I'll Call It Like I See It

by sheila morris

Category: sports

  • hear ye, hear ye – calling ALL patriots: Mayday, Mayday!


    Tears rolled down my cheeks today as I watched and heard House Manager Adam Schiff read the two Articles of Impeachment referred to the Senate by the House of Representatives for trial and removal of the president. Listening to the charges of high crimes and misdemeanors in the Senate chamber against the American president Donald John Trump, even a president I never supported, was an unexpectedly joyless experience.

    I think I finally understood what Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi had been reminding the nation in every press conference she’s held concerning this process. Somber, solemn, even sad, the burden of discovery of the facts that forced her to stand up for her belief in the constiution of the United States regardless of political consequences. Her belief, and the conviction of her party’s caucus in the House,  that no person is above the law in this country gave her no choice in pursuing the removal of someone who continued to threaten our national securtiy and ultimately our democracy.

    Today I felt her pain and sadness and wept with her for a country caught up in crisis.

    Pretty tells me that only people like me who have the luxury to watch either MSNBC faithfully or FOX news religiously during the past few months actually cared about the Senate trial or its outcome. Until yesterday I assured her she was wrong.

    But I had a conversation yesterday with a young woman who teaches sixth grade at a middle school here in South Carolina.  Obviously a person with a good education and a teacher for all the right reasons in this her eighth year of classrom experience. We talked about politics – the Democratic debate the night before. I asked her if she watched the debate, and she said no. She was waiting for the later ones. And then she added out of the blue, really politics are a joke in this country since Donald Trump became president. I felt she spoke for many in her generation; I had a sense of loss and frustation that perhaps our brightest younger citizens were turned off by the  divisions, heated hateful rhetoric, the images of a country at war with itself.

    Then last night Pretty was once again proven to be right about the state of political awareness in our nation when three Jeopardy contestants, three clearly smart women who wouldn’t be on Jeopardy if they weren’t, had a question with a picture of a man they were asked to identify. None of the three buzzed in to answer. The man was Adam Schiff, the person who was the face of the House impeachment process during the past three months  because he is the Chair of the House Intelligence Committee which began the investigation into the president’s misconduct as a result of a whistleblower complaint. I have to admit I was stunned at their lack of recognition of this key House spokesperson.

    Clearly I have too much time invested in the parade of outrageous acts that have defined this country in the past three years. Yes, I hope for a change in leadership, but I also hope for a change in our country’s attitudes toward ourselves in our home towns, attitudes that celebrate our differences, attitudes of finding common ground with our neighbors who share the same dreams for their families that we have for ours, attidudes that rise upward toward the men and women who represent us in Congress and elsewhere around the world.

    The outcome of the Senate trial of this president supposedly has already been determined along party lines. I just watched 99 Senators sign a book attesting to their oath for a fair trial. I would like to believe they will be true to that oath. Regardless of the outcome, this is a moment in time for us to decide who we are as a nation. I encourage every American to care enough about our country to tune in to the Senate trial as our history and future unfolds.

    Hear ye, hear ye – calling all patriots – mayday, mayday!

  • boys and girls together


    Finn, Oscar, Dwight, George – these are the names of the most important men in my life for the last nine years. I know for sure the number of years because Finn turned nine years old in November, Dwight will be nine this month, and I’ve known them both since they were new arrivals to the Snyder family in South Carolina and the Huss family in Texas respectively. Oscar, Dwight’s older brother, at eleven years old is the eldest of the Fabulous Huss Brothers of Worsham Street in Texas; George, the youngest Huss brother, is now seven.

    Oscar, Dwight and George in April, 2014

    (photo courtesy of their mother, Councilwoman Becky Huss)

    Pretty holding Finn in April, 2011

    Since my experience with infants becoming babies becoming children has been exclusively with boys, I admit to a certain trepidation when we found out our first grandchild was going to be a girl – a baby girl who is now three months old, a baby girl Pretty and I babysit two days a week while both her parents go to work.

    granddaughter Ella today (01-11-2020)

    (photo courtesy her mother Caroline)

    I adore the men in my life – I always will – but boys, watch out.

    Girls rock.

    Stay tuned.

     

     

     

  • if these are the last days, we better have cash according to Pretty


    Last night Pretty and I were watching who’s the greatest of all time on Jeopardy, bemoaning the fact that neither of us will ever make a million dollars answering questions which we might be able to think of the answers to in due time but certainly not so quickly as the three guys who pushed the buttons in lightning speed for the correct responses on the TV. Pretty said speaking of money, we need to get cash out of our bank account.

    Like most people (I assume most people although I have no concrete proof) we make our purchases with our bank debit cards these days. Rarely is there any actual cash in either of our possession at home or when we’re out among the masses, but apparently Pretty had been alerted by her Twitter folks that these may be the  “last days” as the result of America’s killing an Iranian general in Baghdad over the weekend.

    If these are the last days, she continued, we need to make preparations that include taking money out of the banks which might close as the result of a cyber attack, converting to currency, and hanging on to it for dear life.

    Yes, I said jumping on board with any suggestions Pretty recommended for the last days, and let’s make sure we have gasoline in both vehicles at all times in case we need to make a run for it, I added.

    What about food? Pretty asked. Hm, I thought. That’s a real problem since neither Pretty nor I ever used any appliance in the kitchen except a microwave to heat the takeout and the refrigerator for storing leftovers from the takeouts.

    Evidently Pretty was also worried about the food situation. Never mind, she said, we’ll just buy fast food with our cash.

    After Ken Jennings polished off Round 1 of the Jeopardy tournament, I switched to Rachel Maddow but could barely listen to her detailed explanation of the events of the past few days and our country’s precarious position in the Middle East because I was still mulling over our family plans for the last days.

    For example, how much cash would we need. Pretty had suggested $500. Was that enough? Too much? Who knew? As for making a run for it with two tanks of gasoline, where in the world was I planning on going? Charleston? Charlotte? Landrum?

    Thankfully today tensions appeared to cool after Iran’s retaliatory missile strikes in Iraq yesterday. I will check in tonight with Rachel Maddow after Round 2 of the Jeopardy tournament to try to learn more about the world we live in (for now anyway) and Pretty can revisit with her Twitter peeps to see if they have further suggestions for the last days.

    In the mean time, I have a few unrelated pictures of several of the 24 dogs I’ve had in my lifetime – if these are the last days, I want to think of happy ones – and these are some of the happiest.

    Stay tuned.

    The Red Man and the Old Woman Slow

    (in the early days – spring, 2001)

    Tennis Ball Obsessed Chelsea, Smokey Lonesome Ollie, and The Red Man

    (at Casa de Canterbury, sometime in 2012)

    Spike, he who appeared on Worsham Street and never left us

    (spring of 2012)

     

  • pretty in fine form for new year’s day


    ‘Twas the week after Christmas, and all through the house two creatures are stirring, and neither’s a mouse. Only Spike and I are up so far, and in all fairness we’re probably not even stirring – more staring than stirring. Me at my computer – Spike at the front yard from his panoramic view in the living room.

    Spike, our rescued shepherd mix, is the early riser in our family, but his main goal of being the first one up is to serve as an alarm clock for Pretty, Charly, and me. Pretty has perfected the pretense of ignoring him, I  get up when I hear Spike’s nails clicking on the hardwood floors in our bedroom and Charly makes a great show of jumping out of bed with me as the three of us walk together to open the doggie door in the sun room for the day.

    I usually walk outside with Spike to greet the colors of the sunrise and to see the squirrels he will bark at while he chases them around for a few minutes until they scamper up the huge oak tree to safety. Charly, on the other hand, may or may not come with us, her decision resting on whether she determines breakfast will be served early or later. At the signs of no early breakfast, she turns and runs to go back to get in bed with Pretty whose philosophy is she’s never met a sunrise she liked.

    Today is the first day of a new year, a new decade, I said to Spike this morning when we walked outside. He stood still for a second while I talked to him but then spotted two squirrels that were taunting him with their bushy tails in the yard near the old oak tree. He was off and running, but they weren’t frightened by either his loud barking or thundering toward them. I swear I saw one of them wink at the other one as they chased each other up the tree. Spike’s best efforts were thwarted once again. He turned away and walked back to me. His work was done until the pesky little varmints ventured into the yard again.

    ***********

    Happy New Year, I said to Pretty an hour later when I heard her in the kitchen popping the top on her first can of Diet Coke for the day.

    Happy New Year, Pretty responded and then continued, the first day of 2020 and the first day of a new decade.

    I know, I said. When I was a teenager in Texas in the 1960s, I never thought I would live to be thirty years old. When I had my 30th birthday in 1976, I said well, I will never live to see the turn of the century and now here I still am on the verge of a third decade in the 21st century. What do you think about that, Pretty?

    Pretty looked directly at me and said, I think you must be a drama queen.

    *********

    “We trust that time is linear. That it proceeds eternally, uniformly. Into infinity. But the distinction between past, present and future is nothing but an illusion. Yesterday, today and tomorrow are not consecutive, they are connected in a never-ending circle. Everything is connected.” (Dark, Season 1)

    Lordy, Lordy. Whenever I do pass, I hope I somehow stay connected to Pretty.

    Happy New Year!

    Stay tuned.

     

     

     

  • gold, frankincense and myrrh with a 21st century twist


    I’m a basic Bah, Humbug Christmas person and have been for years.   I’m not clinically depressed during the holiday season, but neither am I joyful.  I resist the pressure to shop ‘til I drop, but that isn’t limited to a particular time of the year, either.  I’m considering the possibility I may suffer from borderline Scrooge disorder or at a minimum, Holiday Harrumphs.

    This year is different.   I’ve been jolted and shaken out of my cynicism and once again believe in the magic that is Christmas.  I think my transformation actually began last year when my new neighbors in Texas on Worsham Street decorated their homes and yards with spectacular exterior holiday lighting.  They adorned trees, bushes, windows, doors, porches, benches, roofs – anything they could find to attach a string of lights – and the little street came alive with white icicle lights and plain white lights and multi-colored lights of all shapes and sizes that glowed and blinked and gave the appearance of a miniature Disneyland.  I absolutely loved them and of course, I had to participate with my own lights on our house on the street.  I felt my Christmas ice melt just a little each time I turned the switch that lit my bright lights.  This year the street is again beautiful, and I thank my neighbors for the inspiration of their lighting traditions.

    I miss my family at Christmas, the family that defined Christmas for me as a child.  That family is gone as that time and place are gone, but the child inside me mourns their loss every time I hear “Silent Night” and other carols sung during this time of the year.  We were musical people and much of our holiday revolved around music in our Southern Baptist churches where my mother was always responsible for the Christmas Cantata.  Sometimes she played the piano for it so my dad could lead the church choir and sometimes she drafted another pianist so she could lead the choir herself.  Regardless, music was the reason for the season for us and we celebrated the season in church.

    Family has been re-defined in my adult life by my wife and four children in furry suits that I adore.  I have a son who now has a girlfriend he lives with and so our family grows together.  Through the past forty years I’ve been away from Texas I’ve been fortunate to have wonderful friends who have become closer than the DNA-linked group I left behind.  In my gay and lesbian community in South Carolina, the term “family” is a word we use to describe ourselves.  The question, “Do you think she’s family?” is translated, “Do you think she’s a lesbian like us?”  Being part of a marginalized sub-culture creates strong bonds within that environment and my friends have been simply the best.

    Coming home to Texas to live has connected me once again with my DNA family and that’s been an incredible experience and part of the magic of Christmas for me the last two years. First cousins, second cousins, third cousins once removed and the people they’ve married and their children are good, and a few questionable, surprises for me.  Gathering for a cousins’ Christmas potluck luncheon or going with cousins to the Montgomery Annual Cookie Walk or having cousins come to our home or visiting in their homes rekindle good memories of the times when our hair wasn’t white and our figures were slimmer and the great-grandparents at the table weren’t us. I see these relatives and I am a part of them, and I feel good to belong to them at Christmas. Our conversations honor and celebrate our heritage and the ones who are no longer with us.  We laugh and cry together because we are moved by our memories. My family is a Christmas gift.

    But just as the familiar story goes of the Wise Men who followed a bright light to Bethlehem and brought gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh to the baby boy in the manger, Wise Women in my life have brought gifts that rocked my Christmas complacency. My wife surprised me with an early gift at Thanksgiving when I went home to her in South Carolina.  It’s worth its weight in gold to me.  It’s a western saddle made of leather and rides a wooden quilt holder that a Worsham Street neighbor gave me when she saw the saddle.  It’s a perfect combination and looks good in my Texas den underneath a picture of a cowboy sitting on a fence.  Whenever I look at the saddle, I think of two of my favorite things: my wife who knew me well enough to buy this treasure for me and my days of riding horses as a child. I feel the love of the giver of this perfect gift.

    Frankincense was used in ancient times for medicinal and calming purposes including treatment for depression.  Burning frankincense was also thought to carry prayers to heaven by people in those days.  One of the Wise Women in my life gave me my own version of frankincense last week when she bought a plane ticket to South Carolina for me to be with my wife for Christmas.  I marvel at this generosity from a friend who surely loves me and who chased away the potential Christmas blues. This gift came from prayers to heaven that were unasked but answered on the wings of a snow white dove called US Airways and the spirit that is the magic of Christmas in the heart of my friend.

    Myrrh is an Arabic word for bitter and it is the resin that comes from a tree that grows in the semi-desert regions of Africa and the Red Sea.  The Chinese used it for centuries to treat wounds and bruises and bleeding.  The Egyptians used myrrh as an embalming oil for their mummies.  Yesterday I received another gift that reminded me of myrrh – not the bitterness nor the embalming properties – but the unexpected present was a live blooming cactus plant that arrived at my house via a congenial UPS driver who I believe thinks he is Santa Claus.  When I opened the box and removed the moss packing per the enclosed instructions, I was stunned by the beauty of the pink blooms and the deep rich green of the plant.  The gift came from another Wise Woman who is married to my cousin in Rosenberg, Texas and was an additional reminder of the magic that lives in Christmas.  Every day I’ll see these blooms and think of my cousins who sent them and the healing power beauty affords us when we take a moment to consider it.  I’ve always loved a Christmas cactus.

    Gold, frankincense and myrrh with a 21st century twist.  The Christmas story of Mary and Joseph’s plight in the manger in Bethlehem has been told and re-told for thousands of years.  Regardless of your belief, it is a tender tale of a family who welcomes a baby boy into a world of conflict and hardship and hopes he will somehow change it for the better.   The same conflicts continue two thousand years later and hardships of every shape and description plague our families today, but we move on.  Sometimes forward, sometimes backward.  But onward we go.  And in this spirit of hope for a better world where peace becomes the norm and hardships are made more bearable, I abandon my Bah, Humbug  with a Merry Christmas to all!

    Stay tuned.

    (Note: this post was published originally in December, 2011)

    picking just the right cookies at the Christmas Cookie Walk