I'll Call It Like I See It

by sheila morris

Category: Humor

  • the man in the moon

    the man in the moon


    One of my paternal grandmother’s favorite euphemisms when she became exasperated by the ignorance of someone who had trampled on her last nerve was “he didn’t have any more sense than the man in the moon.” Ma’s euphemisms were more like proclamations that I took to be absolute truth, which meant I had little regard for the man in the moon of my childhood. Yesterday I saw him through different eyes.

    Nana and I took care of our two young granddaughters, four year old Ella and twenty-two month old Molly, while their parents enjoyed a day of food, friends and college football. Activities had been fast and furious for the girls – Nana and I had struggled to keep pace, but late in the afternoon they settled outside playing together in the sandbox where unfortunately an argument over a pink shovel caused a meltdown by Molly which sent Ella scrambling to a small hammock swing nearby. The next thing I knew Molly had climbed in the hammock with Ella (Nana gave her a leg up), and both of them were laughing while Nana pushed them, twirling them around like a ride at the state fair.

    As twilight came too soon for the girls who cried Nana, go higher, go higher I had a Thanksgiving moment for these three: my wife who shared the past twenty-two years with me and the two little girls whose lives added another dimension for our family.

    Finally, Nana stopped swinging the small hammock, and Ella jumped out of the swing. Hey, everybody, I see the moon, she exclaimed with delight. Naynay, come see the moon, she insisted. I left my chair on the deck to do as she told me because that’s how I roll with this four year old. Nana picked up Molly to stand next to Ella who pointed to the moon for her younger sister. Molly said moon, moon while her face beamed brighter than the moonlight.

    I told the girls a story about a man in the moon, but the man I saw with them through their eyes was a kind man – very smart – who simply stayed in the sky to watch over us. Why? Ella asked. Good question, I replied.

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

    “The oak trees were alive with color in the midst of the evergreens. Bright red and yellow leaves catching the sunlight as Daddy and I walked through the brush early that Thanksgiving morning. The smell of the pines was fresh and all around us. We didn’t speak, but this was when I felt most connected to my father. Nature was a bond that united us and the gift that he gave me. And not just in those East Texas woods. He envisioned the whole earth as my territory and set me on my path to discovery. In 1958, this was remarkable for a girl’s father…Perhaps, though, it is the love and closeness of those family ties that leave the sights and sounds that last a lifetime.” (from Deep in the Heart: A Memoir of Love and Longing)

    Thanksgiving blessings to you and your family from ours in South Carolina

  • is a thing of beauty really a joy forever? not necessarily

    is a thing of beauty really a joy forever? not necessarily


    In 1818 the poet John Keats wrote “A thing of beauty is a joy forever…” from his first published book length poem Endymion, the name of a young shepherd boy in love with a moon goddess according to Greek legend.

    In 1954 Nat King Cole sang the title song for the movie Autumn Leaves which was also about a love affair but with a much more sinister plot twist involving mental illness. Think an older Joan Crawford in love with a much younger man played by Cliff Robertson. If she had been a teacher obsessed with a student, she might have been arrested. A love song that began in France (where else?) as a poem in 1945, crossed the pond as a song in America in the late 1940s by pop singer Jo Stafford whose claim to fame was “the wistful singing voice of the American home front during WWII and the Korean War” per an article in the New York Times in July, 2008; however, it was a piano solo by Roger Williams in 1955 that placed the song on the charts for six months.

    The falling leaves drift by the window
    The autumn leaves of red and gold
    I see your lips, the summer kisses
    The sun-burned hands I used to hold

    Since you went away the days grow long
    And soon I’ll hear old winter’s song
    But I miss you most of all my darling
    When autumn leaves start to fall.

    Lah-de-lah-de-dah. Okay, I get it. I’m all about the beautiful leaves of red and gold, drifting by my window or just outside my back door or front door or on the carport or in the yard or most importantly…in my pool. So romantic except for the ongoing war with the endless leaves in the fall.

    Carl checking out leaf situation with me this morning

    the last reminders of summer covered with autumn leaves

    I fought the leaves, and the leaves won.

    but Pride flag keeps watch over us through every season

    The Thanksgiving season is a time of reflection for yesterday’s summer kisses, today’s beautiful leaves of red and gold that will bring old winter’s song with their brown colors signaling a thing of beauty may not quite be a joy forever. So I’ll miss you most of all, my darling, when autumn leaves start to fall.

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

  • ’tis the season – too harsh?

    ’tis the season – too harsh?


    Thanksgiving is still my favorite holiday because it is the most resistant to crass commercialism.  Halloween and Christmas have become impostors that pave the path to New Year’s Eve, but Thanksgiving remains the holiday for celebrating family and friends.  It is the lull between two storms that blow powerful winds of spending, of buying more of what we don’t need in larger quantities.

    Ouch. Someone just stomped on Halloween and Christmas with both feet – who could that negative naysayer be, and what did she say next?

    The march is on, and good cheer has a price.  Merry gentlemen, God doesn’t rest ye.  O Holy Night, you’re not really silent.  As a matter of fact, you’re all about the noise of cars, planes and people in a hurry to get somewhere.  It’s time to travel; the highways and airports are hubbubs of activity.  We are rocking around the Christmas tree.  Every creature is stirring on the night before, during, and after Christmas.  Hallelujah.  Let’s make it a chorus.

    Oh my goodness. Someone swallowed a Bah Humbug pill that turned her into an old “Eleanor-eezer” Scrooge type with too many tunes swirling through the memory banks in her brain. What kind of person would write this, and when did she write it?

    To no one’s surprise I am the guilty writer, and I published this piece on November 10, 2011 – exactly twelve years ago today. This is neither a retraction nor an aha moment with a total change in my annual holiday philosophies, but hopefully I can admit when softer, less judgmental tones are more appropriate.  

    Sandwiched between Halloween and Christmas is the poor relation, Thanksgiving.  On this lesser holiday, I am thankful for the memories of my family and our life before cell phones interrupted us while we feasted at the tables of my grandmothers.  I am thankful for a grandmother who got up in the wee hours of Thursday mornings to put a turkey in a large cooker that was used only twice a year.  I can still smell the aroma that permeated our whole house by the time we got up on Thanksgiving morning.  The turkey was on its way to perfection.  I am grateful to that grandmother for working ten hours a day, six days a week so that we would have a roof over our heads and food to eat.  I feel her love today as I felt it then, but now I know how fortunate I was to have her in my life—and I also know that not everyone is so lucky.

    Yes, this was also in the post twelve years ago today, and I am thankful for the softer tones, warmer images, more understanding of the challenges families face during holiday seasons when not everyone shares the abundance of love I remember or even the luxury to ponder the memories. Not all those who ponder are lost, but we need one holiday to call our own. I choose Thanksgiving. 

  • Roe, Roe, Roe Your Vote

    Roe, Roe, Roe Your Vote


    Thanks for showing up!

    We won’t forget who took our rights

    Repubs are out of luck

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

    (shirt by 4winnersSports)

    New lyrics to row, row, row your boat are totally mine, but I hope you’ll sing along with me all the way to the ballot box in 2024. Onward.

  • the legacy of Carport Kitty grows

    the legacy of Carport Kitty grows


    October 22nd. was the one-year anniversary of our final tearful goodbye to the calico cat Pretty and I called Carport Kitty, the urban neighborhood legend whose physical heart could no longer support her brave spiritual one. We were desolate with grief for months whenever we drove up our driveway toward the carport that seemed bare without her.

    Carport Kitty dined with dignity

    in January, 2023 this Dynamic Duo dropped by occasionally

    I recognized the pair as Carport Kitty’s friends but told Pretty we couldn’t encourage them.

    that ship had sailed

    Sigh. So to honor the memory of Carport Kitty we fed her two friends.

    then along came a mysterious stranger in the spring of 2023

    Sigh. Sigh again. So to honor the memory of Carport Kitty we fed a young neutered male who had never laid eyes on her. In order to avoid becoming attached to this young whippersnapper, Pretty and I decided to call him Cat.

    our friend Nekki fussed at us about a cat named Cat

    and suggested we name him Moses

    Moses is my new assistant in the laundry room adjacent to the carport.

    winter carport cat cribs

    Lest anyone forgets Carport Kitty’s “Frenemy” the OG Bully Cat, I can report he also returns regularly to patrol her former kingdom and snack on leftovers.

    OG Bully Cat in his collar looking fat and sassy on carport patrol earlier today

    (Bully Cat’s home is in a garage one block down the street – his peeps call him Romeo)

    Bully Cat never met a meal he didn’t like

    This evening when Pretty gets home from her antique empire duties she will see not one, but three cats who reside in our carport in one fashion or another – all sharing the legacy of the little calico cat who chose to call us her family for a time we will never forget.