I'll Call It Like I See It

by sheila morris

Category: photography

  • leaving on a jet plane – returning with a rough landing

    leaving on a jet plane – returning with a rough landing


    Ok – who put that bird on my head?

    Our good friends Nekki (with monkey on shoulder) and Francie contacted Randy at Travel Unlimited who made the arrangements for Pretty and me to celebrate not only our birthdays but also our vaccinated selves with a little rest and relaxation in the Dominican Republic which is adjacent to Haiti on the island of Hispaniola – in case anyone is interested in geography.

    In July, 2014 Pretty and I flew from South Carolina to Puerto Vallarta in Mexico. The trip was a mixed bag of fun and frustration for me for several reasons: tropical heat with few air conditioners for very spoiled gringos, hills within the city that seemed higher to climb every day, the realization that my knees were beginning to rebel as I tried to keep up with Pretty who is one of the world’s foremost explorers in foreign lands – and is fourteen years younger than I am. We met wonderful people, though, and brought home a new game for us called Mexican Train that we both loved. Thankfully, it’s played with dominoes and can be played while seated.

    What neither Pretty nor I realized at the time was we wouldn’t be taking another trip that required jet planes until May, 2021. This past week we visited Punta Cana in the Dominican Republic, yet another tropical climate more than 1,300 miles from our home in South Carolina, a place where the Atlantic Ocean and the Caribbean Sea meet. My laptop didn’t make the trip with me, the weather was perfect and, although I didn’t try parasailing, I was entertained by those who did.

    breakfast, beach, discussing lunch, margaritas, lunch,

    pool, discussing dinner, Presidente cerveza and margaritas,

    dinner, wine, sequence, spades —- repeat the next day

    Pretty made friends with margaritas again –

    as Nekki supervised pool recreation

    I was amazed at the warmth, the genuine friendliness, the kindness of the people we met at the all-inclusive resort. I, too, was cynical and skeptical of their care for us at first as being more concerned with our American dollars than for our having a memorable visit to their country. I know that tourism is very important to the Dominican economy. Yet, I felt the culture’s respect for their elders – my white hair was treated with a dignity I don’t receive here at home where senior citizens may be ignored or considered a liability while youth is celebrated with a fervent passion.

    When we came home to South Carolina this week, the news stories were very much as we left them with the exception of the Republican Party’s removal of a woman who had served as Chair of the House Republican Conference in the 116th. Congress.  Representative Liz Cheney (R-Wyoming) was removed for her unwillingness to participate in the “war against the Constitution…and the unraveling of democracy” which took place when the Party refused to accept the 2020 election results.  I have never been a fan of anyone whose last name is Cheney, but I admire her for her truth telling which has come with a remarkably high price.

    As one of the vicissitudes of life that my daddy claimed would intervene in the best laid plans of mice and men, I had traveled in a jet plane without incident to another country only to have a rough landing on the asphalt of a road near our home as I walked my dog Charly on Friday, the 14th.  Not even the 13th.

    As I bent to be a good neighbor to retrieve Charly’s deposit onto the grass of a very pristine yard we walked pass every day, Charly noticed a car passing by and jerked the leash from my hands which, in turn, jerked me to the pavement. High drama ensued, but two Good Samaritan women in separate cars stopped to rescue me. They called 911, an EMS vehicle picked me up and took me to the ER of our Lexington County Hospital. One of the women took Charly, who was horrified by my inability to get up and continue our walk, home. The other woman sat down next to me on the grass of the pristine yard. We had a lovely chat.

    All’s well that ends well, right? The cat scan in the hospital revealed no fractures or bleeding, released me on my own recognizance with a list of instructions for the elderly in how to prevent falls. I have now read the instructions and find no mention of being careful when retrieving dog poop. 

    My face resembles Rocky’s face after a boxing match, my bionic knees are now blue with a tinge of black, but my good spirits refreshed by my vacation remain. And the concern of my granddaughter for my “boo-boo?” moved me to tears. I am the luckiest Nana today.

    Stay safe, stay sane, get vaccinated and please stay tuned.

    P.S. One of the women who rescued me stopped by our home that night of my accident and brought us a lovely plant in a gorgeous pot. I was touched twice by her kindness that day.

     

     

     

     

     

  • snapshots

    snapshots


    “We kill time. We save time. We rob and get robbed of time, we lose time, and we have all the time in the world. But no one of us is powerful enough to stop the march of time or slow it down.” (actiTIME, February 20, 2020)

    I was born on Easter Sunday in Navasota, Texas on the 21st. of April, 1946. My mother and daddy joined millions of other WWII survivors who married their childhood sweethearts as soon as the young soldiers came home from the hinterlands – or from England in my father’s case. They eloped in May, 1945 when my mother was eighteen years old and my dad was two years older. My dad sold appliances at a furniture store in Huntsville when I was born but we moved to Houston when, as the story goes, my dad realized he needed more income with a new baby to feed. The “story” is suspiciously silent about his employment in Houston.

    He floundered for a while until the GI Bill rescued him with money for college to pursue a teaching career; and my mother’s mother rescued his little family when she made room for him, my mother and a baby almost two years old in her very small home in Richards, Texas, the same town where both my parents were raised. They had come full circle to the place and people that loved us all

    me and the grandmother who took us into her home

    (circa 1948)

    To steal a phrase, it took a village to raise me. Although we lived with my maternal grandmother Louise Schlinke Boring who I named Dude because I couldn’t pronounce Louise, my paternal grandparents lived across the dirt road and down a little hill from our house. I stayed during the day with my other grandmother Betha Robinson Morris who I named Ma because, well, she had my grandfather I named Pa. Dude worked every day as a clerk in the general store, Pa had his own barber shop to run, and Ma was my entertainment – the greatest storyteller of all time.

    Ma and me in front of her house

    (circa 1950)

    During the past week April 21st appeared on the calendar for 2021 – this time marking five and seventy years since that Easter Sunday in 1946. Good grief. The laptop I’m using for writing this post has a screen that is roughly the same size as the one for the first television set my daddy bought for us in Richards. That small console held a television which broadcast three channels in black and white, signed off every night at midnight with the Star Spangled Banner playing as the Stars and Stripes waved farewell for the evening. My laptop never signs off unless I tell it to, will play the national anthem only if I can Google it, and I must select an emoji to wave farewell to me at midnight or any other time.

    The social media well wishes, birthday cards, phone calls, flowers I’ve received this week have made me remember each decade of my “good ride” because I have friends and family from the 1950s, 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s, 2000s, 10s and 20s who have remembered me. I have smiled at our shared memories, laughed at our conversations and am beyond Thunder Dome grateful for everyone who reached out to make this week special for me.

    all good rides begin somewhere –

    mine began on a horse in Texas

    This week our good friends Nekki and Francie took Pretty and me out for dinner on my birthday, and as we were getting ready to leave, Nekki asked me if I had any wisdom to offer the much, much younger women at the table. Hm. Without too much reflection I said time is fleeting, moments are passing way too fast, make sure you spend those moments wisely doing things that make you happy with people you love…or something like that. If only I’d had this:

    “We kill time. We save time. We rob and get robbed of time, we lose time, and we have all the time in the world. But no one of us is powerful enough to stop the march of time or slow it down.”

    if I could save time in a bottle, I’d like to save every day with Pretty…until eternity passes away

  • turning corners

    turning corners


    Spring invigorates me – I love the azaleas, dogwoods, climbing roses, the new tree leaves with their hesitation to turn green, putting our frog log in the pool for the first frogs that need to learn to avoid the chemically treated water, the hum of the bees buzzing the blossoms, washing the pollen from the seat covers on the porch – well, maybe I don’t really love the pollen that comes with the colors of spring. I’ve gone too far.

    But this spring I have especially enjoyed my days with Pretty and our granddaughter Ella who was 18 months old on April 1st. Did you ask if I had pictures?

    Ella and Pretty relaxing in our front yard – with azaleas and dogwoods in the background. Nothing better than having your own chair.

    I know you’re taking my picture

    IMG_20210330_133412618

    I love my new jump suit but am not a fan of the shoes

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    This Nana takes way too long to find my music

    IMG_20210325_105103098

    What did I just say about shoes?

    Whatever your season, Pretty and I send warmest wishes from our home to yours for staying safe, getting vaccinated, and taking a moment to smile at this child who is embracing a brave new world where she now works very hard to find her words to tell us what she thinks about it.

    Please stay tuned.  

  • images of change – pandemic style

    images of change – pandemic style


    Gamecock women’s basketball – March, 2020

    Guard LeLe Grissett, Gamecock Garner, me and Pretty

    Pretty and me at SEC tournament – March, 2021

    Our spirits were high as we drove away from the SEC women’s basketball tournament in Greenville, South Carolina on March 08, 2020. Pretty and I were riding with our gay boys basketball buddies Garner and JD, our Gamecock women’s basketball team had just won the tournament championship for five out of the last six years, everyone in our car (and many other fans in the Gamecock nation) looking forward to post season play, and let’s be real, talking about a possible second national championship. Our team finished the season ranked #1 in the polls, but that ranking would surely be tested in post season play.

    Until it wasn’t. Three days later on March 11th the World Health Organization declared the coronavirus a/k/a Covid-19 to be a pandemic. The next day the NCAA cancelled the men’s and women’s basketball post season tournaments. March Madness, the term reserved for the race to basketball championships, took on new meaning. In 2020 the Madness went, literally, viral.

    Although our Gamecock women managed to play their regular  season in the fall of 2020 with cardboard fans sitting in the student section, no band played on; cheerleaders who were socially distanced – waving garnet and white pompoms – tried to lift the morale of the 3,500 masked lucky fans allowed to occupy designated seats in the 18,000 capacity Colonial Life Arena. Pretty went to two home games during the season, but I didn’t want to risk the exposure to the virus so I watched the televised games or listened to the radio coverage when TV wasn’t available. Thank goodness for my trusted transistor radio which never misses a game. (Pretty encourages me to ask Alexa to play the game on the radio for me, but I tell her Alexa hasn’t been there for me as long as my real radio has.)

    One year and two Pfizer vaccinations later for me, Pretty and I went back to Greenville on March 06th. for the 2021 SEC tournament. We wanted to watch our Gamecock women play Tennessee in the semi-final, a revenge game for the loss they handed us during the regular season – a loss that ended our 31-game win streak for regular season play in the SEC. We were fired up and ready to go.

    I could hardly escape the irony of my first safely vaccinated outing as we drove home from Greenville last Saturday night. The Gamecocks did win against Tennessee that night (and won the tournament again the following day) – Pretty and I were almost as euphoric as we had been during the drive home in 2020. Yet, changes were everywhere. We were without our basketball buddies, we had to wear masks to be admitted to the game, very few fans scattered in our section for social distancing, still no live school bands, the arena resembled a community teetering on the brink of becoming a ghost town with unrecognizable citizens.

    Despite the tragedies that defined 2020, despite the deeply felt losses of family and friends to Covid, despite the changes that challenged our way of life – I feel hope again. I am so proud of the Democrats in Congress and President Biden who delivered on a campaign promise for an American Rescue Act that will begin to restore security for citizens who are struggling with basic needs for their loved ones. Food, housing, jobs, small businesses, farmers – a chance to breathe again. A chance for opportunity to do better.

    My tiny version of hope also took place at a women’s basketball tournament last weekend where I was still able to sit with my wife and enjoy a few hours that reminded me of a time not very long ago and certainly not far away. It felt good to do something ordinary, even if the ordinary was not quite the same.

    This week has been a blockbuster. Pretty got her first Moderna vaccination. Our 17 months old granddaughter Ella was with us on our screen porch during a perfectly gorgeous early spring day and we added Amy Winehouse songs to her playlist. Life is good.

    Stay safe, stay sane and please stay tuned.

  • Down a Rabbit Hole Through the Looking Glass

    Down a Rabbit Hole Through the Looking Glass


    Found your pilot. Died in 1956. Earl Matthew Quigg of Hokenbaqua, Pennsylvania. Born in 1930. Air force. Married. Died on Sept. 17 at 3:15 pm of crushing injuries and conflagration, .7 miles south of Richards, Texas in open pasture.

    Thanks to my first cousin Melissa on my daddy’s side who sent me this text message after our conversation earlier in the week, a conversation that went down a rabbit hole and somehow circled to a memory of school children playing softball one afternoon behind the little red brick public school building in Richards – play interrupted by the roar of a jet plane engine as the airplane careened crazily out of the sky.

    Melissa is the real journalist in our family; she wore many hats working for Texas newspapers during her career and that background makes her a wonderful sleuth/researcher on all subjects great and small. Naturally she was able to retrieve the information for me about a mysterious plane crash in Richards, Texas that remained a vivid memory for me 65 years later.

    I was ten years old at the time, but I still remembered our small group of boys and girls standing frozen together on the playground in the few moments the jet screamed past us to hit the ground in a field just beyond where we played, bursting into flames with thick black smoke billowing from the explosion, causing us to look at each other with horrified disbelief.

    For the tiny town of Richards, Texas (pop. 500+) this was the equivalent of the Hindenburg disaster. The theory of 2nd Lieutenant Earl M Quigg’s heroism discussed at great length by my grandparents at their kitchen table was that he refused to safely eject during his spiral in order to save the lives of the children he saw on the playground below. I never forgot the name of this pilot who I believed saved my ten year old life.

    As a teenager when I began writing my version of “poetry,” one of my poems celebrated the bravery of Lieutenant Quigg. I mentioned this to Melissa when we chatted earlier, and she made the mistake of asking me if I’d saved the poem. That would be from 65 years ago, in case anyone is counting. She suggested I write a blog about the plane crash and include my poem. Great idea, I said.

    While Pretty keeps everything she’s ever had in her entire life, I save almost nothing except words and pictures but that means decades upon decades of words and pictures which have made their journeys with me from the Pacific Northwest to the Atlantic Southeast, zigzagging back and forth to Texas in between. Surely I kept my first poetry attempts. Alas, as of this writing I have had no luck in my search.

    However, my digging around through boxes in my office encouraged me to step through the looking glass of another rabbit hole which allowed me to avoid the pandemic and politics (both equally disturbing) of today, transporting me to a time long ago and far away.

     

    my grandfather in his barber shop cutting 

     Melissa’s daughter Nikki’s hair: a Morris family tradition

    Maybe this picture of my grandfather in his single chair barber shop was taken Father’s Day weekend in June, 1984, the year I got this letter from my granddaddy. I did have the good common sense to save these words from him. He was born in 1898 and died in October, 1987, three years after this picture was taken. My paternal grandmother wrote me faithfully every week from the time I moved away from Richards at the age of 13 in 1959 to the year she died in 1983, but my grandfather was embarrassed about his lack of schooling and never wrote me until after my grandmother passed. In June, 1984 I was living in South Carolina, a thousand miles from Texas  and my grandpa.

    My Dear Sheila, I just came in from church out at Pool’s or Dark Corner as Tom Grissom called it. Bro. W.A. Curtis is doing the preaching not a Bad Preacher Tells a few Tales kinder mixas them up keeps you awake. Sheila, I have something to pass the time with now 15 quail 10 little ones & 5 grown I liked to make a miss count. Had a real good Father’s Day will give you a run down on that later.

    Tomatoes have just started to get ripe and the vines are loaded lots of string beans & baby lima looks like they are going to do good I have two rows about as long as a hoe handle. Now for the Father’s day. Your mother came first brought lunch & watermillon & a pretty shirt we had a real good visit enjoyed her so much. We discussed the Sheads at length not too bad. Ray came Fri. Lucille Sat. Sun. Mike, Melissa, Nikki. Ray a radio & Lucille a hat from London she had given me pr.pants Mike & Melissa shirt

    Gaylen card & face lotion Gene & Patti card and last but not least was a very pretty sweet card from my Dear Grand Daughter I can’t tell you how much I love you and always have. You ment so much to Ma & me, ole bald headed Pa

         ***********************

    Pa, I can’t tell you how much I loved you and Ma and always will. I hope Pretty and I can give our granddaughter the same unwavering love you always gave me.

    Stay safe, stay sane and please stay tuned, my friends.