"Susie"

Suise, James and Heather 1981

            When I met Susie, forty-seven years ago, her teenager heart saw no one but my future brother-in-law, James. Her eyes followed his every move. She draped herself onto his lap, latching onto him with the purity of young devotion. She attached her life to his goals to be an Air Force pilot, never longing for anything more than the role of wife and mother. The books she read covered with Fabio’s muscled chest, contained characters she longed to imitate. Conversations with her revolved around how James would take care of her for the rest of her life.

            My practical nature cringed whenever I knew Susie and I would be alone, forcing us to talk about her limited hopes and dreams that couldn’t be separated from James’s needs. I reminded myself those first few months that she would soon be a relative that I’d see frequently. We needed to find common ground, but her unplanned pregnancy, total dependency upon my in-laws for financial support, and unwillingness to even look for a part-time job, allowed me to slip into a critical judgement that I later regretted.

            Wherever they lived, I wrote Susie long letters talking about my teaching slots and the authors I liked. She was open to reading new things, and soon we’d exchange books whenever they visited my in-laws. Although their first two children were older than our son by three and six years, their third child trailed ours by fifteen months. My letters, sent within packages of baby clothing and toys for the kids, included paperback novels for Susie, too. I think we both worked hard to find common ground during the first years of becoming Chapmans. When James decided to leave the Air Force, he didn’t tell Susie about his choice. Suddenly, their family of six resided with my in-laws again, where tension and tempers simmered just under boiling almost all the time. For the first time in her life, Susie stopped her unnatural worship of her husband and their relationship never returned to the adoration James needed daily.

            During these troubled years, Susie and I talked often while our kids played together. When James decided to buy a home, they found one walking distance from our house. And then, four months later, he left her and their kids for an older woman. Susie’s grief mixed with anger, spilled into late night phone calls that left me with only a couple of hours of sleep before heading to work. Their brief round of counseling as a couple turned into more appointments for her, and her mantra became “He’ll wake up one day and realize he wants us back.” Instead, James distanced himself from the kids as well as Susie, often canceling out at the last minute on visits with them.

            Eventually, Susie’s mother and siblings helped her go to school to be certified as a massage therapist. Having a job didn’t fill Susie’s loneliness, but it built her confidence. During these years, I’d walk over to Susie’s house to visit. Our kids drifted between the two homes on foot, riding bicycles, or on skateboards. There were sleepovers, birthday celebrations, and a lifetime bond not just between the kids, but also with Susie and me.

            When she remarried, I saw her less. Her new husband came with three young adult children and an open door policy that meant a huge family gathering every Sunday. We still talked books and kids, sometimes heading for a walk around the neighborhood, but our visits became less frequent. My years as Mom’s caregiver meant Susie swung by here. She gave Mom massages, treated me out to Starbucks, and made certain I got away from the house every couple of months. We eased into a wonderful, comfortable friendship that meant weeks could pass without a call, text, or visit without feeling guilty. Whenever we connected, we’d talk about books, adult kids, ailing parents, and whatever movies she’d seen with her repeating dialogue for me. When COVID-19 took her second husband, she relied upon their children and grandchildren to work through her loss, with her next door neighbor filling her life again.

            Right before Christmas, I stopped by Susie’s home while on my morning walk. We sat outside, in her back yard. We talked about kids, her grandchildren, her new beau, and the latest authors we’d discovered. We promised to get together after the holidays for lunch and a longer, more relaxed chat as I needed to finish my trek up the steepest hill in our neighborhood.

            That casual promise to get together soon didn’t happen. A hemorrhagic stroke blindsided all of us, leaving Susie hospitalized with emergency surgery. Her children and siblings stayed with her, and her daughters let us know when we should visit. I chatted with her about our kids and books, and teased that she needed to recover so she could treat me to Starbucks one more time.  

Susie and me 2015

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

             

The perfect song to go with today's anniversary. If you listen to it, it's easy to SUBSCRIBE to give support to IOUNIO. 

 

“Roses in a Vase”

No one in our household can resist the small roses at HEB. Some weeks, the blooms draw attention to the multicolored petals. Other times, a bright yellow set catches my attention, as my mother, sister and I all carried yellow roses at our simple weddings. A brilliant flaming red or a cool soft pink may tempt one of us. I love capturing their brilliance before they fade away. 

Copyright 2026 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“February’s Forecast”

No more hard freezes for us this month! As yesterday’s temperature reached the upper sixties mark, I headed outside to pull back the frost covers to assess the damage from last week’s bitter cold. My fear that I’d spend the next few weeks tossing dead plants into a makeshift compost pile reigned in quickly. My limp Aloe Vera still hid firm, green leaves in a few spots while some of the smaller pots survived intact. My spider plants, drooping and defeated, always come back by early spring. The oldest bushes out back, Asparagus Ferns, hold a gilded top layer. They’ll bounce back soon. The newly planted Foxtail Ferns survived without a blemish. Out front, an unexpected surprise of a couple of blossoms poured hope into my spirit. 

February’s forecast means new goals for my gardens this spring. Top on the list? Bag after bag of top soil distributed throughout both yards. With my 2025 Wildflower Reference Guide and Seed Catalog from WildSeed Farms, I’ll plot out new choices for me and my gardens. Who knows? Maybe I’ll even get some Japanese morning glory to grace the fairy weathervane this year!

Copyright 2026 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

Love this quirky instrumental by JCMG MUSIC! I know I'm definitely turning a page for my gardens!

  

   

“Schrödinger's Cat”

My Schrödinger's cat moment plays out in real time. 

Under the frost cloth out back sits perfect and healthy Aloe Vera. Their spiky leaves reach skyward with expectant dignity. The cluster of pups surrounding the larger mama eagerly await  new spots in pots for this spring. They hold all of the promise of words like “future, growth, optimism, hope”. 

Or . . . they don’t. 

Once I lift their protective cover, I could find the bitter cold of these past few days has turned them into mush and slime. All of my plans and optimism destroyed by nature’s cruelty. 

So I’ve decided to leave the protective cover in place and not take a peek under it. What I don’t definitely know can’t hurt me, right? 

This ability to hope for the best while I prepare for the worst sums up how I live life not just my gardens, but in other crucial decisions and relationships. At the moment, I can live with a frost cover on some friendships as I grapple with their continued silence. If I don’t contact them, I cannot know for certain if they condone this lawless cruelty. They are Schrödinger’s cat.

Copyright 2026 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

I think I'm swimming in doubt. Thought I'd share IOUNIO's "Swimming" with today's post. 

"Root Rot Regrowth"

            The redbrick house sat so close to the railroad tracks that it shook whenever a train thundered past. No decorations adorned the walls. No knickknacks sat on the dressers or hutches. No one dared leave a glass on the kitchen counter. At one time, the house belonged to a railroad company for employees to use for overnight stops. Eventually, my great-aunt Helen settled there to take care of her syphilis insane ex-husband . . . but that’s another story.

            I loved Aunt Helen’s house because of the porch that covered its front. Wicker chairs, a bench swing, and enormous planters filled with Mother-in-law tongues provided a hideaway for me and my siblings during our visits to League City, Texas. My grandmother, uncle and his family lived next door in a nasty, dysfunctional home. I preferred Aunt Helen’s tales of her wild and reckless youth to the more difficult to understand stories of my grandmother. As a child, I could barely understand a word she said. Later, as an adult, I learned to appreciate the richness of a Cajun cadence. 

            Aunt Helen taught me to propagate plants. From her, I learned to appreciate separating new growth from the roots. She showed me how to pinch off a philodendron at just the right spot and just how much sunlight it needed to grow in a glass jar. Kneeling in her gardens, I separated bulbs and appreciated the hardiness of the Purple Heart Wandering Jew plant, which thrive in my yard today—grown from clippings from her garden more than fifty years ago.

            The Mother-in-law tongue plants became my favorite plants to nurture. I loved everything about them: the green outlined by yellow, the long and slender sword-like leaves. My imagination latched onto their name that alluded to the sharp tip of a mother-in-law’s criticism.

            After Aunt Helen died, her plants went to various friends. I inherited one that resided with me in my college apartment. One winter, I negligently left it outside on the porch. It died a horrible, frozen death.

            For some reason, many years passed before I purchased two Mother-in-law tongue plants. I fell in love with it all over again! This time, I made certain to bring them in each winter. Once the plants crowded in their pots, I’d repot them into a slightly larger container, always attending to their preferences. Both plants thrived!

            Until they didn’t.

            Not enough sunlight.

            Too much water.

            Suddenly, I found myself on my knees, hose in hand, gently tugging each leaf grouping apart. Mush in some sections. Healthy leaves in another. I focused on recovery. Every day, I visit these plants and murmur an incantation of encouragement.

            Just enough sunlight.

            Water measured with caution.

            Regrowth.

Eight plants thriving now in 2026

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman