“Order of Destruction”

David Chapman-artist

 

            Who will cry the loudest when denied coverage for your pre-existing condition?

           Who will weep and wail when your air quality index nudges to red day after day?

            Who will stand in shock when tariffs rob your wallets with relentless brutality?

           Who will stupidly mutter, “I didn’t know?” when funding vanishes for public education?

            Who will lament the women in your life bleeding to death?

            Who will regret your neighbor ICE-d into deportations?

            Who will mourn for your LGBTQ teenager choosing death?

            Who will protect you when they brand you “Other”?

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman   

     

"My Vote"

 

         As political leaders play their games on television and over other media, I pull back and worry. I worry about my siblings and myself, and our fifty-fifty chance of inheriting the mutated gene that causes Huntington’s disease. Our genetic code may switch on soon, and our cognitive and emotional well-being becomes endangered. This disease will compromise our ability to work, drive, or walk, think and talk. Both my sister and I retired from education within the last couple of years, and so we have small retirement incomes. Both of us have husbands who earn their own incomes.

         My brother stands alone.

         So as the political pandering continues, I feel angry and frustrated by the portrayal of low income people as not having good character. The words “lazy” and “irresponsible” keep being thrown around with imperial disregard to the life events that lead someone into a low paying, “dead end” occupation.

         My brother has learning disabilities. He attended school at a time when our educational system could identify learning differences, but our teachers didn’t know how to address these problems. I remember spending hour after hour each evening and on the weekends drilling my brother on letter sounds, basic phonics, and sight words. He learned to read because he has a remarkable memory. Eventually, we discovered that his visual disability actually distorted letters and shapes. His eyes perceived images, but his brain processed what he saw into contorted versions. My brother’s school struggles led him to want to work with other children who faced problems. He attended a junior college to study Early Childhood Development, received certification to work with young children, and became a teacher for Head Start.

         His low salary at Head Start meant that he eventually left the work he loved and took a job as a custodian, first with a school district and later with a local hospital. He felt comfortable with this highly physical and repetitious work. Over the years, I’ve watched my brother work harder than anyone I know. He volunteers to work holidays, does extra shifts if someone call in sick, and stays through hurricanes to be the first to clean up after storm damage. My brother’s always works forty hours a week, or more. His income stays under $18,000 a year. He represents the working poor in this country.

         My brother lives a modest life. He budgets every penny to break even each month. He has no cell phone. During the last hurricane, we had to call the local police and beg that someone drive by his home to make certain of his safety. My brother doesn’t own a computer, and he obviously doesn’t have internet. This year his vacation consisted of staying at home and going to see two new releases at his local movie theatre. He has no IRA, or a pension plan from his employer. Even if his income allowed it, his learning disabilities make it difficult for him to understand the financial nuances required to make retirement decisions.

         If my brother carries the Huntington’s disease gene, he eventually will depend upon governmental programs—for everything. I cannot be my brother’s keeper. My own finances won’t stretch enough to cover his entire salary if HD forces him out of work. My sister cannot be my brother’s keeper. She and her husband’s retirement incomes won’t bare the weight of a second household.

         When I hear and see mindless people thoughtlessly and cruelly making judgments about those who have less, anger floods through me. These heartless people, who often have so much, don’t want to understand that Life isn’t fair, and so we must have social structures, provided by our government, to care for those who cannot care for themselves. I don’t mind that some people manage to manipulate the “system” and get more than they “deserve” because that won’t be the case with my brother, or my sister, or even myself if we succumb to Huntington’s downward spiral.

         I am not a statistic.

         My sister is not a statistic.

         My brother is not a statistic.

         So when I cast my vote in November, I’ll select the politicians that err on the side of humanity.       

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

“The Lying Game”

One night, long ago, she left her secret with me
A promise between women to defend a choice
 
No questions asked
No explanations expected
No expectations required
 
One night, long ago, she left her secret with me
A bond between friends to nurture with care
 
No judgement levied
No vow risked
No trust betrayed
 
One night, long ago, she left her secret with me
A link between sisters to honor with respect
 
No exposure feared
No disloyalty dreaded
No love broken
 
One night, long ago, she left her secret with me
A burden dropped into my mind
 
Left under lock and key
Held tightly under my protection
Allowing her to play a lying game
 

David Chapman-artist

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“The Slower Pace of Saturdays”

 

an illusion lost to timed alerts
for medications and hunger twinges
a misconception hidden behind good intentions
of a lazy-head morning in bed
a trick wrapped with self-deception
where choices cloud into obligations
a magical incantation whispered to Time
for an unhurried ballet of abandon

 

 Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

  

 

 

"New Recipes"

 

            After spending months salivating over different recipes posted (pictures included) on Facebook, I decided to copy and paste anything that appealed to me; and which I knew my family would also like to try. Over the last few weeks, I’ve cut, diced and chopped. I’ve stirred, boiled, and baked. I’ve tasted and savored, and delighted in new aromas and flavor combinations.

            We’ve enjoyed Chicken and Cheese Enchiladas, Cowboy Cornbread and Olive Garden’s Zuppa Toscana Soup. My husband has developed a love for Sticky Bun Breakfast Ring on weekend mornings instead of his usual pancakes. We’ve discovered that we all love strong flavors. If feta cheese is in the recipe, I know I’ll get raving reviews.

            Making changes in life can simply come from adding a new spice to the rack or finding a tasteful way to cook Kale. Little adjustments and experiments often lead to the most unexpected findings, both about cooking—and about life!

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"No Compassion"

 

            Sometime between 1952 and 1957, my mother had a miscarriage. At that time, women had to miss three cycles before getting pregnancy tests. I know for certain that Mom had to be at least sixteen weeks along when her hemorrhaging and severe abdominal cramping forced Dad to rush into the emergency room at MacDill Air Force Base. He told the story of blood being everywhere, doctors and nurses surrounding him as he carried Mom into the room, and thinking she was already dead.

            Mom recounted that she felt herself looking down from above as the emergency staff worked over her. “We’re losing her! We’re losing her! We’re losing her!” warned one doctor.  Mom’s thought was that she couldn’t die; she had my sister to love and care for. As the number of miscarriages in the Tampa area increased, eventually they were linked to the DDT that fogged the streets during that time period. Mom’s future pregnancies received the designation as “High Risk” and the military doctors sent her to a private OB/GYN when she was pregnant with me.             

            The severity of damage to her uterus made another miscarriage possible, but I arrived without difficulties. However, Mom continued to have problems with menstrual pain that grew progressively aggressive as the years passed. She also had difficulty getting pregnant again, and had almost given up on any more children, when she finally became pregnant with my brother in 1962.

            After my brother’s birth, Mom’s menstrual cycles grew more painful. Her interactions with doctors became a pathetic round of them minimizing her agony. When she recounted passing blood clots larger than her fist, one doctor patted her on the knee and said, “It’s all in your head, dear.” Eventually, one doctor tried prescribing birth control pills that barely dinted her pain. By 1967, Mom spent part of every month writhing in anguish, bed bound with heating pads and hot water bottles, unable to function for days.

            Dad became Mom’s advocate and eventually found a military surgeon who listened to them. He ordered X-rays and suggested surgery because of an unidentified mass he spotted. He advised that he would probably need to remove Mom’s uterus, which my parents agreed to immediately.

            However, when the surgeon noted that Dad was Catholic, he knew that he would have to consult with Dad’s priest to get permission from him. Imagine my mother’s furor to learn that after all of the years of doctors’ knee patting condensation, she needed another male’s approval for a hysterectomy. My mother wasn’t Catholic. My father was, and so her surgery was delayed until after the doctor proved to the priest the medical necessity of the procedure.

            Mom’s long ago miscarriage had torn her uterus. With every menstrual cycle, endometrial tissue seeped into her abdomen and adhered to her ovaries, Fallopian tubes, and pelvis. Once the surgeon opened her up, he found metal sutures from the appendectomy she had as a teenager with endometrial tissue attached to the entire area. He told Mom after he was finished that he was ashamed so many doctors had dismissed her and the obvious suffering she bore monthly.

           

            Unfortunately, Mom’s story in the 1950s and 1960s continues even now with many women seeking reproductive care. Today, patients and physicians pit themselves against merciless laws that needlessly endanger personal freedoms.

 

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman      

"The List"

 

            I keep a list of possible writing topics on the front of pages of a spiral notebook. I draft my poetry, personal narratives, and short stories on the remaining pages. When the papers become full of scratched out revisions, I move onto a new spiral. And I transfer the topic list, adding new ideas and deleting the ones that I’ve already tackled.

            My brainstorming list changes gradually. With some notions, I plan to write a story—only to have it evolve into a poem. I’ll mentally outline one concept into a poem, and when I sit down to write a nice narrative develops. A few of my subjects have transferred from spiral to spiral over a couple of years. Uncertain on how to approach these themes, I simply keep them on the list in the hopes that one day my muse will guide me through a dog’s life or how to walk away from lifelong dreams.

            When I cross through an issue on my list, satisfaction fills me. That bold stroke means I’ve accomplished another goal within my writing. Many of my friends who write strive for perfection within each creation. They struggle laboriously over word nuances and prefer to place within their blogs pieces approaching perfection. I admire their tremendous skill as they weave   texts together with flawlessness. My purpose for sharing my writing, though, doesn’t center around hewing brilliance out of a rough diamond, but instead focuses upon practice, practice, practice.

 

 

            Today, I’m pulling out a pretty purple spiral purchased at a sale at Target last week. I will sit down with my favorite pen in hand and transfer my list, and possible add a few more ideas into the mix.  

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Trigger Finger"

  

            Over the last couple of weeks, my ring finger on my left hand developed a horrible, and painful, tendency to pull down at the joint and stay stuck in this position. A quick Google search let me know I suffered from “trigger finger.” The first step to treat this malady depends on resting the finger through splinting it, and dosing up with Advil to reduce swelling.

            Obviously, this ailment curtailed my ability to write—either by hand or computer. When I attempted to type, the one finger or one hand approach frustrated me tremendously. I decided to utilize my time off from writing by feeding my addiction to Fringe until I watched the final episode. The stack of novels on my bedside table dwindled as I waited for my finger to recover.

            Yesterday, I removed the splint because I simply couldn’t cook with it on. Although the finger hasn’t reached total recovery, I believe I will now be able to spend small amounts of time back with my spiral and pen or on the keyboard.

            I grin as I press each word onto the page. Writing daily means so much to me, and to go ten days without journaling made me feel lost and a little depressed. I found out that exercising my skills as a writer leaves me calmer throughout the day.

            Funny how easy it is to take for granted the little joys of life. I never thought about how important scribbling my thoughts across the page had become until I’d lost my ability to write. Although my finger hasn’t reached full recovery, it has triggered a new need in me to luxuriate in the time I now have to devote to my craft.   

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Insert Foot"

 

"If you keep your mouth shut, you will never put your foot into it." Austin O'Malley

            I hate it when my observation skills dull, and I don’t notice the subtle signs during a conversation with someone that my words have somehow slipped into a sensitive zone. Usually, this occurs when my personal experience with the topic proves limited, and I begin with an incredulous statement like, “You’ve GOT to be kidding!”

As my sluggish mind tries to grasp a new concept, my mouth keeps going; and I inevitably say something that ticks someone off. I never intend to do this, of course. And because my thoughts slowly sift through this new information, I don’t notice the indications that my opinion counters the very personal interpretations of my listener. The slight intake of breath of the other person goes unobserved. I blunder onward, stupidly asking questions to clarify something which my conversation partner feels is obvious. I unwittingly say the perfectly wrong thing.

            By then, no matter how deeply into the zone of oblivion I’ve stumbled, my listener’s response pulls me to an awkward stop. I feel my eyes widen and my face redden as I try to determine which treacherous ideas or statements caused the response I belatedly notice. The other person’s lips purse tightly, and I can discern grinding teeth or a clenched jaw. This friend shifts with muscle tense, preparing for fight or flight.

            My brain races to rewind the conversation and determine where I first entered perilous ground. If I can discern that moment, I quickly offer an apology for unintentionally upsetting the other person, but the damage cannot undo itself. Sometimes, my thoughtless response goes beyond justification because it questioned a fundamental view of my conversation partner. Saying, “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry! I didn’t know you’d get upset,” seems inadequate. When that happens, I simply veer the conversation quickly onto another topic, hoping desperately that my friend will graciously forgive me and kindly allow me to remove my foot.

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

"On Statin Island"

             About fifteen years ago, my cholesterol levels jumped overnight from normal ranges to extremely high levels. My doctor quipped that she thought I had the highest “scores” of any patient in her practice. Of course, such a dramatic change meant I started taking medication right away.

           Lipitor and I became friends. I faithfully took my pill every night and chose this relationship over my love for grapefruit juice. At the six month checkpoint, my test results showed a successful marriage between my system and this tiny pill.

            Our relationship hit troubled waters soon. I changed schools to a campus that required that I not only think quickly on my feet, but that I literally stand for hour after hour. My feet ached all the time. I experimented with different heel heights, discovering that wearing flats crippled my feet by the end of the day. An inch to three inch pitch took care of the problem for a few months.

            Then my legs began to cramp, too. During the nights, I’d awaken in screaming agony as my calf muscled twisted and knotted. In the mornings, I hobbled. It felt like I walked on gravel as I slowly moved from bed to bathroom. After about fifteen minutes, the pain always subsided.

            Within another year, my body aches and pains had shifted from my feet and legs to my entire body. I often felt as though I’d gone to sleep on a high, concrete platform—and that sometime during the night, I’d rolled off this perch and splatted like Wile E. Coyote onto the desert floor. My morning hobbling became an excruciating exercise.

            Naturally, it never occurred to me to mention this pain to my doctor. I kept thinking it would get better and rationalized that the long hours I spent standing caused the soreness.

            One weekend, my sister observed my crawl from bed.

            “How long have you been like this?” concern laced her voice.

            “I don’t know. It started with just my feet, but now even the tip of my fingers hurt,” I admitted.

            “It’s your cholesterol medication. Stop taking it today and call your doctor on Monday.”

            And she was right!

            My doctor pulled me off the medication and within six months, all of my aching and throbbing vanished. But my cholesterol levels skyrocketed again.

            My journey to “Statin Island” began at that point. When we tried a different drug, one of two things would happen. I’d react quickly with severe muscle pain (Crestor flattened me within three doses); or the drug would only lower my levels for the first six months, and then we’d have to adjust the medication to a higher dosage, which always resulted in side effects. My doctor tired non-statin options, but they weren’t strong enough to cut my scores.   

         

   For the last year, I’ve taken Livalo, and followed my usual pattern. For the first six months my lower levels made us optimistic, and I didn’t have any adverse reactions. Then my cholesterol climbed, so we increased the dosage. This time, instead of the pain going to my feet or legs, it seeped into my left hand. The gradual process tricked me into thinking that I needed to discuss the possibility of arthritis with my doctor at my next check-up. Then the discomfort began in my right hand, and grew from ache to agony.

             So, another drug bites the dust!

            I have six months to focus on getting my levels as low as possible through diet and exercise. If I can get below 300, it may open up options for different drugs that aren’t as strong. Ever the optimist, I know that at least this time around, I have no one to take care of but myself. I can spend an hour a day at Gold's Gym. I can eat a lazy breakfast of Irish oatmeal with fruit every morning. I can modify my diet because I have time to cook different recipes and experiment.

            I know that some kind of medication lurks in my future, but I’ll be prepared for my next visit to Statin Island.  

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

"The Waiting Game"

            Waiting.

            Waiting for a delivery takes a special kind of patience that I don’t have anymore. In the past, I would fill the hours by reading a book or watching something on television. Perhaps I’d do a few easily interrupted household chores to help pass the time.

  

          Today, I await our new Amana refrigerator. The Home Depot called last night and gave us a four hour window. I’ll receive a more specific time within an hour of delivery. At that point, I can shift all of the food into the sparkling clean and dutifully awaiting cooler.

            In the meantime, I linger around the house. I haven’t gone outside to water the gardens, as is my usual routine, in case I miss the phone call. I’ve tried playing Bejeweled Blitz and Zuma’s Revenge to keep me busy, but in the back of my mind, I listen for the truck’s sighing brakes.

            With my luck, the refrigerator will arrive late this afternoon, making me miss my workout at the gym and preventing me from picking up something to eat for lunch.

            With my luck, I’ll be the last delivery before the driver heads into his home base. That means an extra late start on chilling the new fridge and a delay in getting some groceries (which I haven’t bought for this week, of course).

            And so Impatience chats with me as I wait. Her ADHD keeps me on edge, though, and emphasizes that waiting just isn’t my game.

    

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Going to Seed"

 

            We don’t mow our yard every week, and when we do cut the grass, we have our mower set to the highest level possible. Unlike our neighbors who labor continually in their yards, we take a careless approach to the lawn itself.
            We let our grass go to seed.
            All of the negative connotations of neglect seem insignificant because we’ve learned that grasses need to reseed. The long drought we’ve seen over these last couple of years means patches of our lawns have shriveled up. With this year’s rain comes relief, and the only way to reestablish section of our yard is to let it go to seed.
            I love walking through dew drenched grass in the mornings as I check the gardens and pond. The gossamer fibers tickle my feet. Later in the day, sunlight polarizes the hue of the grass, crisping the greens into sharpness. By evening, a slight breeze kicks up, and the seedy fingers of grass hula dance.
 
Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
           

 
 

"Cardinal Flirtation"

 

 

            We have a pair of cardinals nesting in our yard each year. I suspect that the pair we have this year remembers us from last year since they ignore the dogs, barely avoid the squirrels, and linger within sight when I stretch out comfortably in a lounge chair.

            The male teased me mercilessly last night. I saw his brilliant crimson against the green lawn as he cocked his head this way and that. Determined to finally capture him on film, I grabbed my camera and quietly slid outside. I tried to sit off to the side, but soon realized that he kept a distance too far for my camera’s reach. Slowly, I crept under the Live Oak, stopping under the arch our bushes create next to the fish pond.
 

 

            I know, without a doubt, that the cardinal spied me. He flitted flirtatiously from branch to branch, following a pattern of perch, hop, perch, hop, swoop, perch and hop. He circled around me in a predictable display of cockiness. He’d linger along the rooftop, grace the back of one of the wrought iron chairs, and play hide-n-seek among the leaves. His head peeked around leaves and small branches as he challenged me to capture his arrogant pose.

 

            Always just a little behind a branch. Always just a little too fast for my shutter. Always just a tease away from the perfect pose.

 

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

"Daring Changes"

          A few years ago, I decided to go back to my “roots” by cutting all of the color out of my hair and resisting the urge to cover the gray. I wanted to see just how silver or white my tresses had become after I hit fifty.

          I thought my silver/brown looked fine until I caught a good look at it in several different pictures. When several friends suggested I add a little color to my hair, I took their advice to heart.

          Remembering the guideline of coloring your hair to a lighter shade as you age, I experimented with various shades of light brown, ashes, and champagnes until I finally settled on something that drew more compliments than criticism.

          And I slipped into a comfort zone fairly rapidly, settling into changing my hair style instead of my color. I clipped my long hair into short layers, and I’ve slowly progressed to bangs and one layer over the last couple of years.

          Some nights, I believe my hair grows an inch. My color, presentable one day, turns into a mess of grayish-brown roots so suddenly that I never have my brand of color handy. Usually, I browse through the hair aisle on my own, but the other day my son accompanied me to the store.

          “It’s time for you to try a new color, Mom,” he dared.

          I stood looking at the wall of smiling models with a rainbow assortment of choices. We ruled out the pink and purple, shied away from the greens, and barely glanced at the dark blacks.

          The reds, though, drew my son’s attention. “You’ve never colored your hair red.”

          “It has so many red highlights in it already, I’ve always been afraid to go with red,” I explained.

          Before I knew it, I held a couple of auburn shades in my hand.

          “Go for it, Mom!”

          I didn’t need much encouragement.

          Sometimes, we get into ruts. We put ourselves into predictable boxes. We follow our set patterns. We bore even ourselves.

          So, I put a totally different color into the grocery cart, went home, and became a redhead within an hour.

          The color screamed, “RED!”

          I glanced into the mirror several times and wondered what David would say when he came home from work.

          “You look like my grandmother,” he piped when he took in my new shade.

          Now, no woman wants to hear that she looks like her husband’s grandmother!

          I immediately realized, though, that it the tint did closely match the shade of red that Grandmother had used.

          Deciding to “tone it down” a notch, I rushed back to the store, selected a shade of brown that I could apply, and created a totally different hue that’s uniquely my own.

          I don’t know how long I will stay with this latest tone, but I love that I can still take on a dare and not be afraid of changes.

 

No dare! 2024

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

         

"Sitting 101"

             A normal person wouldn’t need lessons in relaxation. A normal person wouldn’t have to practice the art of sitting still. A normal person wouldn’t have to hear reminders from loved ones to “take it easy” or to “just sit and do nothing.”

            I am famous for my reputation of being unable to sit and do absolutely nothing. I’ll find a rerun on television, listen to music, or grab a book as I head to the couch. I’ll find myself itching to run a dust cloth over the furniture if the TV show doesn’t capture my attention enough. I may set down the book to get a drink in the kitchen and find myself wiping down the counters one-more-time. And music? Well, sometimes I just have to get up and dance!
            So this morning I practiced sitting still. Intentionally, I headed out back without pen and journal in hand. And although I have just finished reading one novel, but I didn’t snatch the next volume from my summer reading pile. I didn’t turn on the television for background, and I didn’t switch on the stereo.
            I sat outside in one of the lounge chairs and listened to the rise and fall of child voices coming over the back fence. Their high pitched squeals mixed with the coos of doves. The breeze felt cool and the morning sun gentle.
            I lasted about fifteen minutes.
            Then the dogs wanted outside, and my foot itched, and my neck needed popping.
            Needless to say, I will have to practice this new skill daily.   
 

Where I plan on conducting my morning "class" each day!

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Burying Dead Bodies"

             My warped mind exercises itself by plotting murders.

            I’ve burned, poisoned, bludgeoned, and strangled. I’ve “run through with a sword” and run over with a car. I’ve frozen and thawed. I’ve sliced-n-diced.

            I don’t know when playing these mind games started, and I’m glad my sociopathic side stays strongly secure within make-believe.

            Imagine my pleasure when I stumbled upon the knowledge that iPhone’s Siri recites a list of where to hide dead bodies! I delighted in learning that someone “out there” thinks in the same murky waters that I find my own mind trolling.

            Siri’s list contains, however, the obvious places:  reservoirs, metal foundries, mines, dumps, and swamps. So I’m spending my downtime during spring break generating a new and unique list of disposal of my victims.

            Of course, I definitely won’t share this list with my readers. Because, you know—I may need to use it one day!

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

"Some Days"

 

            Some days, I long to write. My mind yearns to sit with pen clenched in fingers as I translate all the visions in my head into images spilling across the page. Or I spend endless hours with my laptop, creating new worlds peopled by my limitless imagination. I focus on a single meaning and play with a multitude of words until I find just the right combination of syllable. I fill page after page with my heart and soul, and still find more to say. I feel free. I feel young. I feel weightless. I am possibilities.

            Some days, I long to sing. I throw back my head and belt out a song with rapturous abandon. I scale through octaves like a diva. My voice becomes a mockingbird that imitates any singer my spirit desires. I croon lullabies and wail the blues. I feel powerful. I feel bold. I feel ecstasy. I am possibilities.



Belly Dancer by David Chapman

             Some days, I long to dance. I pirouette across the kitchen as I head out the door. I step-shuffle-step-step to the car. I shimmy as I drive to the store. In the parking lot, I perform perfect fan kicks over the grocery cart before I belly dance down the aisles. I feel daring. I feel vivacious. I feel sexy. I am possibilities!

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Simple Stories"

 

Mornings find me slipping into TV Land as I feed Mom scrambled eggs or syrup saturated pancakes. I sit beside her on the couch, holding her Boost as she struggles to take single sips at the straw. My childhood favorites fill the background with black and white clarity. The pleasant plots contrast to Mom's daily decline. The soft humor nudges giggles from us. Will Beaver get his tonsils removed? Will Laura's big toe come out of the faucet? Will Aunt Bea's pickles win the prize?

These episodes uphold with gentle playfulness, honesty and optimism. Perhaps these simple stories simmer in my subconscious, providing the basis for my undying belief in people striving to do the best for those they love.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman