"Before D-Day"

            When Dad did his tour in Vietnam, Mom returned to Danville, Illinois to be closer to her siblings.  One of her brothers, Uncle Red swung by the house once a week to take my sister and me to the A&W for root beer floats.

I adored Uncle Red and puppy dogged behind him every time he visited. His endless patience endured my constant nagging to teach me how to whistle. One visit I overheard him talking with Mom about concern for Dad’s safety. It was weighing him down. I remember linking my arms around his neck as I sat in his lap, trying to cheer him up. He settled me against his chest and told me how he’d gone off to war and was wounded. He spun a tale for me of German troops leaving him behind, thinking he was dead. How lucky he was to get back home!

            When I recounted his story to one of my cousins forty years later, my cousin recounted the horrific truth of Uncle Red’s reality. Not only had he been injured, but German troops captured him. He ended up in a POW camp. My adult heart broke to know that Uncle Red protected me all those years ago. I don’t know if I’ll ever know the full scope of Uncle Red’s experiences.  

            Recently, though, hidden in boxes and boxes of photographs and news articles from my Aunt Louise’s possessions, I found more information about Uncle Red. It didn’t recount his injuries or capture, but instead celebrated his Silver Star award. The Silver Star, awarded for valor in combat, started in WWI as the Citation Star. This award acknowledges the heroism of soldiers during singular acts of honor or valor. Only 100,000 to 150,000 men and women have received it since its creation.  Uncle Red’s II Corp unit was sent to the Italian Front in mid-November in 1943. On January 6, 1944, II Corp engaged in mountain warfare under severe weather conditions. When crossing an open area, enemy machine gun fire from the front and also the flank ripped into the battalion. Uncle Red gave aid to the wounded and carried at least six men back to safety.

            My Uncle’s actions on the battle field, by saving the lives of so many other men at great personal risk, define all of the best qualities of The Greatest Generation. Today marks the 80^th anniversary of D-Day, and I don’t want another year to pass without a tribute to John R. Thompson’s courage six months before. 

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

                          

           

“Find My . . .”

                                                                              

“Where’s my watch?” Panic flooded through me when I noted my naked wrist. I glanced into the clean clothes piled on my bed, lifting and shifting in careless desperation. I backtracked into the bathroom, glancing at the countertop where I place it when bathing. Nothing.

Not too concerned yet, I attacked the mound of sheets in the laundry room, as it would’ve been a possible hiding place. Closing my eyes, I visualized whipping them from the dryer. Finding nothing, I got on my knees to search the floor while listening to the load tossing in the drum. Hearing nothing, I popped open the door, dragged out the nearly dry towels, and searched frantically through them. Nothing. I eyed the washer, hitting the spin on its cycle as I watched, and shot out a silent prayer that it wasn’t in that load. It wasn’t.

By this time, I recruited my husband to help with the search when he asked the obvious question, “Have you checked Find My with your phone?”

Of course, I hadn’t. I grabbed my phone and queried, “Siri, find my watch” with confidence its location would be revealed immediately. Nothing. As I’d never used this app before, I noticed it had a PLAY SOUND option, which I tapped. Still nothing.

Shaken, I convinced myself that I may have lost it outside. I’d watered both yards and rewrapped three hoses. My watch band could have caught on one and slipped off without me noticing. Phone in hand, I retraced my morning routine feeling dread as I found absolutely nothing again.

My anxiety notched up with each silent minute with my phone in hand. With absolute certainty I knew I’d set my watch on pause while at the park doing the weight machines, but maybe it dropped into my KAVU pack when I’d taken out water. Returning inside, I inspected it quickly. Nothing. 

“Could I have lost it on that last stretch of my walk?” I mumbled to myself as I  pulled on sandals and retraced my morning route. 

Eyes scanning the ground before me, I walked all the way to the park. Nothing. Discouraged and defeated, I called my husband to retrieve me there as I could’t muster the energy to climb the final hill near our house. 

Once home, I decided to retrace my movements one more time while my husband insisted on taking my phone with him on another park pass. 

I sat on the bed, reached inside the black bin before me, and lifted out each item.

My watch hid under the final piece I withdrew!

Relief flooded through me, and then a wave of foolishness to realize that the first moment I’d noticed my missing watch was the very place it lay hidden.

But another problem surfaced. Why hadn’t my app revealed my phone immediately as it never left the room? I’d thought that the Find My app had loaded automatically when I’d replaced my watch in December. It hadn’t. At the moment, our attempts to remove the old watch and add the new one have failed although we’ve gone through one step-by-step process after another. I suspect I may have to reset my watch, which I refuse to do as I prefer to leave my watch history alone. I joked that if I misplace it again, I’ll just have to buy a new one!

Copyright 2026 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

IOUNIO's "Invisible"! The perfect piece to listen to today!

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“June’s Mission”

Over the course of this last year or so, I’ve shifted to dancing throughout our home for a thirty-minute exercise routine. Some days, I’ve asked Siri to start an indoor walk and done loops around larger stores and our local mall, which contains unique specialty stores along with larger chains and offers a fun route. Occasionally, I’ve ventured to the park, which was closed for months on end when all of the parking lots got repaved. Last year’s July’s flood and its scars on our neighborhood have receded, but other losses make strolling on one street too hard. 

It slowly dawned on me that I no longer feel unease for missing my longer outdoor walks. Although both of my knees can handle our neighborhood’s small hills, I felt no guilt for missing the long walk challenge since I almost never missed closing my exercise ring with other activities.The journey to and from the park on Saturday convinced me that I need to focus on this longer walk, and other sweeps through our neighborhood, again. 

For this next month, I set the challenge of trekking at least a mile each morning. I must to return to that mind space where missing my walk tinges my day with a shade of guilt. The routine and ritual, lost to me because it was easy to slip into tricking myself into believing all exercise is equal has to be mentally reset.

June’s Mission proves simple—outdoor walks. If I want to add a dance to my favorite songs, or tack on an indoor walk within a shopping trip, that’s just adding flavor to the mix. A long morning spent in the yards doing gardening gets counted only after my mileage goal is met.

  Every June morning starts with a mission to pound pavement—rain or shine!

Slick sidewalks and more rain ahead!

Ditches filling up!

A little rain doesn't hurt anyone!

Copyright 2026 Elizzabeth Abrams Chapman

IOUNIO's "Dancing in the Rain" is the perfect piece to listen to once you finish today's blog!

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"Her Rain"

Her rain fell   

         a deluge of broken dreams,   

                     frustrated desires, missed opportunities   

         drenching the world   

                     with her bitter storms   

Her rain fell   

         a flood of regrets and sublimation   

                     poured onto her children   

         drowning each of them   

                     with her skewed and tainted love   

Her rain fell   

         a watery veil of manipulation   

                     pushing against the banks of reality   

         overflowing her boundaries   

                     with her disillusions and dissatisfaction   

Her rain fell   

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“The Right Rain”

For the last few weeks, my yard and gardens have received just the right amount of rain to let me see how lovely life could be if, every night or day, three-tenths of an inch fell from the sky. Ireland’s lush greets me when I step outside. My daily watering ritual temporarily disappears. Some mornings, like today, I dump water from pots that overflow to prepare for today’s additional promises. This illusional bounty lets me fantasize about living in a lush landscape. I cast a wistful spell to keep cloud cover and raindrops overhead for as long as possible. For the moment, I believe with all my soul that our decades long drought ended without anyone taking note. I pretend we won’t suffer through a hundred days of a hundred degrees. I embrace this period of rightness without expectation it will last beyond the next few days. 

Copyright 2026 Elizaabeth Abrams Chapman

IOUNIO's "Swimming" 

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