"The Cottage"

 

Cottage on Inisheer, one of the Aran Islands, Ireland September 2010   

Whitewashed walls tinged rose by sunrise’s blush   

sashes—a splash of sky   

new thatch mixes with dew’s perfume   

while flowers and ferns embroider the path of home       

Door opens with smiles and cheer       

Enter!       

Enter!       

Peat banked in the hearth       

black pot nestles in amber embers simmering Guinness stew         

Lace daintily drips from the table        

—tatted by Grams’ steady hands       

Oatcakes totter on a platter       

sheep’s cheese, churned butter, honey, cream       

and tea brewed black—a midnight sky swirling with galaxies        

From the loft flows the fiddle’s enchantment        

a boy’s toe tapping, keeping the beat        

drowning out the past’s lament        

tears of yesteryear hidden in another song        

Cottage at Bunratty Castle

Share a pint   

Share a verse   

Share our life     

Welcome home!   

Welcome home.   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

Cottage at Bunratty Castle

 During our entire trip through

 Ireland, a place I'd never visited before, I felt    as though I was returning home.

Cottage on Inisheer

“Coming Late to Tech”

 

            While everyone around me updated phones with each configuration of the devices, I held on to my iPhone 4 with tight resolution because it still worked. The more phones cost, the more I convinced myself that I could wait. My trusty iPhone 4 never failed me, but in 2021 my son convinced me that it was time to rejoin the world with newer tech. I welcomed an iPhone SE that I basically used exactly like my old, limited phone—calls to my family, texts to friends and family, and very few apps all neatly arranged into categories like SOCIAL, PRODUCTIVITY, or ENTERTAINMENT. Basically, I hummed along the same phone usage as I had for the previous dozen years, except for the camera. I fell in love the convenience of having a decent camera that fit in my pocket or purse.

            Fortunately, my son pushes me onto new tech that forces me to stretch into different areas. For last Christmas, he purchased a pair of AirPods for my long neighborhood walks, which I took with nature as my background beat. Each morning, I’d select from YouTube favorite musicians that put pep into my pace. He also gifted me with an iWatch 9.3.1 for my birthday.

            Learning how to use the watch proved more of a challenge. On one of my first walks, I unknowingly swiped at or tapped onto the little green walking person and accidentally recorded that walk with all this wonderful data. When I tried to replicate gathering the information for my walk the next day, the tech defeated me. Once I arrived home, with watch in hand, I farted around until I saw the option for LIST. 

            “I love lists,” I thought. Selecting that option made all of those small icons that crowed my watch face change into a respectable and manageable list that let me discover WORKOUT. Dancing around the bedroom with excitement, I saw the option for “Outdoor Walk” and selected it. I never ventured beyond that choice.

            Another overworked knee (too many times up the steepest neighborhood hill accompanied by sweeping leaves from the house front) meant nursing the injury and not returning to my daily walks. Our family Christmas gift, an exercise bike, came to the rescue to help me get back into healthy knee shape. The first time on it, I wore my watch and left it on the “Outdoor Walk” option. I felt pretty silly when I scrolled further down the options and found both “Cycle” choices. Yesterday, though, I ventured down the choices on my WORKOUT option and discovered “Dance”.

            With AirPods in place and Nickelback blasting, I danced from room to room for thirty minutes! I pulled into muscle memory for old drill team routines. 3 Doors Down and I swirled and pumped. Evanescence accompanied me though adding small weights to my spins and twirls.

            This new tech allows me to have accountability for my exercise goals, but it also adds an element of fun. I don’t know what today will bring, but I fill thankful that this new tech becomes part of my daily routine.

 

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

"A Teachable Moment"

Art from Reader's Digest Feb. 10, 2023 article by Leandra Beabout

 I wrote this post in 2018 to capture the importance of an educator embracing the impact of students making connections. With what's happening in various Republican controlled states, I wanted to repost this example of what teaching really means for most of us. 

            I enjoy substitute teaching because it changes almost daily. I completely control the schools where I work, the grade levels I teach, and even the teachers I sub for. Sometimes, my days don’t progress as smoothly as I’d hoped, but most of the time I enjoy the fact that I get to satisfy the educator within me.

            A few weeks ago, the assignment I took turned out to be different from what was “advertised”. Instead of teaching a fifth-grade class for the entire day, I found myself changing grades every ninety minutes. I started with the older kids and ended my day with first graders. When a principal makes this kind of modification to the schedule, I simply go with the flow. I don’t mind a little unexpected variety to my day.

            When I arrived at a second-grade class, the teacher instructed me to finish a science activity she had in progress and then to shift the students into a social studies lesson. It wasn’t long before I projected the text on a lesson about Phillis Wheatley. I read to the class that she was taken from her family and home in Africa and brought to the states as a slave when she was seven or eight years old.

            And the assignment within the book stopped at that moment.

            “What do you mean, Mrs. Chapman?” one girl asked. “Were her mom and dad with her?”

             “No. She was brought to the United States and sold to a family in Boston.”

            “But she was little. Like us.”

            My eyes smarted. My throat constricted. “I know.”

            The same little girl continued in disbelief, “But weren’t there those things back then to protect her?”

            “Things?”

            “Those things. Rules. Rules that say you couldn’t do that.”

            “Laws? You mean laws?” My heart weighed down.

            Every educator hits those points in instruction that whatever you say becomes a lesson that the children will carry with them, possibly for a very long time. The lecture or instruction becomes unique and pulls away from text or curriculum. We refer to this as a teachable moment.

            “Our laws are supposed to protect people, but some laws were unjust. Wrong.”

            Another student joined in, “So the laws let people have slaves? How could that happen?”

            Another boy popped out of his seat, “My dad had me Google slavery! We read all of this stuff together. But you know what it all came down to?” He drew a huge dollar sign in the air, “Money!”

            The classroom teacher slipped into the room as he made this proclamation. She couldn’t ignore the tears that smarted my eyes as I continued speaking about the concept of chattel and repeating again that just because something was legal didn’t mean it was right or just. From her vantage in the back of the room, she listened as this room of seven and eight-year-old children grasped that these horrendous happenings occurred to someone close to their own age.

            I glanced down at my schedule and realized I needed to move onto the next class on my list. As I gathered my tote, I listened to the kids bombard their teacher with more questions and knew she’d chuck the remainder of her lesson.

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

Banned Books 2023

“Unsafe”

 

            My husband’s family epitomizes every aspect of our American culture that makes me feel unsafe whenever we interact. Their narcissistic personalities mean they lack empathy. In their narrow worldview, you are either with them or against them. Alcoholism adds into their dysfunction and layers on an element of unpredictability. For many years, I struggled to find common ground with them. We turned up for the weekly dinners and most of the holidays. If we spent a holiday with my family, I received a stern reprimand from my mother-in-law about ruining her Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, Fourth of July . . . because we didn’t obey her commands. I tried visiting with them more, babysitting the million nieces and nephews, and cleaning up on my own after huge family gatherings. I stopped asking for inclusion in the girls weekends away (or even a trip to the wineries north of town). My mother-in-law announced on one recent visit that she has access to the banking accounts of all of her adult children and a handful of her adult married grandchildren, but not our accounts. Although I’m on one of my single brother’s accounts and my single son’s account in case of emergencies, I’ll drop access once someone else is in their lives. The point with my in-laws is their need to control everyone and everything around them.

            A difference in beliefs, religions, lifestyles, and thinking brings an immediate and visceral response from people like my in-laws. Physical intimidation becomes a go-to response if you stray too far from their bold coloring book lines. My mother-in-law slammed me against the wall and choked me when I stated every woman has a right to safe abortions. One brother-in-law tried to pull me from the car window because I didn’t follow his commands. After those attacks, I limited in person contact. However, in a family that operates on gossip word comes through on a different brother-in-law’s drunken fight with his first wife with him threatening her at gunpoint. The family does suicide watches for him every time his relationships explode. Guns play a role throughout the family with all of them having a mixture of handguns and hunting rifles. Imagine my shock, though, when a nephew posted on Facebook a few years ago a picture of his awesome Nene with an AR-15 strapped onto her.

            My in-laws don’t reflect a fringe part of today’s world. Their “Us VS Them” life philosophy means they’ve closed themselves off into in incest-type cycle that feeds off of a closed system. They all vacation together. They watch the same news. They eat at the same places. The listen to the same music. They marry the same women or men. They foster the same fears.

            They buy the same guns.

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

  

“Grandmother’s Cookbook”

                        My mother’s childhood showcases trauma and loss. Her father lost their farm during the Depression and moved his family into the small town of Danville, Illinois. Her oldest sister, Lois, drowned while swimming in the local lake within a few years. Around the time Mom turned nine, her mother died. Her father, left with five children still at home, found himself unable to care for his three youngest girls. They ended up within the foster care system. Fortunately, the small town meant all of the Thompson siblings went to school together. She visited her sister Nellie, a newlywed, often. Mom remembered the marble-topped furniture in their home, the lean years of lunch consisting of half a head of iceberg lettuce sprinkled with salt, and the wild antics of her older brothers, known for pranks that resulted in scoldings from the local police. Only a few treasured pieces came into Mom’s possession once she reached adulthood. She received a golden bracelet, which she wore at her wedding. The bracelet became a tradition to wear at weddings with my sister and me encircling our wrists with it. I inherited this lovely piece and used it for the cover art of my novel.

            The other prize from Mom’s childhood came in the form of The American Woman’s Cook Book, edited by Ruth Berolzheimer. All of the frequent moves made by my parent’s military lifestyle meant somethings never made it to the next assignment, but Mom always tucked this cookbook into a box that came with us. Over the years, both of my parents pulled this book off the shelf for recipes. My husband and I turn to it regularly, with me recently vowing to try new-to-us recipes weekly. The volume, though, contains not just ways to prepare various dishes, but also a look into life for the housewife in the 1940s. The thick work contains color plates of finished delights. It suggests menus for parties and holidays. Within its sheets one can find pages of food equivalents. Struggling with ideas for school lunches for the kids? Need a tip on how to set your plates for a fancy dinner? Want the perfect Hollandaise Sause (one of our favorites)? How about the best banana nut bread or pancakes on Earth? You can even find specific instructions on how to help with the war effort.

 

This volume represents a life that showcases hardship and hope.

 

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

      

“Caregiving Scars”

 

Edna Abrams 80 yrs. 

            Knowing your personal strengths and weaknesses means you learn when to tune in to your inner voice that warns, “Watch your step. Take your time. Give yourself distance from others to think.” Many times, though, the cacophony of other voices drowns out that quieter internal tone. Hours, days, weeks, and even months press by when you listen and respond to everyone but your own ideas and emotions.

            Your life becomes a long list of “To Do” and “Should Do”. Family and friends lecture those of us in caregiver roles to “take care of yourself first” without realizing such advice cannot be taken without another person actually stepping into your home. They throw out suggestions for you to get away and take a break, but it’s extremely rare that they enter into the responsibility you’ve undertaken for any extended period of time.

            Huntington’s disease attacked my mother fairly late in life. In her 60s she stopped the voracious reading she’d done her entire life. Her passion for cross-stitching died overnight. She talked about being depressed, but insisted her “blue days” didn’t warrant a doctor’s visit. Her tendency for anxiety increased. She complained frequently about not going out or doing things, but then pulled the plug on suggested outings and activities. Sometimes, her feet would move in a restless dance, but she’d stop them the moment anyone called attention to them moving. In her early 70s, she still drove her car and walked a mile each day. She had a couple of times when her legs folded up under her midstride, but HD didn’t blip on any of her doctors’ radar. At 78, Mom had a TIA that propelled her into a Huntington’s disease nightmare. The neurologist treating her at the hospital still didn’t recognize HD, but a young nurse caring for her had worked with an HD family. It was her insistence that forced the doctors to run genetic tests, which gave us the diagnosis.

            No amount of research prepared our family for the years of caregiving that became our family destiny. For two years after the diagnosis, Mom lived in an assisted living complex walking distance from our home. I visited her every day unless I was ill. On those occasions, my husband or son spent part of the evening with her. Her motor skills spiraled into a decline that forewarned us that eventually she’d need to move into our home. She went from walking on her own, to using a walker. She broke her wrist, had cauliflower ear from a fall, and split her nose on her coffee table. Her internist shifted her into a wheelchair because no one wanted her to break a hip. During those two years, our lives revolved around making certain Mom never felt alone. She made friends with her aides, threw parties for both residents and staff, and daily insisted that she missed her apartment. She knew, though, that she’d never live alone again.

            My retirement from teaching on year 30 became imperative. No one talks about the extremely high costs of assisted living. Mom’s care during the two years she stayed there increased from $4,000 to $5,000 a month as her nursing needs changed. Shifting her into the 24/7 care that Huntington’s disease would eventually require meant that price would increase out of our budget. The cut in my take home income from retiring to care for Mom was still financially better than moving her into the more intensive care.

            In 2010, Mom moved into our home. For the next two years, life increasingly revolved around her and her needs. My son rented a home in our neighborhood to be close by, and during the last six months of Mom’s life, he moved back home to help me while my husband worked. The bond formed with the three of us caring for Mom still connects us today. Mom’s deterioration once we moved her here slowed down. Her neurologist noted that she felt happier and more secure. Her mental decline never happened as with many HD patients. If she got enough sleep, she stayed sharp and focused. My greatest fear, that Mom would eventually be unable to swallow, started in November 2012. She went three weeks without food and three days without water.

            No one writes about or talks about the scars carved into the caregiver’s heart. Ten years later, I still catch myself thinking that I need to rush over to Mom’s apartment if I’m out running errands. My caregiver’s scar means I listen for Mom’s bell to ring some nights. That scar reminds me that a disease took over our existence as it destroyed my mother’s life.

Edna Abrams 81st birthday 2011

Edna Abrams with her nephew and his wife 2011

Mom listening to live music with family 2011

Mom at cabin in Leakey, TX 2011 age 81

 Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

  

"Summer Begins"

  

Summer begins  

shedding stress by    

lusting for Father Ralph  

I become Meggie   

slipping into heartbreak  

reliving my own devotion  

veiling my Catholic guilt under Italian lace 

missal clutched in small, white-gloved hand   

crystal Rosary, blessed by Pius XII,  

soothing my restless fingers  

his Irish brogue a supple song   

his blue eyes like laughter

he kneels before me, eye-to-eye   

proposes a date  

he’ll be my father—  

a surrogate breaking bread 

erasing my disappointment 

drying my tears with his finger tips  

tugging my hand to the crook of his arm 

his brilliance dazzles me

my heart worships him 

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman with repost 2023