I'll Call It Like I See It

by sheila morris

Author: Sheila Morris

  • …and this is my wife Pretty…


    Today is April 24th., and it is the 1st. year anniversary of our legal marriage. This anniversary seems like a Michael Reames icing on a cake or a Dick Hubbard pineapple fried pie which he has now managed to make exactly like my memories of the ones my grandmother made when I was a child being rewarded for what she believed to be good behavior.

    Somewhere in that youthful childhood I must have done something good because Pretty has been the main course for me for the past sixteen years  – a main course that’s been full of fun, love and extra spice. Laughter has been the secret ingredient that’s sprinkled liberally over every dish we serve in our home, and it’s my personal recipe for whatever ails all of us.

    True confessions are good for the soul, though, so I have to admit that once in a rare while I have to remind Pretty I was just trying to be funny to which she has occasionally said during the past sixteen years, “there’s no demand for being funny.” I’m sure she’s just kidding.

    The past year of legal married life has been almost indistinguishable to me from the first fifteen years with a couple of exceptions. “Married – filing jointly” for our 2016 income tax returns, for example, was a noticeable difference that was relatively easy and uneventful for us but produced additional work for our tax preparer. I had several emotions going on during the preparation process, but I know for sure pride was one of them. We were no longer “single” taxpayers filing two separate returns. Our family was legal, legit; and we had the tax returns to prove it.

    There is a word that Pretty and I have struggled with during the past year, however. Both of us struggle, and we know it because we’ve talked about it. The word is “wife.”

    For some reason that word does not roll easily off my tongue, and I don’t know for sure what the problem is. This is my wife Pretty. How hard can that be? This is my wife Slo. Again, not easy. We’ve said this is my “partner” for so long that it’s become a habitual word for us. “Wife” is not our norm.

    But this past week Pretty and I were at our new house reviewing the situation when we discovered two pieces of mail in our mailbox that belonged to our neighbor who happened to be outside in his back yard. Like a good neighbor, Pretty walked over to give him the mail.

    “I’m Bob,” he said when she handed the mail to him. “And that’s my wife Cynthia inside the house.”

    “I’m Teresa,” Pretty said. “And that’s my wife Sheila over there in the car.”

    Score one for Pretty, and welcome to the neighborhood. The legally married lesbians are moving in – which isn’t nearly as good for property values as having the gays move in – but it’ll have to do for now.

    Happy Anniversary, Pretty. You’re simply the best.

     

     

     

     

  • When I Was One and Twenty (with apologies to A.E. Housman)


    When I was One and Twenty

    (With apologies to A.E. Housman)

    When I was one and twenty,

    My world was make-believe.

    A play directed by others

    I felt compelled to please.

     

    But now I’m one and seventy,

    The play is on the shelf.

    No lines to learn, no marks to hit,

    The director is myself.

  • Ministers of Happiness


    Today is Easter Sunday, and I tried very hard to come up with an Easter recollection to complement my deep reservoir of Thanksgiving memories which flow from me like rivers to oceans or even my Christmas memories which aren’t quite up to Thanksgiving levels but still trickle in through little streams of consciousness. The best I had was clothes…and music.

    I can visualize frilly pink Easter dresses, white lacy Easter bonnets, snug-fitting white Easter gloves, shiny white Easter shoes and a matching white Bible to carry to church. I had won the white Bible the summer before during Vacation Bible School as a reward for memorizing the most scripture verses in my class. My name was engraved in gold letters which stood out nicely against the white leather Bible.

    The dress was home-made by my paternal grandmother Ma who tortured me with fittings several times before the actual final inspection was made and the dress approved to her satisfaction. She and my mother coordinated the remainder of the ensemble with a great deal of whispering behind my back because they wanted to avoid the exasperated facial expressions I made whenever they brought up the subject of the Easter “outfit.” Horrors – please don’t talk about that.

    The Easter outfit was like a Halloween costume to me. I might as well have been dressed in a white cowboy hat wearing a black Lone Ranger mask sitting astride my stick-horse yelling Hi, ho, Silver, Away periodically during the congregational singing at our Southern Baptist church. Instead, I was sitting demurely between my grandmother and granddaddy singing Up from the Grave He Arose. As a matter of fact, I definitely would have preferred The Lone Ranger look over the Easter outfit.

    But I had to wear the clothes to hear the music, and I loved the music even then. The old rugged cross was exchanged for a crown, because he lived I could live forever, just as I was without one plea I came because his blood was shed for me, I lifted up my heart to sing hosanna, hosanna to the king because of the amazing grace that found me when I was blind and could not see. The hymns had 18th. century harmony which I knew nothing about at the time I learned to sing them, but that lack of composition understanding didn’t interfere with my love of the experience.

    Even the sermon on Easter Sunday morning was hopeful – once you got over the nasty business of the crucifixion – the minister was so happy about the resurrection. Really, he seemed to me to be more joyful at Easter than he was at Christmas when the tidings of great joy were proclaimed by the angels.

    My first Easter Sunday was the day I was born on April 21, 1946, which makes this one my 71st.  Unbelievable.  Where does time really go. I miss my family and the singing at the little church today. I don’t miss the Easter outfit.

    Although it isn’t my birthday, I am going to make an Easter wish. My wish for all of us today in the midst of a world that is fraught with monumental uncertainties is that we become ministers of happiness founded on our own good health, good relationships, erasing inequalities where we can, creating trust in our communities and standing against injustice whenever we witness it. One by one, as the saying goes.

    Resurrect hope today.

     

     

  • My Bad? You’re Fired!


    I have a soft spot in my psyche for the underdog – the one who is unlikely to win an argument, sporting event, contest, campaign, cause – anything that requires taking a side. I perennially support the one with the least likely possibility of winning. I may not even be conscious of the choice I’ve made until the closing bell rings with the underdog surprisingly winning or losing as expected. It’s in my DNA.

    It’s also in my DNA to never kick a person when she’s down. Why is that necessary? Whoever it is has already been walloped enough by someone else or circumstances beyond their control or tackled already by a defensive back, so why “pile on”? That’s like a mantra with me. Avoid piling on someone who has already admitted defeat.

    Today, however, my DNA has run right up against my political reality TV show, and the collision isn’t pretty.

    I’m talking about the Press Secretary’s remarks yesterday at his daily press conference concerning the recent events in Syria. For some strange reason, Sean Spicer tried to compare the tyranny of President Assad to that of Adolph Hitler in WWII and remarked that even Hitler had never used gas to kill his own citizens.

    One of the astounded reporters said, “He killed the Jews.”

    And so we have the piling on of Sean Spicer who immediately apologized for his remarks following the press conference yesterday and was interviewed this morning on MSNBC and reiterated his mea culpa for the gaffe.

    I really don’t believe Sean is the total issue here, but I would start by firing him if I could. He is the daily voice of the administration and, as such, has the ear of media in this country and around the world. This is one blunder I call a bridge too far because it displays either a blatant ignorance of history or a distorted perception of history or a complete lack of respect for the magnitude of the deaths and destruction under the Nazi regime.

    This is not to say that the atrocities of the Assad government in Syria have not been horrific. Comparing horrors of inhumanity, however, runs the risk of ignoring that the numbers enumerated represent the loss of real lives. Whether those numbers are hundreds or thousands or millions that are snuffed out by evil leaders who use gas or other equally savage means, the most important number is one. One child. One family. One multiplied to the nth. power.

    In a world where our nation sends battleships to seas near North Korea and missiles to Syria while the White House Easter Egg Hunt is in disarray because the West Wing can’t organize it since they can’t organize themselves, it would be helpful to have a Press Secretary who spoke in complete knowledgeable sentences to deflect attention from his boss who communicates regularly through enigmatic tweets.

    My bad is not quite good enough this time, Sean. We need a better spokesperson. My DNA feels remorse for piling on you, but, to quote one of your boss’s favorite sayings, you’re fired.

  • Experience the Power of a G.I.R.L.!


    Sunday afternoon, the 9th. of April, 2017 was an absolutely gorgeous spring day in downtown Columbia, South Carolina. The weather was perfect with temperatures in the mid 70s and cloudless blue skies. It was a great day to be outdoors which is where thousands of people gathered on Main Street to celebrate the good times of bringing the NCAA Women’s Basketball Championship trophy home to the University of South Carolina with a ticker-tape parade minus the ticker-tape.

    Yahoo – we party!! Pretty and I were there as were our Gay Boys Basketball Buddies and #1 Fan Gamecock Matt. Without realizing where we were sitting, Pretty plopped our small folding chairs right next to a local TV news team which was covering the parade so not only did we have great seats, we also were interviewed by a TV newsman and once again made local news. (That interview can be viewed on social media if anyone is curious.)

    We watched every car carrying VIPs,  every motorcycle, a live rooster (Sir Spur, the Gamecock) riding in a small driver-less motorized vehicle, a deputy sheriff on a real big horse, A’ja Wilson’s DJ brother playing festive music, dancing troupes, Cocky the Gamecock mascot and tons of floats – green ones, red ones, silver ones, gold ones – truly any color imaginable in the midst of a caravan of colors as they passed by us on Main Street which was their route to the State Capitol grounds for the closing ceremonies.

    I love a parade – Pretty will vouch for me. I just love a parade. But I particularly love a parade that celebrates women and their achievements. I took 129 pictures at the parade and worked on them last night while Pretty was talking on her cell phone with the Apple Help person for two hours trying to figure out how to make her Mac happy again. Poor Pretty.

    As I cropped and re-cropped the images, I was struck by the power these basketball heroes gave to the little girls, teenage girls, grown-up women and yes, even us eat-up-with-elderly older women as we celebrated their victories in one grand final gesture of appreciation.

    If I could, I would put all of these images in my post today, but alas, I know that’s asking for a lot of attention which won’t happen. So, as a compromise, I’m choosing my favorites.

    The G.I.R.L. Power float

    Bring the babies, too – even when they nod off

    It’s a Family Affair

    (photo courtesy of Pretty)

    Dancing in the streets

    Women on motorcycles – 

    rev ’em up, Sisters!

    I spy Cocky!!

    Gamecock Legend Sheila Foster is jubilant… 

     other basketball alumni enjoy the ride with her

    Our Heroes: The Stars of the Show

    Kaela Davis, A’ja Wilson and Allisha Gray

    These girls and the team made basketball history

    Coach Dawn Staley high above the crowds

    where a true basketball Queen belongs

    along with the Team that made her the Queen

    I’m afraid I was too short to see the action on the Capitol steps as the parade came to an end, but that was okay. I found my sights away from the stage.

    This little girl had a bird’s eye view

    This one did, too

    a Pretty face in the crowd

    taking a break to tie her shoes

    a teenager tweeting her pics

    an older woman rode her bike to celebrate

    Gamecock colors – complete with pom poms

    These girls are champions, too

     Which one of these girls will be our next Congresswoman, Olympic medalist, astronaut, teacher, preacher, policewoman, Forbes 500 CEO, President of the United States? The mind races with the possibilities for their futures…and for ours…because we’ve experienced the magic of G.I.R.L. power today.

    Whew! We are exhausted – time for us to ease on down the road to Casa de Canterbury where we should be p-a-c-k-i-n-g instead of partying. Oh, well. You only go around once.

    Go Gamecocks!!

    Pretty and our parade chairs heading home

    it’s a wrap for this unforgettable season