Upon the suggestion of an astrologer I met for the first time this last week as a birthday gift from my friend Meghan, I began to re-read my memoirs beginning with the first one published in 2007. Deep in the Heart: A Memoir of Love and Longing was described by author and poet Ed Madden as a story of what life was for a little butch tomboy growing up behind the Pine Curtain of East Texas in the mid-twentieth century. I still like this little girl I wrote about in 2007, and I adore my maternal grandmother Dude as well as my paternal grandmother Ma today as I did then. Fifteen years later I feel more loving toward my mother the fudge maker – perhaps the result of sharing the last four years of her life as she struggled with dementia from 2008 – 2012. The difficulties in the relationships between mothers and daughters are universal, although they may hopefully be set aside at least once a year on Mother’s Day.
Six years ago in the summer of 2017 I posted my version of British poet A.E. Housman’s classic poem “When I was One and Twenty” published in 1896 in a collection called A Shropshire Lad. Housman, who was born in 1859 and died in 1936 at the age of seventy-seven, had partially funded the publication of A Shropshire Lad following a publisher’s rejection. In today’s jargon, we call that self-publishing. The book has been in continuous print since then so somewhere in London a poetry publisher in the last decade of the nineteenth century cursed himself on a Roman British tablet…or on something equally appropriate for turning down this classic.
“Work hard, be kind to others, the truth will set you free;
a penny saved is a penny earned was his advice to me.”
But I was one and twenty, no use to talk to me.
When I was one and twenty, my father said again,
“Work harder, be smarter, but always be a friend;
love family, serve country, life’s games are played to win.”
And now I’m seven and seventy I hear my father say,
“You did your best, forget the rest, your heart led all the way.”
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Tomorrow is my 77th. birthday which I have celebrated with Pretty and our two best friends Nekki and Francie in the south of France for ten remarkable days filled with delicious food, three days at the Masters 1000 Tennis Tournament in Monte Carlo, and a day at the Cannes Films Festival (or “pre-festival” according to Pretty who knows everything about pop culture) where I donated my last American dollars to a casino next to the pink carpet.
The trip was on my short bucket list – a trip made possible through the generosity of our friends whose love and laughter made my bucket overflow with happiness. The time with Pretty is always special – luckily she came home with me but told me she would like to live in Nice for two years (if she could bring her granddaughters and their parents!).
(l. to r.) Francie, me, Pretty, Nekki – country come to town
Pretty and me at Matisse Museum
Francie and me grateful for bus
after unexpected downpour leaving Matisse Museum
Francie and Nekki on hotel rooftop
Pretty happy with setting, lunch and the polka dot hat
Thanks to our trip photographer Nekki for capturing some of our memory makers.
And thanks to all of you, my readers and followers who have also become my friends, for sharing part of my journey over the past thirteen years. Impossible to imagine that time without you.
Queso dip smeared by three year old Ella over the table top in our booth as she tried to helpfully clean the double digit droplets of white cheese on the space in front of her, bright red contents of one small salsa bowl completely dumped on the table by 14 month old Molly when she reached for water on the table from her booster seat pulled next to us – these were two of our more spectacular messes during one meal at our favorite Mexican restaurant this week. Eating out any meal with our granddaughters and their parents is always an adventure, but regular visits to Mexican restaurants bring their own special perils that require oversized tipping to our wait staff when we leave.
Pretty, Drew and I took too long to finish our food to suit Ella this week, and she slipped out of the booth under the table to speed everyone along by standing next to Molly’s booster chair, feeding mushy refried beans on a fork to Molly who was overjoyed at the attention from her Big Sis as well as the attention from smiling waitresses that squeezed past the girls in the narrow aisle between booths. I was so focused on the precarious food delivery via fork from Ella to Molly I didn’t notice the middle-aged couple sipping margaritas minding their own business in the booth across the aisle from us until I heard Ella’s quiet attempt to be polite.
“We’re a family,” she spoke to the surprised couple that turned toward her little girl voice. “This is my Naynay, that’s my Nana, he’s my daddy, and this is my baby sister Molly. My name is Ella.” She pointed to each of us as she introduced us with the names she knew, finishing by identifying herself. Drew and Pretty were talking about the Final Four, the restaurant was slammed, noisy, so I was the only member of Ella’s family that heard her announcement. I gave Ella a little hug, smiled at the couple who were the intended audience of her unsolicited conversation. The woman smiled briefly but then returned to her margarita.
Molly wasn’t happy with this interruption in her food supply chain so she grabbed Ella’s hair and pulled it as hard as she could which prompted shrieks from Ella and quick action from Drew who lifted Molly from the booster while freeing Ella’s hair at the same time. Daddy to the rescue. Nana slid from the booth to help take the commotion outside.
Dinner was over. Naynay asked for the check.
Ella (l.) and Molly have queso in their DNA
I tried to describe the incident to Pretty on the way home in the grannymobile that night – the joy I felt when I heard Ella’s understanding of what family meant to her, the confidence our little granddaughter had to share her family with others even though their response had been less than encouraging. It was a memory maker for me.
Pretty agreed, smiled and asked how much I had tipped the waitress.
Ann Richards. Barbara Jordan. Stacey Abrams. Molly Ivins. Betha Day Morris. Ann, Barbara, Stacey, Molly and Betha shared a common gift, storytelling, honed from their various Texas influences. I call them the OGs of storytellers I would be happy to sit and listen to for hours on this rainy South Carolina day. Thanks to the magic of YouTube, I can still hear former Texas Governor Ann Richards, former US Representative Barbara Jordan, journalist and author Molly Ivins, political guru Stacey Abrams – the women we can celebrate during women’s history month for amazing achievements in their respective arenas.
Betha Day Morris wasn’t captured on YouTube videos, or sadly, any videos of her storytelling, but while the more famous others inspired me as an adult, my paternal grandmother was my greatest personal Star Storyteller. I paid homage to her in the preface of my first book Deep in the Heart: A Memoir of Love and Longing.
My roots are showing today – no, not those roots – my Texas roots which I never really outgrew. On my first visit to Texas from my new home in Seattle in 1968 where I had been for a grand total of three months out of my wise twenty-two years of life spent growing up in Texas, my daddy and I were quail hunting in a field in Fort Bend County when I began pontificating about the majesty, the grandeur of the Cascade Mountains of the Pacific Northwest. I had surveyed the lowcountry field of the southeastern coastal area as we followed Daddy’s hunting dogs Dab and Seth, making a remark something to the effect that the fields we were walking had to be some of the flattest lands God ever created. Nothing to see for miles except tall tan grass, why would anyone stay in Texas if they had the chance to move, even the quail might leave if they could. I went on and on. Dab and Seth ran with abandon but without purpose.
My daddy who was a documented fourth generation son of the Republic of Texas stopped, turned to look back at his daughter he adored and said, “Sheila Rae, you can take the girl out of Texas, but you’ll never take Texas out of the girl.” He was, of course, right.
I haven’t attempted to rival my grandmother’s stories, but I do have cousins who tell me I remind them of her. I consider that the highest compliment of my work. Stories and humor were the cornerstones of Betha’s life, and they became the bridges in mine.
Charly getting white hair, too – but still always at my side
Carl’s life is as blurry as this picturewith loss of hearing, vision –
but his smell for treats as healthy asever
loyal old man Spike at his guard post: no retreat, no surrender
photo by mother Caroline
our granddaughters three year old Ella holds year old Molly
Okay, so I shamelessly stole the 2023 Oscar winner title for this little Monday morning personal multiverse that Pretty and I inhabit every day. Mea culpa. Enjoy – no goggles required.
Thankfully, all quiet on the Cardinal front today.
I'll Call It Like I See It 
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