"Swimmers"

        The sun dappled lake entices swimmers with coolness after a long, hot summer. One bather cautiously tip-toes to the edge, tentatively dipping into the coldness. She retracts her foot, shoots a glance over her shoulder, and eases back into the water. Another swimmer, grabs the tree rope, swings apelike over the lake's mirror, whoops with glee, and cartwheels into the depths with the careless abandon of joy. A final swimmer stands poised on the dock. In one flawless motion, he dives and cleaves the water's surface with barely a splash. A few feet away, he emerges and boldly slices his way across the lake. To everyone entering the lake of life, no matter what your approach, may you remember the unexpected currents and drop-offs. Swim safely and don't drown!

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Water Nymph" by David Chapman 

Pen and Ink

"Drought"

This summer’s unrelenting heat means our yards dry a little more each day. I noticed today that several of the bushes out back have dead branches. Nature protects the core, and the peripheral appendages begin to wither. My heart breaks to see this loss.

Loss goes deeper this summer than wilting gardens. I’ve several friends struggling with serious health issues like cancer. I admire the strength they exhibit as they face each day with unbelievable optimism. They handle the new challenges life’s handed them with the unshakable conviction that every thought and effort will bring health back into their lives. For other friends, this summer’s trials come from aging parents needing live-in help, assisted living or nursing home care. Some friends will decide to move in with parents while others will move parents in with them.

            For the generation of our children, we see job opportunities drying up overnight. Imagine spending four years in college, taking out loans to finance this education, and not landing a job up to five or six months later. These adult children find themselves moving back in with their parents as they regroup. Some hold tenaciously to their college part-time jobs because “something is better than nothing.” Those still in school wonder and worry about next year’s opportunities. How long will this economic drought last? Onto this brittle landscape, I watch in frustration as our petty politicians play with matches.

            I know that we need rain. Not a flooding deluge that obliterates everything in its path, but a soft and steady rain—one that brings the sunrise in its wake, one that soaks deeply into the cracked ground, one that cleanses away the dust and cobwebs, one that heals our land.   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"One-Hundred Degrees in the Shade"

Dust chases us down the road   

engulfs the car   

swirling like powdered sugar blown from a birthday cake   

coating our sandaled feet as we step into the furnace   

The dogs retreat to bunk bed and chair   

anticipating evening’s approach—   

a breeze, teasing and seductive   

Buffalo grass, brittle reminders of Spring’s bounty   

squat in death   

Cedars, tipped in brown and rust,   

finger summer’s dragon breath in search of moisture   

The naked sky, adorned only by a relentless sun   

yearns for bird song   

Silence, even, languishes in the oppressive heat   

Live Oaks, gnarled limbs supplicating to the cloudless sky   

plea for rain   

Wash away the sins of the world  

 

 Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Great Depression Grandkids"

Edna Thompson with oldest sister, Lois 

My mother, born in 1930, never shook off the survival strategies from being raised during The Great Depression. With eight kids to feed, the loss of their family farm forced her father to relocate everyone to Danville, Illinois where he found employment. Mom’s childhood memories included her oldest sister, Lois, drowning followed closely by her mother’s illness and death. She recounted the “special treat” of her brothers sharing a head of lettuce with her—a quarter wedge sprinkled with salt and pepper. Self-sacrifice ingrained itself into my mother’s being. 

I watched her ask for little throughout her life, and I know she felt hurt whenever Dad put his own goals ahead of hers. Her closet, nearly empty, contained only nice outfits that could handle church and PTA meetings. She didn’t own a pair of jeans because they weren’t “acceptable” in multiple settings. She had one pair each of shoes in white, brown, and black with purses in the same colors. White canvas shoes, purchased at a local discount store, finished her footwear. Her one jewelry box sheltered her mother’s gold bracelet, a set of pearl earrings with matching broach and necklace from Dad. A few small cameos she never wore rested in the box along with the jade my siblings and I proudly gifted her during our childhood. As an adult, I wonder if her love of jade grew because it was something affordable for kids to purchase for birthdays and Christmas. 

I realized the other day that I’m a Great Depression Grandkid. I didn’t live through those tough years, but the Great Recession and wild rides of unemployment wrapped with inflation mark all of my adulthood. The American Dream of upward mobility skipped over our home. We’ve always had a house, cars that work, and enough money to pay our bills on time. 

Enough isn’t a bad word, either. It allows dignity to grace our lives. “More isn’t better . . . Sometimes it’s just more.” My favorite quotation from Sabrina, but the life lesson taught to me by Mom over and over again. 

Edna Thompson Abrams 1963

Copyright 2026 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Baring Gifts"

She’s Marie Barone—on steroids       

baring gifts of guilt       

wrapped in gilded foil   

dripping honeyed compliments   

sprinkled with ground glass   

leaving you bleeding on the inside   

With a smile she blames you for her cruelty   

twisting her tales   

defending her intrusions   

she belittles you as she praises you   

tearing you down to control you   

with gossip she snatches away your privacy   

claiming she only acts with love   

Lock your doors   

Don’t let her in   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman