“Patience”

 

            Two years ago, my well-loved mother-in-law plants grew seriously ill with root rot. My own neglect, not moving them into larger pots and replacing their soil, coupled with letting someone else water them for a few weeks after my knee injury resulted in near disaster! I hurried out for pots with drainage and soil with nutrients. Sitting outside in the shade of the live oak tree, with hose in hand, I separated out the rotten parts. With optimism, the original plants went into new, better homes and the undamaged rhizomes settled into different containers with new soil.  All of them went onto the front porch with dappled sunlight. From my original two plants, I propagated a total of eight possible survivors. By Christmas, they all looked healthy enough that I gave away two as gifts for my sister.

            Six of the plants remained with me, coming inside during winter freezes to sit crowded around the front window. Each week, I’d rotate them to make certain they’d get enough light. To be honest, they snaked into the background of other plants around the house. When we decided to move all of our pothos plants from water jugs up high in the kitchen to pots out in the back yard, I placed my mother-in-law plants back on the front porch with confidence that they’d thrive, and they did!

            Gardening takes patience. One plant, place inside or outside, may take several years to mature. Serenity becomes my companion whenever I putter in the gardens. My persistence, though, grows slowly with each new propagation.

Jan 2022

Jan 2022

June 2024

June 2024

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman     

“Survival Mode”

One mishap
And Life freezes into chaotic misery 
An unavoidable illness burns your Future
An accident-not your fault-crushes Hope
An invasion of tech ruthlessly slaughters Livelihood

One mishap
And Life freezes into chaotic misery
An unrepentant storm heaves debris on your Path
An unforeseeable betrayal of Love and Trust erases you
An accumulation of losses and loneliness syphon away your Soul

One mishap

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Before D-Day”

 

            When Dad did his tour in Vietnam, Mom returned to Danville, Illinois to be closer to her siblings.  One of her brothers, Uncle Red swung by the house once a week to take my sister and me to the A&W for root beer floats.

            I adored Uncle Red and puppy dogged behind him every time he visited. His endless patience endured my constant nagging to teach me how to whistle. One visit I overheard him talking with Mom about concern for Dad’s safety. It was weighing him down. I remember linking my arms around his neck as I sat in his lap, trying to cheer him up. He settled me against his chest and told me how he’d gone off to war and was wounded. He spun a tale for me of German troops leaving him behind, thinking he was dead. How lucky he was to get back home!

            When I recounted his story to one of my cousins forty years later, my cousin recounted the horrific truth of Uncle Red’s reality. Not only had he been injured, but German troops captured him. He ended up in a POW camp. My adult heart broke to know that Uncle Red protected me all those years ago. I don’t know if I’ll ever know the full scope of Uncle Red’s experiences.  

            Recently, though, hidden in boxes and boxes of photographs and news articles from my Aunt Louise’s possessions, I found more information about Uncle Red. It didn’t recount his injuries or capture, but instead celebrated his Silver Star award. The Silver Star, awarded for valor in combat, started in WWI as the Citation Star. This award acknowledges the heroism of soldiers during singular acts of honor or valor. Only 100,000 to 150,000 men and women have received it since its creation.  Uncle Red’s II Corp unit was sent to the Italian Front in mid-November in 1943. On January 6, 1944, II Corp engaged in mountain warfare under severe weather conditions. When crossing an open area, enemy machine gun fire from the front and also the flank ripped into the battalion. Uncle Red gave aid to the wounded and carried at least six men back to safety.

            My Uncle’s actions on the battle field, by saving the lives of so many other men at great personal risk, define all of the best qualities of The Greatest Generation. Today marks the 80^th anniversary of D-Day, and I don’t want another year to pass without a tribute to John R. Thompson’s courage six months before.    

         

Copyrigiht 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

               

         

 

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“I ♥ Godzilla”

    Our old black-and-white television would flicker and flutter if the antenna didn’t rabbit ear precisely, but that never stopped me from staying up late at night to watch one of the various Godzilla movies aired after midnight. My young heart thrilled as the monster stomped through Tokyo, ripped Mothra from the air, or battled to the death with Kong.
     Last night, my heart embraced the latest in Godzilla’s destruction by viewing Godzilla Minus One. In the 70 years of Godzilla epics, the original that I viewed on that old, small screen holds a special place. I have to admit, though, that I love this behemoth in all of his renderings.
      Why?
       I have no idea.
      I do know that Godzilla’s sweeping tail and stomping feet, his superior ferocious power and impenetrable, scaly hide delighted my childish heart. With this latest version, I cheered as he ripped through cities, plucking ships from the ocean and tossing them like small toys into the air. I know, as in the past movies from my childhood, he will be back

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Cleanliness is Next to Obsessiveness”

 

 

            The other day, I theorized with a friend that the tangle of a childhood spent in base housing still impacts my life fifty years later. While some of my friends grew up surrounded by clutter, our military routine of moving every three or four years meant we traveled lean and mean. My mother never feared the demanding, detailed inspections of our housing since she cleaned everything all the time. She assigned me and my siblings age appropriate duties that were completed daily, weekly, or monthly. My sister’s expertise became dish washer extraordinaire. The iron became my weapon of choice as I stood for hours pressing Dad’s white handkerchiefs or the bed sheets that had wrinkled down into a tight ball.

            My siblings abhor housework. They both attend to the necessities: dishes, laundry, lawns, shopping. They managed, somehow, to escape the flaw I ironed into my personality. Before retiring from the classroom, I drove myself and my family into exhaustion by expecting everyone to reach my unrealistic standards for the house. Fingerprints never lasted on any painted wall. Base boards gleamed. No one ever checked over my door frames, because in real life, they don’t matter. But a white glove test could’ve been run at any time with perfect results.

            Doing less never worked for me. Letting things “go” slung me into anxiety attacks. As time passed, I can embrace the freedom of my husband and son having their space to putter in without going ballistic at their creative messes. Imagine my delight when I retrained my brain to close doors on rooms that are not my territory!

            In retirement, the grace of having time translates into set days for different chores. Monday we “market” with grocery runs and other errands. Tuesdays, if the weather’s not too hot or cold, go to either cleaning the car or doing yard work. Wash days are Wednesdays. Thursdays turned into the hardest day for me: NO CHORE THURSDAY. I read, watch television, and do only projects that bring me bliss. I hold onto Mom’s Friday drill: bathrooms top to bottom, dusting, and floors just in case unexpected company arrives.

            I’d like to say that my expectations have lightened up over the years, but then I’d be lying to everyone!     

 

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Stillness”

Today I need to step outside of myself
            to embrace caution
            to access this new information
            to slow down my pulse with measured breaths
 
Today I need to locate my panic’s source
            to immobilize my fear
            to heed my heart’s warnings
            to analyze my certainty I’ll be hurt again
 
Today I need to be still
            to reflect upon my younger self’s doubts
            to acknowledge her searing pain
            to wrap her safely within the tranquility of my experiences

 
Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
 
 

“A Little Rain”

 

 
            A few days ago, the heat index made movement impossible.  Then storms pummeled some areas with high winds, hail, and deluges of rain. Our neighborhood, though, received “just enough” of everything. The winds danced our trees around like dervishes with temperatures dropping with our mornings back into the 70s. SKECHERS on and hat tucked on my head, I ventured to the park just after sunrise to document the impact of a little rain from our early morning hours.    
            Our city designed drainage to flow into a park with a pond to receive overflow. For too long, though, these ditches have stood bone dry. The morning of my walk, water rippled and danced. Already, the cooler temperatures coupled with cloud covered skies meant the park’s fields greened almost overnight.
            This interlude will sit with us temporarily. By next week, we’ll creep back up to 100°.

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman