October 22nd. was the one-year anniversary of our final tearful goodbye to the calico cat Pretty and I called Carport Kitty, the urban neighborhood legend whose physical heart could no longer support her brave spiritual one. We were desolate with grief for months whenever we drove up our driveway toward the carport that seemed bare without her.
Carport Kittydined with dignity
in January, 2023 this Dynamic Duodropped by occasionally
I recognized the pair as Carport Kitty’s friends but told Pretty we couldn’t encourage them.
that ship had sailed
Sigh. So to honor the memory of Carport Kitty we fed her two friends.
then along came a mysterious stranger in the spring of 2023
Sigh. Sigh again. So to honor the memory of Carport Kitty we fed a young neutered male who had never laid eyes on her. In order to avoid becoming attached to this young whippersnapper, Pretty and I decided to call him Cat.
our friend Nekki fussed at us about a cat named Cat
and suggestedwe name him Moses
Moses is my new assistant in the laundry room adjacent to the carport.
winter carport cat cribs
Lest anyone forgets Carport Kitty’s “Frenemy” the OG Bully Cat, I can report he also returns regularly to patrol her former kingdom and snack on leftovers.
OG Bully Cat in his collarlooking fat and sassy oncarport patrol earlier today
(Bully Cat’s home is in agarage one block downthe street – his peeps call him Romeo)
Bully Cat never met a meal he didn’t like
This evening when Pretty gets home from her antique empire duties she will see not one, but three cats who reside in our carport in one fashion or another – all sharing the legacy of the little calico cat who chose to call us her family for a time we will never forget.
“During the many years the Scotts and Nebletts [original landowners] farmed the Richards townsite, two communities grew up on either side of the future village. Longstreet, one of the toughest communities in Texas came into being two miles east, and the peaceful community of Fairview (or Dolph) rose about three miles west. Longstreet had two saloons, several stores, a race track, two gins, two sawmills and some bad characters who from time to time faced each other at high noon with six shooters blazing.” Richards, Texas: 1907 – 1987
“Richards is on Farm roads 1486 and 149 and the Burlington-Rock Island line in east central Grimes County. It was founded in 1907, when the residents of several communities in the vicinity of Lake Creek moved to a newly constructed line of the Trinity and Brazos Valley Railway where it crossed the road between Fairview (or Dolph) and Longstreet. The area had been settled by Anglo-American immigrants in the early 1830s, but no community was established until the coming of the railroad. Residents of Fairview and Longstreet led the migration to Richards; some employed log rollers to shift homes and businesses intact to the new townsite. Richards was named by railway officials for W. E. Richards, prominent South Texas banker and organizer of the Valley Route and Townsite Loan Company.” — Texas State Historical Association, general entry by Charles Christopher Jackson
James Marion Boring, Sr. (r) and brother Tommy Boring (l)
proprietors of the Boring Cafewith
patrons in the small town of Richards, Texascirca 1930s
Hazel Ward Wells, Clara McCune, Esther Davis Wilcox
Marie Witt, Fannie Kate McCune, ?, Catherine Joyce Keisler,?
My mother Selma Louise Boring Morris (1927-2012) remembered working as a child in one of my grandfather J.M. Boring’s several business ventures turned “ad-ventures” in the tiny town of Richards, Texas where she grew up but had more memories of picking up the mail at the railroad depot to deliver to the town post office than she did helping to wash dishes at the Boring Cafe, or at least that’s how she told her story. Her three older brothers and mother worked with their father and uncle at the cafe, one of eighteen businesses in Richards in 1936 when the town had a population of approximately five hundred counting chickens and dogs according to my paternal grandfather Barber George Morris whose Main Street shop with its one barber chair was a gathering place for local town news a/k/a gossip.
No more gunfights at high noon thankfully because Richards was the town I called home from the time I was born in 1946 until I was thirteen years old. When I attended public school there, I had no fear of gun violence, no concern about safety except for the possibility of Russian attacks using atomic bombs which could be survived by hiding under our small wooden desks. The two-story red brick school building constructed in 1912 was the same one my parents had attended. They both had a brief hiatus from Richards when my mom went off to Baylor in Waco after she graduated from Richards High School, and my dad volunteered to serve in the Army Air Corps during WWII following his graduation two years before hers.
I never knew my grandfather Boring who died in 1938, but I love this picture of him and his brother at the cafe they owned while a little town in Texas struggled to find its way to prosperity during the Great Depression of the 1930s, an impossible task for many who were left behind when the trains began to travel in another direction. My grandfather Barber Morris was one of a handful of Richards businesses to succeed for the next sixty years as the town was unable to experience the growth of its neighbors on farm roads 1486 and 149 that profited from Houston’s breathtaking population explosion toward the end of the twentieth century.
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America’s fascination with guns is a story that never ends. Pretty and I are deeply saddened by yet another massacre of innocent people this week in Lewiston, Maine by a gunman using a semi-automatic weapon. Our hearts go out to the families who have been affected by the traumatic losses they’ve experienced this week, the tragic events they will live with for the rest of their lives. We are also keenly aware of the dark days in Israel and Gaza, the ongoing daily deadly warfare in Ukraine. These are dangerous times that remind us of how fragile life is, how precious each breath we take. For all those who suffer in places we know and those unknown to us, we ask for comfort to the bereaved, compassion for the caregivers. Amen.
my grandmother Louise (second from top left) with her Schlinke family
outside their Rosenberg home in 1917
matriarch Selma Buls Schlinkeseated, pregnant with last baby Mary Ellen
Louise and Mr. Boring with theirfirst child, JamesMarion Boring, Jr.
Widowed in 1938 at forty years of age with four children to support, debts to pay, the Great Depression in full swing, a third grade education, living in rural Grimes County, Texas where opportunities for employment were limited – my maternal grandmother Louise waged a private war against poverty, loneliness and depression for many of her remaining years. In 1948 my mother, father and I moved in with my grandmother to share expenses and me; we lived with her for eleven years until I was thirteen years old. I believe selfishly those were the happiest years of her life because they were some of the happiest years of mine, and when we moved 125 miles south to Brazoria, the old enemies she had fought for most of her life reappeared to haunt her home. She didn’t have a car and wouldn’t know how to drive one if she did.
my grandmother Louise Schlinke Boring (r) with her immediate family
mother of four, grandmother of six atSchlinke family reunion in Houstoncirca 1962
As Fate would have it, or when the vicissitudes of life played tricks on us according to my daddy, no matter where you ride to, that’s where you are. My mama and daddy moved to Rosenberg, Texas as soon as I started college at the University of Texas in the summer of 1964. My grandmother Louise had been in and out of mental hospitals for years when she moved to Rosenberg to live with my parents in 1971 following my mother’s exasperation with her mother who she felt could be fine if she just had “somthing to do.” My grandmother died in a hospital in Rosenberg in April, 1972 – she had come full circle to the place where she had been born. Since I had used my savings to make the plane trip from Seattle to Houston at Christmas for the holidays the previous December, I didn’t have the money to fly home for her funeral which was on my twenty-sixth birthday. I was heartbroken for the loss and for not being there when she needed me.
Lots of love, Mother
This coming Friday, October 20th. is my grandmother’s birthday, and I remember her for the unconditional love she gave me for as long as she lived. She was kind, compassionate, caring and a strong woman who refused to allow the old devil to defeat her faith. I honor her every time I tell my granddaughters how much I love them.
pitchers of Sangria helped everyone’s memoryon Game Nights
Playing variations of Trivial Pursuit on monthly Game Nights with friends was a favorite activity of Pretty’s and mine in the early years of our relationship at the turn of the 21st. century. Trivial Pursuit aficionados changed over the years we played except for our two friends Dick and Curtis who enjoyed the merriment as much as we did and never missed the opportunity to get together for fun and games. We reminisced about those times last night over dinner at their lovely “country” home off Backswamp Road in Hopkins, South Carolina. Curtis mentioned he and Dick celebrated their 33rd. Anniversary this year, and that sounded like such a long, long time rather than the hot minute it seemed to me.
Dick and Pretty worked together in the residential real estate business for seventeen of those years which added a new dimension to their friendship, but Curtis and Pretty became the real team for Game Nights. When Curtis and Pretty were on the same team, the rest of us were doomed. Dick and I were always left in their dust, usually rolling our eyes at each other when the teams were chosen because he and I were consistently picked last. Our favorite moments on those nights were the delicious dinners served by the hosts.
Last night wasn’t a Game Night, but we still laugh whenever we gather for the delicious dinners served by our hosts who have welcomed us into their home and lives for as long as they have been together; we celebrate them not only for the joy their friendship gives us but also for their contributions to the advancement of the LGBTQ+ community in South Carolina for more than three decades.
Rosenberg is now a city of 39,468 (2021 census) inhabitants and a part of the Houston – The Woodlands – Sugar Land metropolitan area. When my parents moved forty miles north from our home in Brazoria to Rosenberg in June of 1964, I was a new summer school student at the University of Texas at Austin. How new, you ask? Well, when I wrote my folks to tell them I had found a ride home for a weekend visit in July, my dad wrote back something to the effect that I needed to come to Rosenberg because he and Mom lived there – not in Brazoria where we had lived for the past five years. New jobs for both Dad and Mom, new rental house, new church, everything new. I was horrified – I had hoped to see my friends from high school who stayed at home for the summer instead of going off to college. Why move to Rosenberg, I wondered. Mostly I felt hurt that they hadn’t prepared me with the truth.
The Rosenberg years in the 1960s and early 70s for my parents were good years for them. They were finally able to purchase their own home (1021 Timber Lane pictured above) in 1965 after nearly twenty years of marriage. My mother taught second grade in a much larger school district where my father was assistant superintendent for the Lamar Consolidated schools that continued to grow as Houston expanded south and west. Mom played piano for a Southern Baptist Church as she had done her entire life wherever we were, and Daddy sang in the choir.
Daddy and Mama with their three bird dogs Rex, Dab and Seth
those old dogs couldn’t hunt,
but they did love the sofain our denon Timber Lane
Daddy with his small grill where he loved to cook steaks
in the driveway of Timber Lane – his one attempt to cook
When I graduated from UT in the summer of 1967, I moved to Houston to take a job with Arthur Andersen, one of the top eight CPA firms in the nation at that time. Sundays often meant driving the half hour from my apartment to see my folks in Rosenberg, making sure I was there in time for church.
This picture is such a favorite of mine because Mom and I are laughing together – I remember she was trying to help me learn how to place my feet at an angle when I stood in high heels. That advice never resonated with me…
…but I did have fun trying to make her happy
I never felt that Rosenberg was my home, but my parents loved their jobs, church, frequently seeing relatives and friends who lived in the Houston area, finally able to purchase their own home on Timber Lane that allowed them to experience the American dream their immigrant ancestors crossed oceans to find. I loved my parents dearly, but I was off to new adventures in the Pacific Northwest three thousand miles from the house on Timber Lane in Rosenberg.
Clouds loomed on all of our horizons as a new decade brought unimaginable losses.
I'll Call It Like I See It 
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