"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.

Watching acorns grow!

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman  

             
           

"Deer in the Headlight"

            Defiantly, her eyes locked with mine. Not a ripple of concern in her stance or glance as she faced me while my heart shifted to a faster syncopation. My headlights mirrored from her pupils for a second before she dismissed me. Casually, she crossed the road with the confidence that no harm would befall her.

            My foot, stamped to the brake, eased off to crawl my car forward. The predawn shadows complicated my search of the path from which the doe had unexpectedly emerged. No fawns follower her, and I cruised up to 20 MPH.

            As I rounded the corner, our small neighborhood herd waited in edgy anticipation by its morning feeding spot. Daily, an elderly retired man dumped buckets of dried corn from the back of his pickup truck. In long ago conversation, he’d told me that he needed to know someone counted on him being somewhere each day. With his wife’s death, his retirement had turned to unexpected loneliness that he filled by caring for these deer. This morning five deer awaited his arrival.

            My thoughts drifted from the doe to an old man’s loneliness as I edged onward into my day.

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Wants VS Needs"

 

         I’ve read some pretty mean comments on social media recently. Insulting words lashing out, sometimes with no obvious reason for the inflammatory temper tantrums. Suddenly, a conversational steam turns ugly. I sit dumbfounded as I read through cruel, malicious responses from people I thought to be reasonable—and nice.

         Most of the time, I try to understand both sides of the issue. If I weigh in (many times I bite my tongue and keep away from my keyboard), I attempt to find factual support for the issue at hand. Sometimes I balance myself onto a middle ground. Occasionally, I respond with well thought out deliberation. Fortunately, I have a blog wherein I can pull together longer reflections.

         In my dream-state last night, I mulled through this-n-that in an effort to distill recent events into some kind of cohesive theory that applies to a bigger picture, and I tossed-n-turned myself into a dichotomy of wants versus needs.

         Many people state belief systems as though they are needs. They need to follow their religious doctrines.  They need to spank their children—and everyone else’s, too. They need to defund programs like education and welfare. They need to take care of their own—even if that means making decisions that harm others. They need to own guns. They need to stop abortion. They need to segregate themselves way from minorities. They need to prepare for Armageddon.

          Whenever these people speak out, they truly feel that these things are essential requirements for their safety and happiness—for their duty to family, or church, or country. Their insistence that things are needs lends a level of urgency and unreasonable panic to their daily lives. When they feel that these needs are threatened, they respond with illogical anger and boiling hostility. They view their world as always threatened by someone else encroaching upon or diminishing their basic needs and rights. It must be rough living with so much distress and disharmony.

         I wish I could wave a magic wand over these people and shift their mindset to the fact that all of these things are wants, and not needs, because the urgency and fear shifts dramatically with this worldview.

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Incredible Inflatables

            For older neighborhoods like ours, finding space for anything proves problematic. Our house, built in the mid-1960s, originally paced out as a 1,000 square foot three bed, one bath, and a one car garage home. Typical for the time period, the builder designed about seven different floorplans with some including one more bedroom, bathroom and a luxurious two car garage. To optimize our cottage, we converted our garage into half storage on the garage door end and a permanent wall that gave us another room originally used for an office. Nice bi-fold doors separated the laundry and pantry from the office. Many of our neighbors have done a similar change, and some have sacrificed their garage completely.

            Since our backyards stretch to comfortable sizes, outdoor storage sheds, ranging from utilitarian to She Sheds, grew throughout the area. We opted to go with an addition to the back and planted a hot tub and gardens instead of a shed. Eventually, we relied upon renting additional storage, especially once Mom moved into our home.

            Our purge through storage units, both attics, and our half-garage area ate up years of “Keep, Give Away, Toss” until last year found me tackling the garage once more time and replacing old containers with neat, matching, reinforced bins. Everything now has its own place, but there’s absolutely no room for more unless I enforce my rule “One thing in, a like thing out.”

I’ve turned away from adding outside, holiday decorations because they are often wooden or metal and always bulky.

            Until a last year when the cost of inflatable decorations dropped onto shelves in At Home, Home Depot, and Walmart! One sturdy, stackable bin can hold several Halloween decorations, a Thanksgiving turkey, and a Christmas snowman and Christmas cactus! Within the box we have two projectors and all of the necessary extension cords, too.  And there’s room for more! We hope to add to the collection with uniquely incredible holiday choices each year.

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

"Changing Leaves"

          Running around the past few days on Christmas shopping errands, awe stopped me in my tracks. Our Red Oak and our neighbor’s Arizona Ash decided to don bright, contrasting reds and yellows. My husband’s iPhone and my old trusty Canon captured this brilliant moment.

            Enjoy!

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman    

"My Debt Exchange Program"

         Opening an old spiral in search of blank paper, I stumbled upon budgetary goals from several years ago. Column after column of monthly earning and spending that optimistically dwindled my debt on multiple cards while it built a savings buffer for taxes and unforeseen catastrophes.

         I chuckled to realize that my current debts and assets reads almost exactly the same as where I stood two years ago.

         Have I remained still? When analyzing the red, I noted that my final BALANCE DUE hadn’t nudged at all!

         I’d get discouraged if I didn’t applaud the achievements of my budgeting. Although it appears I’m running in place, in reality I’ve used paid down debt to repair, renovate and replace.

         All of those tallied columns and hopeful projections remind me of the importance of planning. My two steps forward, one step back approach to life would probably frustrate most people, but I can appreciate my accounting accomplishments.

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Family Gatherings"

          My siblings and I talk weekly. The habit, established years ago when you paid for a long distance phone call by the minute, resists change. I usually contact my sister during the week. We chat about family and friends. Although each of us have only met the other’s friends a few times, over the years the life events of these people weave into our conversations. We spend time discussing world events and allergy seasons. We share with one another the grind of our jobs (both retired teachers who now substitute to keep out of trouble.) My sister lives in a small Texas town and participates in her church, political party events, and the “this-n-that activities” of her community. We divide our worries and our woes and multiply our joys. These phone calls ebb and flow with a life of their own. Sometimes they last only a few minutes. Other days we drain our phone batteries.

          In contrast, talks with my brother have slipped into such predictability that variations bring unexpected pleasure. I call my brother during the weekend. We enjoy a little contest on who will call first on Saturday without it being too early. These tête-à-têtes time out to fifteen minutes, give or take. My brother loves following weather, so a hurricane in the Atlantic will swirl us into a longer conversation. If I need to download a problem, he offers a sympathetic and non-judgmental ear. If he faces car trouble or a plumbing problem, we’ll figure out a way to fix the situation. As he is single, he sometimes needs another pair of hands to handle household challenges, but I know he’ll never ask for help. Every few months, I suggest that I visit. Sometimes my sister will rendezvous with us. Sometimes my husband and son will make the trip with me. All of us feel it’s important to help my brother maintain the family home.

          Getting to spend weekends or holidays with my siblings always proves a challenge. My sister and brother-in-law spread their holidays in several directions:  their son, daughter-in-law and grandkids; my brother-in-laws siblings; my brother; and my family. Many holiday choices are dictated by my brother’s work hours. If he has consecutive days off, he’ll head for San Antonio. Often times, he only gets a single day at Thanksgiving or Christmas, and so he’ll make the shorter two hour drive to my sister’s house. It isn’t unusual for them to have Stouffer’s Lasagna as a Thanksgiving meal. When my brother has more days off and decides to come to San Antonio, we celebrate the event will special holiday treats and trimmings.

          Over the last few years, my sister and her husband have tied themselves to their town because of responsibilities for one of their community obligations. My brother-in-law runs the local KC hall, and someone almost always uses it on Thanksgiving. His responsibilities include inspecting the hall after the event. This year, my sister convinced him to delegate some of his duties. She called yesterday with the wonderful news that, although they wouldn’t make it up for Thanksgiving Day, they’d arrive on Friday morning! My nephew and his wife and kids have other plans, and so they won’t be adding to our holiday, but we like that different branches on our family tree begin their traditions with family and friends.

          During this week, television sitcoms revel in the mishaps and mayhem of dysfunctional families gathering for Thanksgiving. I appreciate the humor mixed within the discord, but feel especially blessed that our holiday will embrace a laidback air of “adulting” with shopping during the day and nice dinners and drinks in the evenings. 

Copyright 2016 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

  

"Background Noise"

  

            Sometimes, when I sit down to write, I’ve no idea what words will appear on the page. My diligence to my craft means I put pen to paper every day (or in this case fingers to keyboard) and simply write. Many of my journal entries recount mundane trivialities of a simple life, some dip into a distant past while others slip into a hopeful future. My thoughts may focus on something currently in the news, but it’s just as likely for me to focus on the fact that it’s Friday—again.

            Then those days come where I shove aside all of the ideas that pulse in the forefront of my attention and spend time concentrating on sighs, the impatient pant of the dog laying at my feet, the distant drone of the dryer as it whubs—background noise that lets me transcend the ordinary.

            Then I hear the words whispering to my subconscious. Soft. Seductive. Evasive. A whiff of perfume that lingers in an empty room. And I hold my breath, fearful that the slightest movement would frighten my words into flight. Send them scurrying back and deeper into darkness.

            So I hunker down on my haunches, hand held outstretched with palm open in supplication. I practice patience. Wait motionlessly, head cocked to the side so I can perceive the words surrounded by heartbeats.

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

             

"The Fall"

 

        

              The day begins with me alone on a front porch swing, taking the time to savor the morning stillness before anyone else awakens.

            Yesterday right after dawn, I donned my tennis shoes, hung the Canon around my neck, and made a short hike down the road to a gate that guarded river access. I spied a trellis heavy with grapevines; its fruit long lost to birds. Moving cautiously downward, I found a clearing where water shallowly pooled. Snapping pictures, I captured sunlight and water—rocks hidden under a rising mist.

            I tiptoed across a natural bridge of stepping stones, attending to each one to make certain my feet found purchase as I made my way across the moss slickened steps. Trying to gather morning’s essence, I hunkered down on a ledge to change angles, finding beauty from east to west.

            

            I dangled my camera around my neck, its heavy weight bumping against my chest, and its weight reminded me to take care. But a loose and slippery rock foiled my sensible shoes and snail pace, catapulting me into a cartwheel. Instinct snapped into place, and I caught the camera before it plopped into the water. Who cares about a bruised hip, battered shoulder or bumped head? My hands cradled my camera as my head bounced a second time. Like a mother who’s swept in to pull her child away from catastrophe, I checked my “baby” for damage as I swiped at the lens and casing with a dry corner of my shirt. Reassured that water hadn’t seeped beyond its hardened shell, I powered it down and began to laugh.

            Water trickled down the right side of my body and my right shoe squished as I made my way further up the bank, pulling away from the river’s edge. For a second, my blurred vision worried me. Had I hit my head that hard? And then I realized that my glasses lay somewhere behind me. Half-blind and half-drenched, I searched my way back down the path—hoping my glasses had tumbled onto the ground when I took off my light jacket—fearing that they lay under water.

            I backtracked onto the spit of rocks, avoiding the one that spilled me into the water; and began to patty cake the cool surface, squinting in an attempt to sharpen my vision. My fingers found my frames before my eyes, and I plucked them gratefully from their hiding place under a large leaf.

            My mishap meant I meandered around the water’s edge with wet pants and a soggy shoe as I preserved wild flowers blooming one last time before the coming of Fall.

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman   

           

"In Between Gardens"

  

 

            In San Antonio, winter blows into the area the end of October and teases the trees with forcefully cold winds. It dusts grass with frost, and may sprinkle snow, like powdered sugar, over bushes and parked cars. Sometimes rain visits the area when the temperatures drop, treating us to fingers of ice or sleet. And we hit the pause buttons on our lives. We stay home, hunker down, and wait out the freeze—which means a twenty-four hour stop in our routines. Bad weather pushes her way out as quickly as she invites herself in.

 

            Our gardens and lawns already show signs of spring. Dandelions bob their heads in the soft midday breeze. Crabgrass crawls across the yard, playing with sleepy Bermuda. Dead-looking Plumbago sprouts up from around the roots of last year’s plants while Mountain Laurel fills the air with purple Kool aide scents. Live Oak leaves turn dusty and brown before they fall to the ground in defeat.
 

            I wait and watch. Impatient to see who won against winter. Will the ferns fight back and uncurl their delicate fingers soon? Will the clover return with its delicate pink blossoms? As I clear away the papery pulp of my Wandering Jew, I know by May this hardy groundcover will have returned to full glory.  

            My gardens and yards transform daily. Sometimes I believe I can hear the growth, if I listen carefully. So right now, the status remains in flux—my gardens poised between death and life.

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman