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
  • the provenance of my mid-century modern Christmas letter

    the provenance of my mid-century modern Christmas letter


    In days of yore before Pretty introduced me to her antique empire vernacular, I couldn’t distinguish vintage from antique from retro to mid-century modern. Provenance was a self-discovery word from watching countless episodes of Antiques Roadshows with her on Monday nights after I gave up on the NFL when Plan B free agency ruined the game for me. TMI.

    My mother loved her Christmas cantatas at the church, decorating for the holidays, wrapping gifts, baking her homemade fudge, divinity and specialty Osgood pies – baking was her therapy during the two weeks away from her second grade classrooms once she could relax from the stress of the musical performance. My mother often told me “practice makes perfect” when she sat for hours at her piano working on a particularly difficult section of a piece. She was pursued by her passion for perfection.

    But her signature holiday delights were the Christmas cards our family received every year from friends and family members who were separated from us by distances in a world before Instagram, Facebook, Linked In and X. The address book Pretty and I found when we closed her house in 2007 was in tatters from decades of use – addresses scratched out, crammed with new ones on the same line. She never let go of her Christmas card list.

    My dad, on the other hand, barely glanced at the cards when they came in with the exception of the Christmas card letters which he felt were far superior to cards sent and received. I can hear Daddy saying to my mother, Jimmy and Maggie Jones have the right idea – they always take the time to write a letter even though they are as busy as we are. (Remember my dad loved to write letters.)

    In December, 1964 my thirty-seven year old mother must have been particularly wigged and frustrated by her inability to “get everything done” including her holiday cards mailed on time so she and my thirty-nine year old father agreed to jointly construct their first and, as far as I know, only mid-century antique family Christmas letter. Daddy had a secretary at his new position as Assistant Superintendent of Instruction at Lamar Consolidated in Rosenberg, Texas – clearly he enlisted her to set up and type the letter to save time for Mama’s mailings. I know this because my name is misspelled in every block.

    Ho, ho, ho – that was just the provenance. Here’s the letter. Enjoy.

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

    Unbelievably it is Christmas again. Pretty and I enjoy this season greatly because it’s a special time of sharing. We know of no one we’d rather share our happy highlights with than you all year long right here in cyberspace. Our wish to you is, of course, for a Merry Christmas, but more than that, we pray that God will bless your lives richly in the coming year.

  • my true love gave to me three hungry cats, two flying flags, and bright lights on an outdoor Christmas tree

    my true love gave to me three hungry cats, two flying flags, and bright lights on an outdoor Christmas tree


    the Carport Kitty Legacy Cats like breakfast served before dawn

    Pretty decorated with holiday cheer

    rain, rain and more rain this early morning – the flag of Ukraine heavy,

    weighted down like its people after nearly two years of war

    Pride colors gleam in the rain

    thanks to Pretty, my true love, for the gifts of the season

  • ’twas two weeks before Christmas (from 2018)

    ’twas two weeks before Christmas (from 2018)


    ...and all through the yard only Spike and I were stirring,

    Pretty and Charly were inside and warm.

    Pretty and I like to keep the pool open in the winter,

    but it has a much different look from summer fun and sun

    Spike keeps me company whenever I walk around the pool

    (I think he likes the cold, and I like his company)

    so beautiful, but Pretty battles the leaves until they’re all gone

    the bottom of the pool looks like a Rorschach test to me sometimes 

    even the bottle tree loses its colors in winter

    Spike is ready to go inside to check on Pretty

    While family members in the upstate of South Carolina have been without power this weekend after unusually large amounts of snowfall, we have been covered in grey clouds peppering us with rain, rain and more rain. Almost cold enough for snow, but not quite.

    I am reminded of Granny Selma’s motto: Sheila, we have to smile more on rainy days.

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

    Back in the days before two new knee replacement surgeries in 2019, before the birth of two baby granddaughters ( Ella in 2019 and Molly in 2022) who already take swimming lessons in the summertime and love to play in this pool, before an elder dog named Carl whose primary mission in life has been to terrorize the equally cranky old Spike since Carl came to join the family in 2020 – Spike and I took to the backyard for early morning “walks” while I pushed my walker six times around our pool. 

    We moved to our house on Cardinal Drive in 2017 because our two-story Casa de Canterbury was too difficult for me to navigate fourteen stairs from one level to the next. Pretty found the house for us with her usual former realtor eyes – she had been in the business for seventeen years before the insanity of the markets in 2010 saw her return to retail at Mast General Store, a new store opening on Main Street in Columbia in 2011. She greeted customers, worked with super employees who became friends for life, and filled tons of candy into barrels every week for five years to create nostalgia mixed with modern taste buds as Mast became a cornerstone for changing the Main Street look and vibe of Columbia.

    The last picture of this piece in 2018 caught me by surprise because I had forgotten about the original hot tub hidden behind the two rockers under a small portico; hot tub gone, portico torn down to be replaced by a small screen porch the following year. Rockers didn’t survive, either, gradually deteriorating in the elements like my knees worn away by time. Pride Flags flew from day one in 2017, replaced with new ones through the years but keeping watch over the changes in our lives as surely as the shepherds in the fields keeping watch over their flocks by night.

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

    Slava Ukraini. For all children everywhere.

    Pretty is merry at Cardinal Christmas in 2018

  • for Donna, who gets me

    for Donna, who gets me


    Aunt Armeda’s custard recipe artistically preserved

    (on our backdoor steps when Pretty and I got home yesterday)

    One of my most faithful followers is local artist Donna Magrath who left this for me in a Food Lion shopping bag on our backdoor steps. She read my post about my Aunt Armeda’s custard recipe yesterday, recognized how I felt about the little scribbles, and preserved this treasure for me in her typical creative work.

    Honestly, I am continually amazed by the goodness of people who care about others. I called Donna to let her know how moved I was by this piece and assured her it would have a place of prominence in my office. Today it sits on an antique writing desk next to my work area. I think my Aunt Armeda would have been pleased for her custard recipe to be displayed. My mother would have said well, I was in a hurry. I know I can write better than that. Did somebody spill egg on it?

    Thank you, Donna, for “getting” me and my writing. I am inspired by you.

    Thank you, also, to all my faithful followers around the world who allow me to invade your personal space with my words, thoughts, beliefs and hopes. While we breathe, we hope.

  • my Aunt Armeda’s custard recipe

    my Aunt Armeda’s custard recipe


    Several weeks ago this tiny scrap of paper arrived with a note from a University of Texas friend who now lives in Cody, Wyoming. The note simply said this is Armeda’s custard recipe, but it’s in your mother’s handwriting. No explanation necessary – I would recognize my mother’s scratchy writing anywhere. Her DNA flows through my penmanship as surely as it does through my love of dogs.

    When I worked for a year in Houston following my graduation from UT in Austin, the good news was I had relatives from both sides of my family who lived in the metropolitan area; the bad news was I had relatives from both sides of my family who lived within spitting distance of my one bedroom furnished apartment on Shadyvilla Lane. Houston in 1967 was a big city, but not nearly as crowded as it became in the years that followed, so I easily navigated the paths from learning to play bridge at my Aunt Mavis and Uncle Ray’s house on Jalna Street in the northwest section of the city to playing poker or dominoes at my Aunt Dessie and Uncle Floyd’s house on Rodrigo Street in the Heights. Talk about home cooked food. Every home I visited made sure I had plenty of it.

    I had a favorite place to visit on Sunday afternoons in the cooler months (yes, there were several cooler ones even in hot humid Houston): my Aunt Armeda and Uncle Vernon’s house which was less than 15 minutes from my apartment. I confess I tried to time my social call around the middle of the afternoon to see if by chance Aunt Armeda was making custard. If she was, I stayed longer. Shameless.

    Armeda was my Aunt Mavis’s half-sister who had married my paternal grandmother’s youngest brother. Remember my Aunt Mavis was married to my daddy’s brother Ray. No computerized social networking or dating apps in those days which meant somebody introduced somebody to someone else. Often that someone else was somehow related to the first somebody.

    My friend who now lives in Wyoming was still at UT when I worked in Houston, and she often came to see me on weekends – she loved our “custard calls” at Armeda and Vernon’s house as much as I did. I’m sure we raved about the drink to my mother who was aghast at the thought anyone could prefer Armeda’s custard over hers, but could we get that recipe anyway?

    I was amazed to see this little scrap of paper with such evidence of use in the past fifty-five years had traveled from Texas to Wyoming to South Carolina and was transported to the sights, sounds, smells of the custard being poured into delicate china coffee cups by a tall regal woman with soft speech and a warm heart. I’ve made the recipe three times recently and still think it’s delicious – if you can read the scribbling, I suggest you give it a try during the holiday season.

    Pour with love.