"Summer Games: Tug of War"

              As a child, seeing a rope hauled out and white handkerchiefs tied in strategic spots made me want to run for cover. Of all the neighborhood games, this one appealed the least to me. A battle of strength and endurance, Tug of War lured the larger and older boys outside. Even a few fathers joined the teams, staking out territory determined by a line.  My Olive Oyl arms couldn’t begin to handle the powerful pulls of this game. As an adult, I realized that we often play this game at work or in our relationships. 

Tug Of War
Us versus Them
Love overcoming Control
Intellect conquering Emotionalism
Endurance vanquishing Selfishness
Perseverance defeating Indulgence
Us versus Them
Right overcoming Wrongs
Strategy conquering Shallowness
Persistence vanquishing Neglect
Reality defeating Rationalization

Art by JCMG Studio

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Summer Games: Red Rover"

              Our quarters at Dover A.F.B. lent itself to play. Laid out in the pattern of a giant U, base housing had a row of attached houses to the right, center, and left. The front doors and yards of the houses faced outside the U, and we rarely played in that area where the perfectly clipped and edged lawns and pristine white sidewalks reminded us that the families enlisted in the military along with their fathers and mothers. The back doors of our homes dumped into a common play area. Some families, like us, put up fences around their yards for their dogs. Other families kept their back yards open to the field. A huge black topped parking lot filled the cup of the U and provided not only a slot for the family car, but also the perfect roller skating and skate boarding surface. Beyond the parking lot, toward the center was The Field.
            In this field, we played together on endless summer nights. Roaming the area like a pack of stray dogs, all the kids from our section shifted in play from football to baseball to games like “Crack the Whip” and “Mother, May I?” Some evenings, when we gathered a large enough group after dinner, we’d divide into two teams to play “Red Rover.”
            “Red Rover” intimidated me. My pixie sized body rarely broke through the linked hands, meaning I became captured round after round.  The other team never failed to get delight in watching my futile attempt. Every time they sang, “Red Rover, Red Rover, send Lizzy right over!” I’d critically analyze the opposing line for the weakest link. My heart pounded, my breathing picked up, and my little scrawny legs pumped furiously as I flew across the distance to fling myself at the selected spot. I tried torqueing my body at the last second to add force to my plunge, but it never mattered.  The hands never broke free. I’d hang like a wet rag, winded and ashamed while guffaws and catcalls erupted from both teams.
            I learned strategy and tenacity from playing “Red Rover” because I didn’t give up. I could have opted out of this game, retreated to the safety of home and a piece of Mom’s fresh baked pound cake. Or I could have pretended I wanted to play on the slides and swings with the other younger kids. Something in my personality drew me into this challenge, and the humiliation of defeat after defeat never swayed me from my desire to play. Perhaps all of these summer games of childhood served more purpose than keeping us out from underfoot at home. I learned teamwork, tactical planning, perseverance, and doggedness. I tasted victory and survived loss—all of these elements necessary in maneuvering through adulthood’s life games.



Me STANDING between my younger cousin 
and my sitting Aunt Louise


Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Summer Games: Mother May I?"

             By three o’clock each day, the temperature climbed to triple digits, bubbling the street and immobilizing all. Birds searched out bird baths, backyard ponds, or lazy sprinklers to find relief from summer’s relentless boil. In our neighborhood, the kids retreated into our home during the hottest part of the day. We pulled out worn decks of cards and played War or Concentration. Clue and Scrabble filled many hot afternoons. Sometimes, we stretched out limp and liquid on blankets under the sycamore out back, transistors tuned to KTSA, and Mom’s colorful Tupperware glasses topped with cherry Kool-Aid sitting within easy reach. The slightest whiff of a breeze tickled against our skin, carrying a hint of evening’s promised respite from our Texas humidity. Often the Wiggle Worm chased us madly around the yard, or we dared fate with the Slip-n-Slide. Everyone scattered by dinner time with pledges to regroup at seven after the temperature eased from broil to simmer.

            Early evenings found everyone back in our front yard, a melting pot of kids united for the purpose of enjoying evening entertainment. The eldest kids rock-paper-scissorred to determine the first leader, and then preformed a second round to establish the game. When “Mother, May I?” rang out, I always danced with pleasure for this contest didn’t rely on physical prowess to win! My slight stature hindered me in many games we played, but in this activity I stood equal to my taller, brawnier, and older peers.
            All of us lined up at the edge of our driveway, facing the leader—“Mother,” who stood across the wide lawn in the palm tree’s shadow. One by one, “Mother” called a name and instructions in a sing-song, “Kelllll—leeeee, give me three giant steps!”
            The expected response in order to move forward? “Mother, may I?”
            Sometimes “Mother” granted the request. One by one the players edged closer with giant steps, scissor cuts, baby steps, or frog leaps. Sometimes, “Mother” denied movement, or kept changing the instructions in an effort to confuse us into forgetting our polite, “Mother, may I?” If you forgot the question, the penalty meant returning to the driveway and starting all over again. The goal, of course, was to reach “Mother” and take control of the game. I learned through the years to keep my movements exact, my voice small, and to creep slowly forward while others diverted “Mother’s” attention with heated debate or bold coup attempts.  Once I sidled close enough to “Mother” to take flight, I tagged my way to victory. Usually, we’d while away the early evening toiling at this game until nightfall provided the cover and coolness we needed for hide-n-seek.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Summer Games: Crack the Whip"

            The line snakes across the front yard, slithering slowly at first. The leader picks up speed, tugging the line left, pulling suddenly to the right, wrapping quickly into a tight circle and then yanking forward at a full run. Little feet push to keep up the mad pace, fingers painfully vised hand-to-hand, fighting to stay clasped. A whip to the right and feet leave the ground, the last three in line somersaulting into a jumbled dog pile. The leader, powered by an adrenaline rush, darts now. She spins to the second in line, grasps with both of her hands, and twists. She uses her momentum to crack her whip one more time. The tail breaks off with explosive yelps as the leader laps the yard in victory.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Poison"

Inside   

           buried under smiles   

                     as innocent as childhood   

           hidden by energy   

                     that eats the inner core   

           enveloped with laughter   

                     tinged by hysteria   

           where no one can see, or touch, or feel   

                     the infinite coldness   

Waiting   

           surrounded by darkness   

                     like a corpse in the grave   

           clamped down by a vise   

                     whose claws rip and tear   

           forced into submission   

                     until no one’s looking   

           deep down in the well of pitch, and stagnation, and fear   

                     the infinite coldness   

Outside   

           revealed at last in the eyes   

                     through condemnation and indignation   

           recognized by the putrid stench   

                     of pettiness and intolerance   

           exposed in each word and act   

                     through acid hatred   

           an eruption of vomitus bile—black and caustic   

                     the infinite coldness   

   

Copyright 1997 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

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