I'll Call It Like I See It

by sheila morris

Category: family life

  • Saying goodbye to Spike, our Texas cur dog who needed a pack

    Saying goodbye to Spike, our Texas cur dog who needed a pack


    On Thursday, March 27th., Pretty and I lost our beloved Texas dog Spike – not totally unexpectedly because he was old for a big dog, yet somewhat of a surprise because he had been in a slow decline for a long while before suddenly finding movement almost impossible Thursday morning. He told me and Pretty he was ready to go with his soulful big brown eyes. That afternoon an angel of mercy came to our home to help ease his passing. Our family has lost a cornerstone that cannot be replaced.

    In January, 2022, I published the “Spike Story.”

    When my cousin Martin saw Spike for the first time he said, “Sheila, that ain’t nothing but a cur dog. Plain as day.”

    That was in the spring of 2012, the year my two mothers died within two weeks of each other. I was a motherless child by any definition at the end of April, the month Spike appeared on Worsham Street in Texas as a motherless cur dog which according to the Merriam-Webster dictionary definition, and my cousin Martin, meant he was a mongrel or inferior dog – surly or cowardly.

    When that cur dog showed up on Worsham Street in front of our house, Pretty and I had four other dogs: Annie, Red, Chelsea and Ollie. I tried to convince my neighbors across the street to keep him, but both of them had cats as well as dogs plus jobs that required their daily presence. I was a stay at home writer. My neighbor Lisa and I tried to find his owner for several days but finally realized someone had dumped him in our neighborhood so he belonged to Worsham Street. I called Pretty to talk to her about him – she was working and living most of the time in South Carolina while I had been in Texas to take care of my mother – and since we split the four dogs into two separate households – what was one more?

    At first Spike was skittish around Red, Annie and me. He preferred to stay in the yard, but one night the rains came; I saw him sitting on the back porch looking at Red and me on the bed through the sliding glass door which I got up to open for him. He came inside that rainy night – never to be an outside dog again.

    Spike sound asleep with his buddy Red on our sofa in Texas

    (spring, 2012)

    Red was quick to be surly – Spike not so much

    Spike seemed to understand that he was the low dog in the pack. Red was the alpha male because that’s how terriers roll. Smallest in size – but Red was the recognized “star.” Annie was a big dog like Spike but much older. She allowed Red to lead as long as she approved of his leadership, but don’t ever cross her. Spike learned to avoid her, but he loved Red. Red adored Annie. Typical love triangle similar to humans. Am I right?

    The math Pretty and I had originally calculated worked well when we were in different homes but changed dramatically when we were together in South Carolina. Then we knew we had five dogs. Looking back to those years I’m not sure how we managed but we loved them all.

    Spike, Red and black lab Chelsea in back yard on Canterbury Road

    Spike fell in love with Chelsea on his first trip to South Carolina in 2012; it was a feeling that stayed with him as long as she lived – a feeling that remained with him forever after she died in March, 2016. To this day he whined or barked when he saw a big black dog walking by on our street from his perch on the couch in our living room on Cardinal Drive.

    Spike at home on our patio at Casa de Canterbury in July, 2012

    Spike and Chelsea on my grandparents’ bed in September, 2014

    my grandparents would be horrified if they knew

    One by one Spike’s pack succumbed to illness and old age, and he became the sole survivor in the spring of 2016. Pretty and I promised each other we would shower him with affection, treats, walks, to give him the attention he hadn’t experienced as the interloper of the original four. We tried for months to lavish him with our love – perhaps partially to assuage our own grief. What happened surprised both of us. Spike’s grieving was as real as ours, and he didn’t like being an “only” dog. He missed his pack.

    Enter Charly in the summer of 2016. Charly was twice rescued: once by Pawmetto Lifeline and then by Pretty, Spike and me.

    Spike and Charly in our living room – 2019

    when you can’t be with the one you love, honey, love the one you’re with

    Now we have another little old man about the same size as Red, but Carl and Spike aren’t buddies, though – neither is Carport Kitty who definitely dislikes our three dogs. That’s okay. Charly runs interference between Spike and Carl who has learned the importance of pretending CK doesn’t exist. Spike has a pack again. Pretty and I love them all.

    Spike on his walk – January 11, 2022

    By the way, cur dogs are really a wonderful breed of “hard-working treeing hounds” with traits that include being devoted to their people, protective of their environment and fabulous additions to families.

    So to my cousin Martin I say thank goodness Spike ain’t nothing but a cur dog. Pretty and I wouldn’t have him be anything else.

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

    Spike – March 27, 2025

    Rest in peace, Buddy. You were simply the best.

  • yesterday when I was young – yeah, but now that I’m old, what’s next?

    yesterday when I was young – yeah, but now that I’m old, what’s next?


    Yesterday, when I was young the taste of life was sweet like rain upon my tongue. I teased at life as if it were a foolish game the way an evening breeze would tease a candle flame. The thousand dreams I dreamed, the splendid things I planned, I always built to last on weak and shifting sand. I lived by night and shunned the naked light of day and only now I see how the years have run away. Yesterday, when I was young there were so many songs that waited to be sung. So many wild pleasures that lay in store for me and so much pain my dazzled eyes refused to see. I ran so fast that time and youth at last ran out. I never stopped to think what life was all about and every conversation that I can recall concerns itself with me and nothing else at all. Yesterday the moon was blue, and every crazy day brought something new to do. And I used my magic age as if it were a wand, I never saw the waste and emptiness beyond. The game of love I played with arrogance and pride, and every flame I lit, so quickly, quickly died The friends I made all seemed somehow to drift away, and only I am left on stage to end the play.Yesterday, when I was young there were so many songs that waited to be sung. So many wild pleasures that lay in store for me, and so much pain my dazzled eyes refused to see. There are so many songs in me that won’t be sung ’cause I feel the bitter taste of tears upon my tongue. And the time has come for me to pay for yesterday when I was young

    (Source: Musixmatch Songwriters: Herbert Kretzmer / Charles Aznavour)

    Unlike the lyrics in this song, I do stop to think what life was all about, a personal luxury as the general life expectancy age for women in the United States is 79 years which will be my age in five weeks. I can identify with these reflections, with their universal themes of how the years run away, the wild pleasures mixed in with the dazzling pain, teasing at life, dreams that won’t ever be realized – all compressed into memory makers. Every day I am reminded that my age is a gift, unmerited favor, grace that should be celebrated.

    The closer I get to a birthday, the more I care about life expectancy and the extra rabbit holes I go down with my Googling. There are more rabbit holes in a Google search than there are Jackrabbits in West Texas. The good news is if I can last just five more weeks until my 79th. birthday on April 21st., my average life expectancy is 9.5 years or I will live until I am 88.5 years old. Sigh. Apparently I need to be extra careful, though. Try not to fall, avoid fatty foods, tell Pretty how much I love her every night, and mostly be a kinder person to my family and friends.

    Fun fact in one rabbit hole: short people outlive tall ones. Good grief. Finally, a benefit of my body type.

  • Nana, did you marry Naynay?

    Nana, did you marry Naynay?


    five-year-old Ella, three-year-old Molly, and Naynay at Krispy Kreme Store

    Nana and Ella love Krispy Kreme donuts

    Molly doesn’t like donuts (according to her)

    Hmm. Maybe Molly needs to reconsider her position on donuts.

    I’m trying to figure out how to eat the icing first

    is there anything more delicious than a donut?

    Yes! It’s a donut with M&M candy in the icing!

    Such an adventure with our two granddaughters who have grown up with Krispy Kreme donuts but always in a drive-thru setting – never actually going inside a store where the donuts are made. Heavenly aromas as we opened the door to the store and feasts for the eyes that opened wide to see the dozens of varieties in spotless display cases as hundreds of donuts moved through an assembly line in full view behind the cases. The girls were mesmerized and a bit overwhelmed by the choices when we limited them to two each but thrilled to sit at a little table with their milk to experiment with unusual tastes and colors. Finally, a race to the restroom to wash hands and faces when we had to take them to their parents.

    As Nana leaned into the middle row of the grannymobile to buckle Ella in her car seat when we were leaving the Krispy Kreme store, Ella asked out of the blue: Nana, did you marry Naynay? Nana said yes, I did. I was sitting next to Ella who then turned to me and asked the question Naynay, did you marry Nana? I answered yes, I married Nana.

    But you’re both girls, Ella continued, and I nodded yes to her. But that’s okay, I said. Without skipping a beat as the wheels turned in her five-year-old brain she said, Owen had two moms. Owen was a little boy in her first daycare for two years. He did, indeed, have two moms we met when we picked Ella up in the afternoons.

    Yes, I said. We are two of your grandmothers like Owen’s two mothers.

    And that was that. No more questions. No long discussions – they would come later, but for now everything was fine in her mind.

    When could we come back to Krispy Kreme??

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

    Slava Ukraini. For the children.

  • how do I love thee? let me count the ways

    how do I love thee? let me count the ways


    Last night Pretty and I were watching a new comedy on Netflix when she suddenly sat up and said, tomorrow is the 9th. of February, our 24th. anniversary. This was huge because for twenty-three years Pretty had problems remembering the date. Bravo!

    I usually began the reminder process in January every year with a conversation that followed along these lines. Pretty, you know we have an anniversary coming up in February. Oh yes, she would say. What day is it then? I asked. Time passed as the wheels turned. I could see them turning. Is it the 12th.? she finally guessed. No, I replied with outright disgust. It’s the 9th. Pretty said oh she knew it was either the 9th. or the 12th. but thought she always got it wrong so she went with the one she didn’t really think was right. Didn’t I say I saw the wheels turning? For twenty-three anniversaries, Pretty has never remembered the right date. I always remember because I have it written on my calendar, and I don’t consider that cheating. I consider it brilliant. (Was that a calendar I saw in Pretty’s lap last night? Hmm.)

    Return with me to those thrilling days of yesteryear to meet Pretty who magically changed from being a close friend and confidante (before the spontaneous trip to Cancun pictured above in February, 2001) to a woman who was hotter than the salsa we had with dinner at La Destileria the first night we were there. And trust me, that salsa was hot.

    Pretty was “out” in a conservative state in a tumultuous era. She was ahead of her time with her Bluestocking Bookstore in the Vista in Columbia before the Vista became cool. Her business closed after three years, but her contribution to the LGBTQ community was recognized and appreciated. She served on the original board of directors for the SC Gay and Lesbian Business Guild formed in 1993 and was the second president of that organization. Her passion for equality was the catalyst for an activist’s life, a passion she and I shared as friends over the decade that was the 1990s.

    At the turn of the century, change was in the air. It was like everyone suddenly realized time was passing faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive and if Superman and Wonder Woman were unlikely to intervene in the chaos and/or uninspiring sameness of our lives, we needed to make radical changes ourselves.

    Both Pretty and I were in long term lesbian relationships that experienced seismic shifts as the first year of the new century came to a close. Our partners began looking for love in other places. Pretty had the additional drama associated with making a home for a fifteen year old son who she adored, an athletically gifted teenager who was the quarterback of his high school football team and the starting pitcher for their baseball team. She mixed her real estate appointments in her new career as a realtor for The Hubbard Group with her tennis league schedules and her son’s games.

    The trip to Cancun was the launching pad for the most adventurous ride of my life. I had no way of knowing then that the gorgeous intelligent intellectually inquisitive woman with the wonderful sense of humor who grew up in New Prospect, South Carolina would marry the woman from deep in the heart of Richards, Texas and that we would be together for the next twenty-four years sharing a life unimaginable to me as a child. Yet, here we are – still laughing at each other’s jokes, still loving, still standing. And yes, still eating Mexican food as often as our older appetites allow; but now with the additional delight of sharing fajitas and quesadillas with our growing family that makes our love richer, more joyful, more playful.

    How do I love thee, Pretty? Let me count the ways, and let me begin with the spicy salsa you have always brought to our family life together for two decades plus now. On that first trip to Cancun, we walked along the beach in the moonlight and I said I would give anything to celebrate our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary together in 2026. Unbelievable. Inconceivable. That seemed like such a long, long time away then, especially since I was fifty-five years old and you were fourteen years younger. We’re almost there, but the years have passed faster than a speeding bullet, our love more powerful than a locomotive.

    Happy 24th. Anniversary, Pretty. Let the good times roll.

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

    granddaughters Ella and Molly at Mexican restaurant

  • last hurrah for now

    last hurrah for now


    school at last! excitement mixed with fear (1952)

    so many children to play with, and Daddy was superintendent

    The little girl’s first grade class with teacher Mrs. Lucille Lee who gave us the gift of reading. She taught first and second grade in one room.

    The little girl’s daddy was the superintendent of two schools: the one in the little two-story red brick schoolhouse where she went to school and the one across main street in Richards in the quarters where the Black children attended. One independent school district. Separate but not very equal. Integration came slowly to mostly overlooked rural southeast Texas.

    Annual Easter Egg Hunt for grades 1 – 4

    We walked up the dirt road to our house past my grandfather’s barn across the road from our garage while other teachers hid eggs around the school grounds. Then we turned around and ran back to hunt for the eggs. Ray Wood, a blonde-headed kid in my class, always found the maximum – most of the eggs were gone by the time I made it back. I was never known for speed.

    my Uncle Charlie (mother’s brother) graduated from Richards school circa 1941

    not sure why, but my Uncle Charlie had the number 12 written on him?

    Mama’s oldest brother Marion (glasses and tie)

    graduated from Richards school circa 1939

    Aunt Lucille, Uncle Ray and Glenn a/k/a Daddy

    My grandparents had limited education when they were growing up in large families working on farms. They could read, write, and do arithmetic – but I’m not sure where they learned. My mother and her three older brothers; my dad, his older sister, and brother all attended school in Richards, Texas at the same red brick schoolhouse I attended through the seventh grade. Our time at the school spanned from the 1920s – 1950s. All seven of them graduated before WWII ended. If legacies were given, I had one.

    the entire Richards School Grades 1 – 8 plus 4 years of high school

    the bell signaled the start of school in the morning

    I counted four uncles, one aunt, and several cousins in this picture. I also knew many teachers and recognized kids whose names I can’t remember, but this was a typical rural Texas school in the 1930s and 1940s before World War II.

    Thank you to my cyberspace followers for taking this nostalgic journey once upon a time in a faraway place that will always be deep in my heart. I’ll close with these two last photos that speak volumes about the little girl in the photos and stories.

    this little girl became…

    …this grandmother to Molly and Ella James

    Happiness galore! And that’s a wrap.