me rise, take up thy bed off thy back, and walk…to the den to let me outside for my morning constitutional, and be quick about it.

    then he follows me to the kitchen, waits patiently while I make my coffee

    inseparable cats Batman and Robin want breakfast asap

    (before I take my first sip of coffee – spoilitis)

    I am ready to eat, says the third King of Cardinal Drive

    We three kings of Orient are;
    bearing gifts we traverse afar,
    field and fountain, moor and mountain,
    following yonder star.

    O star of wonder, star of light,
    star with royal beauty bright,
    westward leading, still proceeding,
    guide us to thy perfect light.

    —- John Henry Hopkins, Jr. (1857)

    oops, no star – we’ll settle for the moon on Christmas Eve morning

    Batman and Robin are two male feral cats that guard our carport in exchange for food and a warm place to sleep. Unfortunately, their guard duties do not extend to our car and truck, but hey, you can’t have it all, can you, Santa?

  • the battle my grandmother lost

    the battle my grandmother lost


    my early years in my hometown of rural Richards, Texas

    (circa 1949 – when I was three years old)

    (this picture should have been a clue, but my grandmother ignored it)

     

    a birthday party dress made by my grandmother (circa 1951)

    my grandmother made this dress and a  picture postcard of me

    for her family Easter card in 1949

    Bless her heart. My grandmother tried and tried to reshape my fashions which upon reflection she probably hoped would reshape my life. One of the most dreaded phrases my mother ever spoke to me – the one that made me cringe-was “Your grandmother is making you a new dress and needs you to walk down to her house to try it on. No arguments, no whining, just go.”

    I absolutely hated to stand on her little stool while she endlessly pinned away to make sure  the pattern she bought from a grand clothing store in much bigger town Navasota  fit perfectly on my small body. She pulled, tugged here and there, made me turn around as she measured whatever cloth she had purchased when she bought the pattern. I prayed silently that the aroma I smelled was her pineapple fried pies…the only possible redemption from the hell of being poked and prodded for a new dress I didn’t want to wear.

    My grandmother Betha Day Robinson Morris and I lived within shouting distance of each other in the tiny town (pop. about 500) of Richards until my dad found a new job that took us out of the place I called home when I was 13 years old. Our new home in Brazoria was less than two hours from Richards so we came back every other week for most of my teenage years. Distance did not deter my grandmother from her sewing, however.

    She usually managed to have something for me to try on whenever we visited. I finally surrendered to her passion for sewing because as I grew older I came to understand sewing was an important part of her life, but to this day I dread hearing Pretty say she brought something home for me to try on.

    my grandmother surveys her granddaughters

    before Easter Sunday church services in 1963

    I was 17 years old and wearing a dress my grandmother made for me

    while my younger cousin Melissa modeled her store-bought outfit

    My grandmother continued to sew for me until I was in my twenties. Every Christmas she wrapped a large box in her best wrapping paper and favorite bow saved from the previous Christmas to give to me. I always opened with feigned surprise at the dress she made for me to wear to church and praised her for being able to still find the perfect pattern and material for me even when I wasn’t there to try it on.

    I’ll never forget the last time I opened a gift of clothing she made for me. She had made a pants suit – unbelievable. I could see she was pleased with herself for breaking from the dress tradition she wanted me to wear to making the pants she now understood would forever be my choice of clothes. The year was 1968 – I was 22 years old – my grandmother would have been 55. The pants suit represented a rite of passage for both of us.

    Unfortunately, I never could bring myself to wear the pants suit which was made with a hideous polyester fabric and a horrible bright green and white large zig zag pattern. I couldn’t bring myself to wear it, but I carried it with me around the country wherever I moved for the next 30 years. I would carefully hang it in my closet as a daily reminder of  the love my grandmother gave me for as long as she lived.

    My grandmother Betha was a flawed individual but what I wouldn’t give today to hear my mother say “Sheila Rae, your grandmother is making you a new dress and wants you to try it on. No arguments, no whining, just go.”

    **********************

    Those were the days, my friends – and now we have the opportunities to create new memories for our granddaughters we celebrate not only during the holiday season but also whenever we see them. What will they remember? I wonder.