by sheila morris
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.
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.
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.
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
“Hey, Dorothy? What’s up?”
“I’m off to see the Man in the White House because I’m lost and can’t find my Auntie Michele,” said Dorothy. “Do I know you?”
“Yeah, you know me. I’m Silas Crow. I sit on the back row of your English class and make strange noises.”
“Oh, of course. The notorious Silas Crow. You don’t have a brain in your head,” said Dorothy.
“I know, I know. That’s what I’ve been told. Do you think the Man in the White House could give me a brain?” asked Silas Crow.
“Tra-la, tra-la. You are welcome to come with me and find out. The Man in the White House is supposed to be very wise.”
Dorothy and Silas Crow began to walk together. They walked and walked.
“Hey, Dudes, take a hike. Get outta my space. Where you going?”
“We’re off to see the Man in the White House,” replied Silas Crow. “Dorothy told me the Man was very wise and could give me a brain.”
“Oh, she did, did she? Well, this is where you little numskulls took a wrong turn,” growled Tim Mann who took a menacing step toward Dorothy and Silas Crow.
Dorothy looked straight at Tim Mann and said, “Looks like someone has no heart. Shame on you for being so mean. Silas Crow may not be very bright, but at least he’s not a bully like you. If you go with us, maybe the Man in the White House could give you a heart.”
Silas Crow nodded vigorously. “You need an attitude adjustment, Dude.”
Tim Mann rolled his eyes but then studied the two standing before him. Finally, he shook his head and thought, maybe I need new friends.
“Let’s roll before I change my mind,” he snapped.
“Tra-la, tra-la,” said Dorothy. “We are off to see the Man in the White House who is supposed to have a very big heart.”
By and by the trio came upon a very large grey dog with huge floppy ears. He was sitting in the middle of their path, staring at them out of one blue eye and one brown one. He looked quite ferocious. Dorothy, Silas Crow and Tim Mann stopped in their tracks.
Dorothy was the first to regain her composure and whistled for the dog to come to her. The dog bolted in the opposite direction.
“Fraidy Dog, Fraidy Dog,” mocked Tim Mann who had no heart.
Silas Crow joined in the chant because he had no brain.
Dorothy gave them an icy stare and called after the frightened animal, “Please come back and go with us. We are going to see the Man in the White House – maybe he could give you courage.”
As the group turned to resume their journey, the cowardly dog followed a few paces behind.
“Tra-la, tra-la,” sang Dorothy happily. “We are off to see the brave, kind, wise Man in the White House who will give Fraidy Dog courage, Tim Mann a new heart, Silas Crow a new brain and me a map to find my way home to Auntie Michele.”
The little foursome traveled far and wide, thither and yon, until finally one day they reached the White House. Much to everyone’s surprise, the White House was surrounded by a very high fence and armed guards at the gate. Silas Crow, Tim Mann, and Fraidy Dog looked at Dorothy.
Not to be outdone, Dorothy boldly approached one of the guards and asked, “Excuse me, kind sir, but we have come a long way to speak with the Man in the White House. Do you know where he is?”
The guard shrugged and said, “You might try MahRahLahgo.”
Dorothy woke up.
I'll Call It Like I See It 
You must be logged in to post a comment.