I'll Call It Like I See It

by sheila morris

Category: Reflections

  • wintry mix, or snow as we call it in South Carolina

    wintry mix, or snow as we call it in South Carolina


    So you think you know snow? Ha. We are rolling in it in the sunny South. On January 22, 2022, I began this post with pictures of snow in our backyard.

    only one dog outside with me three years ago: Carl

    Carport Kitty reigned in the winter of 2022

    (she died in October of 2022 – she never had to face a cold winter again)

    Carport Kitty and Pretty have similar feelings about winter. Thankfully her heated pad keeps her toasty warm in the laundry room – Carport Kitty, not Pretty. Heh, heh.

    The sun also rises, the snowflakes melt, and Pretty will leave me to work in her antique empire while I watch the disgraceful television coverage of the 2022 Australian Open this afternoon. Bollocks.

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

    Fast forward exactly three years to January 22, 2025. Old man Spike walks with me in the fresh snow around the pool in our backyard.

    Carl still with us but prefers staying inside over his cold paws in the snow

    to each his own, right?

    The Australian Open is winding down to its inevitable close this weekend. We have three Americans in semi-finals this week, and not one of them is named Venus or Serena. Hm. Ben Shelton is in the semi-finals for men’s singles, Madison Keys is also in a singles semi-final, and Taylor Townsend plays doubles with K. Siniakova for the women’s doubles semi-final. Spoiler alert: at least one American will play in a final.

    Between snow and semis, my sleep pattern is wrecked. I barely know what day it is on this continent – much less in Australia.

    Vive la difference. Stay safe and warm. Please stay tuned. We enjoy your visits!

  • I’ve Been to the Mountaintop

    I’ve Been to the Mountaintop


    Fourteen years of publishing with more than a thousand posts, the possibility of duplicate themes looms large. One of my favorite topics is the holiday celebrating the life of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. – I’ve written twenty-three posts in which Dr. King was featured, and I feel a sense of responsibility toward preserving his legacy, especially on the day we set aside to honor him in my country. This post was originally published on September 23, 2014.

     South Carolina Pride was this past weekend in the state capitol of Columbia. I took 163 digital images over the weekend and posted my favorites on social media. I am a believer in the old adage “a picture is worth a thousand words,” and these pictures are images of hope, faith, love and joy – plus the occasional unsmiling prophecy pretenders. I love the pictures, but I can’t resist the thousand words, give or take a few.

    When I look at these images, I hear the voices of America singing.  I hear the cries of Paul Revere on his midnight ride and the loud sounds of argument, even heated debate as the Founding Fathers (yes, Virginia – there were no mothers present) drafted the Constitution of the United States with a Bill of Rights guaranteeing individual liberties.

    I hear the sounds of slaves who could not speak to their masters, and I hear the whispers of abolitionists who spirited those slaves away in the darkness. I hear the cries of the wounded, dying Confederate and Union soldiers as the artillery fired around them on the fields at Vicksburg and Gettysburg; I hear the cannon fired in Charleston Harbor at Fort Sumter.

    I hear the choruses of the suffragettes who held a convention in Seneca, New York, and marched because they dared to dream women had the right to vote –  which they hoped would lead to greater equality, but then I hear the roll call of states that  refused to ratify an Equal Rights Amendment which attempted to level the playing field for “the weaker sex” in the 1970s.

    I hear the singing of the marchers in Selma and Birmingham in the 1960s as they walked to overcome their harsh treatment.  I hear the voices of angry rappers today in Fullerton, Missouri, over the endless struggles for fair treatment in a country where equality is, too often, lip-synced.

    I hear the voices of the drag queens at Stonewall in 1969 as they refused to be treated inhumanely and stand firm against the oppression of the gay community. I hear the sounds of pleas by children who are thrown out of their homes and into the streets when their family confronts their sexuality. I hear the sounds of comfort and support from people who respond with love to these children in distress…

    I wish I had the gift of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. to describe my feelings as I rode on the Pioneers Float Saturday, but since I don’t, I’ll borrow his words from his last speech on April 3, 1968, in Memphis, Tennessee – the day before he was assassinated:

    “Well, I don’t know what will happen now.  We’ve got some difficult days ahead.  But it doesn’t matter with me now.  Because I’ve been to the mountaintop.  And I don’t mind.  Like any man I would like to live a long life.  Longevity has its place.  But I’m not concerned about that now…God’s allowed me to go up to the mountain.  And I’ve looked over. And I’ve seen the promised land.  I may not get there with you.  But I want you to know today that we, as a people, will get to the promised land.  And I’m happy, today,  I’m not worried about anything.  I’m not fearing any man.”

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

    Dr. King carried me to the mountaintop with him more than once through his words, deeds, dreams, faith, hope and love – his unfailing commitment to peaceful change. Regardless of how I feel today on his special day in 2025, I know I’ve been to the mountaintop and seen the promised land. I hope you have, too. 

  • above, beyond and served with Buddy Biscuits

    above, beyond and served with Buddy Biscuits


    Spike to Charly: Listen, did you hear that? I think the old woman is scraping the bottom of our food box.

    So what? Charly said.

    So what? SO WHAT? I’ll tell you so what. It’s nearly six o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, and we’re going to be out of food tomorrow unless our Great Provider manages to contact Woody’s Pet Supplies in the next few minutes. No food for our meals, not to mention we’re out of Buddy Biscuits. When will herself learn to make reminder lists.

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

    Point taken. Shoulda, woulda, coulda made a list, but no worries. I left a voice mail for Davis, the young owner of Woody’s who occasionally bailed me out of my emergency orders by delivering the dog food on his way home from the store after he locked up at seven o’clock. I tried not to take advantage, but he wouldn’t be surprised by my predicament on the weekend before Christmas.

    He didn’t call back, though, nor did he come by our carport Saturday night. Sigh. Davis must have been swamped with last minute Christmas shoppers, I thought. Well, good for him. Pretty and I had supported his business since it opened in the summer of 2022, watched his inventory grow, celebrated with him when he found a good groomer to add those services so if he was too busy to call me, I was really happy for him. There was no possibility Spike, Charly, or Carl would go hungry when we could feed them leftovers.

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

    Sunday morning my little terrier Carl and I were in the kitchen staring at three empty dog dishes. It was 8:00 a.m. which was when the dogs ate breakfast. Carl looked from me to his empty dish with alarm.

    Spike and Charly had begun barking from their posts in the den when they heard their dishes rattling around.

    I was startled by a knock on our kitchen door; a man stood at the bottom of our steps waving at me. No one came to see us at this hour, but he looked familiar so I walked toward the door. There stood Davis with a huge bag of dog food and two boxes of Buddy Biscuits. I’m sorry I didn’t get these to you last night, he said, but we were busy so I didn’t listen to my messages until this morning. When I heard yours, I drove to the store to get what you needed.

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

    Kindness is contagious. I will treasure many moments with family and friends during this 2024 holiday season, will be moved over and over again by thoughtful gifts and gestures, by music and memories that inspire good moods, by stories that remind me joy and laughter are still possible with faith in a future of possibilities for people of good will. All is not lost.

    But I hope I always remember Davis appearing on my doorstep at 8 o’clock on a Sunday morning the weekend before Christmas with peanut butter Buddy Biscuits for Spike, Charly and Carl. That was service above and beyond – kindness that should be celebrated regardless of the holidays we observe.

  • We Three Kings of Cardinal Drive

    We Three Kings of Cardinal Drive


    Jesus saith unto him, Rise, take up thy bed, and walk. (Gospel of John)

    Every morning at five o’clock King Carl saith unto me rise, take up thy bed off thy back, and walk…to the den to let me outside for my morning constitutional, and be quick about it.

    then he follows me to the kitchen, waits patiently while I make my coffee

    inseparable cats Batman and Robin want breakfast asap

    (before I take my first sip of coffee – spoilitis)

    I am ready to eat, says the third King of Cardinal Drive

    We three kings of Orient are;
    bearing gifts we traverse afar,
    field and fountain, moor and mountain,
    following yonder star.

    O star of wonder, star of light,
    star with royal beauty bright,
    westward leading, still proceeding,
    guide us to thy perfect light.

    —- John Henry Hopkins, Jr. (1857)

    oops, no star – we’ll settle for the moon on Christmas Eve morning

    Batman and Robin are two male feral cats that guard our carport in exchange for food and a warm place to sleep. Unfortunately, their guard duties do not extend to our car and truck, but hey, you can’t have it all, can you, Santa?

  • the battle my grandmother lost

    the battle my grandmother lost


    my early years in my hometown of rural Richards, Texas

    (circa 1949 – when I was three years old)

    (this picture should have been a clue, but my grandmother ignored it)

     

    a birthday party dress made by my grandmother (circa 1951)

    my grandmother made this dress and a  picture postcard of me

    for her family Easter card in 1949

    Bless her heart. My grandmother tried and tried to reshape my fashions which upon reflection she probably hoped would reshape my life. One of the most dreaded phrases my mother ever spoke to me – the one that made me cringe-was “Your grandmother is making you a new dress and needs you to walk down to her house to try it on. No arguments, no whining, just go.”

    I absolutely hated to stand on her little stool while she endlessly pinned away to make sure  the pattern she bought from a grand clothing store in much bigger town Navasota  fit perfectly on my small body. She pulled, tugged here and there, made me turn around as she measured whatever cloth she had purchased when she bought the pattern. I prayed silently that the aroma I smelled was her pineapple fried pies…the only possible redemption from the hell of being poked and prodded for a new dress I didn’t want to wear.

    My grandmother Betha Day Robinson Morris and I lived within shouting distance of each other in the tiny town (pop. about 500) of Richards until my dad found a new job that took us out of the place I called home when I was 13 years old. Our new home in Brazoria was less than two hours from Richards so we came back every other week for most of my teenage years. Distance did not deter my grandmother from her sewing, however.

    She usually managed to have something for me to try on whenever we visited. I finally surrendered to her passion for sewing because as I grew older I came to understand sewing was an important part of her life, but to this day I dread hearing Pretty say she brought something home for me to try on.

    my grandmother surveys her granddaughters

    before Easter Sunday church services in 1963

    I was 17 years old and wearing a dress my grandmother made for me

    while my younger cousin Melissa modeled her store-bought outfit

    My grandmother continued to sew for me until I was in my twenties. Every Christmas she wrapped a large box in her best wrapping paper and favorite bow saved from the previous Christmas to give to me. I always opened with feigned surprise at the dress she made for me to wear to church and praised her for being able to still find the perfect pattern and material for me even when I wasn’t there to try it on.

    I’ll never forget the last time I opened a gift of clothing she made for me. She had made a pants suit – unbelievable. I could see she was pleased with herself for breaking from the dress tradition she wanted me to wear to making the pants she now understood would forever be my choice of clothes. The year was 1968 – I was 22 years old – my grandmother would have been 55. The pants suit represented a rite of passage for both of us.

    Unfortunately, I never could bring myself to wear the pants suit which was made with a hideous polyester fabric and a horrible bright green and white large zig zag pattern. I couldn’t bring myself to wear it, but I carried it with me around the country wherever I moved for the next 30 years. I would carefully hang it in my closet as a daily reminder of  the love my grandmother gave me for as long as she lived.

    My grandmother Betha was a flawed individual but what I wouldn’t give today to hear my mother say “Sheila Rae, your grandmother is making you a new dress and wants you to try it on. No arguments, no whining, just go.”

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

    Those were the days, my friends – and now we have the opportunities to create new memories for our granddaughters we celebrate not only during the holiday season but also whenever we see them. What will they remember? I wonder.