by sheila morris
When I was One and Twenty
(With apologies to A.E. Housman)
When I was one and twenty,
My world was make-believe.
A play directed by others
I felt compelled to please.
But now I’m one and seventy,
The play is on the shelf.
No lines to learn, no marks to hit,
The director is myself.
Today is Easter Sunday, and I tried very hard to come up with an Easter recollection to complement my deep reservoir of Thanksgiving memories which flow from me like rivers to oceans or even my Christmas memories which aren’t quite up to Thanksgiving levels but still trickle in through little streams of consciousness. The best I had was clothes…and music.
I can visualize frilly pink Easter dresses, white lacy Easter bonnets, snug-fitting white Easter gloves, shiny white Easter shoes and a matching white Bible to carry to church. I had won the white Bible the summer before during Vacation Bible School as a reward for memorizing the most scripture verses in my class. My name was engraved in gold letters which stood out nicely against the white leather Bible.
The dress was home-made by my paternal grandmother Ma who tortured me with fittings several times before the actual final inspection was made and the dress approved to her satisfaction. She and my mother coordinated the remainder of the ensemble with a great deal of whispering behind my back because they wanted to avoid the exasperated facial expressions I made whenever they brought up the subject of the Easter “outfit.” Horrors – please don’t talk about that.
The Easter outfit was like a Halloween costume to me. I might as well have been dressed in a white cowboy hat wearing a black Lone Ranger mask sitting astride my stick-horse yelling Hi, ho, Silver, Away periodically during the congregational singing at our Southern Baptist church. Instead, I was sitting demurely between my grandmother and granddaddy singing Up from the Grave He Arose. As a matter of fact, I definitely would have preferred The Lone Ranger look over the Easter outfit.
But I had to wear the clothes to hear the music, and I loved the music even then. The old rugged cross was exchanged for a crown, because he lived I could live forever, just as I was without one plea I came because his blood was shed for me, I lifted up my heart to sing hosanna, hosanna to the king because of the amazing grace that found me when I was blind and could not see. The hymns had 18th. century harmony which I knew nothing about at the time I learned to sing them, but that lack of composition understanding didn’t interfere with my love of the experience.
Even the sermon on Easter Sunday morning was hopeful – once you got over the nasty business of the crucifixion – the minister was so happy about the resurrection. Really, he seemed to me to be more joyful at Easter than he was at Christmas when the tidings of great joy were proclaimed by the angels.
My first Easter Sunday was the day I was born on April 21, 1946, which makes this one my 71st. Unbelievable. Where does time really go. I miss my family and the singing at the little church today. I don’t miss the Easter outfit.
Although it isn’t my birthday, I am going to make an Easter wish. My wish for all of us today in the midst of a world that is fraught with monumental uncertainties is that we become ministers of happiness founded on our own good health, good relationships, erasing inequalities where we can, creating trust in our communities and standing against injustice whenever we witness it. One by one, as the saying goes.
Resurrect hope today.
I have a soft spot in my psyche for the underdog – the one who is unlikely to win an argument, sporting event, contest, campaign, cause – anything that requires taking a side. I perennially support the one with the least likely possibility of winning. I may not even be conscious of the choice I’ve made until the closing bell rings with the underdog surprisingly winning or losing as expected. It’s in my DNA.
It’s also in my DNA to never kick a person when she’s down. Why is that necessary? Whoever it is has already been walloped enough by someone else or circumstances beyond their control or tackled already by a defensive back, so why “pile on”? That’s like a mantra with me. Avoid piling on someone who has already admitted defeat.
Today, however, my DNA has run right up against my political reality TV show, and the collision isn’t pretty.
I’m talking about the Press Secretary’s remarks yesterday at his daily press conference concerning the recent events in Syria. For some strange reason, Sean Spicer tried to compare the tyranny of President Assad to that of Adolph Hitler in WWII and remarked that even Hitler had never used gas to kill his own citizens.
One of the astounded reporters said, “He killed the Jews.”
And so we have the piling on of Sean Spicer who immediately apologized for his remarks following the press conference yesterday and was interviewed this morning on MSNBC and reiterated his mea culpa for the gaffe.
I really don’t believe Sean is the total issue here, but I would start by firing him if I could. He is the daily voice of the administration and, as such, has the ear of media in this country and around the world. This is one blunder I call a bridge too far because it displays either a blatant ignorance of history or a distorted perception of history or a complete lack of respect for the magnitude of the deaths and destruction under the Nazi regime.
This is not to say that the atrocities of the Assad government in Syria have not been horrific. Comparing horrors of inhumanity, however, runs the risk of ignoring that the numbers enumerated represent the loss of real lives. Whether those numbers are hundreds or thousands or millions that are snuffed out by evil leaders who use gas or other equally savage means, the most important number is one. One child. One family. One multiplied to the nth. power.
In a world where our nation sends battleships to seas near North Korea and missiles to Syria while the White House Easter Egg Hunt is in disarray because the West Wing can’t organize it since they can’t organize themselves, it would be helpful to have a Press Secretary who spoke in complete knowledgeable sentences to deflect attention from his boss who communicates regularly through enigmatic tweets.
My bad is not quite good enough this time, Sean. We need a better spokesperson. My DNA feels remorse for piling on you, but, to quote one of your boss’s favorite sayings, you’re fired.
Changing flowers in Fairview Cemetery today
for Granny Selma’s parents
and for my dad, mom and their parents
(my friend Tinabeth came to help)
Tinabeth trimmed the crepe myrtles…
while I arranged the flowers
(and Pretty took pictures)
Spike and Charly ran so fast that the
Hounds couldn’t catch ’em
Hey, where are our names?
The view from our family plot is truly fair
When Pretty and I got to the cemetery this morning, there was a note under a stone at our grave that read Sheila, here’s my phone number. Call me. It was signed by Warren Wood and dated 03-28-17. I picked up my cell phone and gave him a call.
Warren was one of my favorite people when I was growing up. He lived up the dirt road from us, played basketball on my dad’s high school team, and usually sat with me every Friday night at the Richards Cafe where his mother made the best hamburgers ever. I called him, and he said he was still in the area at his house in Anderson and would meet me at the cemetery – which he did. I hadn’t seen Warren in 60 years, but we have kept in contact since my first book Deep in the Heart was published in 2007. Wow. Such a great visit.
His parents are near mine
Being in the old familiar places with old familiar friends was a highlight of our trip to Montgomery and Grimes Counties for the past two days, but tomorrow it’s time to say goodbye to family and friends once more as we turn north toward Dallas and our Final Four destination.
Go Gamecocks!!!
Worsham Street looks much the same as it did when we lived there from 2010 – 2014, but that’s about all that does in our little town of Montgomery, Texas which is growing, growing, growing. We had wonderful visits with some of the Little Women of Worsham Street and, of course, a memorable encounter with the Fabulous Huss Brothers.
Dwight and George start a project after school
Pretty gets involved – stirring putty for a
Star Wars mold
Dwight discovers new Star Wars candy container
for his Mini M&Ms
Oscar is almost as tall as Miss Sheila…
but still young enough to be happy to see her
The Fabulous Huss Brothers in 2014
Our Worsham Street visits are always too short, we missed seeing some of our friends…but we will save them for another time when we return to Texas. We always do.
I'll Call It Like I See It 
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