“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

                       

“Root Rot Regrowth”

            The redbrick house sat so close to the railroad tracks that it shook whenever a train thundered past. No decorations adorned the walls. No knickknacks sat on the dressers or hutches. No one dared leave a glass on the kitchen counter. At one time, the house belonged to a railroad company for employees to use for overnight stops. Eventually, my great-aunt Helen settled there to take care of her syphilis insane ex-husband . . . but that’s another story.

            I loved Aunt Helen’s house because of the porch that covered its front. Wicker chairs, a bench swing, and enormous planters filled with Mother-in-law tongues provided a hideaway for me and my siblings during our visits to League City, Texas. My grandmother, uncle and his family lived next door in a nasty, dysfunctional home. I preferred Aunt Helen’s tales of her wild and reckless youth to the more difficult to understand stories of my grandmother. As a child, I could barely understand a word she said. Later, as an adult, I learned to appreciate the richness of a Cajun cadence.

            Aunt Helen taught me to propagate plants. From her, I learned to appreciate separating new growth from the roots. She showed me how to pinch off a philodendron at just the right spot and just how much sunlight it needed to grow in a glass jar. Kneeling in her gardens, I separated bulbs and appreciated the hardiness of the Purple Heart Wandering Jew plant, which thrive in my yard today—grown from clippings from her garden more than fifty years ago.

            The Mother-in-law tongue plants became my favorite plants to nurture. I loved everything about them: the green outlined by yellow, the long and slender sword-like leaves. My imagination latched onto their name that alluded to the sharp tip of a mother-in-law’s criticism.

            After Aunt Helen died, her plants went to various friends. I inherited one that resided with me in my college apartment. One winter, I negligently left it outside on the porch. It died a horrible, frozen death.

            For some reason, many years passed before I purchased two Mother-in-law tongue plants. I fell in love with it all over again! This time, I made certain to bring them in each winter. Once the plants crowded in their pots, I’d repot them into a slightly larger container, always attending to their preferences. Both plants thrived!

            Until they didn’t.

            Not enough sunlight.

            Too much water.

            Suddenly, I found myself on my knees, hose in hand, gently tugging each leaf grouping apart. Mush in some sections. Healthy leaves in another. I focused on recovery. Every day, I visit these plants and murmur an incantation of encouragement.

            Just enough sunlight.

            Water measured with caution.

            Regrowth.

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman