I'll Call It Like I See It

by sheila morris

Category: The Way Life Is

  • Memories of My Daddy and His Bird Dogs

    Memories of My Daddy and His Bird Dogs


    I first published this piece about my daddy and his dogs in August, 2015. Father’s Day will be here before you can say jack rabbit – be thankful for the dads, their dads, and all the dads before them. I would love to be sitting down for a Father’s Day meal at my grandmother’s house this coming Sunday. We’d have a lot of catching up to do since my father died June 30, 1976, at the age of fifty-one. I was thirty years old and lost not only my daddy but also my best friend.

    From the time I was five or six years old growing up in rural southeast Texas in the 1950s, my daddy used to take me with him to hunt quail during what I remember as a relatively short season in the late fall and winter months. Quail lived in coveys in fields in the countryside around us and were excellent at hiding from their enemies in the tall grasses that would become hay when baled. You could walk and walk and walk some more until you felt like your legs were going to fall off if you had to put one foot ahead of the other again, but the quail were always one step ahead of you unless you had help locating them.

    Enter the hunter’s best friend: the German short-haired pointer a/k/a in Grimes County, Texas, as the bird dog. A good bird dog could run through a field sniffing and sniffing, sometimes whining, until he caught a whiff of a covey of quail and then he would stop, raise his right front leg to a ninety-degree angle,  curl his medium-length tail over his back and point his nose exactly in the direction of the covey. He remained in this precise position until the hunter walked up beside the dog which would cause the quail to take flight with the sound of their fluttering wings making a whoosh noise as they left the ground.

    Whoosh! Bam! It was over that quick. The covey rose from the ground cover, and my daddy would shoot his twelve-gauge shotgun. Occasionally a bird would fall, and I would run to retrieve it and put it in my jacket to take home to my grandmother who would be happy to fix it for our supper. We rarely got our  legal limit, but we would usually have enough for a meal.

    The problem my daddy had was he never had a “good” bird dog.  He got the puppies from different people  in the area who always assured him their dogs were the best in the field, but invariably the pointer he got didn’t respond well to training. A common trait Daddy’s dogs had was rather than stopping to point and hold their position, they would  stop to point for a split second and then run as fast as they could to try to catch the birds by themselves. Of course, the quail would take flight when they heard the dogs and be long gone out of  shooting range by the time we caught up with the dogs. Daddy would halfheartedly fuss – and the dogs rarely improved.

    As I think back on this now, I believe our dogs had an identity issue which caused their lackluster performance in the field. Whether they did well or not in the hunting arena, they were fed regularly with  delicious scraps from our table (dog food wasn’t on Daddy’s radar screen) and petted and hugged on an equally regular basis. They came indoors for their pets and Daddy often scooped the big dogs up and held them on his lap while he talked to them about their shortcomings. My daddy was a very diminutive man – about five feet six inches tall – and those dogs weighed almost as much as he did. They looked at him with adoring eyes and absolute trust…and seemed to be saying I promise I’ll do better next time…but they wouldn’t.

    My daddy loved his bird dogs. We always had at least one dog in our family for as long as I can remember and at one time when I was in high school, we had three.  I know that for sure because I still have the original oil paintings he commissioned  at that time from an artist friend of his.

    001

    Daddy’s Bird Dogs: Rex, Seth and Dab (circa 1966)

    No wonder I love my dogs. I’ve never personally owned a bird dog, but I’ve been on the receiving end of the adoring eyes and plaintive expressions of more than a few dogs of my own throughout my adult life. I confess to holding them on my lap if I can scoop them up, but even if I can’t do that, I will give them lots of love and kisses whenever and wherever they will stand  or sit or lie down to be so smothered.

    Loving dogs – or any animal for that matter – is the gift that keeps on giving to us mere humans, but the gift comes with a high price tag because their lives are relatively short. Indeed,  it seems the older we are, the faster we lose them.

    Two of our three remaining dogs that have given us much more loyalty and adoration than we deserve over the past decade have now been diagnosed with cancers that will ultimately take them from us. What I have learned from them is that they both keep their pain to themselves without complaints. They are not troubled by wondering why they are in their particular situations, and I think this allows them to try to keep changes in their routines to a minimum. They like to roll the way they’ve always rolled if they possibly can.

    I am a contemplative person – I can’t help myself. I find I can spend a great deal of time trying to figure out “why” this happened or that took place. Unfortunately, discovering “why” doesn’t necessarily lead to productive change. As a matter of fact, the opposite is likely to occur. So when I find myself in a position similar to the ones my dogs are facing today, I hope I have learned my lessons from the examples they have set for me and focus less on “why” and more on “so what.”

    That’s the way I’d like to roll.

    P.S. My daddy never asked anyone to make an oil painting of me.

  • Shedding Old Skins: Embracing New Beginnings in 2026

    Shedding Old Skins: Embracing New Beginnings in 2026


    “We move through our lives shedding skins – kissing older versions or ourselves goodbye and kissing newer versions hello.”

    Wish I had written this, but the quote was a line delivered recently by the main character in the TV drama series, Bull, which I watch occasionally at Ion television when I have exhausted my other streaming possibilities.

    The Dr. Jason Bull quote I could relate to especially on the beginning of the New Year 2026. I liked the idea of shedding skins, kissing the older version of myself goodbye and kissing a newer version hello.

    I will be 80 years old in April, 2026, which means I can look back to several lifetimes of skin shedding in those decades spilling over from one century to the next.

    Some skins were painful to shed, and some were full of joy because that’s how “shedding” works. Some fell somewhere in between on a continuum of not understanding whether the skin I was shedding was one step forward and two steps back or two steps forward and no steps back. Shedding isn’t necessarily crystal clear.

    As the New Year 2026 begins, I hope our Resolutions include the possibility of kissing our new skins hello and kicking our old skins to the curb. Yes, that definitely was my quote – sounds just like me.

    Happy New Year!

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

    Nana and Naynay, Kitty and Kaka on the playground

    New Year’s Eve with four grandmothers, three granddaughters

    (and one random child along for the ride)

    the little girls growing up too fast – and reluctant to say goodbye

    (how many skins will they shed in their lifetimes)

  • The Impact of Dreams: Connecting with Loved Ones

    The Impact of Dreams: Connecting with Loved Ones


    Detours with Daddy is the title of the third section of my third book I’ll Call It Like I See It  because it’s a mixture of facts and fantasy about my dad who was my best friend and favorite person in the world while I was growing up.   My earlier memoirs Deep in the Heart – A Memoir of Love and Longing and Not Quite the Same describe my adoration of my daddy who died when I was thirty years old.   His impact on my life was incalculable and I often wonder what he would have thought about my adult life as a lesbian activist.

    DADDY DREAMS

                When I woke up, the dream was still in my consciousness, and I had a strange sensation of crossing a threshold through time into another world.  I tried to remember…

    I see the car stop in front of a small building that looks vaguely familiar.  My grandmother, my aunt, and I get out of the car.  We’re not in a hurry as we climb the steps that lead to the door.  I notice that my grandmother and my aunt are very young and beautiful.  My grandmother’s hair is short and wavy and dark.  She looks like she just left the beauty parlor.  My aunt’s body shows no sign of the osteoporosis that plagued her in later years.  Her back is straight, and her walk strong and sure.  The two of them laugh and talk together, and I want to say something, but they ignore me.

    The little building has no windows and no sign.  I know that I belong inside, and I’m anxious to open the door.  My grandmother turns an ancient glass knob, and my aunt and I follow her into the room.

    The room is dimly lit with a single bulb attached to the ceiling.  My eyes struggle to make an adjustment that allows me to gaze at my surroundings.  At that moment the brightness changes like a dimmer switch has been turned up a notch.  I can see clearly.

    “We thought you’d never get here,” my dad says.  “You must’ve taken the long way.  You didn’t run out of gas, did you?”  He laughs and winks at me.  “I told you when you first started driving to always check the gasoline gauge, didn’t I?  Remember that?  You wouldn’t get far without gas, and you always had somewhere to go.”

    My father wears his World War II army air corps uniform with the wings on his collar and insignia on the sleeve.  The knot on his tie is perfectly tied.  He is handsome, and I am happy to see him.  His blonde hair has a military cut, and he, too, looks incredibly youthful.  He sits on a wooden bench in the room.  He looks comfortable and very much at ease.

    “Which way did you come?” he asks.

    “I came…” I start to answer.  “I’m not sure.  I had to pick up your mother and sister, so I left early.  I didn’t want to be late, and they wouldn’t tell me exactly where we were going.  Now here we are.  I’ve missed talking to you so much.”

    “We talk all the time,” he says and smiles.  “It’s a different kind of language, but it’s as real as the King’s English.”  He beckons me to sit next to him on the bench.

    “I’m so glad you have on your uniform,” I say as I sit down.  “I love that uniform.  When I found it in the cedar chest, I thought I could wear it, but it was too big.  Daddy, why didn’t you ever talk about the war?”

    “What’s there to say about war?”  He fingers one of the wings on his collar.  He has the prettiest hands, I think.  “What do you want to hear?”  He looks directly at me.

    “I don’t know, but I want you to tell me something.  Anything, I guess.  I saw the pictures, so I know it was real.”

    “Of course, you saw the pictures and played with the uniform.  That makes it real.  And now you’ve found the letters that I wrote to your mother and the other family members, haven’t you?  Isn’t that enough?”

    “Yes, I found the letters; and no, I don’t think it’s enough.”

    My father opens a box on the bench beside him and removes a piece of paper.  He closes his eyes and begins to recite from memory.

    December 28, 1944

    Dearest Darling,

                 I’ve often wondered if you couldn’t guess just how much I miss you at different times.  You know, sometimes you are the only thing that makes me want to be back there.  I could go on forever telling you that I see you everywhere I go, etc., but you’d enjoy that too much.  In not so long a time I’ll be back with you.  It already seems like ages to me.  Do you ever sort of forget about me, unconsciously, I mean, just forget?  That is one of the most horrible things I can think of.  Well, enough of that.

                Tonight some of the guys wanted me to play on the Field team, but I had a rather hard day so, for once, I refused a basketball game.

                Well, Baby, I must go to sleep, for I am very tired, but not too tired to say goodnight to the one I love.

    Yours forever,

    My dad opens his eyes and returns the paper to the box. He looks at me again.

    “That was the war,” he says.  “The day I wrote that letter I flew my first bombing mission over Germany.  I was nineteen years old and the navigator for my crew.  I was responsible for locating a town that we could blow up, and then for finding our way back to England.  Before that day I had been in training with my buddies.  We waited for orders that would allow us to prove our manhood.  We bragged to each other about what we would do.

    “When we touched the runway coming in from that mission, though, I felt sick, and it wasn’t from the altitude or lack of oxygen.  The smell of gun powder made my eyes burn.  The sounds of machine guns reverberated in my ears.  But, it was the sight of smoke and fire and devastation and death that made me write to your mother that night.  And fear.  Not the fear of dying, but the fear of being forgotten.”

    A dog runs past me and jumps into my father’s lap.  I don’t recognize the dog.

    “Dad, is this your dog?”

    “If it is, make sure it stays outside,” my grandmother says from behind me.  I stand and move away from the bench to see my grandmother sitting at her sewing machine.  She looks up from the contraption’s hammering needle and frowns at me.

    “How many times do I have to tell you that dogs belong out of doors?” she asks.  I have no reply because I can’t count that high.

    “Why do you live so far away?” she continues.  “You never come to see us.  Your grandfather isn’t well, and he wants to know if you’re going to be here for Father’s Day.  I told him you wouldn’t.  Then, I wondered why you wouldn’t.  Well, Miss Busybody who has so many questions for her daddy, I’m requesting an answer from you.”

    “I didn’t know he’s sick,” I say.

    “Who?  Who’s sick?” she responds with irritation.

    “You said my grandfather’s sick,” I remind her.  She shakes her head and pushes the pedal of the sewing machine.  The yammering noises resume.

    “I have a good job,” I say to her back.

    “You had a good job less than two hours away from us.  Now it takes days to visit you, if we can even find your house.  Are you telling me there are no good jobs any closer than a thousand miles from here?”  The machine whirrs faster.

    “You never come to see me,” I say.  “None of my family ever comes to my house for Thanksgiving or Christmas or my birthday, either.  It’s not fair for me to be the only one who travels every holiday.  One night I had to spend the entire night in an airport by myself.  I slept on a sofa in the security guard’s office, for heaven’s sake.”

    The sewing machine stops.  My grandmother stands up and faces me.

    “I didn’t move.  You moved.  You moved a long time ago, and a thousand miles away.  I’m young and stubborn.  You’re old and obstinate.  You get that from your mother’s side of the family.”  She laughs at her own joke.  I laugh with her because I’m glad that she loves me enough to miss me.

    “Thank God you can drive me home today.  Tell your aunt I’m ready to go,” she says.  She gestures toward the machine.  “That material was too flimsy and couldn’t hold the thread.  I’m leaving it for the next fool who’s willing to pay a ridiculous amount of money for thin fabric.”

    “Oh, Mama,” my aunt says.  “You’re such a mess.  Let’s not worry or fuss about something as silly as material.  You’ll get too upset over nothing.  I’m sure we can stop along the way and find you a different kind.”

    We walk to the door in front of us.  My aunt turns the ancient glass knob, and we cross through the portal together.

    The car is gone.

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

    I published this piece here in February, 2012, two months before my mother’s death. I recall I was staying at our home on Worsham Street in Montgomery, Texas; my father, his mother, and sister were not strangers to my dreams. My father died in 1976, my grandmother in 1983, and my Aunt Lucille in 2013. I am thankful for them, would love to visit them – even on a zoom call.

  • How a Bottle-Baby Kitten Became Our Summer Star

    How a Bottle-Baby Kitten Became Our Summer Star


    Remember the three little kittens that lost more than their mittens but were rescued by Pretty who cannot refuse any creature in distress? They made their first appearance here in June.

    Motherless, tiny, hungry, sleepy –

    the kitten invasion began innocently

    My allergies to cats are well documented, but these kittens were going to be temporary, Pretty assured me with one of her smiles that has always motivated me to say yes to whatever she wanted. She promised to take care of them herself without subjecting me to allergy-producing contact, and she was true to her word about their care.

    She bottle-fed them for weeks, carried them with her to work in one of her storage boxes every day from where they lived in our kitchen until…

    They outgrew the box. Kittens seemed to me to have multiplied because suddenly kittens were everywhere. Dashing thither and yon with reckless abandon. They were fearless. Clowns, too. They entertained me endlessly with their antics.

    Neither Pretty nor I was prepared for the resistance my immune system had for the kittens, however. I took Zyrtec every morning and gradually added afternoon and evening doses of the high powered Benadryl with extra antihistamines to provide relief for the sneezing, wheezing, redder than usual itching eyes, headaches that have become unwelcome visitors this summer of 2025.

    Luckily, two of the kittens were adopted to homes that passed Pretty’s ownership criteria in July. Then there was a sole survivor in our house. I named him Bennie, short for Benadryl which if I could invest in stocks, I would choose Johnson and Johnson, its manufacturer. Oh, yes, and don’t forget Kleenex which I consumed in quantities that produced shortages in my Instacart grocery stores. Out of stock. Seriously?

    Our dog Charley became obsessed with Bennie in a good way – he motivated her to move around again – to leave the comfort of her best friend’s Spike’s favorite places in the living room which have been empty since his passing in March. Bennie’s playfulness has been contagious to our elderly dog who chases him from hiding place to hiding place.

    Pretty fell in love with Bennie, too – who’s surprised – but the person who begged to keep him because she loved the spunky little kitten without reservations was our five year old granddaughter Ella, but sadly she suffers from allergies like mine which prevented her parents from adopting him.

    The hot summer days rolled on, and Bennie remained with us.

    how can I write a blog post when you are standing on my laptop?

    I was beginning to think Bennie’s forever home was with Pretty and me when our upstate family rode in on a white horse to save the day. Darlene and Dawn, part of our family from Spartanburg County, convinced one of their neighbors she needed to add Bennie to her cat family. Pretty vetted their recommendation and approved Bennie’s transfer to the higher ground at the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

    Bennie in a favorite laundry basket today

    Bennie feels safe with us

    “Dogs come when they are called; cats take a message and get back to you.” Mary Bly (Fun Facts About Cats)

    Despite my whining about allergies, I will be heartbroken to say goodbye to Bennie who has grown on me as fast as he has developed that special personality he owns with joy and spunk. Fingers crossed his new forever home will welcome him with open arms and hearts. His temporary home will not be the same without him. Pretty, Ella, Charley and I look forward to seeing pictures of our little guy who gave us a memorable summer in 2025 ..we love you, Bennie.

    Onward.

  • a minor miracle, as miracles go

    a minor miracle, as miracles go


    I felt the bright light before I turned slightly and saw it – a brilliant, intense, dazzling flash behind me in my driveway or was it in the front yard next to the driveway? I’ll never know.

    The loud bang that followed the light shook the ground where I stood in the carport – I’d never heard thunder that loud before, a sound that traveled with me as I realized how close I had been to harm and hurried to climb the three steps from the carport to the back kitchen door.

    What a frightening interruption for a fun day with Pretty who drove me to get a haircut and then pedicures for both of us in a ritual we marked on our calendars every five weeks. Leaving the television coverage from our house during Wimbledon’s ladies’ singles semi-finals, though, today added drama as we watched from our cell phones when we could steal a glance while Esther worked her magic on our feet. We were giddy in Eli’s salon when Anisimova surprised the favorite Sabalenka to fight for a chance in the finals.

    Pretty lowered the windows in our car when we got home and told me to make sure to raise them again in case of rain. As an afterthought she placed two antique dolls on the hood of our car and asked me to watch out for them because they needed to dry from the rain yesterday when they were in the bed of her work truck during a deluge. I assured her I was on top of any precipitation.

    I needed to work in my office this afternoon and barely noticed the drizzle from my office windows when the rain began. I jumped up from my chair and told my dog Charly I needed to go put the windows up outside. She was hunkered down in the hallway.

    As I turned on the ignition to start the car, the rain began to fall with more force. By the time I left the car and closed the door, I was drenched from my short hair to my happy toes. It was a humdinger of a storm that blew up in seconds. I almost forgot the two little dolls on the hood of the car, but I turned to reach for them and found they were already as wet as I was…and that’s when the lightning struck behind me.

    priceless

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

    A minor miracle as miracles go, but someone in the great somewhere looked around and said, Nah, let’s leave the old girl alone – she still has some fight left in her.