I'll Call It Like I See It

by sheila morris

Category: Humor

  • the battle my grandmother lost

    the battle my grandmother lost


    March is Women’s History Month. I planned to write a new post today to celebrate a universally celebrated woman, but I have two excuses for re-blogging this post from February, 2019: (1) I was glued to the televised Senate confirmation hearings for a Supreme Court nominee by President Biden of a Black woman, Judge Ketanji Brown Jackson, who I sincerely believe will one day be universally celebrated (2) I unabashedly celebrate one of the women who was certainly not well known beyond Grimes and Walker County, Texas but a woman who loved me dearly for as long as she lived.

    my early years in my hometown of rural Richards, Texas

    (circa 1949)

    my dad and me at a family picnic in matching shirts

    made by my grandmother (circa 1951)

    a birthday party dress made by my grandmother (circa 1951)

    my grandmother made this dress and a  picture postcard of me

    for her family Easter card in 1949

    Bless her heart. My grandmother tried and tried to reshape my fashions which upon reflection she probably hoped would reshape my life. One of the most dreaded phrases my mother ever spoke to me – the one that made me cringe-was “Your grandmother is making you a new dress and needs you to walk down to her house to try it on. No arguments, no whining, just go.”

    I absolutely hated to stand on her little stool while she endlessly pinned away to make sure  the pattern she bought from a grand clothing store in the much bigger town of Navasota  fit perfectly on my small body. She pulled, tugged here and there, made me turn around as she measured whatever cloth she had purchased when she bought the pattern. I prayed silently that the aroma I smelled was her pineapple fried pies…the only possible redemption from the hell of being poked and prodded for a new dress I didn’t want to wear.

    My grandmother Betha Day Robinson Morris and I lived within shouting distance of each other in the tiny town (pop. about 500) of Richards until my dad found a new job that took us out of the place I called home when I was 13 years old. Our new home in Brazoria was less than two hours from Richards so we came back every other week for most of my teenage years. Distance did not deter my grandmother from her sewing, however.

    She usually managed to have something for me to try on whenever we visited. I finally surrendered to her passion for sewing because as I grew older I came to understand sewing was an important part of her life, but to this day I dread hearing Pretty say she brought something home for me to try on.

    my grandmother surveys her granddaughters

    before Easter Sunday church services in 1963

    I was 17 years old and wearing a dress my grandmother made for me

    while my younger cousin Melissa modeled her store-bought outfit

    My grandmother continued to sew for me until I was in my twenties. Every Christmas she wrapped a large box in her best wrapping paper and favorite bow saved from the previous Christmas to give to me. I always opened with feigned surprise at the dress she made for me to wear to church and praised her for being able to still find the perfect pattern and material for me even when I wasn’t there to try it on.

    I’ll never forget the last time I opened a gift of clothing she made for me. She had made a pants suit – unbelievable. I could see she was pleased with herself for breaking from the dress tradition she wanted me to wear to making the pants she now understood would forever be my choice of clothes. The year was 1968 – I was 22 years old – my grandmother would have been 55. The pants suit represented a rite of passage for both of us.

    Unfortunately, I never could bring myself to wear the pants suit which was made with a hideous polyester fabric and a horrible bright green and white large zig zag pattern. I couldn’t bring myself to wear it, but I carried it with me around the country wherever I moved for the next 30 years. I would carefully hang it in my closet as a daily reminder of  the love my grandmother gave me for as long as she lived.

    My grandmother Betha was a flawed individual but what I wouldn’t give today to hear my mother say “Sheila Rae, your grandmother is making you a new dress and wants you to try it on. No arguments, no whining, just go.”

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

    P.S. When our granddaughter Ella gets new clothes, she can’t wait to try them on! Her mother Pretty Too has a friend Nicole who has a sewing machine and recently taught herself how to sew in a week – my grandmother would have been very impressed with that.

  • Tweety Bird said I Tawt I taw a Puddy Tat…

    Tweety Bird said I Tawt I taw a Puddy Tat…


    Pretty’s cryptic text read thank you for sharing this horror. She was referring to my photo of the victim in the tale, the deceased bright red cardinal lying in state at that very moment on the lid of our city of West Columbia green trash roll cart.

    Carport Kitty – the picture of innocence

    Bully Cat leaving the scene.

    Guilty until proven innocent!

    I caught a glimpse of Bully Cat and a black cat racing past the carport when I opened the kitchen door that afternoon. Not an unusual sight for me since I regularly guarded Carport Kitty’s food bowl from her scavenging enemies or conniving conspiratorial friends. I’ve never figured out which category they belonged to; but I knew BC and company looked bigger, younger, stronger, more well fed while CK remained frail regardless of her food intake.

    When I accidentally discovered the remains of the cardinal in the yard a few minutes later, I thought well what did you expect? This is the cycle of the animal kingdom which you have invited into your family. Sigh. I picked the little fellow up, gently placed him on the lid of the roll cart, took a photo for posterity and sent it to Pretty who was properly horrified. Misery loves company.

    Pretty and I both agreed Carport Kitty couldn’t have been the culprit. Surely she was much too old and slow with her weak back legs to catch anything. Which left us with You Know Who to accuse.

    …and then Tweety Bird said I did, I 100% did taw a puddy tat.

    The End.

  • call it like I see it? heck no! today I call it like we’d rather hear it

    call it like I see it? heck no! today I call it like we’d rather hear it


    Covid is over – no need to ever wear a mask again. Anywhere. All gone. If you see someone wearing a mask these days, like at the grocery store or ball game or again, anywhere, that person is a wild-eyed raving liberal who never voted for Donald Trump for president in America or Russia.

    Vladimir Putin has no evil intentions toward Ukraine or any other country really. Instead, he has strong leadership in Russia where he is adored by 71% of the Russian people and by Donald Trump who always knows a good deal when he sees it. Putin’s army of 200,000+ surrounding Ukraine should not be considered excessive forces, and their march toward taking over a third nuclear plant in that country is to protect the people in Ukraine from blowing up themselves along with NATO allies and the European Union. Besides, Americans don’t need to worry about what goes on over there.

    Joe Biden should have left well enough alone without trying to support his vision of democracy. The good tourists who walked through the US Capitol on January 6th. 2021 were simply tring to prevent a peaceful transfer of power since Biden had been elected in an unfair election. And now look where we are because of him. Back in bed with NATO supporting a small country with a president named Zelenskyy whose name we can’t even spell, much less pronounce, because he won’t do the right thing and surrender to Putin before his country is blown to smithereens. Putin just wants to get back what belongs to him and his oligarchs who insist their yachts were legitimately obtained.

    And don’t even get me started about the gasoline prices.

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

    Oh, wow. That was fun. Who knew misinformation or disinformation could be entertaining. To quote Pretty this morning, I’m depressed by having my news ruined by the truth – which inspired me to forget truthtelling for a day to write fiction we’d rather hear. Sigh.

    Please stay tuned – truth is stranger than fiction.

  • 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

  • Ella’s baby sister is here!

    Ella’s baby sister is here!


    Ella holds Molly while Pretty and I swoon over them

    Molly Iris James was born Wednesday, January 26th., at 1:42 p.m. She weighed 7 lbs. 4 oz. and is 20.4 inches long. Ella loves her “Lolly.” Pretty and I love them both.

    Before Ella was born 2 years ago, my doctor told me having a grandchild would add 10 years to my life so last week when I was in his office I asked him what would 2 granddaughters do? He looked at me and asked how old are you now? When I said 75, he said without blinking, “15.” I’m good with that.

    Whether 10 or 15 years, 10 or 15 months – I’m thankful for experiencing the joy of our family with Pretty. Unbelievable joy, indescribable happiness we can share together. It’s been good for the soul – a gift from the Great Spirit.

    Today while Molly napped, Ella pretended to be me. Hilarious.

    What did you do today, Naynay?

    I watched tennis on tv

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

    Stay safe, stay sane, please get vaccinated and boosted, and stay tuned.