I'll Call It Like I See It

by sheila morris

For any who want more, complete list of all posts by month since 2011
  • Dolly Made Me Do It

    Dolly Made Me Do It


    This week I was forced to say goodbye to Dolly Parton, who has been one of the inspirational women in my life. Dolly has simply been there – singing to the world the values she learned in the Great Smoky Mountains of East Tennessee – for as long as I have music memories.

    We were both born in 1946, Dolly in January and me in April; we began to be known as the beginners of the cohort called the Baby Boomers who have been rightly saddled with the blame for many of our planet’s woes, trials, and tribulations of epic biblical proportions. Although she grew up “dirt poor,” in her words, she never let challenges or ridicule or insecurities from her background define her. She became an international treasure for her indomitable spirit and determination to bring people along with her.

    I have been touched this week by her spirit of perseverance through adversity one more time, and I feel guilty for my relatively good health coupled with my glaring lack of resolve to keep on keeping on this year. Over the years several of her songs have been the cornerstone of many of my personal favorite blogs in this space including one I wrote in December, 2012, about a Hard Candy Christmas following the shooting at the Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut. Dolly made me reconsider my retirement this week and, sadly, my consternation over our country’s love affair with guns and violence continues to be a theme that resonates in headlines every day.

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    Gosh, the hard candy Christmas has gone viral.   I thought we could keep it local with just a few hits along the holiday trail stories but nope, Newtown, Connecticut changed the name of that tune.   We Americans have a tragedy of unspeakable grief that will quickly reverberate in cyberspace around the world to a populace who will ask themselves, What is wrong with those people in America?

    I think it’s a fair question and one that we must ask ourselves.   What is wrong with us?   How do we enable and encourage this rage and senseless violence against our own?   Why do we have a Columbine in our not-too-distant history and how will these same historians record the massacres in Aurora, Colorado, and at Virginia Tech?  What can possibly be written about the Sandy Hook Elementary School horror of losing twelve little girls and eight little boys and six adults who were their educators in a few minutes on a regular Friday morning at their public school.  Much will be written through the coming years, but what we do in response to these shocking events will define our culture and our country.

    To the politicians in Washington I say, You need to become statesmen and stateswomen.  You need to set aside your vitriolic verbal attacks on each other.  You are the adults in our family, and we have placed our trust in you by electing you to represent us and when what we see on our Ipads and Iphones and other high-tech gadgets as well as on our regular old television programs is bitterness and bickering and bashing each other verbally, you’re setting a bad example for your children.  You make them believe that rage is not only acceptable but necessary.   Take a deep breath.  Step back for a moment.  Look at yourselves and see what images you project for your people.   Could you please just play nice.

    To the parents who have brought children into our world and have great expectations for their futures and who now are bipolar between anger and anguish, I say I’m so sorry.    No one deserves this.   No one is being punished for removing God from Sandy Hook Elementary School.  God isn’t in this equation or else we would have to blame Him for allowing the assailant to have weapons, wouldn’t we?  Not so fast, my friend, or as my daddy and Ann Richards used to say, That old dog won’t hunt.  But what can we do?  Should we as parents insist on police protection for our children in all public schools regardless of age?   Would police protectors be able to thwart the enraged and armed assailants?  These are the questions we ask ourselves.

    Which brings me to the central dilemma of the complex  challenge of early identification and intervention for our Angry Ones and that is, of course, beyond Thunder Dome to me.  Our children are now raised in a culture of violence.  They play games with it, they sing songs about it, their heroes are violent athletes, their movie stars make action movies with so much “action” their hearing is impaired when they leave a theater, their country sends soldiers to places they have to learn to pronounce and spell like Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria…Viet Nam…Korea..and these soldiers kill other people in the name of peacekeeping. 

      Our children are surrounded by violence.   They may go to sleep with the sound of gunfire in their neighborhood and on their street corners.  They may wake the next morning to find a friend, cousin, uncle, grandmother, father, sister, or brother has died during a battle over what?   Drugs?   Gangs?  Money?   Territory?  Aha.  There we have it.  There is no escaping the violence so why on earth would we be surprised that these children who are accustomed to violence, who have access to weapons, would shoot us when we make them mad or when we are, well, just being ourselves and they don’t like us that way?

    This is the season of hope, joy and celebration for some; the Prince of Peace and Santa Claus are the bearers of Good News and Great Gifts for many of us. But it is also a season of sadness for those who have lost family during 2012 and who will be reminded that their holiday season is different this year. The season won’t be the same – ever.  Some people will struggle to find the money to give their children what they want under the tree.   Friction and tension will make family gatherings more problematic than peaceful.  In our sense of hurry and anxiety over putting food on the table we might miss the opportunity to say: I love you today, I love you every day and you will always be special to me.

    I remember a hard candy Christmas with the disappointment of not getting what I wanted from Santa Claus but rather getting a sack of penny candy of bright different colors that tasted alternately sweet and sour but couldn’t be chewed at first because it was so hard.  Gradually though, if you waited long enough, you could bite the smaller piece in two and swallow them both.  Success.  Astonishingly delicious.

    I expected a hard candy Christmas personally this year for a number of reasons, but I wasn’t prepared for a national one.  Regardless, here it is and my hope is that America will never be the same – ever.  That our national consciousness is raised to include in our vocabulary the words kindness and reconciliation and forgiveness and a genuine passion for a better world.   We’ve waited long enough.  We have tasted both the sweet and the sour and, as Dolly Parton sings through the lyrics of Carol Hall, we won’t let our sorrows bring us down.

    I’ll be fine and dandy
    Lord, it’s like a hard candy Christmas
    I’m barely gettin’ through tomorrow
    But still I won’t let
    Sorrow bring me way down

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

    Dolly Parton’s Imagination Library was started in 1995 through her Dollywood Foundation and books numbering in the millions are delivered annually throughout the United States, Canada, Australia, Ireland, and the United Kingdom (Wikipedia). I applied to the program for our younger granddaughter Molly who was three years old at the time and would love to share the covers of the 9 books she’s received thus far. Here’s a sample!

    Thank you, Dolly, for the example you set in living a life that was real. Your courage and sacrifices taught us how to be better. I believe in angels – I have believed in you. Rest in peace.

  • A Fond Farewell to My Blogging Journey

    A Fond Farewell to My Blogging Journey


    Special greetings to all my followers who became friends in cyberspace over the past fifteen years.

    Today I am saying a fond farewell to all of you with good memories of our mutual posts which shared who we are, and possibly even who we wished we could be. The first time I discovered I could hit a Publish button on WordPress and send my thoughts to a cyberspace universe I felt a sense of magical power. I had bypassed the perils and rejections of traditional publishing to carry my voice  to a group of people who would be thrilled (well, maybe not exactly thrilled, but more than mildly interested)  to hear what I had to say.

    I began this experiment with cyberspace in August, 2011.Today this post is my 1,160th. with more than 215,000 views over the years and a grand total of 925 subscribers. Some will think those numbers ridiculously paltry in the years of social media, but for a little girl who grew up in Grimes County, Texas, in the 1950s, they are unbelievable. I am thankful for every follower, for each view, and the encouragement you gave me when I wanted to give up.

    I found myself unable to quit blogging, regardless of the number of likes and views I had for each post. Perhaps I never achieved the recognition for my writing I originally thought possible, but as the funny guy Jonathan Winters once said, “I couldn’t wait for success, so I went ahead without it.”

    The good news is I have not been diagnosed with any life changing illness. But this year I find is more difficult for me with my waning eyesight and reduced ability to focus. I set a goal of excellence in my writing – didn’t always get there, but I tried to do my best. Storytelling for what I envision to be an audience of truth lovers isn’t as easy as it sounds, and in today’s world even more challenging.

    I have a couple of new ideas for projects which have been on the back burner for a while now. Time is fleeting, turning 80 was a wakeup call to get busy, to step out of what has been a wonderful comfort zone in my third act – what if the final curtain call is closer than I realize, and I didn’t leave everything on the playing field.

    When the final curtain does fall, if there is an afterlife I will be pleasantly surprised; but I will be sorely disappointed if I am unable to reunite with Wee Sassy, The Red Man, Smokey Lonesome Ollie, Paw Licker Annie, Tennis Ball Obsessed Chelsea, Big Dog Spike, and Little Guy Carl. I will be waiting for Pretty – for whom I have waited all my life. I will leave her in good hands – those of our beloved son Drew, his amazing wife Caroline and those little hands of our most cherished granddaughters, Ella and Molly, who have been our shared happiness.  Charly and the mysterious carport cats will demand her attention every day and shower her with adoration.

    My wish for all of you is that you keep your faith in each other, speak your truth, and keep writing. Thank you for being my friend.

    Annie Lamott said in her book Bird by Bird: “But I always tell my students that sometimes when my writer friends are working, they feel better and more alive than they do any other time. And sometimes when they are writing well, they feel that they are living up to something. It is as if the right words are already inside them, and they just want to help them get out. Writing this way is a little like milking a cow; the milk is so rich and delicious, and the cow is so glad you did it.”

    Onward.

  • Ten years and counting – what lessons have we learned from the Dallas, Texas, police ambush

    Ten years and counting – what lessons have we learned from the Dallas, Texas, police ambush


    Dallas marks 10 years since the July 7, 2016, ambush that killed five law enforcement officers during a downtown protest, one of the deadliest attacks on police in modern U.S. history. The shooting left four Dallas police officers and one DART officer dead, injured several others and forever changed policing in the city. The following piece I published ten years ago seems, sadly, appropriate for Everytown, USA, today.

    Big “D”, little “a”, double “L”  – a – s. Dallas, Dallas, Dallas, another notch in your gun belt this week; more snipers take a shot at our ability to wage peaceful parades and protests  while the face of violence lights up within your city limits. Shades of 1963 when you were the harbinger of our national nightmares to come.

    I am outraged at the environment of fear and desperation that leads men to believe that shooting each other with guns or blowing each other up with bombs is the only solution to our problems within our borders and across the pond. Prejudices over skin color and religious practices cross oceans, span continents and land at our doorsteps. And since we have the right to bear arms, we also have the right to shoot them – at each other.

    Policemen who are sworn to protect us become caught up in a kind of madness that makes them so suspicious and fearful of  people of color that even routine traffic violations can turn into scenes of degradation and death.  Lives are changed forever – death is permanent – there is no taking back the gunfire that kills an innocent man or woman: no do-overs. And it’s not just that one life taken. The ripple effect in the lives of families and friends is also endless.

    Take Back the Night? Hardly bold enough. Give Back the Light, I say. Give back the light of acceptance of citizens regardless of race or who they love or where they worship, but without apathy toward those who struggle with less. Acceptance without apathy – do we have leaders capable of recognizing the reality of the feelings of Powerlessness that drive men to fire gunshots against the Powerful…I wonder. And can the Powerful be changed to look beyond the obvious to the pain below the surface…I wonder.

    Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God, Jesus said in his sermon on the mount. I am looking for the peacemakers, I am waiting for the peacemakers, I am hoping that they find their way to Dallas, Texas, tonight.

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    Ten years later, I continue to wait for the peacemakers. I am one small voice in the wilderness of cyberspace, but I refuse to wave a white flag of surrender while I wait with hope for international peace.

     

     

     

     

     

  • Exploring Crape Myrtles: Nature’s Art in My Neighborhood

    Exploring Crape Myrtles: Nature’s Art in My Neighborhood


    I think that I shall never see a poem as lovely as a crape myrtle tree.

    the colors are breathtaking

    I saw these crape myrtles on my walk in the neighborhood today

    the bright pink are my favorites

    STOP to take a picture

    almost home – I envy my neighbor’s crape myrtle trees

    But then, I saw another picture at the top of my driveway…

    I wish you would get out of that chair

    Behold, the two cats that look for safe spaces to beat the summer heat – they are unimpressed with the lovely crape myrtles that thrive in the summers. Food and water, please. And the occasional kind words if you don’t mind.

    And we don’t.

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    Stay cool, and please stay tuned.

  • summertime and the living is, uh, not quite so easy as we’d thought originally

    summertime and the living is, uh, not quite so easy as we’d thought originally


    Originally published in 2020 – we still enjoy the screened porch, but now have two granddaughters who will share the summer solstice with us this year. I’m sure they will roll their eyes and say I’m boring them when I begin to explain the significance of June 21st. tomorrow. The summer solstice will hopefully take a back seat to their celebration of their daddy for Father’s Day, but just in case…

    I asked Pretty to join me on our screened porch last night a little after 9 o’clock. Pretty who had had a stressful day putting out fires she didn’t start, didn’t hesitate. Ok, she said as she began to move outside with me. That’s one of Pretty’s best characteristics – she’s never afraid to switch gears – she’s always willing to humor me when I make a gear switch.  I guess that’s really two exceptional qualities, but who’s counting.

    Today is the summer solstice, I reminded Pretty, it’s the longest daylight of the year. I wanted to enjoy it with you, I said. Look, it’s almost 9:15 and just now getting darker.

    Pretty exclaimed with enthusiasm – oh you’re right. I’m so glad you suggested the porch.

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    You can blame this on the frogs

    While Pretty and I talked on our porch last night, I tried to explain to her what was going through my head on this first day of my 74th. summer. The sounds from our porch were connected to the sounds of my earliest memories of summer when I slept in a small double bed with my maternal grandmother while a cheap oscillating fan turned slowly from side to side as it valiantly tried to cool us in the hot humidity of an East Texas heat a thousand miles away from South Carolina, a heat that would not be relieved by opening every window on the porch where we slept or the random whisper of cool air from a small oscillating fan made by Westinghouse. The sheets were always clean but never actually cool.

    I never trusted the sheets anyway after discovering a scorpion hiding between them one night.

    But it was the sound of the frogs around our pool here on Cardinal Drive – particularly after a rain – that drew me to those hot muggy nights of Grimes County, Texas, where I was raised. My grandmother’s wooden house made from a retail catalog blueprint had many design flaws, but its one awesome feature which had nothing to do with the design really, was the magical pond (or tank, as we called it in East Texas) behind her house.

    The tank was the focal point of my only-child imagination play stories during the day, but it was the tank’s music of those summer nights I hope will never be erased from my memory. Specifically, it was the frogs, or bull frogs as my grandmother used to call them  just before we drifted off to sleep. The low guttural sounds were always behind the house and were somewhat subdued until every light was turned off at night. But then, those frogs got louder and louder until they hit a mighty crescendo. My grandmother and I laughed out loud when we heard them.

    The frogs who live in our backyard on Cardinal Drive are rarely as raucous as the bull frogs in my tank in Richards – I think they are smaller frogs. But occasionally I hear one of those loud guttural sounds looking for something, probably safer water supplies, and I am transported to different days. To a grandmother who guided me with her wisdom – now to a woman who loves sharing another summer solstice with me.

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    I was blessed with a loving eccentric family who in the end gave me what they could – so much more than I realized. Today I stand with the Poor People’s Campaign and their national Call for a real Moral Revival to discover a soul within ourselves that will move all people to address the intersection of poverty, systemic racism, social injustices.

    One of the co-founders of the movement, Reverend William J. Barber II says, “In the long arc of human history, there are moments when the universe itself groans and declares, ‘It’s time.’”

    It is, indeed, time. It’s also summertime and contrary to the Gershwin hit song from Porgy and Bess, the living is definitely not easy for most of our fellow citizens who continue to demonstrate in our streets or elsewhere. Keep the faith. We must do better.

    Onward.

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    The Obamas were pitch perfect as always in their ceremonial addresses opening the Presidential Library/ Campus in Chicago this third week of June, 2026. They still give me hope. I need a large dose of that this summer when the living continues to be, uh, not quite so easy as we’d thought originally in these United States.