Today was house cleaning day at our place, and I made a poor decision by choosing to do laundry for one of my chores plus cleaning two bathrooms for the other one while Pretty wisely opted for changing sheets on our bed and vacuum duties. I had forgotten how many piles of laundry were scattered around the house, but I got an early start to tackle the job, took breaks whenever I needed to walk Carl outside to make sure he stayed away from the empty chasm that was our pool a mere two days ago. We needed a new pool liner which is not accomplished by waving a magic wand.
Pretty still smiling, thank goodness, in the midst of pool chaos
(must be her new hairdo!)
I miss the little Cat that kept me company, made me laugh
Hurricane Debby’s destructive force slowly zigzagged across Georgia and the Carolinas this week following its first landfall on the Florida Gulf Coast; bringing tornadoes, flooding rains, and swollen rivers along its path toward a final destination in the Northeast. At least eight deaths have been recorded from the hurricane according to PBS. While our Midlands area in South Carolina was spared the deadliest blows, the rains started early this week and reminded me of the biblical tales of Noah’s Ark. I felt like it had been raining forty days and forty nights when it was only Tuesday.
Yesterday the granddaughters’ summer day camp was closed because of the hurricane which meant four-year-old Ella and two-year-old Molly had to stay inside at home while Mama Caroline worked from home. Nana and Naynay joyfully reported for duty to help, bringing french fries from Rush’s.
As if by magic, Ella learned to color lines and inside the lines this summer so our morning activities included extensive coloring by both girls. I told Ella her Naynay had always colored between the lines which made Pretty LOL while she reassured Molly not everyone colored inside the lines all the time. That Pretty, always the rebel.
Rivers not far from our home continue to rise from the heavy rains, neighbors and friends struggle to remove downed trees, to have power restored, to clear debris from roads, to begin the long recovery process from Debby’s disastrous forces.
We give thanks not only for our safety but for all the first responders who continue working to expedite the recovery process. I hope our followers in cyberspace will join us as Pretty and I remember the families of those who lost lives, homes, everything they held dear.
Meanwhile, our granddaughters returned to their summer camp today. I believe Ella will color between the lines, but trust me. She will question who created the lines.
Yesterday Governor Tim Walz became Vice President Kamala Harris’s personal choice to become her Veep in the 2024 campaign. Of course Pretty had vetted the governor before I even knew who he was. We both sat and watched their first campaign event together in Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love, the birthplace of America.
When the topic is women’s reproductive rights, follow the yellow brick road repaired by a Wizard named Walz in his home state of Minnesota six months after the Dobbs decision by the Supreme Court in June, 2022, that took away a woman’s right to choose to have an abortion. Minnesota became the the first state to restore personal freedom of choice for women in January, 2023, an effort championed by its governor Tim Walz who understood from his own experience that personal health decisions must be personal.
4-year-old granddaughter Ella watches at Aunt Coco’s house
Daddy holds 2-year-old Molly while Uncle Seth watches with them
both granddaughters will grow up with a woman President (hopefully!)
I like Tim, or as I have decided to call him, Happy Tim. I also had a Civics teacher in junior high school who was a football coach, and I credit that course with sparking my interest in understanding the importance of separation of powers in our government. Coach K smiled a lot, too, but our football team wasn’t nearly as good as Coach Walz’s.
Onward.
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P.S. Thanks to Mama Caroline for pictures used here.
“Naynay, I’ve been busy in the pool today so I need you to make sure you clean my tree house before we come back again. It’s really a mess,” said four-year-old granddaughter Ella to me as she handed me her small toy broom with a serious expression before she made a mad dash to keep up with her mother and two-year-old sister Molly who were already at the gate on the way to their car.
The girls, their mother and Pretty had been to the zoo one morning with cousin Caleb and his parents earlier this week, but I couldn’t rally for that fun excursion so I was happy they brought the party to our house in the afternoon. Everyone was trying to keep cool in the triple-digit summer heat.
Ella’s definition of “tree house” puzzling
hope my cleaning passes Ella’s inspection this week
(she was right aboutone thing: it was messy)
And yet, as I try to live every day in the present, I am a wanderer in the wilderness of my past during the quiet times when the dogs haven’t spied dangers from the mail delivery, Pretty is at work in her antique empire, the granddaughters are busy making new friends at summer camp – just me with the memories of another time and place.
George Patton Morris holding his granddaughter (me) in 1946
Barber Morris, as he was known for more than sixty years, wore a starched white shirt with a carefully selected tie every day of his life until he closed his barber shop in Richards, Texas in the mid 1980s. I thought of him especially this week on his birthday, July 29th., and rummaged through my first baby pictures book to find images of this man I adored until he died in 1987.
George was born in 1898 in Walker County, Texas, the ninth of eleven children born to William James and Margaret Antonio Moore Morris. Maggie Morris (1864-1963) was from Winn Parish, Louisiana and had her first child in 1882 when she was eighteen years old, her last child in 1906 when she was forty-two. Imagine what their family life was like raising eleven children on a small farm in rural southeast Texas at the turn of the twentieth century. Surviving the Great Depression of the 1930s as a widow with the death of her husband in 1927; living through two world wars. I knew my great-grandmother because my grandfather took me to visit her when she came to see her daughters, his sisters Erma, Berniece and Hattie Jane, in Huntsville which was only a half hour from where we lived in Richards. She was a tiny woman, frail, and like my grandfather, not very chatty.
George and his wife Betha holding their granddaughter in 1946
If only I could see my family again…I would ask countless questions I didn’t have sense enough to ask when I was a teenager absorbed with keeping my secret homosexual self safe. Today I’d want to spend the time thanking them for the lives they lived, the sacrifices they made, the foundation they laid that gave me the opportunities I’ve had to live the good life. I am grateful for my precious memories, how they linger, how they ever flood my soul.
Back to the present, though. It’s time to pick up Ella and Molly from summer school camp.
Naynay, can we have ice cream today? You betcha, and your tree house is spotless.
I'll Call It Like I See It 
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