"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