I'll Call It Like I See It

by sheila morris

Category: politics

  • we must never come to this store again

    we must never come to this store again


    Once upon a time somewhere along the supply chain for my bupropion med which I have taken for years to treat free-floating anxiety (that turned into specific anxiety during the Agent Orange previous administration in the USA), well, this med was exchanged for a kind of wellbutrin commonly prescribed to assist tobacco addicts in their war against nicotine. Fun fact: I have never used tobacco in any form with the exception of a few puffs of marijuana here and there. More there than here actually plus I rarely inhaled.

    Last week when Pretty dropped by the pharmacy to pick up a couple of meds for me, the pharmacist in charge said she couldn’t release one of them until she spoke with me via the phone. This of course irritated Pretty who had vowed several times to never darken the door of this particular establishment because of obstacles to what should be a simple action. I prepaid online and was notified the meds were ready for pickup so I assured Pretty when she got out of the grannymobile this would be quick, simple, fast, easy. Said with a smile and thumbs up gesture.

    Not so fast, my friend. Pretty returned to our car without the meds. Her facial expression when she opened the driver’s side door told me who sat between our two granddaughters that were in their car seats in the middle row of seats that Pretty was not happy. She proceeded to let us all know just how unhappy she was with the pharmacy; this was absolutely the last time she would be trying to deal with my meds. Why couldn’t I answer my cell phone when the pharmacist called me just a few minutes before? Because my cell phone was on the floorboard of the passenger side of the front seats and I was sitting in the second row between our two granddaughters to make sure they weren’t kidnapped while she went to the store for me. Not good enough. Pretty continued her rage, rage against the dying of the light or the ridiculous rules of the pharmacy. Take your pick.

    At this point our recently turned three year old Ella joined in Pretty’s harangue to say in her most authoritative voice, “Teresa, we must never come to this store again. I am never getting anything in there. Let’s leave now and go to the playground.”

    Pretty and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. LOL, as the current saying goes. Pretty was Nana to Ella in the everyday vicissitudes of life, but lately when she really wanted to have an impact on the conversation, Ella addressed her as Teresa – which was fine with us since that was her name.

    What did we do then? What could we do? Pretty drove out of the parking lot and took us to the playground. It was a beautiful day to be outdoors, and the perfect weather continued for Ella’s birthday party this past weekend.

    Lost in thought, overwhelmed by Birthday Party Number Three –

    (Thankfully pharmacy incident two days before forgotten)

    Pony rides, hay ride, balloons –

    everyone was here to celebrate with me

    Wow!

    Turning Three is HUGE – thank goodness for friends!

    Nana holding baby sister Molly –

    Gigi points to another birthday in January

    I have no words to express the happiness these little girls have brought to Pretty and me these last three years. The old adage time flies when you’re having fun must have been spoken first by a grandmother who suddenly realized her grandchild was three years old having a party with her friends and family, having conversations on her own, occasionally eating a Cheeto which her mother had thoughtfully provided for everyone since it was Ella’s favorite food group.

    Bless these precious girls, bless all the little children of the world, bless the parents who love and care for them, bless everyone in their lives who offer encouragement and hope for their future happiness.

    Slava Ukraini. For the children.

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

    P.S. I did call the pharmacist who asked me how my anxiety was doing these days since I’d been taking the wrong meds for the past six months. My anxiety is in direct proportion to my worry about my country’s mid-term elections in November, the state of our democracy, the war in Ukraine and a recurrence of Covid. Other than that, I have none. I still don’t smoke, I added. I picked up my meds the next day.

  • yesterday and today juxtaposed

    yesterday and today juxtaposed


    One of my favorite quotes as a septuagenarian is “we must have old memories and young hopes.” Catchy, right? Sigh.

    I have a revision. Check it out: we must have new memories and reclaim old hopes.

    Yesterday’s new memories with Pretty and our granddaughters

    at a favorite playground

    Today’s old hopes reclaimed on signs

    in our front yard

    I should have saved my signs from 50 years ago. All women – including our granddaughters – must have the right to control their own bodies. Period. End of discussion.

    Make your plan to VOTE on November 08th.

    ***********

    Stay safe, stay sane and please stay tuned.

  • what’s scarier? Halloween or the MID-TERMS?

    what’s scarier? Halloween or the MID-TERMS?


    Do you have our Boo at the Zoo tickets yet? Pretty called to me from her chair in the den last night while I struggled to catch up on a sea of emails in my office.This past weekend was Laver Cup tennis, one of my favorite tennis events of the year, but the 2022 tournament was in London which meant I was glued to the Telly on British Summer Time for three days with no opportunity for the 3Rs: reading emails, reading blogs and reading bills.

    Boo at the Zoo tickets? I called back to Pretty. It’s not even October, I thought to myself, but I obediently went to the Riverbanks Zoo website to find out about tickets. Last year was our first ever Boo experience because, you guessed it (a) Covid restrictions were lifted for the annual Halloween at the Zoo extravaganza and (b) we had a two year old granddaughter.

    Ella fell in love with her first real Halloween in 2021,

    eyes full of wonder at friendly ghost as we entered

    Boo at the Zoo

    The dates for Boo are October 20th. – 30th., I told Pretty when she walked into my office to make sure I was following up. Luckily, I continued, there are 2,900+ tickets available every night.

    Well, Pretty said, I’d better text Caroline (a/k/a Pretty Too, mother of Ella) to get our date on the calendar right away.

    Exactly, I answered. Game on. Pretty returned to her iPhone in the den.

    ***********

    September flew by this year – such an emotional one with the retirement of Serena Williams the first week of the US Open followed by this past weekend’s farewell to another living legend of the game: Roger Federer. Woe is me, I am undone. I feel like I’ve lost two best friends within a month; I’m feeling sad and angry, as Ella says when she fusses at me for one of my thoughtless outbursts in her direction. The word No should never be in anyone’s vocabulary.

    I’m angry with Time and Tide which wait for no man, according to an ancient proverb, and we can add they seem to speed up for tennis players over the age of 40. If only I could put Time in that bottle Jim Croce sang about…

    However, I will enjoy five more days in September, the first days of autumn, thirty-one days of Halloween excitement with soon to be three year old granddaughter Ella and her eight months old baby sister Molly, trying to avoid the angst of the looming general election on November 8th.

    Stay safe from all hurricanes, stay sane and please stay tuned.

  • 2022: the Year in Review (well, so far)

    2022: the Year in Review (well, so far)


    Let’s rap.

    Two thousand twenty-two, I’m worried now ’bout you.

    You’re two-thirds done and not too fun.

    so where the heck have you gone?

    (rhythm band in background doing their best to find one)

    A new war in Ukraine with Russia to blame.

    Killing children at will with no sense of shame.

    bombing nuclear plants without any aim.

    (rhythm band in background stops and says in unison Seriously?

    bombing nuclear plants?)

    Two thousand twenty-two, I’m worried now ’bout you.

    You’re burning, you’re flooding, we shy away from the sights

    you’ve allowed the Supremes to take away rights.

    (rhythm band in background shakes their heads and wags fingers)

    Two thousand twenty-two, I’m really worried now

    our minds are blown by what we’ve found

    An ex-pres has taken secrets you shouldn’t have allowed.

    (rhythm band in background shake tambourines furiously)

    Two thousand twenty-two, number of months remaining four.

    we’re sick and tired of Covid and of you we implore

    give us a break from chills and fevers and muscles that are sore.

    (rhythm band in background nod approvingly, clapping hands)

    And if you don’t mind, here’s the last ax to grind.

    Two thousand twenty-two, you’re moving way behind

    We’re watching, we’re rapping, to make sure you get in line.

    (rhythm band moves into foreground to take bow – why, Liz Cheney is leading the band)

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

    Yikes – I’m clearly not a rapper. Please stay tuned – I’ll do better.

  • Dimples, Butch, Buttercup, Sissy… Sissy?

    Dimples, Butch, Buttercup, Sissy… Sissy?


    Whenever someone asks me what I’m writing, I feel a fleeting twinge of guilty laziness for saying I continue to blog – no new book of essays, no great American novel, no legacy book for my granddaughters. This is me self publishing using the same platform I’ve had for thirteen years. Never reaching 2,000 followers but loving my local and international friends who faithfully hang with me. Averaging 150 hits per post in 2022, sometimes more in other years, sometimes fewer. Somewhere along the way I found a voice, but the Boomer passion for individual achievement in the realm of literature that produced six books is mixed now with the seasoned settling of comforting routines that continue to produce my cyberspace conversations. If I ever changed my mind about publishing a new collection of my flash nonfiction, I promise the following post from the archives would be included.

    Pretty, the great Treasure Hunter, occasionally brings home items that fascinate. One such find  was two versions of a board game I played as a child growing up in rural Grimes County, Texas in the mid twentieth century. Before the television set took over as our main form of entertainment, my family played all kinds of games from dominoes to gin rummy to board games Santa Claus left for me under the tree at Christmas. One of our family favorite board games was Go to the Head of the Class which was supposedly “educational” as well as fun. With school teacher parents, I played tons of “educational” games.

    fifth series copyrighted in 1949 by Milton Bradley, publisher

    The game was originally played with tokens that were cardboard images of children attached to wooden bases. Each game had 8 tokens, and their pictures were on the book that contained the questions.

    (top row, l. to r.) Sissy, Dimples, Liz and Butch

    (bottom row, l. to r.) Sonny, Buttercup, Susie and Red

    Sissy

    I can’t find the edition when publisher Milton Bradley eliminated the unsmiling player named Sissy, but I can assure you it would have been the last token picked in my family. Buttercup would have run a close second to the last.

    Take a good look at Sissy, the little boy whose two obvious distinguishing features were that he wore glasses and parted his hair down the middle like the little girl tokens.

    I remembered Jim Blanton’s essay in Southern Perspectives on the Queer Movement: Committed to Home where he talked about growing up in Gaffney, South Carolina and being called “sissy” as a child and teenager by bullies in school. Words, labels that cause pain.

    I’m sure my parents were oblivious to the subtle cultural messages being sent to me in our educational games, but for me this game was one more nail in the coffin of internalized homophobia and intentional segregation in my childhood. Never any people of color as the tokens. No one wanted to be known as a “sissy,” and how could I explain to anyone why I always picked “Butch” first?

    This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is img_20220827_150432507_hdr.jpg

    not sure where this picture of me was taken or why – 

    did I already feel different?

    Be aware of bias and labels that hurt. Be kind to each other. Be safe this weekend.

    Stay tuned.