“Mindless Injury”

Limited walking, but up for the day!

Most of the time, my decisions to exercise revolve around planned times set around specific locations. If I pump music in the family room for thirty minutes of dance, my bare feet never clip onto furniture. When heading out for a walk instead, I pull on the proper walking shoes to insure safe travels. Even while running errands, walking shoes or a better pair of sandals keep my steps even and true. 

Last month, I thoughtlessly wore flats up and down hills while running errands—ironically in search of better shoes to get me through this fall. I flip-flopped for several miles, mindless to the injury starting in my glutes. 

One day, I strode confidently and easily through my day. The next moment excruciating, searing pain threw me to the ground when I tried to bounce out of bed to begin my usual morning routine. I could not move without a knife stab in my left buttocks forcing me back to bed. 

Eventually, I made my way to my computer chair, Googled the area for my agony, and realized my sixty-eight year old body rebelled against me carelessly wearing inappropriate shoes. I endured the anguish long enough to troubleshoot treatments and tumbled back into bed.

Back to how I’ve recovered from my knee injuries. Twenty minutes of ice packs paired with Ibuprofen at four hour intervals. Days and days and days in bed. If I remained motionless, I felt fine. A shift to the left? An effort to move a little right? Tearing pain to remind me of the severe muscle strain. 

By day four, my therapy shifted to heat. I love stretching out in a hot tub of water, but for some reason when I had to stay in place for fifteen minutes, I began having anxiety attacks. From the bathroom, I began recounting chapters from Wally Lamb’s The River Is Waiting to my husband who worked in another room. I know he couldn’t hear me, but the ability to focus on my summaries controlled my panic.

Every day, this muscle nags a little less if I remember to limit my activities the day before to one or two simple activities. On Sunday, I took my camera out back and captured blossoms. I hauled and spread three bags of soil in the front gardens. Then I rested. Yesterday, I sat at the computer to compose a poem. Sitting on my desk chair causes the highest level of discomfort for some reason.  I set a timer to limit how long I’m at the keyboard.

I threw away the shoes that so taxed my muscles. I don’t leave the house without wearing the proper shoes anymore. A quick run somewhere may unexpectedly turn into a two mile hilly hike. I’ve learned my lesson!

Copyright 2026 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Reunion Retrospect"

Theodore Roosevelt San Antonio Class of 1976 50th Reunion October 17, 2026

Thirteen months of meetings

Twelve determined personalities

Eleven days for personal injury recovery    

Ten tense conversations behind the scene

Nine cycles of website maintenance

Eight moons of narcissistic bullshit    

Seven weeks of soul searching  

Six concerned voices 

Five item list of “What we did wrong”  

Four trips on a bumper-to-bumper nightmare   

Three unexpected hours of walking 

Two exceptional evenings for many 

One finality for me 

TR 50th Reunion Committee  Oct. 17, 2026

Copyright 2026 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Reunion"

“So, what have you been doing for the last forty years?”

I’ve been daughter and son, spouse, parent, and grandparent

I’ve been married to my best friend

I’ve been single

I’ve been divorced

I’ve been widowed

I’ve been builder, nurse, mechanic, educator and designer

I’ve been firefighter, soldier and homemaker

I’ve been  caregiver, dancer and artist

I’ve been writer, lawyer and singer

I’ve been traveling and planting roots

I’ve been in my family home and living abroad

I’ve been loved 

I’ve been alone

I’ve been stubborn and caring

I’ve been angry, hurt, lost and regretful

I’ve been generous, open-minded, and loving

I’ve been surviving heartbreaks

I’ve been wallowing in happiness

I’ve been living my life

“What about you?”

Copyright 2016 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Wide Foot"

My hunt yesterday for a pair of nice shoes to wear to my 50th high school reunion almost ended with my head exploding like some cartoon character! Trying to keep within a tight budget, I’d already scoured Walmart and Target for simple black pumps in my very typical size 7W. For customer convince, my newly reshuffled Walmart actually clustered all of their Women’s Wide shoes together on one wall! Unfortunately, there were a million of each size but mine. My personal theory is that more women wear sevens than any other size. My broader, wider foot, though, throws an obstacle that limits my selections.  My heart aches for those long ago days of strolling confidently into Payless and emerging with pumps, sandals, and  lacy slip-ons in at least three colors. 

I decided to try finding shoes at Famous Footwear in The Forum. Heading straight to my size, I noted immediately that none of the boxes had W on the labels. Puzzled, I found an older sales clerk and asked for the location of their wide shoes.

“We don’t carry wide shoes,” she began. “What size are you?” I followed her as she began her condescending lecture that women are misled into believing they have wide feet and instead aren’t buying the correct style or toe shape. 

My jaw dropped (again like a cartoon character) as she swept up to my size and began pointing out pumps with pointed toes verses more square ones while claiming it was propaganda that women have wide feet. 

“Prove it!” I snapped. “Prove that I don’t have wide feet!”

She began sweeping through my size, handed me two selections and suggested I try them on while she continued her search. 

Of course, shoe after shoe after shoe WOULDN’T fit. I couldn’t even get my toes past several of her choices. 

After trying on half a dozen pairs, I stood up and snarled, “Don’t ever tell a customer that there’s no such thing as a wide foot. YOU ARE WRONG!” 

  I pushed down my pissed anger, worked it out by walking down to the SKECHERS shop where I’ve devotedly purchased my D’lites year after year. Since I’ve only picked up walking shoes there, I wasn’t certain if I’d find anything dressier for my event. 

When I glanced around, I did’t notice anything at first and asked a smiling young clerk if they had any wide shoes, not realizing that the large sign was right behind me! I couldn’t help but laugh at the wonderful acknowledgement that women who have wide feet do exist!

Although my selection for black pumps was limited, I shifted to a dressy pair of black sandals that had sparkly straps! Sparkle means fancy to my unique fashion sense. Before I left, I also found a pair of comfy black ankle high boots for this winter—all with WIDE proudly placed on the boxes!

Copyright 2026 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

"Doing Dishes"

          When we first moved to San Antonio in the 1960s, the biggest draw of excitement for the new house came from the dishwasher. The luxury of simply rinsing the dishes, pots and pans and then placing them into a machine that washed them seemed decadent to us. I don’t remember anyone complaining about doing the dishes during those first years that we had a machine.

         This little dishwasher toiled away for ten years before its motor burned out. My father’s comment when he realized the expense for replacement? “I have three dishwashers in this house. We don’t need another.”

Resentfully, the women in the household took over the machine’s duties. My sister usually cleared the table, putting any leftovers into neat Tupperware containers and stacking the dishes in a manageable pile. I manned the sink of hot sudsy water. As Paula brought dishes to me, I’d quickly submerge them, scour them clean, and dip them into the second sink filled with rinse water. I didn’t mind this chore, but I often wished the scenery I viewed wasn’t the dining room table. I swore that if I even owned a home, I’d have a kitchen sink with a window that overlooked the yard. No one listened to my grumbles as I scrubbed. My mother just calmly dried each plate and restacked them neatly so my sister could put them away. I may have complained a little more when it came to doing the pots and pans, but with my SOS Brillo pad in hand no job proved insurmountable.

Me and my window!

When I left home for college and my first apartment, I thrilled in having a dishwasher again. Only I barely used it at first because I lived alone. If I didn’t want ants or roaches invading my place, I couldn’t leave dirty dishes in the sink. If I had to rinse the dishes enough to keep the insects away, then I figured I should just wash them by hand. I didn’t begin to rely upon a dishwasher until I roomed with three other women. We constructed a simple rule. If you cooked, you didn’t clean. Three of us cooked on a rotation. One roommate never touched the stove, so she always did some kind of clean-up, but she never complained.

Eventually, my apartment living gave way to home ownership. When David and I bought our house, which was built in 1966, it had a portable dishwasher. The little butcher block model sat on one wall across from the sink. You had to roll it over to the sink and attach a hose to the faucet. Needless to say, it leaked. We rarely used it, but it didn’t matter.

The sink in this kitchen overlooks a huge back yard filled with trees. I could finally stand on the inside, hands submerged in heat and suds, and watch butterflies and hummingbirds. We lived in our current home seven years before we remodeled the kitchen and added a dishwasher. I didn’t shift back to automation as easily as you’d think. By this time, I had several sets of dishes and glasses that I didn’t want to run through a machine. I still preferred to clean pots and pans by hand. When this machine eventually died, we didn’t rush for a replacement. Eventually, the pace of our daily routine converted dishes into another dreaded chore, and my complaints lead my husband and son to search for a perfect replacement.

Every day, though, I still stand at the sink and gaze out into my gardens. I’ll load most of the dishes into the machine, but hand wash a set of plastic tumblers I bought at Target for under $2.00 a piece! These smoky goblets bore the instructions—hand wash to keep glass appearance. As they look so much like glass that you don’t believe they’re plastic unless you touch them, I figure I’ll spend a little time each day with hands submerged and eyes gazing into the backyard.  

Puppy Koi "helping" with the dishes

 Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman