by sheila morris
The 1993 March on Washington gave me courage to change the things I could within a community of believers who had hope and faith in a future where everyone had equal rights. I was 47 years old; it had been a long, mostly solitary, journey from Richards, Texas, (pop.500) to marching with hundreds of thousands in the nation’s capitol. Free at last, thank God, free at last.
June is Pride Month so celebrate!
Onward.
I
Hear ye, hear ye: all those who have ears, listen to a message from moderate conservative political commentator David Brooks:
“All my life I have had a certain idea about America. I have thought of America as a deeply flawed nation that is nonetheless a tremendous force for good in the world. From Abraham Lincoln to Franklin D. Roosevelt to Ronald Reagan and beyond, Americans fought for freedom and human dignity and against tyranny; we promoted democracy, funded the Marshall Plan, and saved millions of people across Africa from HIV and AIDS. When we caused harm – Vietnam, Iraq – it was because of our over-confidence and naivete, not because of evil intentions.
Until January 20, 2025, I didn’t realize how much of my very identity was built on this faith in my country’s goodness — on the idea that we Americans are partners in a grand and heroic enterprise, that our daily lives are ennobled by service to that cause. Since January 20, as I have watched America behave vilely — toward our friends in Canada and Mexico, toward our friends in Europe, toward the heroes in Ukraine and President Volodymyr Zelensky in the Oval Office– I’ve had trouble describing the anguish I’ve experienced. Grief? Shock? Like I’m living through some sort of hallucination? Maybe the best description for what I’m feeling is moral shame: To watch the loss of your nation’s honor is embarrassing and painful.”
David Brooks is not a writer I follow with fervor nor is he one I deliberately avoid as a conservative policy wonk; but in the May, 2025, issue of The Atlantic he wrote a piece called “Everything We Once Believed In” which captured feelings I’ve personally struggled to express since the November, 2024, election. As we remember the lives lost by those serving in the U.S. military at home and abroad on this Memorial Day weekend, I challenge us to also remember why they served.
Shame on us when we forget.
Pretty’s birthday party at home of dear friends Dick and Curtis
Saskia and Pretty all smiles while Curtis keeps watch over candles
Dick’s birthday was the day after Pretty’s – much merriment at the dinner table
(Dick, Bill, and Saskia share laughs)
a toast for Saskia who became an American citizen this month
she and her son Finn have been family to us for as long as I can remember
Curtis, Saskia, Finn, Pretty, Dick, me, and Bill
thanks to Curtis for the group photo!
A jolly group – thanks to 14-year-old Finn for lowering the group’s average age, and no thanks to Dick and me for doing the opposite.
Happy Birthday to Pretty and Dick! We celebrate friendships that have stood the test of decades with laughter and love – that anchor holds us together, and we are grateful.
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P.S. Strawberry birthday cake and chocolate covered strawberries courtesy Always Original Bakery in West Columbia. Strawberry cobbler courtesy of Curtis. Strawberry jam made by Saskia. Who thinks Pretty loves strawberries??!! Yummy!!
In April, 2022, I published this piece which has always been one of my favorites. Fast forward to May, 2025, and well, you’ll see…
For my actual birthday week, Pretty took me and our granddaughters to the zoo. She carried two-month-old Molly in her car seat, diaper bag on her back, often carrying two-year-old Ella in her left arm while I tagged along with my two bionic knees. We had a small parade of our own. Please know that I offered to rent a stroller when we entered, but Pretty said the line to rent one was too long to wait. There were two people ahead of me. Pretty has never been known for her patience.
I hope you never lose your sense of wonder,
You get your fill to eat but always keep that hunger,
May you never take one single breath for granted,
God forbid love ever leave you empty handed,
I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean,
Whenever one door closes I hope one more opens,
Promise me that you’ll give faith a fighting chance,
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance.
I hope you dance… I hope you dance…
Ella danced with a spoon to the music in her mind
I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance,
Never settle for the path of least resistance,
Livin’ might mean takin’ chances, but they’re worth takin’,
Lovin’ might be a mistake, but it’s worth makin’,
Don’t let some Hell bent heart leave you bitter,
When you come close to sellin’ out reconsider,
Give the heavens above more than just a passing glance,
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance.
I hope you dance… I hope you dance
(lyrics to I Hope You Dance by Tia Sillers and Mark Sanders)
The day was a memory maker, and Pretty deserves an award for creating a magical time for the four of us. I love all my girls.
I hope they both dance…
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And they did!
Molly and her dance partner in the school recital this past week
Ella with magical moves – no spoon necessary
Hey, wait a second. Who’s this little boy?
Three months after our zoo trip in 2022, Caleb was born to Caroline’s twin sister, Chloe, and her husband, Seth. Caleb loves to dance, too, and we love him. God bless the children.
(Time is a wheel in constant motion always rolling us along,
Tell me who wants to look back on their years
And wonder where those years have gone.)
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Slava Ukraini. For the children.
Pretty and I were privileged to share our home and family for the past five years with a little old man named Carl. He was supposedly 12 years of age when he came our way, quite a mess health wise but full of courage and spunk. Carl’s world had shrunk dramatically in the past few months due to a total loss of hearing, limited vision, stage four heart murmur, and arthritis in his back legs that made any movements difficult. His sideways gait seemed to make his sundowner pacing in the afternoons more agitated. On Friday, May 9th., 2025, we said our final goodbyes to this terrier mix. Our pain was one we recognized and remembered, a pain that was still fresh from Spike’s passing six weeks ago.
Carl reminded me a little of The Red Man –
I hope they get to meet somewhere to swap stories
Red could tell Carl about the Lexington County Animal Shelter where Pretty rescued him, and Carl would have a few stories of his own that only he knew. Pretty also rescued him; they could compare notes on how she managed to keep them without running their redemption past any other family members. Pretty knew best.
Carl in July, 2020 when he came to us
Carl the dog with nine lives in April, 2022
Carl on patrol in back yard – he loved his yard
Carl looking dapper after grooming (April, 2022)
Carl sharing space with Charly next to my chair in den – 2024
Carl in April, 2025
Pretty and I still grieve the losses of Sassy, Smokey Lonesome Ollie, Paw Licker Annie, The Red Man, Tennis Ball Obsessed Chelsea, and six weeks ago our other old man Spike – Carl was loved with that same passion. We will miss his spunk, spirit, bravado, loyalty, and adoration – our home won’t be the same without him. His urn was engraved Carl Williams Morris: A Warrior Heart.
May he go to the Place of Endless Treats and rest in peace.
I'll Call It Like I See It 
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