I'll Call It Like I See It

by sheila morris

storytelling for truth lovers

  • In Search of Stubblefield Lake


    As most of you know, I’ve had the unique opportunity of living off and on for the past three and a half years in the little town of Montgomery, Texas which is eighteen miles from Richards, the town where I was raised until I was thirteen years old.  I came back to take care of my mother who had Alzheimer’s and I had a chance to connect to her in a way that was at once incredibly sad and unbelievably healing for me.  I had similar, but not so intense, experiences with my second mother Willie and my favorite aunt Lucille who was my father’s sister.  I’ve lost all three of these women in the last eighteen months.  They were, along with my grandmothers, pillars of strength for me in my life in different ways.  I can only marvel at the examples they’ve been when I consider the times they were given for their journeys.  Remarkable.  Truly remarkable.

    During this time I’ve roamed the back roads of Grimes, Montgomery and Walker counties in my old Dodge Dakota pickup – sometimes in the company of my dogs – sometimes in my own company.  I’ve re-visited the house where I grew up and friends and cousins that I barely knew since I’ve been away for more than forty years.  I could still recognize the house and remember the love that filled it.  My cousins and friends welcomed me home as if I’d just left yesterday.

    My partner Teresa and I bought a house on Worsham Street in Montgomery, and neither of us expected the joys this neighborhood has given to us.  Sometimes I have to pinch myself when I rock on the front porch as I look up and down the little street.  Instead of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, I have the irrepressible Huss Brothers.   The Little Women of Worsham Street are friends that would make Louisa May Alcott proud.  Houses in the ‘Hood at Christmas have so many lights and decorations they put Disneyland to shame.  If Andy Griffith hadn’t lived in Mayberry, he might have been happy in Montgomery.

    Today I set off on a road trip with my dogs Red and Spike to find Stubblefield Lake, the one spot I never was allowed to go fishing with my daddy.  it’s been sixty years since our fishing trips, but I can still remember my disappointment  when he would announce he was going to Stubblefield Lake with my mother or one of my uncles and shake his head  when I asked to go.  I tagged along to every other fishing hole he knew – but never to that lake which then assumed magical proportions to me.  Lately, I’ve been thinking about the lake and wondering where in the world it was.

    Thanks to the omniscient internet, I located this lake that was made during the Roosevelt administration by the Civilian Conservation Corps in 1937.  Guess where it is?  Eleven miles north and seven miles east of Montgomery  in the deep piney woods of the Sam Houston National Forest.   And I do mean deep and remote, but less than a thirty minute drive from Worsham Street.  If I’d started from Richards like my daddy would have, it would be eight miles south and seven miles east for him.  I had imagined it was an exotic distance from Grimes County and accessible only to a chosen few.

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    Eureka!

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    Peaceful

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    Steps to a fishing spot?

    I think I heard my daddy say, Well, you finally made it to Stubblefield Lake.  Yes, I did.  I didn’t have his company or a fishing pole in my hand.  Instead, I had a camera to take pictures of a place that I don’t want to forget.

  • Why Can’t I Write Something Quotable?


    Courage does not always roar.

    Sometimes courage is the quiet voice

    at the end of the day saying,

    “I will try again tomorrow.”

    Curse you Mary Anne Radmacher for coming up with words so memorable they are reproduced on a Quotable Magnet stuck on the side of my refrigerator.   Yes, a Quotable Magnet from Quotable Cards keeps company on my refrigerator with an array of other magnets with quotes from Robert Frost, Carl Sandburg, J.R.R. Tolkien, Margaret Mead, Mae West and Davy Crockett.  Plus, there’s a picture magnet of me and Teresa at Graceland.  No words on that one – just musical notes in the background.  Thank you, Elvis.

    I love quotes.  I collect quotes like some people collect stamps.  I have a folder filled with hundreds of quotes I’ve saved through the years.  Some of them are attributed to Anonymous sources, but most of them have the names of the people who wrote them or spoke them.

    Would somebody please quote me?  I don’t have to be immortalized on a refrigerator magnet or greeting card, but I wish I could write something quotable.

    And for those of you who wondered what the Davy Crockett quote is, here goes:

    You may all go to hell,

    and I will go to Texas.

    Good night, and good luck.

  • Where Am I Now That I Need Me?


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    I think I see me at the Peachtree Rock Preserve

    We each have our own places that remind us of who we are – or who we would like to be.  Water does it for some people.  Lakes.  Rivers. Oceans.  We are drawn to waters like these for their uninterrupted flows and timelessness.  We can paddle our own canoes on a river or we can swim in an ocean or we can float behind boats in a lake.  Yes, the water reminds us of ourselves and lets us know we are at home and at peace.

    Since I am a Taurus and have a general water phobia, I wouldn’t head to the beach to look for myself if I were lost.  No, I’d go for a walk – not actually a hike these days – but a nice walk.  If I were in Texas, I’d look for me in an old Dodge Dakota pickup truck.  I’d be going for a ride in Grimes County to see the rolling hills and pastures filled with cows and horses and the bluebonnets in the spring or the splashes of bright red and yellow leaves on the hardwood trees in the fall and to enjoy the absence of traffic on the back country roads.  Usually I’d stop for my walk at the Fairview Cemetery to say hello to my family and friends who rest there now, but the recent losses make this stop too painful so I doubt that’s where I’d find myself today.

    No, I think I’d go to South Carolina to the Peachtree Rock Preserve.  I’d park in the little area reserved for visitors and I’d walk the mile on the narrow trail into the thick forest and lo and behold, I’d come to a clearing about halfway down the trail where the Peachtree Rock would sit as it has sat for millions of years.    It is as timeless for me as the ocean and my sense of awe and wonder when I saw it was as deep as the deep blue sea.  I’ve only been there once, but the feelings of strength and serenity and sheer joy I felt when I was there make it the perfect place to look for me today.

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    It was okay for me to bring a friend.

    Good.  I just found me at Peachtree Rock tonight.  Whew!  That’s a relief.  I thought I’d lost me.

  • The Fifth Set – Match Point


    Whether the surface is a hard one or made of red clay or manicured green grass, the goal is the same: to win.  To beat someone.  To play better, smarter and mentally tougher than the opponent.  To be more physical and aggressive.  To charge the net when an opening appears.  To cover the baseline when the shots go deep against you.  The court is a battlefield and the scales of justice are often tipped by net cords and fractions of inches along white lines.  The game is tennis.

    For men who play singles, the winner is usually required to win two of three sets.  In Grand Slam events, however, the rules change to three of five sets to determine the champion.  If each man wins two sets, a fifth set is played.  The fifth set is often the scene of one man’s surrender and loss to another man’s courage and inner strength.  The first four sets are evenly played, but the last one is too much for the body or mind or will or all of the above for one of the guys and the desire to win or to not lose drives his opponent to victory.

    I love fifth sets.  I particularly like them when they are close and long, and I’m not even paying for my seat in front of the television set.  Nope, I’m watching for free, but I have the Deluxe Box seats and have seen my share of Grand Slams in Melbourne, Paris, London and New York City.  From my ABCs of Agassi to Becker to Connors to my current personal favorites of Federer and Nadal I admire the passion and persistence of the five-set winners.

    There is a moment of high drama called Match Point when the difference between winning and losing in the fifth set can be measured in split-second choices and breaks in concentration.  Match points can be saved and the game can go on for hours, but in the end, a Match Point is lost and the winner takes center court with a victorious smile and wave to the crowd.

    As I watched a five-set match today at the US Open, the thought occurred to me that Match Points in tennis have an advantage over those we have in real life.  The quarter finalists I saw today knew the importance of the fifth set and its Match Point, but we may never know when we miss the chance to win –  or lose what we value most.

  • Oh Look – It’s Boo Radley!


    Friday night Teresa and I went to Trustus which is a small local theater known for its emphasis on productions that are entertaining, yet relatively avant- garde.   The play was Collected Stories by Donald Margulies and directed by Milena Herring.  We aren’t reliable patrons for the arts in Columbia, South Carolina, but we both enjoy the Trustus experience with its comfy chairs and intimate surroundings.  Adult beverages are available, and I bought a Corona Light at the bar simply because the woman in line ahead of me bought one.  I’m also an unreliable beer drinker.  When we found our seats, I was delighted to find the free popcorn baskets were still conveniently placed for our happy consumption, and I sat back with popcorn and beer to enjoy the play.

    Not so fast my friend, as Lee Corso of Espn says.  As Teresa and I took turns munching on the popcorn, an attractive woman walked over to us and said, “Oh Look!  It’s Boo Radley!”  I must have looked surprised when she and Teresa laughed together at the remark.  The woman looked familiar, but I didn’t know who she was.

    Teresa spoke up at that moment and said, “This is Melina Herring who’s directing the play tonight.”  I made an appropriate response to that news flash and told her how much we were looking forward to the play.  “Why Boo Radley?”  I asked.

    She was still laughing at her own joke.  “Because whenever we go out with Teresa, she always says she has a partner who’s in Texas on family business.  The invisible partner.  Boo Radley.   As a matter of fact, I think I remember someone asking Teresa if she’d considered the possibility you’d left her?”

    Normally I would be flattered by a comparison to a character in my favorite novel To Kill a Mockingbird, but maybe Boo Radley wouldn’t be my first choice.  I picture myself as a Scout-Atticus combo on my better days and now had to reconsider my self perception versus the perceptions of others regarding self.  I added a twinge of guilt to this observation and felt like I did when I was caught eating Christmas candy before Christmas.  Strangely unsettling.  I’d been too long gone.

    Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln – how was the play?

    I am giving it a two thumbs up.  The dynamics between the two actresses playing the older author and her successful protegé were excellent, writing fabulous, and of course, directed beautifully by the woman who called me Boo Radley.