I'll Call It Like I See It

by sheila morris

Category: Personal

  • ‘Tis The Season

    ‘Tis The Season


    November 10, 2011, seems like a lifetime ago, but on that day I published this piece about Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday. I hope you enjoy reading again – or for the first time.

    SEASONS GREETINGS FROM FINGERVILLE, SOUTH CAROLINA 

                Today is a day of giving thanks.  We cleverly named it Thanksgiving Day and have celebrated it for more than four hundred years in the United States.  I was surprised to learn that this tradition was actually introduced to the U.S. in 1565 by Spaniards in St. Augustine, Florida.  This newsflash made me feel a little better about the Texas Thanksgiving Day weather of my youth.  My elementary school textbooks portrayed pouty Pilgrims wearing ridiculously tall hats, oversized belt buckles, and heavy coats—all in black.  They invariably stood in deep white snow and appeared to be near freezing.  I recall being embarrassed at our lack of proper cold temperatures for Thanksgiving in rural east Texas.  If snow was good enough for the Pilgrims, it should have been good enough for us.  It makes me happy, then, to think that this holiday really began as a fiesta in Florida with lots of warmth and sunshine and people who knew how to party.  I have visions of tortilla soup, cheese enchiladas, and key lime pie.  (I’m not sure how we made the leap to turkey from tortillas or pumpkin pie from key lime, but that’s a question for another day.)

                Thanksgiving is still my favorite holiday because it is the most resistant to crass commercialism.  Halloween and Christmas have become impostors that pave the path to New Year’s Eve, but Thanksgiving remains the holiday for celebrating family and friends.  It is the lull between two storms that blow powerful winds of spending and of buying more of what we don’t need in larger quantities.

                When I was a child, Halloween was a night for wearing a costume made by my grandmother and walking with my friends to trick-or-treat in our little town.  We each carried small paper sacks to collect the few pieces of candy offered by our neighbors.  The highlight of the evening was the home that gave away homemade popcorn balls that were the size of tennis balls and had the rich aroma of freshly popped corn mixed with the white Karo syrup that held it together.  They tasted as good as they smelled.

    Sixty years later, I am astonished to see bags and more bags of Halloween candy in grocery stores.  I’m talking about bags.  I’m talking about the biggest bags you can imagine.  I’m talking about bags of every color with every kind of candy known to the human species.  Some of the bags are so big that they are difficult to carry.  Enormous bags.  Enough candy to last for years.  Take several, will you?  I’m drowning in Halloween candy.

    And I’m talking about decorations, too.  When did Halloween require stringing orange lights and black bats outside your house?  When did it get out of control?  Last year I stood with a large group of my neighbors who were mesmerized by the elaborate decorations of a house in our neighborhood.  The entire front yard was filled with ghosts in an array of positions and the ability to become animated when activated.  Our neighbor started the display regularly every night for two hours and did this for several weeks.  On his cue, the ghosts in the bluegrass band played country music and hymns as the other figures performed by popping up from behind bushes to frighten the children.  Seriously, hymns.  Hymns for Halloween.  Oh, yes, and yet another ghost repeatedly beat the head of one that tried to rise from a coffin.  People came from far and near to watch.  Halloween is officially an Event.  Put a special note on your calendar that October 31 is an important day in our lives.  We party.

    But, on November 1, watch out.  Clear the aisles.  Christmas candy—bags galore—has miraculously supplanted the Halloween candy, which is now half price.  Christmas decorations appear out of nowhere to signal the retail onslaught of the season.  If you think you’re seeing red, you’re probably right, because red is the signature color for this time of the year.  Red Santas, red stockings, red wrapping paper, red cards, red candy canes, red ribbons, red blinking lights—everywhere you look, you’re seeing red with a splash of green or gold or white for emphasis.  It’s time to buy.  A gong has sounded, and no payments will be due on anything until next year.  Thank goodness.  Because we won’t be able to afford them this year.  We must decorate.  We need to get out our trimmings to make sure they’re blinking properly, and, of course, we’ll need to buy some new ones, too.  The season demands it.  Something old.  Something new, nothing borrowed, nothing blue.  Mostly something new.  Definitely something red.

    The march is on, and good cheer has a price.  Merry gentlemen, God doesn’t rest ye.  O Holy Night, you’re not really silent.  As a matter of fact, you’re all about the noise of cars and planes and people in a hurry to get somewhere.  It’s time to travel, and the highways and airports are hubbubs of activity.  We are rocking around the Christmas tree.  Every creature is stirring on the night before, during, and after Christmas.  Hallelujah.  Let’s make it a chorus.

    Sandwiched between Halloween and Christmas is the poor relation, Thanksgiving.  On this lesser holiday, I am thankful for the memories of my family and our life before cell phones interrupted us while we feasted at the tables of my grandmothers.  I am thankful for a grandmother who got up in the wee hours of the morning to put a turkey in a large cooker that was used only twice a year.  I can still smell the aroma that permeated our whole house by the time we got up on Thanksgiving morning.  The turkey was on its way to perfection.  I am grateful to that grandmother for working ten hours a day, six days a week so that we would have a roof over our heads and food to eat.  I feel her love today as I felt it then, but now I know how fortunate I was to have her in my life—and I also know that not everyone is so lucky.

     My daddy used to tell me it was pointless to compare my life to someone else’s.  He said  I could always find someone who had more than I did, or look in another direction to discover someone who had less.  My daddy was a wise man.  Today, I count my many blessings, and, as the hymn says, I name them one by one.  For the father who insisted the whole earth was my territory and who tried to show me as much of that world as he could, I am thankful.  For the mother who wrestled her own demons as she tried to accept her daughter’s differences but never quit loving that daughter, I am thankful. For the partner who knows me inside and out and loves me for who I am, I am thankful.

    I celebrated last Thanksgiving with my partner Teresa’s family.  We drove from our home in Columbia to the First Baptist Church of Fingerville in the upstate of South Carolina where she is from.  (No kidding.  The town’s real name is Fingerville.)  This wonderful extended family from her mother’s side gathers in the fellowship hall of the church every year to eat an evening meal and to remind each other that family differences don’t necessarily mean family disconnections.  Although politics and religion are divisive issues and shelved as topics of conversation during the gathering, the gossip surrounding the activities of children and grandchildren are fair game.  The aunts and uncles who are older now speak volumes without words, and the simplicity and sameness of the party suggest a time long ago and far away.  In the midst of a truly southern meal, our souls were nourished.

    Three different kinds of cornbread dressing went well with either the turkey or ham.  Several dishes of creamed corn, sweet potato casseroles, green beans, black-eyed peas, fruit salads, and green salads completely filled the main tables in the fellowship hall of the church.  A second large table was reserved for the desserts that included pumpkin and pecan pies, coconut cake, lemon pound cake, and an assortment of Krispy Kreme donuts.  Drinks were available in the kitchen that was adjacent to the dining area of the fellowship hall.  Sweet and unsweet iced tea and coffee provided the right amount of caffeine to make sure everyone stayed awake during the ride home.  It was a feast, and an exact replica of the meals I had in Texas for Thanksgiving.  No wonder Teresa and I were happy—our families shared the same recipes!  I miss the ones in my family who are gone, but I’m fortunate to have another one that welcomes me to their table.

    Whether it was the Pilgrims at Plymouth Rock or the Spaniards in Florida or some other group yet to be recognized, I salute this day of giving thanks.  It’s a meaningful one for me and suits my tendency to ponder.  For those of you who prefer the orange lights of Halloween and the white lights of Christmas, I wish you joy and strands that are easy to untangle.  I also fervently pray to the Gods of All Holidays that Thanksgiving candy and Thanksgiving outdoor decorations are hereby permanently prohibited.  Amen.

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

    Alas, Thanksgivings with Pretty’s extended family in Fingerville are no more because the Alverson family matriarchs who inspired the tradition were lost in recent years during the Covid pandemic. New Thanksgiving family traditions for future generations will be made, and that’s as it should be. 

    At our five year old granddaughter Ella’s school Thanksgiving program Friday, she was asked what she was thankful for, and without hesitation she said she was thankful for her grandmother (singular). The four grandmothers who were there with cameras capturing the moment knew without a doubt who she meant.

    From our family to yours wherever you are, whether Thanksgiving is a holiday for you or not, we are thankful for your sharing our life’s journey through the years. We wish you a joyous holiday season!

     

     

  • and the Winner is (drum roll, please)…Pretty!

    and the Winner is (drum roll, please)…Pretty!


    Today we celebrate the one, the only, the remarkable Pretty for her addition of a new family member that gives us an even number Four, a quartet, to our family with the odd number Three for the past five years. Neither trio nor quartet came with music, however.

    We’re talking bionic knees at our house, and then there were four following Pretty’s knee replacement on November 11th., Veterans Day in America which was a holiday for some workers but not for the busy medical personnel and staff at Midlands Orthopedics and Neurosurgery. This was Pretty’s second knee replacement, but the first one had been in either 2015 or 2016 – honestly, so long ago that neither of us could remember the year – she was fifty-five or fifty-six at the time. Her goal wasn’t for pain relief back then, just to have better mobility on the tennis courts. Pretty’s love for playing tennis has been a major social influence in her life long before the term social influencer was created.

    This second knee replacement was dictated by the old devil Pain which could be quantified by levels from 1 – 10, identified by X-rays, and diagnosed with the two most feared words in any knee discussion: “bone on bone.” Pretty had to hang up her tennis racket this summer while continuing to trudge through the demands of her Antique Empire going thither and yon to pick up furniture, unload furniture, move furniture around in her booths, covering furniture in the back of her pickup truck in the rain, etc.

    Since I am fourteen years older, and two knee replacements ahead of her, I have given Pretty the benefit of my good advice during the last ten days of her recovery and rehab at home – some of which has been unsolicited and would have been more helpful had I paid closer attention to the discharge details. Apparently a few changes have been made since my two bionic knees in 2019. That’s progress for you. Sometimes progress gets so far ahead of where you are that you can’t keep up with discharge details.

    In spite of my counsel, Pretty has miraculously survived and in this second week moved from her walker last week to a single cane. Because of the kindness of our family and friends, we have had the most delicious home-cooked meals that put Meals on Wheels to shame. Home therapy consisted of a certified nurse for rehab three times a week and two granddaughters who’ve visited twice to check on Nana’s boo boo.

    Hooray for Pretty who will have a follow-up with her surgeon next week and will hopefully be released for outpatient rehab in a facility! She is prohibited from operating a vehicle for two weeks after that, and I dread the inevitability of her resistance to authority – particularly the authority of a surgeon whose appearance reminds us more of a high school student than a medical school graduate.

    As my retired military friend Bervin replied when I called him to serve as Plan B for getting Pretty to the surgery on Veterans Day, I apologized for asking him to possibly miss the Veterans Day Parade in downtown Columbia which was scheduled to start at the same time. “Ain’t no problem, Sheila. We’re all veterans of something or another.” Point taken.

    In our house Pretty and I are Veterans of Bone on Bone with a quartet of bionic knees moving us along a cappella.

  • Carl’s Seeing Eye Person

    Carl’s Seeing Eye Person


    our dog Carl in front of fireplace in den – January, 2023

    Carl in September, 2023

    Pretty brought Carl into our home in the summer of 2020. Well, she didn’t exactly bring him into our home – she left him outside in a crate on our carport late one night, and when I asked her the next morning if she heard a dog barking from the direction of our carport, she mentioned there could possibly be one in the area. Because we already had two dogs in our relatively small house, we had agreed to never get another one. So much for agreements. Our daughter-in-law Caroline had told Pretty, Sheila will never be able to resist a terrier; of course she was right.

    Carl came without a definite age – possibly ten years old, and I thought he would be a good companion for the other two aging dogs who co-existed without fuss or much bother. But he also came with a host of physical problems including severe infected ears from years of inability to bother by his owners. Despite months of meds, my determination to get this little guy’s ears free of pain, Carl also brought a spirit of spunk that would shake off my constant attention to his ears with ear drops and then race outside like a puppy to explore the backyard he loved. Our other dogs Spike and Charly were ho, hum about the yard so they were initially ho, hum about Carl…until Spike and Carl decided to become mortal enemies. We all managed to survive the crisis, but our lives were modified with baby gates for separation and compartmentalization to remove opportunities for confrontation. Charly the femme fatale was comfortable with either male but also understood the truce between the guys was tenuous.

    My daddy with the doctorate in education occasionally used the phrase “hard times done came upon us” when describing his battle with colon cancer that shortchanged his life at the age of 51 in 1976. Pretty and I felt that way about Carl’s battles with gradual hearing loss in 2023, gradual loss of sight in 2024 to accompany the two shaking arthritic back legs that resisted the magic shots Spike took monthly for his arthritis. Hard times done came upon Carl in the past two years.

    Carl this morning next to his bed in front of a barrier baby gate

    Carl has not lost his spunk, however, although that, too, has modified with age. When he attempts to fly down the brick pathway in the backyard now, his two front legs do most of the flying with the back two legs hopping along behind. He still prefers his backyard with its vast expanse to the confines of the inside rooms.

    I have become Carl’s Seeing Eye Person. I wasn’t certified by The Seeing Eye organization in Morristown, New Jersey (although I did visit Morristown once), but I was definitely trained for the job by a determined terrier who in the last year came to sit next to my recliner, stared me down with his cloudy eyes until I got up to walk outside with him. Patience is one of Carl’s virtues, but my lack of understanding the fear he must have had to live in a world without sound or slight sight surely annoyed him until now I know. Not only do I understand his limitations better but I try to anticipate his fears of the darkness so that he can find his favorite places to pee and poop.

    Carl this morning staring toward the pool

    (we have no luck in growing either plants or tennis balls)

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

    Pretty and I often talk about our Hospice Care for three very old dogs which have given up on learning new tricks, but I will always be grateful for the lessons I’ve learned about aging from each one. I wish for Carl’s bravery in the face of overwhelming obstacles, his joy in running free outdoors, his will to never give up on life even when life doesn’t go the way he planned. Thanks, Carl. I needed that lesson particularly in recent days when hard times done came upon all of us.

  • the James Sisters at play

    the James Sisters at play


    Once upon a time there were two sisters named Ella James and Molly James who had fun playing together at home in a bedroom with a big bed.

    Daddy and Mommy were Gamecock fans so they became Gamecocks, too

    sometimes younger sister Molly liked to squeeze Big Sis Ella’s neck very hard

    The two sisters also had fun together when they went out to eat with their family and played in the parking lot while Naynay took pictures. Naynay was forever taking pictures.

    we’re not posing for any pictures tonight, said Ella

    Molly, I said we weren’t posing, and you’re posing

    okay, Naynay, I will pose for one picture

    Ella and Molly went to school every day because Ella was five years old and Molly was almost three years old. Sometimes Nana and Naynay came to pick them up from school in the afternoon and take them to their house across the big river. The two little girls had their own playhouse at Nana and Naynay’s house. Ella called it the Tree House.

    Naynay tries to help us with our projects,

    but she is slow because she is very old

    we do much better when Ella is the teacher who tells us what to do

    Our most fun was when we went to the tailgate for the Gamecock football game with Daddy and Mommy, Aunt Coco and Uncle Seth and our cousin Caleb plus a bunch of other people. Uncle Seth bought us our own Cocky!

    we had the most fun, but we were so tired…

    because tailgates last a very long time

    The End.

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

    Since Naynay is so very old, she can’t remember who took all these pictures. Thanks probably to Nana and Mommy Caroline…and any other contributors.

  • When we VOTE, we Win

    When we VOTE, we Win


    Roe, Roe, Roe the vote – and to the polls we go

    We won’t go back – we’ve made a pact

    that Dobbs we’ll overthrow.

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

    We’re singing a new song of freedom celebrating democracy in America – sing along with Kamala Harris and Tim Walz who are leading the parade to the ballot boxes! Your votes, your voices. E pluribus unum. Out of many, one.