I'll Call It Like I See It

by sheila morris

Category: Humor

  • The Case of the Prolific Plum Tree – Part 1 (from I’ll Call It Like I See It)

    The Case of the Prolific Plum Tree – Part 1 (from I’ll Call It Like I See It)


    Once upon a time there was a plum tree in the far southwest corner of our backyard in Texas that produced as many plums as a small orchard. When I left our newly acquired house on Worsham Street the first week in May, 2010 to return to South Carolina, the light green plums on the tree were the size of large olives. I picked one and tasted it because I believed they might be gone before I returned for my next visit. It was bitter as gall, hard as the pit of one of those large olives it resembled. I quickly spit it out and sighed. I longed for the sweet, soft, purple plums of my childhood from our tree in Richards. How could the eighteen miles from Richards where I grew up to our home in Montgomery sixty-four years later make such a difference in plums from a random plum tree in the yard? Maybe it was more than time or distance.

    When I returned to our Worsham Street house in Texas from South Carolina a month later, I couldn’t wait to check on my plum tree. To my astonishment, the plums had matured and changed. The first thing I noticed was the fallen ones collected in a heap around the trunk of the tree. I peered closer to see they were a deep red color the way I remembered they should be, but they were the size of golf balls which wasn’t exactly what I recalled. They were in varying stages of decomposition, obviously food for worms and birds that shared our back yard. Then I looked up.

    The tree appeared to be at least twenty feet tall with limbs growing awkwardly in all directions. Several branches were entwined in a wire dangling from a utility pole across the fence in a neighbor’s yard. The tree occupied a corner where four yards in our neighborhood met, and its branches hung down with reckless abandon, no regard for boundaries. The branches were thick with kelly green leaves that tried to hide the fruit, but that was a lost cause. Hundreds of plums filled the tree. Seeing those plums in changing stages of ripeness froze me in my tracks. I stared at my “crop” and stepped back into a time, to a place where a little girl ran through her yard and tasted plums from a tree for the first time. Her delight was the same as mine was today. I pulled a limb closer and smelled a scent more powerful than candles of the same name. I picked one of the larger red ones, took a bite that was as sweet as its aroma. The skin broke easily to release a gush of juice that was decidedly the nectar of the gods; it must’ve been, since I was in plum paradise.

    Every day the plums multiplied. I picked them in the morning before the hot summer Texas heat made the outdoors unbearable. I picked the ones from the lower branches that I could reach without a ladder. One morning Jon, my next-door neighbor, came over and climbed a ladder to drop the ones from the upper limbs to me while I stayed safely on the ground. I gave him some as a thank you gesture. I filled a plastic grocery bag to give it to the neighbors living on the other side of us. I took plums to the women who lived in two houses across the street. I took plums to my mother’s caregivers in Houston. I gave plums to the men who came to work on our air conditioner. I gave plums to the cable guy who adjusted kinks in our cable connections. When my cousin Frances and her husband Lee came for a visit, I sent plums home with them. I considered giving them to strangers walking their dogs past my house. I had to get larger baskets to hold the plums I picked because I couldn’t give them away fast enough. That plum tree was a fruit-producing fool.

    Jon and I discussed the need for a new plan for the prolific plums. With the help of his computer, he researched the possibilities in cyberspace and determined we should make plum jelly. I scoffed at the idea, reminding him I hate to cook. That was the first problem. Secondly, I had visions of my grandmother in her kitchen making plum jelly fifty years ago. The images were fuzzy, but I remembered her sweating over a hot stove in a steaming kitchen for a long time. I didn’t like that picture, and I tried to discourage Jon from the project. He was convinced we should give it a try. I was wavering when I made the mistake of telling my first cousin James Paul who lived less than an hour from me in Navasota about the idea. He immediately jumped on the jelly bandwagon and told me he remembered my Aunt Mildred’s recipe. Not only remembered it, but he had the very pots and pans his mother used when she made her jelly. It couldn’t be that hard, he went on to say. I was outnumbered, and the plums kept piling higher on my kitchen counter.

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

    Please stay tuned for Part 2 of the Plum Adventures.

               

  • Tinabeth Says No (from Deep in the Heart)

    Tinabeth Says No (from Deep in the Heart)


    My first book, Deep in the Heart: A Memoir of Love and Longing, was published in 2007; in the sixteen years since its publication, I’ve been thrilled to reconnect with a number of Texas family and friends mentioned in the book. When Pretty and I had a home on Worsham Street in Montgomery, Texas from 2010 – 2014 we were only eighteen miles from Richards, the setting for Part 1 of Deep in the Heart. Two of my first visitors in our home were Tinabeth (ty-nuh-beth) and her mother Vivian, the main characters in the piece featured here today. They lived next door to each other “out in the country” from Richards with Tinabeth’s younger sister Sarah K. living nearby. What a fun visit we had as Vivian entertained us with stories of her friendship with my paternal grandmother Betha Morris! Tinabeth and Sarah K. were mothers, grandmothers and Vivian a/k/a Bibby to her grandchildren and great-grandchildren reigned supreme. I was fortunate to have several visits with Vivian before her passing in 2014. Tinabeth and I remain long distance friends to this day – she represents a bond to the place I called home when I was coming of age.

    Hey, Sheila, where you headed? Butch Foster called. He was riding Prince, his Appaloosa pony, and came trotting up beside me on the hardened red dirt road that passed for a street in our little town of Richards, Texas.

    I was riding my shiny blue Schwinn Flyer bike but pulled over to talk to him. I’m on my way to see Tinabeth. We’re going to play at the school, I said.

    Yeah. You’re always in a hurry to see Tinabeth these days, Butch replied. Me and Rush had our secret club meeting today and voted you out. We got a rule, you know: No Girls Allowed. You’re starting to act pretty much like a girl. We don’t want you coming to the clubhouse until you get back to normal.

    Well, I guess I don’t care, I said. I got rules, too. And one of them is to play with girls. They don’t have stupid secret clubs with no boys allowed.

    Okay. Just don’t come around expecting any favors from me or Rush. Rush’s little brother Reed said he was coming to get you for seeing his girlfriend all the time. He likes Tinabeth and he’ll beat you up.

    I’m not afraid of Reed Wood. He’s got a big mouth and a baby face. He’s such a whiner, too. Why would he care if I like to play with Tinabeth?

    I don’t know, Butch said. Just don’t expect us to help you out of a mess.

    Thanks for nothing, I shot back at him. I can handle any trouble myself.

    With that I pushed off up the road to the McCune’s. Butch shook his head and rode off in the opposite direction. It was a cool autumn Saturday afternoon during my third-grade year at the Richards public school. I had on a pair of my best blue jeans with a red plaid flannel shirt and a cowboy hat and boots. I was riding my brand new bike wherever I wanted, and this day I wanted to see Tinabeth. I had discovered that girls were a lot more fun to play with than I had suspected. Actually, I was in love and on top of the world. Nobody could spoil my happiness on a day like this.

    Hey, Tinabeth, I said. She was sitting on the front steps of her house waiting for me. She was wearing blue jeans and a frilly white blouse. Her long brunette curls were wadded up in some attempt at a ponytail but still sticking out in all directions. She must have fixed her hair by herself. Her mother Vivian was probably under the weather. She had quite a few spells and took to her bed on a regular basis.

    Hey, Tinabeth said, smiling at me. She had the warmest smile and the softest voice. Mrs. Lee, our first- and second-grade teacher, had to ask her to speak up in class. Of course, Mrs. Lee was a little on the deaf side.

    You interested in going to the school to play today? I asked. This was my attempt to get her to go somewhere away from her house and her little sister, Sarah Katherine.

    Sure, she said. She got up and went to the front door and called to her mother. Mama, can I go to the school with Sheila Rae? Her mother’s muffled reply came from somewhere in the back of their house.

    Take Sarah Katherine with you, and be back to help me fix lunch. At this, the screen door swung open, and the tornado that was her little sister came blowing past us and down the steps. Curses, I thought. Foiled again.

    Hurry up, Sheila Rae. Let’s go, she said noisily and took off for the school.

    I’ll leave my bike here so I can walk with you, I said to Tinabeth. She lived directly across from the school playground, so we spent a lot of time there. I noticed she didn’t bring anything with her. I figured we would ride the merry-go-round or swing. Sarah Katherine was already climbing the jungle gym. Excellent.

    I saw you talking to Butch Foster, she said. I love Prince. He’s such a beautiful pony. Where’s your horse?

    We already took her to the farm for the winter. Would you like to ride her with me? We could get my daddy to drive us out there some time. She needs to be ridden every once in a while.

    The farm was three miles from town, and my favorite place. The thought of taking Tinabeth with me to that special place was an intoxicating fantasy. I could visualize it then and there: riding my horse with Tinabeth behind me and her arms wrapped tightly around me so that I could protect her from falling; she was whispering how strong I was and how she never would be afraid to ride as long as I held the reins.

    Could Sarah Katherine come, too? Mama wouldn’t let me go without her, she said. The fantasy was rudely shattered, but I recovered gracefully. Of course, I said. We couldn’t think of leaving Sarah Katherine behind.

    I told her to get on the merry-go-round and I would push it for her. She rode and laughed as I pulled and pushed. Then I jumped on next to her. We went faster and faster, spinning out of control. Her eyes were bright and excited. We kicked the ground together now and then to keep the momentum going, but suddenly my hat blew off. We started dragging our feet to slow down and gradually came to a stop. I was out of breath.

    Sarah Katherine came running up with my hat. I rescued your hat, she said. I didn’t want you to lose it.

    Thanks, I said. Would you like to wear it for a while? She nodded and appeared pleased. You can wear it if you go play on the swings. Deal?

    She put on the hat and rushed to the other end of the playground. We heard her singing Happy Trails to You, like Dale Evans.

    She likes you a lot, Tinabeth said. You’re always nice to her.

    I couldn’t tell if this was good or bad. I chose to believe it was good. Do you like me, too? I asked. Where was I going with this? I couldn’t stop myself. I thought about her all the time. Every day at school I waited to see her at recess. Last year we had been in the same room, and I was miserable. One day Mrs. Lee had thrown an eraser at Daniel Moriarty, who sat in front of me. He hadn’t been paying attention, but he saw it coming. He ducked, and it hit me squarely in the head because I had been hiding behind him to stare at Tinabeth.

    I like you. You’re funny, she replied. You make me laugh. We don’t laugh much at our house. Mama isn’t herself all the time.

    I know, I said. We sat there in silence. Tinabeth wasn’t a big talker.

    Well, I guess we need to get back to the house so I can help Mama with lunch, she said with an air of finality.

    Wait, I said in a panic. Don’t go yet. There’s something I need to ask you. Something I’ve been thinking. It’s this important question.

    She looked at me with mild curiosity. I froze. What is it? she said.

    It was now or never, I thought. My heart was pounding. My mouth was dry. When we grow up, will you marry me? I asked.

    She looked stunned. Not happy. Not unhappy. Not upset. Puzzled. We can’t do that, she said with a bewildered expression. Who’d be the daddy?

    Without hesitation I answered, I would.

    She stared at me then with an understanding and wisdom beyond her seven years and said simply, No. Then she called out to her sister, Come on, Sarah Katherine. We’ve got to go. Give Sheila Rae her hat. We have to help Mama with lunch. She turned away from me and began to walk back to her house. Sarah Katherine was jabbering to me while we walked, but I didn’t hear her.

    When we got to their house, I mumbled goodbye and picked up my bike. It didn’t look nearly as shiny, and seemed heavier to push. Something fundamental changed in me that day. I wasn’t sure what had happened, but I knew I would never be the same. My heart had been broken, an innocence lost forever on a merry-go-round that would be my life with little girls who said no.

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

    Slava Ukraini. For the children.

  • A Cappella (from Deep in the Heart)

    A Cappella (from Deep in the Heart)


    Daddy, please tell Mama I can’t possibly try out for the high school choir this year, I pleaded. I’ve got to spend extra time in the gym so Coach Knipling can scout me for the varsity basketball team next year when I’m a sophmore. The three of us sat at the kitchen table in our rental house in Brazoria, Texas (pop. 1,291) in the fall of 1960 – I was fourteen years old, the only child of schoolteacher parents, and the discussion had turned into a rare argument.

    Well, Selma, Sheila’s got a point, Daddy said. She’s not as tall as the other girls so the coach needs to see her shoot. Her set shot is as good as anybody’s, and she drives the paint well, too. I think she can make the varsity team next year if she puts in extra gym time.

    Set shot, hook shot, free shot, dribble, dribble, dribble, Mama said with exasperation. All I ever hear in this house is some kind of ball talk. Softball, basketball, volleyball – and now you’re taking her to play golf with you after school. What’s so great about balls? Round balls to put in hoops, over nets, in holes or in leather gloves. They’re games, for heaven’s sake! I’m talking about culture, music, things that will last her a lifetime. Does anyone sitting at this table seriously believe that a five foot, two inches tall fourteen year old teenage girl will ever have a chance to play sports designed for giants when she gets out of high school?

    She paused to look at Daddy and me. Daddy picked up the newspaper on the table and looked away. I stood up from the table and stared back defiantly at her.

    Mama, you don’t understand. There are no freshmen in the West Columbia high school choir. It’s just for upperclassmen. Besides, there are only a couple of kids from Brazoria that have ever made the a cappella choir. They say we can’t read music right. I’ll be the only one from here, and I’m not going.

    I looked at Daddy for help, but he was not getting into an argument with my mother when she got on a wild hair. Well, she said. I don’t know who they are who know so much about choral music, but I do know you won’t be the only one from Brazoria to try out tomorrow. I called Joyce Burke last night and she said Karen will go with you. You’ll have a nice friend from the church to audition with you. Plus, the high school has a new choir director this year who just graduated from Hardin Simmons University in Abilene. They have an excellent music program there. You girls can sing, and she won’t care if you’re from Brazoria, Texas or Kalamazoo, Michigan because you’re both altos. There’s always a shortage of altos.

    Tryouts for the choir were held in the high school auditorium. Karen and I waited with the older students who seemed to know each other because they were talking, laughing, not as stressed as we were while we stood together in the lobby waiting for our names to be called. I felt sick, out of place, afraid of the humiliation I was about to endure to appease my mother. Finally, my name was called, and I opened the door to enter the large room filled with rows of empty chairs. A woman sat at the piano onstage and seemed to be absent-mindedly striking the keys before she looked up and called my name.

    Sheila? she asked. Come up here with me and let’s listen to you sing.

    Why me Lord, I thought as I walked down the center aisle to the steps leading up to the stage. What have I ever done to deserve this?

    As I walked up the steps I took a good look at the woman who sat on the piano bench. Oh, my gosh, I thought. It’s Jackie Kennedy. Of course it wasn’t really Jackie Kennedy, but she looked just like her. Her hair was the same color – not as long though. Her face was shaped the same, and she wore a dress that looked like something Mrs. Kennedy could wear, but not as stylish. Other than that, they were twins. Unbelievable. The woman was drop dead gorgeous and so young, too. She smiled as she motioned me to stand next to the piano.

    She studied me carefully. So, have you been singing a long time? she asked as she gazed intently at me.

    I felt like she was looking straight through me. Yes, ma’am, I replied. I’ve been singing solos in the Baptist Church since I was five.

    Good. Can you sing Amazing Grace for me? I’ll play the piano for you.

    Yes, ma’am. How many verses?

    The first and last will do fine, she said and began to play, but something was wrong. I couldn’t find my singing voice.

    Ma’am, can you play the song in a lower key? I can’t sing that high. Mama plays the piano for me and sometimes has to transpose the keys lower for me when I can’t sing like they’re written.

    The teacher smiled, nodded, and began to play in a key I could manage. I sang the two verses.

    Very good, she said when I finished. Tell me do you know how to read music? Can you sight read the parts as you sing?

    I know what the notes are because I’ve been playing the piano since I was five, too but I’ve never tried to sing anything without knowing the tune.

    How good are you at math? she asked. The question surprised me.

    Ok, I guess. What does that have to do with singing?

    Music is mathematical. It’s all about notes and numbers and the relationships between them. I have a feeling you can learn, she said, and flashed a smile that lit up the stage.

    She picked up a pen. What grade are you in? she asked as she wrote.

    Ninth, ma’am.

    Would you like to sing in the a cappella choir this year? I need tenors, and I don’t have many boys trying out. I think you could learn to sing tenor just fine.

    I’d love to sing tenor for you, I answered while I thought yes, yes, yes I desperately want to sing in the a cappella choir or any other musical group you plan to direct if you will look my way and smile while we practice.

    Karen Burke and I were the only female tenors in the high school a cappella choir that year. Singing in the tenor section wasn’t exactly what Mama had in mind for me, but she was pleased when I told her the news. Maybe next year she’ll move you over to the altos with the rest of the girls, she told me.

    The director’s name was Gloria Pittman, and she must have been in her early twenties since we were her first teaching position out of college. I loved her almost as much as I loved Coach Knipling but for different reasons. (Coach Knipling rarely smiled at me – much harder when you had a whistle in your mouth most of the time.) Miss Pittman had legs that went on forever – I dubbed her Piano Legs Pittman – and she taught us much more about music than how to blend our voices in choral sounds. She brought her own record player and records from her apartment to introduce us to the classics. She turned the volume up so we could hear her favorites like Mendelssohn, Schubert, Bach, Beethoven – we had to be able to distinguish Beethoven’s 3rd Symphony from his 5th, and much more. I began to close my eyes like she did when she heard the classics, tears streaming down her face from joy or sorrow…I never knew why except that she was intense, passionate about the music. She was a pioneer for our class in our “cultural development”and made an indelible impression on my young mind.

    Unfortunately, that year was her first and last as our music teacher. She had a special group of eight singers from the choir that performed as a select ensemble. They met on weekends and after school in the afternoons – sometimes they practiced in Miss Pittman’s apartment, and rumors were they smoked more than the cigarettes she was seen smoking with the drama teacher, Mrs. Juanita Roberts, in the teachers’ lounge at school. Everyone knew Mrs. Roberts was a radical liberal.

    Mama wasn’t sorry to see her go and was much happier when the band director, Raymond Bethke, also directed the choir. He moved me and Karen Burke to the alto section. He was a good band director. Enough said.

    My mother was also right about me and athletics: there was no demand for short basketball or volleyball players when I graduated from high school – even softball players needed to be bigger, faster. Choruses, choirs and chorales, on the other hand, stood the test of time for me. Both a cappella and those with orchestras, symphonies, pianos, organs as accompaniment. I auditioned many times during my lifetime, and what I learned from Miss Pittman opened doors for me with opportunities I might have missed like singing in the Southwestern Singers, the touring choir at the Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary in Fort Worth, Texas ten years later.

    There was always a shortage of altos.

  • 1969 – Not Every “L” Knew She Was Being Liberated (from Not Quite the Same)

    1969 – Not Every “L” Knew She Was Being Liberated (from Not Quite the Same)


    As the Gay Liberation Movement fired opening volleys in the cultural wars in large cities on the East and West Coasts of the country in the late 1960s following the Stonewall uprising in 1969 in New York City, I continued my private battle against guilt and fear, my search to become the “happy homosexual” mentioned by Dr. Holmes in my abnormal psychology class at the University of Texas in 1964. In an effort to take charge of my romantic destiny, I expanded my search beyond the Texas borders and moved across the country in 1968 to the Pacific Northwest where I located a familiar sanctuary. Truly familiar, and truly a sanctuary. To my own amazement at the time and amusement years later, I joined the Mercer Island Baptist Church, a very small (fewer than a hundred members) Southern Baptist church on an island suburb of Seattle. I can’t explain why I looked for the same religion that was largely the source of my deep feelings of guilt except I was twenty-two years old living alone three thousand miles from home, had still never heard of a lesbian bar, and a very kind definitely straight woman (my boss Becky at the CPA firm I worked for) invited me to go to church with her.

    My faith rewarded me with true love. The volunteer Minister of Youth at the church flirted with me and kindled my passion with lingering glances that made my insides vibrate. Sherry was a beautiful woman eight years older than me with dark skin she cultivated, opaque eyes that swallowed you whole. She had perfected a long lingering look that promised secrets too profound to utter, and at age thirty she was a sexy ticking time bomb. She was also married to a successful stock broker who managed the trust established for her by her mother and father who lived in Abilene, Texas where he was the OG oilman millionaire. Sherry and the pastor’s wife Janice were always together except for the nights she invited me to her home on Mercer Island when her husband worked late, her three young children sent to bed early.

    Sherry was not only my first introduction to the unrequited passion of married “straight” women but also my first introduction to the uber rich. Whenever I rang her doorbell and stepped into her house I realized this was how money lived. Money gave you gorgeous lake views, plush white carpets often muddied by a playful registered Old English Sheepdog, a magnificent grand piano in your living room, a fireplace that crackled and offered more than warmth, children that lived downstairs. Cheeses I couldn’t pronounce could be placed on silver trays and served with fresh grapes and crackers to accompany a bourbon and ginger cocktail that helped me overcome the awkwardness I always felt in her presence. Music came from somewhere, and I felt I was surrounded by invisible speakers set at the perfect volume. Yes, this was how money lived. Sitting by her on the plush carpet in front of the crackling fire listening to music while I sipped my cocktail, I found the long hours of just talking met a need I’d had forever. This woman was the woman I was meant to spend my life with.

    I, however, moved from the two-bedroom nicely furnished modern Bellevue apartment in a large complex I had shared with a roommate who decided to leave two months into our lease into a sparsely furnished one-bedroom garage unit above Lake Union in downtown Seattle. The eccentric landlady was an ancient woman that lived next door in a large old home where she smoked cigarettes, watched a black and white TV in her smoke filled living room all day, and tried to control her even more eccentric renegade son who woke me up when he roared in on his motorcycle at ungodly hours. I had limited contact with both of them.

    Winter in Seattle was not as cold as I feared, but it was still miserable weather for a transplanted Texan. Days were short, and the sky was overcast – sometimes bringing damp chilly drizzles that mixed with fog over the lakes. No one carried umbrellas because it never really rained, but I had to use my windshield wipers on my daily commute across Lake Washington to work in the local CPA firm which turned out to be substantially different from my job at Arthur Andersen in Houston. I had my first tax season experience in the days tax returns were prepared by hand and had to be checked and re-checked for errors, a steady supply of new returns stacked on my desk every night. They were like mushrooms that multiplied in the dark, and there was plenty of dark. It was dark when I drove to work every morning and dark when I drove home; some days I never saw the sun because I ate a sandwich for lunch at my desk. I lived for the nights Sherry called me at work to invite me to come by later.

    The minor obstacles of her husband and three children proved major ones for her, the money spoke up, and Sherry rejected my pleas to leave all behind and run away with me. After a year I realized the Pacific Northwest with all its beauty could not bring me the love I wanted so I did the only reasonable thing for a Southern Baptist lesbian who couldn’t find a girlfriend. I called my parents and told them I was coming home to Texas, and would they fly to Seattle to ride three thousand miles with me in my dependable Buick Skylark to keep me company? I had enrolled for the fall semester at Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary in Fort Worth, Texas to prepare for a celibate life in the music ministry of the church. My mother responded to the news by saying she had given me to God on the day I was born so this newfound devotion had always been my destiny. My dad mentioned Fort Worth was a lot closer to home than Seattle. Regardless of their motivation, they were thrilled to make a road trip with the prodigal daughter who was returning to the fold.

    I gave my notice at Simonson & Moore with a feeling of regret because I genuinely liked the people in the office, but I had a calling to pursue. No one argued with God so they wished me well in my new career path, although I’m sure they privately believed my resume was about to take a strange turn. The year was 1969, I was twenty-three years old, and I answered what I believed to be a sign from God communicated through a woman who loved her life with her husband and children more than long talks with me in front of a crackling fire. I confessed my sins and trusted God to forgive me, but I couldn’t manage to forgive myself for who I was. The drag queens might have been liberated at Stonewall that year, but my liberation was about to begin in a seminary in Texas.

  • Sleepless in Seattle – Part 3 (from Not Quite the Same)

    Sleepless in Seattle – Part 3 (from Not Quite the Same)


    When Adrian and I arrived in Seattle at the end of September, 1968 we rented a cheap motel room for a week in a sketchy part of the city south of the downtown area. The Buick Skylark seemed as relieved as Adrian and I were to be stationary for a few days. My Exxon credit card was in flames, but I couldn’t call my family for any financial help – unless I needed money to come home. That was the deal I made with my dad. Both Adrian and I needed desperately to find jobs; we combed the newspaper help wanted ads but apparently no one wanted our help.

    Then I had an inspiration. The motel had a telephone directory with tons of yellow pages. I decided to call every CPA firm in the area in alphabetical order to try to get an interview with someone, anyone. When I got down to the “s‘s” and called Simonson & Moore, I spoke with a woman named Becky who was their office manager. Unbelievably and with whatever good karma swirled around me, Becky said she was from San Angelo, Texas and added her bosses liked Texas people. That turned out to be true; Chuck Simonson and Tim Moore interviewed me, had me meet with Becky, and hired me on my first interview with this local two-partner CPA firm in Bellevue, a suburb east of Seattle across Lake Washington. What I learned from this process was that Chuck and Tim not only liked Texas people but especially liked Texas people who had experience working for one of the largest CPA firms in Houston, even if I had only been with that firm for a year. Plus, Becky needed extra help in the upcoming tax season, and here I was having passed three of four parts of the CPA exam with confidence I would pass the fourth part in November. I had landed a trifecta and more importantly, landed a job.

    Adrian and I rented a furnished two-bedroom apartment in a large complex in Bellevue not far from my new office. The cost was twice what I paid in Houston, but we planned to share the expenses. She continued to look for a job for several weeks but her degree in sociology wasn’t as marketable as mine in accounting. Finally, she accepted a position as a topless go-go dancer in a neighborhood bar near our apartment. I was taken aback by this turn of events on several levels but kept my opinions where they belonged.  She worked long hours at night and came home in the early morning. I woke up when she came in and had trouble going back to sleep. Often, I got up early to get dressed for work, and I would meet a strange man coming out of her bedroom – a man who raced me to the bathroom.

    Somehow, Adrian wasn’t the lesbian I hoped she would be, but we continued to share expenses and (to me) a disappointing platonic friendship.

    On weekends we returned to my Buick Skylark to explore our new surroundings. We drove up the narrow winding roads to see the glorious Mount Rainier, rode ferries in Seattle across Puget Sound to visit the Olympic Peninsula, discovered new grocery stores, gas stations, watched as the green leaves on the non-evergreen trees gradually turned gold, red and brown while the massive evergreens remained evergreens. I began to develop a new social life with Becky and her husband Karl who couldn’t have been kinder to me. Becky invited me to go to church with her at the Mercer Island Baptist Church, a Southern Baptist church with expatriate southern members from Texas, Louisiana, and Mississippi. I found kindred spirits in the church who were the lesbians Adrian wasn’t… with a few complications Adrian didn’t have like being married to the pastor. The lines between right and wrong weren’t as clear when you stepped off the sidelines into the grey areas between black and white.

    On the Wednesday afternoon before our first Thanksgiving in Washington, Adrian came to see me at my office to tell me she was moving to California with one of the men she met at the bar where she worked. She was packed and on her way out of town. Seattle wasn’t the place for her. She’d send me her part of the rent for the month. She’d had a great time with me, but she was restless and needed to move on. I stared at her and tried to process what she was saying. I had no prior clue she was thinking of leaving. I didn’t have an emotional attachment any longer, but I did have this sinking feeling of financial abandonment. I stuttered and stammered goodbye. She waved to me from the parking lot as I watched from my office window while she drove away with her new boyfriend. I never saw or heard from her again.

    Thanksgiving Day Becky and her husband Karl invited me to eat with them. I was grateful for the company and the turkey with the trimmings Karl made. The conversation turned to our families we missed in Texas. When I got back to my apartment, I called my family collect – my dad accepted the call as he had promised. I was a long way from home and my grandmothers’ cooking. I could smell the aroma of my favorite pineapple fried pies while I watched football on my tiny RCA portable color TV by myself in the living room of my now too expensive apartment. I was in real trouble without Adrian’s financial support and had to figure out a new plan to live on my own by the end of the next month. The reality of where I was, what I was doing, being truly alone now struck me that first Thanksgiving in Seattle; but by Christmas I was living in an inexpensive one bedroom garage apartment on one of Seattle’s seven hills with a view of Lake Union and the Space Needle plus a commute every day across beautiful Lake Washington to my job with my new friends at Simonson and Moore in Bellevue.

    Hormones continued to rage inside the relatively safe comfort zone of the Mercer Island Baptist Church, a familiar refuge whose language and music I knew well. Let the church be the church, let the people rejoice. Hallelujah.

    My grandmother gave my dad the money to fly me home for Christmas. Life was good.

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    To be continued. Please stay tuned.