I'll Call It Like I See It

by sheila morris

Category: Humor

  • a case of mistaken identity


    The year was 1968. I was 22 years old,  working for a CPA firm and living by myself in Seattle, Washington 3,000 miles from my home near Houston, Texas. I got a job by calling every CPA firm in the Seattle area from my motel room telephone out of the yellow pages in a telephone directory. When I reached the “s” names, I hit the jackpot. Simonson & Moore in Bellevue, a suburb of Seattle. They interviewed me and hired me on the spot. I was so relieved that I would now be able to pay my motel bill.

    I knew no one except my co-workers – my girlfriend who made the trip with me had left to follow her adventures with a guy in California. We had rented an apartment in Bellevue that I knew I couldn’t afford without her help. I was very lonely.

    At Christmas my dad sent me the money to fly home for a few days before tax season started at my job. On the 3 hour return flight from the only stop in Denver to Seattle, I sat next to a young man from Houston who lived and worked in Portland, Oregon. We talked and talked and exchanged phone numbers before saying goodbye at the Seattle Tacoma airport.

    When he didn’t call me, I called him. I thought I had the wrong number because someone who sounded like a very young boy answered. I asked for Jim, and Jim came to the phone. He was very friendly, asked how I was getting along and said I should come for a visit to see Portland some time. I said I was free that weekend and would love to visit him.

    I found these pictures my mother had saved for almost 40 years. On each picture I had carefully written explanations of my new relationship which no doubt had given her hope of romance for me. My mother and I were totally off base on so many levels.

    “This is his den downstairs – his ‘music’ room

    My favorite room in his house

    That’s Jim in the blue sweatshirt.”

    “That’s Vladimir, the cat.

    This is Jim’s living room upstairs.

    Doesn’t he look cute here?”

    “He was fixing his pretty hair & was

    thoroughly disgusted with me & the camera!

    Isn’t he darling?”

    “Which one is the real dear?

    This is in Jim’s living room – his Texas decor”

    Jim and I had more in common than I realized…kindred spirits even. That visit to Portland was my first and last, although we talked on the phone a few times afterward. We were never on the same flight back home again.

    My mother asked about him for a while – but then gave up on him. She kept the pictures forever, though, to prove to herself that I wasn’t a lesbian.

    Stay tuned.

     

     

     

     

  • the young woman at the rock


    I was 22 years old, leaving home – really leaving home on a 3,000 mile trip from Houston, Texas to Seattle, Washington with a friend from college who was as eager for adventure and a change of scenery as I was. The year was 1968, and my brand new  two-door blue Buick Skylark with the white coupe top had never been farther west than Austin. Time to break that baby in.

    My friend and I had picked Seattle on a map sitting in a bar in Houston – we were looking for the farthest distance in the continental USA from where we sat. Bangor, Maine lost out to the Pacific Northwest. For me, it was the right choice and changed my life forever.

    I keep this picture in a little box on my desk and take it out occasionally to remind me of that trip and the young woman smiling with such assurance as she stood near a rock in Arizona. She makes me smile when I see her.

    Stay tuned.

     

     

  • consider the toad


    our toad sits alone every night atop the frog log

    during the day mr. or mrs. toad vanishes

    What up, Toad?

    Stay tuned.

  • playing Texas hold ’em with my friend Finn


    “Three of a kind does not beat two pair,” my soon to be 8 years old friend Finn said defiantly as he stared at my three 5s and his pair of 8s + pair of 4s while I began to rake our biggest pot of chips for the morning toward me.

    I stopped raking. “What did you say?” I asked politely.

    “I said 3 of a kind does not beat two pair,” Finn repeated.

    I shook my head with authority. “Who told you that?” I asked.

    “My dad,” he replied and continued. “He plays poker on Friday nights with men who smoke cigars.”

    Apparently my poker playing knowledge was suspect on several levels.

    Finn and I were playing cards earlier this week because his school had a holiday and his parents Dave and Saskia did not. They had responsibilities at their jobs at the University of South Carolina and had asked me to look after Finn for several hours. Pretty was out of town on business so Finn and I were on our own.

    After starting the day making rice krispy treats that didn’t quite live up to my hype, we watched a Woody Woodpecker movie on Netflix. Finn had seen it several times before and was able to tell me in advance about the key scenes in the movie which removed any anxiety I might have had for Woody and his friends’ well being. I highly recommend it. Woody’s shenanigans haven’t changed one bit from the ones I remembered watching six decades ago. Very fun.

    Following the movie, I asked Finn what he would like to do next. I mentioned we could play poker on my iPad which we usually did after his swims at our house. As an afterthought, I asked him if he’d rather play with real cards. He nodded, and we were off and running.

    His favorite part of the game before the 3 of a kind controversy was our new automatic card shuffler. He was fascinated by it which meant our cards were shuffled carefully and thoroughly for each hand we played.

    “Well, let’s call your dad to see if we can get him to resolve this argument,” I said and dialed Dave who couldn’t answer, of course, because he was teaching.  Hm…what to do.

    “Would you believe me if we saw the poker hierarchy on a computer screen,” I said.

    “What’s a hierarchy?” Finn asked.

    After explaining what the poker hierarchy was, we went to my office computer and I easily found one while Finn hovered next to me.

    “Look at this. High card, one pair, two pairs, three of a kind, straight, etc.”

    Finn sat down in the seat of my walker, folded his arms, looked directly at me and said, “My dad lied to me.”

    I burst into laughter, but he was having none of it. We discussed the situation at great length in all seriousness while I argued that maybe he had misunderstood his dad, maybe it was a different game and so on. Finn continued to shake his head and kept repeating his belief that his father was responsible for his loss of the biggest pot of our game.

    Finally, I saw that Finn’s competitiveness wasn’t going to allow the biggest pot to get away so I suggested that on this occasion, since an honest mistake was made, why didn’t we split the pot and go on with our game. Finn mulled the idea over for a few seconds as I watched the wheels spin in that clever brain. He nodded and ran off to the table to evenly divide the chips. No audit necessary.

    When his mother came to pick him up, Finn wasn’t ready to go so Saskia volunteered to bring our lunch while we kept playing. Never send Saskia for sandwiches – my reuben was on pumpernickel bread. That bread tasted as nasty as the rice krispy treats Finn and I had made earlier. I forgave her, though. Not even pumpernickel bread could take away the sweet memories of my morning of fun and laughter with my young friend Finn.

    Until we meet again, stay tuned.

    Finn, Charly and Spike love cake

    (photo taken at our house earlier this month)

     

     

     

     

  • a man of letters – part 2 – after the war, the GI bill and my dad


    When my dad came home from World War II, he eloped with my mom and began a financial roller coaster that dizzied him for the rest of his life. Dad wanted to get married and finish his education – both of which required money – but he had none. Enter the G.I. bill.

    The Servicemen’s Readjustment Act was signed into law by President Franklin Delano Roosevelt on June 22, 1944, and was better known as the G.I. Bill. The American Legion in cooperation with the Veterans of Foreign Wars urged the federal government to provide for the approximately 12 million World War II veterans returning home who would flood the marketplace looking for jobs, and the G.I. Bill was the government’s response. The bill provided tuition and living expenses to attend high school, college, or vocational/technical schools. Low-cost mortgage loans to buy homes or start a business were included in the law as was one year of unemployment compensation.

    Glenn and Selma married in May, 1945 when he returned from England after the war to his small southeast Texas home town of Richards in Grimes County. He was on furlough when they eloped, and they left immediately for a honeymoon via train to Miami, Florida. The honeymoon must have been successful on some levels, although my grandmother reported that my mom called her crying, wanting to come home several times while they were gone.

    During those early summer months together Glenn was honorably discharged from the Army Air Corps and decided he wanted to finish the college education he had begun at Lamar College in Beaumont before the war. Not surprisingly his higher education choice was the University of Texas in Austin because he always considered UT to be the most prestigious state university.

    Evidently the plan was for Selma, who by then was three months pregnant, to live at home with her mother in Richards which was 150 miles from Austin; Glenn would visit on weekends. A penny post card (note it really was 1 cent) dated October 30, 1945 was the first of a whirlwind of words he sent Selma in the fall of 1945 – continuing the letter writing campaign he began when he was in the service.

    “Dearest Darling,

    Just to let you know I made it all right which I did, I’m writing to you. Clever, no?

    I found me a place 5 miles from the college to stay. I”ll tell you about it when I write tonight. I do intend to write tonight.

    I’ll see you sometimes Saturday.

    I love you,

    Glenn”

    True to his “word”  Glenn did indeed write a letter to Selma on the night of October 30th. from his new digs in Austin. The letter was postmarked the following day.

    “Dearest Darling,

    As I promised in the card this afternoon, dear, I’m writing to you once again already.

    Several times I’ve started to forget this whole foolish idea & start to work, but somehow I’ve managed to keep up my pecker. The big job yesterday was finding a place to stay. Another lad about 24 and I hooked up & started looking and finally found a place about 2 miles from the city limits. The place itself is very nice; the vista is swell; but the distance is multi. We have to pay $15 per month for the room. We’re eating in the commons & the food is pretty common. Reasonable enough, however.

    A little about my roommate. He’s an ex-serviceman. He was a pilot. He’s from Big Springs, Texas. Pretty pleasant associate. He has a Buick. Fine car.

    Honey, I wish there were some way that we could be together & I’ll sacrifice anything to accomplish said end, but as far as getting an apt. here…that’s out of the question. Some other place maybe. I’m already getting anxious to see you again.

    Tomorrow registration. Thursday, School starts. I’ll see you Saturday, lover.

    I love you,

    Glenn”

    back of the envelope – a hasty afterthought

    Selma at home in Richards

    The very next day, Halloween, found my father writing another letter to my mother, but I will save that one for next time.

    Stay tuned.