"Our Children Kill Each Other"

tears well in our eyes   

indignation puffs us full   

of righteousness   

at children carrying weapons   

we cry in dismay   

at cold-hearted killers   

living desperate lives in disparate lands   

far from our safe homes   

children as soldiers with an arsenal of death   

not ours   

not our responsibility   

tears well in our eyes   

as we cling to the Second Amendment   

our right to arm our children   

with hatred   

camouflaged in mistrust      

we cultivate our subtext of fear   

creating cold-hearted killers   

within our own homes   

children as soldiers with an arsenal of death   

yet not ours   

nor our responsibility   

tears well in our eyes   

disbelief sucker punches us again   

as our children kill each other   

questions, finger pointing,  and the blame game resumes   

but nothing changes   

while the new order of horror   

nurtures cold-hearted killers   

within our own homes   

children as soldiers with an arsenal of death   

ours   

our responsibility  

   

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Run Silent”

 

            In the past, my need to fill the page whenever tragedy struck either close to home or in distant locations meant my thoughts on everything turned up in my blog. Then the January 6^th attack on the United States Capitol broke something in me. COVID-19 exploded in the homes of both family and friends, and I only recorded its impact in my personal journal, with no desire to blog again. The vital lifeline blogging provided during Mom’s endless battle with Huntington’s disease became less necessary. I didn’t feel the need to write about the troubles that everyone around me also experienced firsthand.

            On February 24^th, Russia began a brutal attack on Ukraine. I retreated into books and spent massive hours raking leaves and hauling rocks from our back yard to the front. Our television sets normally remain silent during the day, and my preference to read the news over seeing and hearing it means usually our home runs silent for the majority of each day. Yet, this today the news drives my morning, as it has daily since the war began.

            Helplessness accompanies me as I toil in my yards. Spring’s promise of rebirth hides under the leaves. As I clear each area, green draws my eyes to life’s eternal potential. I treasure my safe shelter.

 

Escaping war news

Hauling rocks, raking leaves 

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“A Forgotten Load

 

            Upon entering the laundry room this morning, dismay accompanied me as I noted unfolded towels in the basket. I’d totally forgotten to fold them on Wednesday! Panic knocked my pulse up a beat as I shot a glance at the washer to see if I’d left a load of wet clothes in the machine. I don’t do this often, but there’s nothing worse than damp clothes sitting for several days. Fortunately, the drum gleamed in emptiness. My next response, of course, was to check the dryer for a load. Today, a set of sheets tangled inside—dried. What a relief! Occasionally, I’ve left wet clothes in both appliances, which ripples down into a wash-redo.  

            I take comfort in the fact that many loads of laundry remain forgotten by other people. My lapse in memory doesn’t indicate anything more serious than absent-mindedness caused by a busy day or interruption in routine. The proof for the commonality of forgotten loads rests with the option on all machines: FRESHEN UP.

 

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman    

 

“Morning Musings”

Deer in the morning at the park

            Yesterday’s misty gloom slicked the roads and sidewalks, making me hesitant to venture outside. However, today’s glorious sunshine enticed me from bed by 8 AM.  I couldn’t wait to tie on my Skechers and head for the park. I can now actually walk from my house to the park, do the hiking loop there, and return home without a single nag from my knee. My snail’s pace slowness means joggers on the trail loop me, but every step I take makes me sing, “Victory!”

My son and nephew in 1988

Feeding the ducks in 1988

            With today’s trek, my mind slipped back to all of the times we’ve enjoyed our local park. Passing the mother with her pre-school kids playing on the equipment shot me back to walking my son to the park in his red, wooden wagon. As I looped around the pond, ducks and geese stirred to see if I carried any treats with me. The park now has trails that are paved or graveled in areas that in the past bore feet hardened tracks. When I stood atop the dam today, I saw the past views overlaid with the present.

            Gratitude fills me that we have this lovely place to hike. I love that the playgrounds and baseball and soccer fields get daily use. Disc golf enthusiasts and dog walkers join in with those who fish in the lake. The park’s past, present, and future mingle in my mind as I walked today.

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

Spring wildflowers at the park

    

“Losing Louise”

Aunt Louise in 1949!

            Every few months, I contacted my Aunt Louise. Sometimes it’s a quick letter posted with a nice card. Most of the time, it’s a phone call. If there’s any kind of weather system heading to any corner of Texas, she’d initiate the contact to make certain none of her Texas relatives had blown or floated away. I often called her around Mom’s birthday in January and her own birthday in July. Over the past year, my calls to Aunt Louise became a series of messages left on her answering machine. Sometimes it was full, but most of the time I could leave requests that she call me. Around her birthday, I decided to send a letter because I worried about her health as she was 94. When the letter came back with addressee unknown, I decided to contact my cousin in Illinois since he often visited Aunt Louise. My aunt lived in a retirement area that allowed her to move from independent living in an apartment to assisted living and nursing care if needed. I thought she must have shifted to a higher care facility without anyone contacting me.

            Reaching my cousin, though, proved difficult. His landline, in a home he’d lived in for more than sixty years, was disconnected. I did a quick online search and found his obituary for August 2020. I later learned he died of COVID-19.  I tracked down his son, who I’ve not seen since we were very young children, to learn that he could access Aunt Louise’s information once he finished moving into his dad’s home. This was during the summer of 2021, and I let it ride because grief laced every word my cousin spoke. He assured me that he’d get Aunt Louise’s new contact information to me.

            In December, I received a phone call from someone I didn’t know. He stated that he’s the executor of Aunt Louise’s estate, and she’d died in November. He asked for my email information and cell number, which I gave him. He requested contact information for my siblings, too. He sent a few emails with information on the VA cemetery and the estate sale he’s having next week. Then, a couple of weeks ago, I received an anxious call from my cousin’s daughter because she hadn’t reached Aunt Louise and hit a block when talking with the nursing home personnel. She only had my number because I’d left it with her brother. She had more frequent contact with my aunt and was upset because no one from the facility had contacted her about Aunt Louise’s death. As she was executor of the estate, she was really worried when I told her someone else had contacted me! I learned quickly that she’s a focused and fiercely loyal advocate for Aunt Louise. She made phone calls and sent emails, demanded to see the will that this other man claimed to have, and let me know that he’s legitimate.  She let me know that Aunt Louise left money in a trust, but I worry more about tracking down any photographs and personal items that found their way to storage. This weekend, there will be a sale of her household goods, and the executor of her estate assured me that he’d hunt for family photographs and send them on to me. We have so little from Mom’s childhood and teen years because she spent nine years in foster care. Maybe Aunt Louise had a box of memories and mementos that will allow us to find both her and Mom again.

 

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

             

 

“Practice Grace”

            Every day, our national news spotlights an ugly side of our country. Too many people in power who want to kill rational thinking by directing attention to fears to control our dialogues. Their rhetoric feed negative and dreadful constructs. Daily, they drone on and on against diversity in thought and deed. They expertly played a long game by infiltrating local school boards and subverting local communities. Their grass roots movement now bears malignant, poisonous fruit. The end result indoctrinated entire sections of our culture to fear and hate.

            Yesterday, I briefly visited a family member whose husband died in December from COVID-19. He believed the propaganda that COVID-19 was nothing worse than the flu. He spouted their words about masking blocking his individual rights. He refused vaccination even when his wife and children received their own shots. He believed their cancerous disinformation. His COVID-19 battle started in July, with months of hospitalization and then a shift to a rehabilitation facility. When his insurance ran out, he came home to die.

            All I could think of on my walk home was that he’d been killed by dangerous opinions. How did we get to this point as a society?

            We stumbled somehow onto a path that doesn’t practice grace. We’re mired in muck that no longer allows for kindness, mercy or decency. I don’t know how to wash away the filth.

 

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

“Old Friends and New Disappointments”

            The responses of various friends to national and world events have left me disillusioned. Did I ever know the true spirit of woman who sits in mass daily and yet defends the attack on the Capitol? Did I misjudge the friend who insists her right to refuse to mask and vaccinate during this pandemic outweighs my rights to stay healthy? Did I naively trust the man who now insists he must own and display an AR-15 when I visit?

            Have these people always been so different from my vision of them, and have they donned masks throughout our years of friendship? Or have they changed without my noticing? Can these relationships recover, or will these disappointments color our interactions from now on?

            Already, there’s less contact initiated by these friends towards me because I know the insurrection at the Capitol endangers our democracy even as those supporters of our former president defend The Big Lie more than a year later. I encourage everyone to get vaccinated for COVID-19, wear masks, and social distance because it’s the moral choice for not just our country, but for the world. I cannot “un-see” the photographs of my friends and family arming for a war that they aspire to begin.

 

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Something to Prove”

 

unnatural competition
sibling rivalries created and nurtured
by narcissistic manipulations
the alcoholic mother and enabling father
doling out love to the winners
the challenge evolves
 to plastic wives and drunken children
awards for misogyny and adultery
applause for cheats
 and deceits
victory gained
by zealous clannish unity
that punishes the different drummer
with ostracism and disdain
darkness shadows each generation
with something to prove

 

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman  

“Happy Call”

            When my phone rang early on Saturday morning, and I saw it was my brother, I hesitated before answering. The first thought hitting my brain went straight to, “What’s wrong now?” That dread roots itself in a rough year of catastrophe.

            I tried to coach my voice into a neutral, “Hi” because I try to protect Charles from the anxiety his calls often trigger.

            “What’s up?” he asked.

            “Me!” I quipped back as soon as I registered his tone of voice.

          “I’m treating myself to breakfast—an omelet. Then I’m going shopping.” His voice sounded upbeat for a change. We chatted back and forth for about half an hour about the new kitchen plates he picked up last week and his planned visit to my sister’s house next weekend. We talked about the ice that froze San Antonio a few days before and his relief that the frozen snap didn’t impact his newly insulated plumbing down in League City.

            Everything we talked about was light, bright and breezy. Getting a happy call is so rare that I found myself writing about it today. But . . . maybe this will be what 2022 brings to our family.

 

Stressed at Christmas 2021

Happy Charles 2014

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman             

“Ice”

 

            Grabbed my camera yesterday to document yesterday’s rare weather event—ICE! My friends and family living in northern regions experience winter’s wonders with nonchalance, but for those of us in the south, we pause to marvel at the beauty of frost, snow or ice.

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman  

     

“Our Greenhouse Downfall!

Last night's ice tore through the cover

             The experiment with our hot tub conversion to greenhouse ended this morning. Since we built the covering, it’s withstood rain and several days with high winds. After one storm, we added a layer of plastic and tightened down the lid. When temperatures outside dropped below freezing, the inside steadily remained at least ten degrees warmer. All of the plants thrived.

            Freezing rain and ice coated the plastic shell sometime last night or early this morning. We woke up to find the structure collapsed with near freezing water drowning the plants. David began hauling the larger pots out and into the house while I followed with the ferns, spider plants and Pothos. The living room and family room now serve as a temporary home until this weather system passes. The first dry and sunny day will find us rebuilding.

Icy water filled the tub

Temperature just above freezing

Koi watching us work

          

Optimistic for the aloes's health

Living room overflows

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

“Greek Teas”

 

            When we lived in Dover, Delaware, Mom and her friends gathered most mornings for coffee and gossip. Each woman served from lovely china sets that included coffee pots that matched their cups and saucers. Mrs. Hurley, who was born and raised in Wales, always steeped a cup of tea for me. Her hospitality warmed my five-year-old soul as much as the savory brews.

            By the time I was nine, my mother purchased all kinds of teas for me to try. Her favorite, Constant Comment, always resided in the pantry. Sometimes she prepared a black tea as dark as coffee and laced with milk and sugar. She picked up different mint teas and green teas that stayed light with gentle flavors. My love of teapots sprouted when we moved to Illinois and became entwined with my passion for tisanes.

            My delight with teas and teapots makes me an easy person to shop for when it comes to my birthdays, Christmases or anniversaries. Finding teas from other countries to bring to me became a quest for my husband and son. The internet and Amazon opened up a plethora of options with them researching the health benefits of various infusions. Their passion for all things Greek led them to discover their most recent gift to me: Greek Mountain Tea, Diktamos, and a Greek herbal cocktail of Marjoram, Sage and Diktamos. These ancient teas medicinal benefits include relieving respiratory infections, easing stomach and digestive problems, and lessening rheumatism. If you want antioxidants, just steep a cup each day. They’ve become a family favorite already.

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

           

 

           

                    

“Koi and the Cabin”

Koi ignoring his "pilow"

              We thought we broke Koi this weekend at the cabin.

              He sauntered down the ramp a little after 8 AM on Saturday morning and followed a safe distance behind David’s weed-eating sweep. His single, sharp bark drew my attention from stacking rocks to our driveway entrance.

            “I’m taking Koi for a walk!” I called to David before following our dog down the steep incline towards the dry creek bed. In previous years, this section of road washed out with every thunderstorm that traversed the hill country. Sometime over the last few years, the county built up the entire section of road, possibly enough to prevent water from damaging the area in the future. Still, it’s a precarious walk for my recovering knee. For Pom-monster Koi’s little feet, it’s a challenge he tackles slowly now that he’s over twelve-years-old.

            This time, he walked and sniffed, and sniffed and walked down the slope with ease while I clumped along behind, careful to keep my weight even on each leg. At one point, he wanted to leave the road to investigate, but a high berm prevented him from crossing over. He yapped at me to help him up and over.

            “No. We’re staying on the road,” I instructed, and then suggested we return to the cabin.

            Koi refused to follow me when I pivoted to go back. We stood in stalemate for a few seconds, and then I relented.

            Our walk continued for a few hundred feet more before I suggested, “Cabin? Water?”

            The offer of water stopped his forward push. It took us about ten minutes to reach the cabin door. Both of us lapped cold water before heading back outside. To prevent Koi from accidentally laying in prickly pear, David pulled out the mat all of our dogs use at the cabin. Koi ignored it, though, and stretched out on the rock hardened ground to watch me work.

            When we broke work to eat lunch, he drank a ton of water and nibbled at his bits. He trailed behind us as David tried out our new saw on some cedar. He vanished when I feebly attempted to organize our junk pile. David found him on the porch out of the midday sun, and he resisted the suggestion to go inside on his own.

            About 4:30, we headed in to wash up for dinner with Koi leading the way. He signaled that he wanted help onto the lower bunkbed. David lifted him onto its foot. His eyes closed immediately as he sighed.

            Koi didn’t move when pork chops sizzled. He didn’t come to the table to beg for food. While we took a sink bath, he remained silent and still. He ignored our offer for his evening chicken.

            By our bedtime, his deep and motionless sleep made David nudge him awake to see if he wanted to go potty. He closed his eyes again. One of us checked him periodically all night as he slept the sleep of the dead. Sometime during the night, David moved into the bed with him to keep better watch.

            Then about 4:30 in the morning, he stood up on the bed and yipped to go outside. The twelve hour sleep restored him. He wasn’t broken after all.

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

     

“Reset”

Paul and Mom July 1992

            Our cabin near Leakey, Texas rests within a remote area where the hills cup around, making cellphones unusable once we turn off of FM 337 onto Rim Rock Road. My parents purchased the land over thirty years ago, long before cell phones existed, when they were about the same age as we are now. I remember lecturing them to wait until we arrived before they unloaded the supplies from one of the many projects we tackled together during those first years. Without fail, they ignored my warnings. We’d pull up to find they’d maneuvered plywood out of the truck bed on their own. Dad often quipped that they weren’t invalids!

Mom and Dad July 1992

David and Dad July 1992

Finished porch-July 1992

            After Dad died, spending a weekend at the cabin tumbled all of us into grief. We attempted a few trips with Mom, but she cried each time. Once she said, “I see the ghosts of who we were walking outside.” By that time, Huntington’s disease had her wheelchair bound. She’d last a few hours, and then ask for us to bring her home. Once Mom died, we made a few trips up alone where we made a few necessary repairs, cut down a few ever-intrusive cedars, and down-shifted our visit to nights of board games or stargazing. About six years ago, our Escape Hybrid needed extensive and expensive repairs. Because of its age and mileage, we found ourselves purchasing a car that couldn’t handle the rough Rim Rock Road terrain. David’s parents and siblings assured us that we could exchange our car with either their SUV or truck whenever we wanted to make a trip; but in the usual manipulative dance of narcissists, their offer proved shallow.

            For three years, the cabin remained untouched. Last May, David’s cousin and her husband took us up for a weekend. Someone had broken into the place and tossed things around searching for valuables that didn’t exist. This same cousin took me back last November for another quick visual check. Each short view left me determined to get a new SUV, which we did at the end of December.

            This weekend we carefully examined some areas of wood rot in the screened porch area. We tossed around ideas of making the repairs ourselves, but I know that’s unrealistic. We debated over the possibility of taking the area down and just having a huge deck. We discussed finding a local company to hire to do the repairs. At the moment, the damaged area doesn’t hold the danger of falling in on us. We have time to decide the best course. In the back of my mind, I hear my own voice warning my parents, “Wait until we get there. Don’t do anything stupid!”

Our hidden driveway January 29, 2022

One task accomplished! January 29, 2022

            That past caution reminded us to limit our visit to one major task. David focused on cutting the knee-high grass that covered the driveway and cleared some cedar. I relined the driveway with rocks.

            Both of us used the sunshine and hard labor to step back and away from work and world. We hit “reset” to return home recharged and ready.

 Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

  

“Technical Difficulties”

  

            Not blogging for a year means I’ve barely touched my printer. The first attempt to print last week generated frustration. My computer and printer no longer recognized each other. A little bit of “this-n-that” and an adjustment to the network let them communicate again. The next problem came from a warning for more ink. That solution entailed a run to Best Buy to purchase the last ink cartridge in their stock.

            Today, I wanted to print two poems I needed to add to the hardcopy of my volume of original verses. Stupidly, I forgot to input which page to print. The printer hummed and began cranking out the entire one-hundred-forty-two pages. Cursing, I instructed my computer to stop the job while David jumped in and shut down the printer right in the middle of a page! That created another set of problems—paper jams. In all of the years we’ve had this printer, we’d never wedged any pages into the machine. We accessed the back by unplugging the entire thing and moving it to the bed to remove the stuck poem.

            Reattaching the printer, I commanded for only that one page to print. The warning about ink appeared and nothing happened. That special trip to Best Buy to buy that final cartridge never ended with the ink finding its way to the printer! Instead, it rested on the lower self of my husband’s desk, waiting patiently for installation. Unfortunately, swapping out the toner didn’t immediately solve the problem as my computer kept insisting that the ink was low. We decided to restart everything.

            Victory! I printed out the three poems to add to my closeted hardcopy.

 

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Mental Health”

 

            In March of 2020, I participated in the Psychological Impact and Coping During Covid-19 research study done by The COVID Research Team, Ferkauf Graduate School of Psychology at Yeshiva University. The detailed questionnaire asked about changes in sleep, eating, concentration, and mood. I completed one month, three month, and six month follow-ups that continued to monitor my personal response to the pandemic.

            This drill focused my attention onto the resilience caregiving gave to our family. With Huntington’s disease, we’d already survived tending to a horrendously devastating disease. We’d already experienced pulling in our lives to a tight circle that relied on finding positivity and grace in handling Mom’s long, slow death. Caregivers don’t leave their homes that often. Visitors dwindle down once friends realize that the news never gets better. Caring for Mom honed my coping strategies for isolation and uncertainty.

            My mental health advantage took a battering when the flaws of friends and family members pushed to the foreground. Some people refused to wear masks, stay home or social distance. They continued their proclamations of individual rights through vaccine rejection. A few have become seriously ill with Long COVID symptoms. Several died. They refuse to follow their own doctor’s suggestion spouting that they know better than the medical community.

            Their attitudes broke my heart. Their declarations that their own needs outweigh the health of a community made me realize that we lack common ground. They closed their minds to anything I offered by demeaning me and my well-documented sources.

            These relationships forced me to add a layer of mental health checks to my interactions with other people. My high tolerance for toxic family and friends shifted because of the pandemic. My own mental health required no contact with those who spew propaganda. My own mental health compelled me to nurture friends and family who show a level of empathy, grace, and community in their lives.

 

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman