I'll Call It Like I See It

by sheila morris

Category: Lesbian Literary

  • Ella James, today is your NanaT’s birthday, and you are her greatest gift…


     

    Once upon a time your NanaT visited a faraway place called Greece, and she loved that place very much. One night she was going out to eat the yummy Greek food with your NanaSlo and their friends because the yummy Greek food was one of her favorite attractions while she visited the faraway place.

    On their walk to get  the yummy Greek food, a little white dog appeared on the steps in front of your NanaT.  The little white dog was very dirty with curly fur that had not been combed for a long, long time.

    Your NanaT stopped to sit on a large stone next to the steps. And can you guess what she did next?

    She petted the little white dog for a long time, gave it one of her best smiles and then followed the little dog home to make sure it wasn’t lost.

    The End

    This story has a moral for you, Ella James. Your NanaT has always believed in rescuing both people and animals in distress. As you grow older, you will most assuredly see her strength and determination to make your world a better place in action. You are a very lucky little girl. Imagine the love your NanaT will give you, her special granddaughter, if she made a place in her heart for a little white dog in a faraway place.

    Happy Birthday, Pretty – thank you for rescuing me twenty years ago – you’re simply the best.

    Pretty’s Greatest Gift

    Stay safe, stay sane and stay tuned.

     

     

     

     

  • is this our fifth set – match point?


    The year was 2001 (much more than a space odyssey) – the setting was centre court at Wimbledon – the round of 16 for the men included a 19-year-old newcomer named Roger Federer playing the 29-year-old four time defending Wimbledon champion, an American named Pete Sampras. Since I have been in tennis withdrawal for the past two months without my favorite clay court season in the spring, I tuned in to the Tennis Channel this afternoon and stumbled on to one of their Tennis Classics which happened to be this passing of the guard match on the green grass of the hallowed grounds of the All England Club in London. Federer, whose career over the past twenty years has earned him the title Greatest of All Time by some, beat Sampras in five sets that afternoon but lost in the quarter finals that year. The match deserved inclusion in the Tennis Channel Classics – wow. 

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    Whether the surface is a hard concrete one,  one made of red clay or manicured green grass, the goal is the same: to win. To beat someone. To play better, smarter and mentally tougher than the opponent. To be more physical and aggressive. To charge the net when an opening appears. To cover the baseline when the shots go deep against you. The court is a battlefield where the scales of justice are often tipped by net cords and fractions of inches along white lines. The game is tennis.

    For men who play singles, the winner is usually required to win two of three sets.  In Grand Slam (French Open, Wimbledon, US Open, Australian Open) events, however, the rules change to  the best three of five sets to determine the champion.  If each man wins two sets, a fifth set is played.  The fifth set is often the scene of one man’s surrender and loss to another man’s courage and inner strength.  The first four sets are evenly played, but the last one is too much for the body, mind, will or all of the above for one of the guys and the desire to win or to not lose drives his opponent to victory.

    I love fifth sets. I particularly like them when they are close and long, and I’m not even paying for my seat in front of the television set. Nope, I’m watching for free, but I have the Deluxe Box seats and have seen my share of Grand Slams in Melbourne, Paris, London and New York City.  From my ABCs of Agassi to Becker to Connors to my current personal favorites of Federer and Nadal I admire the passion and persistence of the five-set winners.

    There is a moment of high drama called Match Point when the difference between winning and losing in the fifth set can be measured by split-second choices and breaks in concentration. Match points can be saved which means the game can go on for hours, but in the end a match point is lost; the winner often falls to the ground on center court with a victorious smile, joyous tears and wave to the crowd.

    As I watched the five-set match today at Wimbledon, the thought occurred to me that match points in tennis have an advantage over those we have in real life. The fourth round opponents I saw today knew the importance of the fifth set and its match point in that moment, but the rest of us may never know when we miss the chance to win –  or lose what we value most.

    Roger Federer through the years

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    We live in dangerous days facing an opponent in Covid-19 that doesn’t play by the rules as we know them. Please stay safe, stay sane and stay tuned.

     

     

  • different war, different century – same yearnings


    Danger, danger, danger – where are our safe places, our safe people, our safe distances from our safe people in our safe places…to mask or not to mask, that is the question. But of course we are not the only generation to wage war against enemies seen and unseen. Seven years ago I published this post about a young soldier who tried to comfort his mother on Mother’s Day from a place that existed only in her imagination.

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    The handwriting on the letters has almost faded away, the yellowed paper and envelopes  so torn and fragile I’m afraid to open them for fear they’ll disintegrate. The dates of the letters are in May of 1918, which I calculate to be 95 years ago this month. They are three letters written by a young Marine serving “somewhere” in France in World War I to his mother who evidently thought they were worthy of saving. Pretty discovered the letters  when she was on one of her fishing expeditions for treasures in old houses.  Occasionally on her adventures at yard sales or estate sales she finds words for me to read – words that someone saved for a reason. No longer wanted by family, they’re sometimes stuck inside the pages of books she buys or in a little box or even in a scrapbook tossed aside as unimportant. I don’t think the names are necessary but I will say the mother lived in Indiana. I’m glad she thought her son’s words were worthy of saving. I believe they’re worthy of being read again.

     Somewhere in France,  May 12, 1918

    Dearest Mother,

    Today is “Mother’s Day” – your day – and I wish I were home to spend the day with you.  Altho I cannot send you a big box of flowers I will endeavor to send a little flower that grows near me on a green hillside.

    I hope you are well and happy today.  Of course I realize how you feel about me being over here, the two battles you have to fight, that is, keeping up a brave front and smile when I know you feel bad about me.  Mother dear, I really am safe and the best news I get from home is that you are well and enjoying life. I would rather hear that you enjoyed a good show, say once a week, than to hear that you had denied yourself one little thing to help the Cause along. I sort of figure that you have done your bit, so please try to have a good time and remember that I don’t fare so bad.  It isn’t nearly so bad here as you all imagine.

    We eat, sleep, read magazines, letters and roam around to see everything going on. We aren’t getting any furloughs at present. I mean my outfit, but maybe it won’t be long until we can go touring again. I’ll have many stories to tell you when I get back, and I’ll trade stories for some good pies & cakes – and any eats at all that you cook. We move so much that I thought I’d have to throw away some pictures, but I’ve found a way. We always find a way. It seems a necessary part of a Marine to get along most any old place and get along well.

    I sent a list home of some things I want – and you may add on to that list a few pounds of homemade candy, preferably fudge. I don’t care how old fudge gets, it is always the best tasting eats we ever get from back there. I can buy French candy & chocolate at the Y.M.C. A. huts, so you see that we really don’t suffer for those things, but nevertheless some good old homemade candy is the stuff.

    I write you once a week, when possible, as an answer to Dad, Sis & your letters so they must not feel slighted, but this is your letter, and nearly every mother who has a son in France will get one too. Spring is coming in very beautiful, but the rain is so frequent here.  After a big rain the sun pops out with a blue sky and green hills – then everybody is happy.

    I tried to subscribe for one of the 3rd Liberty Loan Bonds but they aren’t selling them here.  I would like to have one of each issue. I have no kick coming about getting mail now as it is coming pretty regularly.  I’d appreciate some of those fried chickens you spoke about but I think I’ll wait until I come home.

    Well Mother dear, next Mother’s Day we will celebrate properly and have a good time.

    Love to Dad & Sis, and you…

    Your loving son, Buddie

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    Perhaps next Mother’s Day we will all celebrate properly and have a good time without fear of the invisible enemy that attacks us through the Covid-19 virus. Ironically this letter written in 1918 by a soldier looking forward to the spring in France was a Marine who had no way of knowing a pandemic that would sweep across the world was about to begin. The Spanish flu or the 1918 influenza pandemic began in the spring of 1918 and lasted through the summer of 1919 with an estimated 500 million confirmed cases according to Wikipedia. Did Buddie survive both the war and the virus… I wonder…

    Stay safe, stay sane and please stay tuned.

     

  • tis the season


    Mom’s 80th in her church fellowship hall in Richmond, Texas

    Thank you to our mothers for giving us birth – not a small feat, sometimes done under the most difficult circumstances – thank you for your daily sacrifices made on our behalf, for sharing our joys, sorrows, achievements, failures, dreams, fears…for being with us in sickness and health. We celebrate you if you are with us, and we honor your memory when you are gone.

    Stay safe, stay sane and please stay tuned.

     

  • my heroes have always been cowboys, but…


    The eyes of Texas are upon a real cowboy, his family, his friends and classmates today as we say farewell to one of our own. Doyle Danford passed away yesterday following complications from surgery he had several weeks ago. Doyle was a special friend of mine in the eighth grade when I was the new girl in Brazoria, Texas, the daughter of the new principal everyone was wondering about.  My classmate Doyle, his brother Neal, his younger sister Virginia lived down the short street from our house and the brothers regularly rode by on their horses. Soon the shy quiet Doyle reluctantly answered my plea for a ride with him. We rode many Sunday afternoons after church. The new girl in town had a real friend whose friendship remained for the next fifty years.

    My heroes have always been cowboys like Roy Rogers, The Lone Ranger and Sheriff Matt Dillon. I loved the good guys back in the days when they were easy to identify.   Brave men who stood tall against  villains with black mustaches curling oddly around snarling lips – those were the best. I wanted to be one of those good guys.

    Cowboys, on the other hand, rode beautiful horses, wore boots with their jeans or buckskin pants and had great wide-brimmed hats with no worries about kryptonite.   Their pretty girlfriends knew who they were and were prepared to wait for them while they fought their battles in the dusty streets or the sage covered hills. They always won because they could outdraw or outsmart their enemies. When we moved to Brazoria, I was thrilled a couple of cowboys rode past our house every weekend.

    Doyle was also my first real date which I had at the age of thirteen; that first date represented an age of enlightenment doubtless lost on him but profound for me. I found the girl sitting on the other side of me at the eighth grade Valentine’s banquet more fascinating than the young cowboy with the crewcut sitting on my right. Doyle was my good friend, but he wasn’t my boyfriend – not really.

    Doyle married his beautiful high school sweet heart Sharon and remained in Brazoria with her and their large family until his death yesterday. He did, however, put his beloved horses in a trailer to follow the rodeo circuits around the southwest for many years to win calf roping competitions while he worked to build a successful business for his family. Doyle Danford was the only real cowboy I ever knew in my life; I mourn his loss on several levels today including a part of my youth gone with him. Those days, those places, those people belong to a young girl who was happy to find a lifelong friend.

    We’re really just passing through on a journey from here to there. I haven’t quite made it to “there” yet, but Doyle made it to “there” yesterday. His legacy is a family life well lived plus an empty saddle that will pass to a new generation. Rest in peace, my friend.

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    Stay safe, stay sane and please stay tuned.