"A Mess"

            During the last few weeks, I’ve substituted for teachers whose desks and classrooms qualify as disaster areas. In one classroom, for my own personal safety, I cleared a path through junk strewn on the floor between the carpet where the students sat and the teacher’s desk and computer section. I shifted teetering towers of books, realigned precariously stacked papers, and swept away slippery empty baggies all to guarantee I wouldn’t trip or fall as I went about my day.

            In the back of my mind, I wondered about the impact of this level of disorder on the students. I always wanted my classroom to be inviting. My high school classroom included a reading nook with a small but comfortable couch, tons of pillows for around the room reading, and even a few throws in case the air conditioner chilled the room to subzero temperatures. Pole lamps in the corner offered extra ambiance. If I had a mess from ungraded essays or projects, I hid to out of sight from my students—usually in large plastic stackable crates that took up a corner behind my desk. Because larger students need room, I often tucked my desk tightly into a spot that took up as little space as possible, giving as much square footage as possible to those who stood over six feet and weighed close to 200 pounds. I rarely had discipline problems, and I’d like to think that most of my students enjoyed spending time in my room.

            In my current occupation, I work in dozens and dozens of different classrooms. Rarely do I encounter the chaos that I’ve witnessed in the last couple of weeks. The disarray bursts beyond the messy space and overflows into disrespectful student behavior. In every disorganized classroom, the students struggled to pay attention. Their own personal space (cubbies or desks) erupted with scrunched old classwork and cover creased library books.

            By day’s end, my head pounded. I can only imagine the impact the anarchy must cause on all of those young, developing brains.

     

 Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

"Side Hustle"

            My son works tirelessly to establish his own business that branches out into a multitude of directions. His illustration skills lead him into work ranging from art for educational publications to logo designs to website art. His fine-tuned audio engineering talent means he rocks the house with original beats. He spends days behind the camera taking still photographs or shooting music videos for up-and-coming performers. As a youth, he made extra money selling his original t-shirt art to friends from school. This passion reignited recently, and he spent days researching companies to find the best one to meet his needs for printing and shipping original designs.

            When he approached me a month ago with an idea for my own t-shirt line, I instantly liked the creative outlet that combined playing with words and photography. Before I knew it, and with tons of help and guidance from my son, I started my own line.

            I won’t make a million dollars from this endeavor, but I will possibly have additional income that can let me splurge on a few monthly extras.

This “side hustle” opens me up for a totally new challenge, which I want to do as I get older. I know that keeping a sharp, inventive mind doesn’t happen by inactivity. With this t-shirt task, I will grab my camera more often. Instead of being a slug-a-bug in bed on Saturday mornings, I may head out the door on a photo-shoot at a location that’s totally new to me. I already find myself looking at words and phrases that would appeal to my intended market—women who love comfortable t-shirts, but want something a little nicer than a comic book character or “Best Mom Ever” slogan.

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

              

"Work Ethic

       Many years ago, I attended a birthday party where for entertainment a woman read our fortunes. I stood in fascination as she described the lives and futures of various friends and family members. I could barely wait for my turn.

            The woman did her card shuffle and looked at me with a sad smile. “You work,” she said softly.

           “Yes,” I responded and waited for her to reveal some future travels or adventures as she had for everyone else.

            She shook her head and glanced down at her cards again. “No. That’s all I see. You work. You work all the time. There’s nothing else that I see.”

            Tears blinded my eyes as I moved off to the side for her to take the next person in line. I rounded up my husband, son, and his friend and told them I wanted to leave. I couldn’t get into the car fast enough. Sobs shook me the second I closed the car’s door.

            “What’s wrong?” my husband asked.

           “You heard what that woman said,” my words drowned by tears. “She saw nothing but work.”

            That casual observation by a party entertainer punched me in the gut because it resounded with truth.

            At that time, I taught high school English. I slipped into my classroom an hour early every morning and stayed almost as long most days. My evenings and weekends involved chipping away at an endless mountain of essays, journals, and projects that never dwindled no matter how many hours I graded. With the time that remained to my day, I did house and yard work. Rarely did I do anything just for pleasure.

            Amazement filled me if I heard about friends taking off for evenings or weekends with “the girls.” How did they find the time? How could they simply leave their jobs and households for a few days at the beach? Guilt over spending that much money and time on myself would make the intended respite stressful for me. In my mind, I’d fret over all the stuff I wasn’t getting done.

            Over the years, I don’t think I’ve learned how to play without donning a layer of guilt like a second skin. For the last two days, I’ve had no substitute jobs because the openings have been at high schools, middle schools, or schools that are too far from my home. This year, I limited myself to only doing elementary schools within a ten minute drive from my house. I grab jobs at the high school campus that’s walking distance from my house, too. Yesterday, when nothing opened up, I convinced myself that the budget hit wasn’t too bad. I changed out of my work clothes and found my rattiest t-shirt and oldest pair of shorts. I headed out to the back yard and did three hours of yard work. In other words, I worked.

            With today off, it means a harder hit to my extra income. I almost talked myself into taking a slot at a middle school where I could possibly have a totally rotten day. I battled back and forth on the importance of the $78.65 I’ll net VS the Middle School Madness of students in May. I decided to stay home for a second day, but feel guilty about not taking that slot.

             As I sit at keyboard, my mind drifts to the hedges out front. My work ethic primly points out, “You should use today to trim those bushes.”

            Another voice, distant and faint, echoes in my memory. “You work. You work.”

            Maybe today I’ll step away from my overdeveloped sense of responsibility and enjoy an unexpected and unplanned day off—and do nothing at all.

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman  

             

           

"A Balancing Act"

            I teetered off the edge into depression with an unexpected financial hit. Every year, I set realistic goals for hacking down on credit card debt, and every year something screws up my plan. By substituting almost every day this year, I believed that one credit card would be halved by this summer and paid in full well before Christmas. My positive attitude towards working after retirement flourishes under the assumption that my extra work will pull us out from the enormous balances we carry on a couple of credit cards. When I originally used one of the cards, I didn’t sweat an easy payoff as I planned on paying $650 a month over the minimum payment. A new car payment halved that goal and helping maintain the property taxes for my brother’s home ate up the rest. I readjusted my target to have the card cleared within two years, but life keeps knocking it back month-by-month.

            This year, due to all of my extra work days, I reveled in certitude that finally the credit card balance would be less than half of the current total. We got pummeled with an increase in property taxes, and income taxes took a huge chunk of my spring income. Yet optimism reigned as even that double pounding still left us with enough to pay down half of the card’s balance during June.

            Enter Saturday morning. A lovely Texas spring day dawned with promise of doing a little shopping and eating at our favorite Greek restaurant. I practically skipped out of the house with excitement over spending a splendid day enjoying time off with my family.

            My jubilation punctured immediately with the sight of an extremely flat tire. Needless to say, we ended up purchasing four new tires. We didn’t take the cheapest brand offered, but settled on the next level up with a product we’d used in the past on previous cars. Even with the less expensive choice, our total tipped over $600. The only card with that kind of clearance, of course, was the one I’ve worked so hard to clear.

            I tell myself I should be thankful that we could absorb this financial punch without getting knocked out. Still, the blow has me stunned and off-kiltered; shaking my head in numb disbelief that, once again, we’ve suffered a setback.

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

           

"The Mirage"

a distant shimmering

promising relief

from the desert of my uncertainties

my youth

sought your false oasis

thirsted for love and approval

only to falter

steps leaden by oppression

dropping to my knees

supplicant

to receive one-drop-of-hope

before shunning

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"I Worry"

            Over the years, I’ve learned to channel my tendency to fret about every little nuance of life into major areas. It’s a sanity strategy that allows me to let the less important things “go” while satisfying my personal psychological need to control whatever I can. This Five Point Focus means I spend my energy on the bigger needs and wants for myself and my family. I thought I’d share these with my readers.

Money: 
            How much debt is too much?
            Should I work extra to get ahead?
            When will I feel financially safe?
Time:
            Am I spending enough time doing what I want?
            Will I make time to travel?
            Will I run out of time to accomplish my Want To list?
Health:
            Will I continue to be creative?
            Will my energy stay stable as I age?
            Will I remain accident/illness free?
Family:
            Are my siblings healthy, happy, and secure?
            Will my husband and son continue with their creative ambitions?
            Can we stay focused on the end goal for as many years as it 

            takes?

Right choices:
            Will the decision to stay in our neighborhood continue to be

             a good one?

            Will the new shift toward self-employment earn enough?
            Can I change the path I’m on as I get even older?  

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman  

           

"There's a Pill for That"

headache or heartache; weight up or down

fungus or fever; face in frown

helpless or tired; skin with a red rash

anxious or cold; a nighttime hot flash

grab a cure-all; or rub a lotion

pop an antidote; or down potion

drink elixir; or chew sweet tablets

suck a lozenge; or swallow pellets

foolish and stupid; minds closed to truth

shallow and stubborn; creeds blight our youth

righteous and pure; their justice is small

cruel and petty; their views destroy all

grab a cure-all; or rub a lotion

pop an antidote; or down potion

drink elixir; or chew sweet tablets

suck a lozenge; or swallow pellets

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Missing Mom and Dad"

            If you’ve lost your parents, you understand the total randomness of grief shifting from background to foreground. At unexpected times, I long for my parents’ humor, support, and unquestioning love. I wonder what advice they would give, what insight they’d have when I struggle with some miniscule ripple, or get pulled down and under by a catastrophic tidal wave of living.

            Next month, my husband and I celebrate our 40^th anniversary. I imagine my parents’ funny card arriving in the mail box. I open the envelope to an added, handwritten note (sometimes Mom’s precise script, other times Dad’s bold scrawl), and find a check. The amount of money never mattered. It truly was the thought that counted.

            The tightness in my chest, the inability to inhale deeply under the weight of old grief, constricts me. For some reason, this year I hunger for another card in the mail. I ache to recognize the handwriting on an envelope. I feel loneliness and loss. 

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

    

"Indulged or Spoiled?"

A coin flip—

            Indulged

                        with

                                    nourishment

                                                attention

                                                            opportunity

                                                                        freedom

OR

            Spoiled

                        by

                                    coddling

                                                yielding

                                                            pandering

                                                                        capitulating

            Indulged

                        with

                                    comfort

                                                ease

                                                            safety

                                                                        certainty

OR

            Spoiled

                        by

                                    luxury

                                                indifference

                                                            idleness

                                                                        privilege

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

                                                                       

“Brainstorming List”

            Several years ago, my well of topic ideas dried up. Practically overnight, I found myself floundering for something—anything—to write about. In desperation, I sent out an impassioned plea to my friends and family on Facebook to PM me suggestions for possible blog posts. The more people responded, the more inspired I grew. I grabbed a new spiral notebook and listed topic after topic. Whenever I find myself thirsty for something different, I turn to this list.

            Every time I buy a new spiral for my drafting and crafting, I devote the first page to that brainstorming list. Most of the time, life presents me with plenty of material. Occasionally, I peruse the list, select one item, write about the subject, and cross it off my list.

            This week my substituting work landed me with classes that need a “warm body” in the room. The students, attached to Chromebooks, ask me for a bathroom pass and leave me to my own devices. Out of boredom, I tugged out my trusty spiral the other day and skimmed my list for inspiration. “Dirty Clothes” caught my eye. The next thing I knew, I crafted a fun poem for my blog. Since I’ve been on the same campus with a similar job all week, I’ve returned to my list daily. I’ve entertained myself by writing on ten different topics using a combination of poetry and personal narratives.

             I feel accomplished and satisfied each time I scratch words off the list.

            In the very back of my mind, a little nagging worry chirps, “What if you use the all?”

            I smile. I’ll do like I did so many years ago and ask friends and family to help me with a brainstorming list!

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Wildflower Tradition"

            During our first year of marriage, David and I invested our limited funds into two sleek, 10-speed bicycles and a used Pentax 35mm camera. Both purchases provided us with endless, low budget possibilities. With our bicycles, we could explore the entire San Antonio area by either heading into town or riding to the outskirts. If we had a little money, we rode down to the San Antonio Zoo, purchased two tickets to spend the day on hunting the perfect shot of a snow leopard or howler monkey. On weekends when we were truly penniless, we traveled to parks or headed down Loop 1604 to duck under I10 and loop through small towns like St. Hedwig. We took our camera everywhere. At that time, every click of the camera cost money for developing photographs. We diligently wrote down F-stops and ISO numbers in a small notebook as a record to compare to the final print. We strove to make every click of that camera count.

            One March morning, we biked over to St. Hedwig and discovered vast fields of spring wildflowers. I remember kneeling down into the dew drenched grass to take my first shot. That picture started an annual tradition for us. We broadened our journey when we shifted to driving our car. We welcomed a digital Cannon Rebel Ti into our lives. It took months before I embraced the freedom of firing off as many shots as I wanted after so many years of hoarding my film, but I grew to love the abandon I feel on these new creative quests.

            Once I began blogging, my tradition of taking wildflower pictures shifted to sharing the results with not only friends and family, but with readers from Europe, Australia, and even Asia.

This year, we did our usual trek to St. Hedwig and to our Live Oak Park. However, we added a new location to our tradition with Wildseed Farms in Fredericksburg, Texas. (https://www.wildseedfarms.com/)

            I think you’ll love the newest flowers that I can now share!

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Reject"

            REJECT. REJECT. REJECT. REJECT.

            What a powerful word in my world as a substitute teacher. Every day, hundreds of job openings appear at the website used by many school districts. The district I work with the most has a few high schools, a handful of middle schools, and double digit elementary schools. Many of the elementary schools tuck themselves into neighborhoods too far away from my personal guideline—no schools more than ten minutes from my home. This door-to-door time frame puts a restriction on my Type A personality. Otherwise, I’d scurry from one side of our district to another on a daily basis.

            I could go into the parameters on the substitute website and block the campuses with a longer drive, but I don’t. It empowers me to REJECT the job notices from those more distant schools. Like most people, many things in our lives slip out of our control. I must work. However, I finally get to pick when, where, and how often I work. Hitting REJECT reaffirms my ability to determine the course of my days. During my last year or two of substitute work, I decided to shift mainly to elementary schools. That change translates into more REJECT presses. More power to me.

Every day I weigh my options and then have an additional strength—ACCEPT!

COPYRIGHT 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

  

"Kitty Thoughts"

            Delving into a kitty brain takes a unique approach. As a child, our Thomas prowled the neighborhood. His reputation as a big game hunter formed with each bird or mouse he laid upon our doorstep. He wore camouflage of tiger stripes that hid him under bushes and within trees. He never showed his prowess with his claws with my sister or with me. He became a limp rag doll whenever we lugged him around the house and never once took a swipe at us when we shoved him into a toy carriage. Thomas broke our hearts when he strayed away from home. Eventually, a battle scarred ruffian turned up on our doorstep. A hunk of flesh missing from his ear, and his right eye tightly closed. Mom fed him, tried to coax him back into our home, but he roamed off again after a few days.

            Cookie and Junior, devilish litter mates, whirled into our household with Dad’s next assignment. These dervishes swung from curtain, knocked down the cookie jar, and terrorized anything that moved. They swiped at our legs whenever we passed by and sprang out from behind furniture with kamikaze recklessness. Their wild antics entertained us constantly, but their combined wild man capers left Mom ragged. My parents decided to take them to a neighboring farm. I remember letting them take off from my clinging embrace to frolic in the hay.

Brindle

            Beautiful, calm Brindle entered my heart and home during the first years of my marriage. She gracefully embraced every change within our home: a child, a dog. Her innate shyness meant people questioned whether or not we had a cat at all. When visitors arrived, she slipped from the room or watched from under the couch. When we first brought her home from the shelter, she would duck away from sudden movement or loud noises. We suspected her early life abounded with hardships. Our promise to her—an unending love.

One of the few pictures of camera shy Sassy!

Our Sassy cat often shunned my attention. She’d jump onto the couch, but the moment I stroked her back or rubbed her chin, she’d move away. She never behaved that way with my husband or son, which left me heartbroken. Sometimes she didn’t avoid me like the plague. I reveled in her gentle head butts and paw taps that directed my pets to her soft fur. Her Jekyll and Hyde interactions with me puzzled me for many years. Then one momentous day, she sneezed—and sneezed, and sneezed before she moved away from my outstretched hand. I dawned on me that she wasn’t avoiding me after all, but my perfume! The experiment to test my hypothesis proved simple. After I took baths, Sassy adored my attention. If I tried to interact with her with any perfume on, she’d duck and dodge my attention. What a relief to discover that my kitty didn’t dislike me!

Padme

We didn’t expect to come home with another cat, but Padme captured my son’s heart the moment he saw her playing at the pet store. She and her twin tangled together in abandon. Only bringing home one kitten of the pair was difficult, but we’d gone to the pet store for an iguana! Padme grew into a passionately opinionated cat with her long whipping tail expressing disapproval with an arrogant flick. Unlike shy Sassy, Padme demanded attention whenever anyone visited. She’d lounge on the kitchen desk to invite back rubs and chin scratches. Padme never presented a puzzle to anyone. She wanted affection and gave it back freely.  

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Passwords"

            In the not so distant past, I hated generating passwords for my endless accounts. I fumbled to come up with something that I could remember, that would flow from the tips of my fingers over a keyboard effortlessly. I have many friends who use generators, but I dragged my feet over going that route.

            My latest technique for creating passwords stems from my use of obscure things only I will know, like the name of my best friend’s third grade crush. I morph “Jeff” to something like J3ff3rd1966IL? In my way of thinking, I can remember Jeff, third grade and the year I was in that grade coupled with the state I lived in at that time. Right? The question mark makes me stop and think on whether this is the right combination before I hit ENTER. For me, generating a new password changed from a tedious exercise to something fun. Need another new password? How about my second grade teacher? MsWh!t3@Dov3r! (Ms. White at Dover). 

            Occasionally, I generate something that trips my fingers up too much, but usually the end result means I hold within my head more passwords than ever before!

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman