"The Metal Box"

As long as I can remember, my parents have had a metal box filled with all of their important papers. I don’t know when they assembled the documents of their lives. Perhaps they’ve always had the box. I do know that the box made an appearance each time my parents evacuated for a hurricane. When my parents and brother made their way up to San Antonio to escape a storm, they tucked the metal box behind the driver’s seat. The papers within this little case provided protection from disaster: life insurance policies on each family member (they still have policies on each of us kids), flood insurance and home insurance, deeds, wills, marriage license, social security cards, birth certificates, military records. My father assembled a list of important phone numbers (like the DOD and Social Security) for us to use either of them died. That way everything would be in one spot in case of an emergency. I’ll never forget the gratitude I felt that my father had taken care of all of this information. Some of the items he had on his check list had to be done within a certain amount of time after he died. We would have been clueless without his thoughtful guidance.

The metal box moved to San Antonio when Mom left League City. Yesterday, I hauled it out in search of the deed to the Leakey property. One of our “neighbors” wants to put in electricity on his acreage, and the electric co-op needs Mom to sign a Utility Easement form. The document’s blanks follow the deed exactly—at least, I think it does. I couldn’t find the deed, or any documentation on the property, in the container. With a phone call to the proper county office, a county official read the deed information to me. It troubled me, though, to find that some important papers have managed to escape their metal home. When I asked my mother about the deed, she recalled changing the form into her name after Dad died, which was ten years ago. She distinctly remembered putting everything pertaining to the property into a manila envelope. She thought she’d returned it all to the box. I imagine she placed the packet in a drawer after receiving the changed title with the idea of dragging out the metal box later. I’m certain, if I made a quick search through the League City home, I’d find the envelope labeled “IMPORTANT” and “DO NOT THROW AWAY” with “LEAKEY, TEXAS” all in bold letters on the front. Anyway, I decided I needed to spend a little time organizing the metal box, putting the papers toward the front that I’ll need once my mother dies. It saddened me to sort through these documents, but I know it’s best to do this now.

It’s natural, of course, that I followed the example set by my parents. My box nestles on the floor of the master bedroom closet. It, too, contains all of the important records from our lives. I feel secure knowing that in an emergency, I can confidently grab the box and have everything we need. I’ve made certain both David and Paul know the content of our container. However, I realized that we’ve stuffed papers and documents into the box carelessly. One day soon, I’ll lug the box out of our closet and do a major reorganization. Perhaps I’ll even make a list of all those important phone numbers and addresses, just as my father had done for us. A metal box will be one more tradition passed through our generations.

Eventually my parents had 2 boxes, which I still keep in 2024

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Deep Cleaning"

 

At the end of every summer, I tear through every room and clean the house to the military standards of my childhood. My personal war against dirt requires vinegar, bleach, and Orange Oil. I break all of the attachments for the vacuum cleaner, gather my feather duster, and pull out the steam mop. I muster all of my energy as I attack each room for a floor to ceiling assault.
            I don’t simply clean the rooms. Every drawer and closet receives personal scrutiny. I spend hours checking all the pens in the desks, sorting through papers scrunched into drawers, and make the executive decision:  KEEP, GIVE AWAY, THROW-AWAY. As I sweep from room to room, I swap out knickknacks to freshen up an area. My teapot collection migrated from the kitchen into the family room several days ago. That movement means each pot goes through a thorough washing before finding a new perch. This assures everything gets cleaned.
            My closet gets special attention during this offensive against dirt and clutter. I dump all my clothes onto the bed, a seemingly insurmountable mound, and begin the process of KEEP, GIVE AWAY, THROW-AWAY all over again. The clothing I keep, I check for missing buttons or pulled hems and take care of any small mending. I find an excellent movie on television, angle the ironing board in the perfect spot, and iron or press every item of clothing. My obsessive organizational oddities kick into full gear at this point. I don’t simply rehang my outfits into the closet. I decide on my strategy for order for the next few months and regulate my closet to that standard. Some years, my clothing becomes color and fabric coordinated. All red tops and blouses lined up neatly ranging from t-shirts to long sleeve silk. The blues, purples, whites, blacks all grouped neatly together. Following the tops are my skirts, then suits and finally pants. I organize them in this fashion because the floor of my closet has a cubby for organizing my shoes and I want clearance for easy access to that area. My shoes receive similar inspection as I decide to KEEP, GIVE AWAY, THROW-AWAY once again. I rotate summer flip-flops back into boxes, keeping out only one pair as I pull out dress sandals. All white shoes will shift back into boxes by Labor Day—another leftover rule of childhood. My deep cleaning stops only when I complete the garage. Then all of the items I’ve put into the donate pile get loaded into the car and taken to Goodwill.
              Year after year, I’ve run through this drill as the last cleaning spree before I returned to school or work. I do a similar cleaning over the Christmas holidays because I’m redecorating every room, and a smaller raid through the house over Spring Break. This year, however, my cleaning strike appears more hit-n-miss. I started in the kitchen and family rooms instead of my bedroom. I haven’t opened a drawer or assailed my closet. At the end of last summer, the obsession to deep clean even though I wasn’t returning to work nagged me into my routine. The realization that I’m actually retired—and can do this type of cleaning anytime I want sank into my consciousness a few days ago. I don’t have to conquer my entire house within a few days. I know I won’t shake off the deep cleaning bug just because I’m retired, but I can select a different schedule than sweating out the August heat to clean the garage!

Last week's deep clean! 2024

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"First Grade Dropout"

 

            I started first grade at the age of five. Our school had no kindergarten and instead offered an option to start children a year early. My mother took advantage of this program as she played single parent while my father had an extended TDY overseas. With a three month old baby at home, she thought it less stressful to have me at school with my sister. Little did she know!

            My parents didn’t believe in frequent spanking. We really had to mess up before we’d get a smack on the rump. My first real encounters with corporeal punishment happened in the front of my first grade classroom. The gargantuan teacher would swoop down an aisle, capture a student by the arm within her talons, and drag an unsuspecting child to the front of the room. With her free hand, she’d reach for her favorite instrument of torture—the paddle. Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack! Then she’d send the crying kid to the office. I’d cringe in my chair, forever fearful of doing something to attract an attack. I never witnessed the behavior of my peers that caused the swoop, drag, thwack attack; so I lived in perpetual fear that one day I’d be the one in the front of the room.

            By October, I cried every morning before going to school. If my teacher walked down my row, I had one of two reactions—I peed my pants, or I fled the room. Much to my sister’s embarrassment, my favorite sanctuary became her fifth grade classroom. Her teacher, a kind soul, would suggest that Paula calm me down and take me back to my own room.

            One day, my panicked flight proved more than my teacher could endure, and she chased me down the hallway yelling, “Stop! Stop that girl!” as I skidded around the corner and tumbled into my sister’s room.

            “Paula! Don’t let that battle axe get me!” I screamed as I threw myself into my sister’s arms.

            By that time, my teacher gained momentum and bulled down the hallway. Nostrils flaring, she grabbed my arm and swung me into the air. “You will NOT have your sister help you today!” she declared as she stomped to the principal’s office with my sister trailing timidly behind us. I cemented my heels into the polished floor in resistance, but all to no avail.

            When we reached the office, my hysteria matched my teacher’s venom, with both of us overshadowing Paula’s mortification. I remember the instruction to sit and be quiet. I remember clutching my sister’s hand for support, I remember hearing the teacher’s voice rising heatedly behind the principal’s closed door. It didn’t take long for my mother to arrive, juggling Charles in a stroller. She shot us a concerned look and vanished behind the principal’s door.

            Eventually, the door opened and my mother’s tight lipped expression revealed nothing. She hugged Paula, thanked her for taking care of me, and sent her back to her classroom. Then she took me into the bathroom to wash the tears from my face.

            “Elizabeth Anne,” she began. “You will go back into that classroom, and you will stay in your chair. You will no longer run to Paula’s room. If you don’t do as I say, I’ll give you a spanking.”

            Defiance flooded my heart. I turned away from my mother and bent over, pulling my dress and petticoats up over my rump, I declared, “Then spank me!”

            My mother’s hand hit hard and true, but I still refused to go back into that classroom. This time my panic wrenched me into vomiting. At that point, my mother realized just how deep my fear ran. She returned to the principal’s office and retreated behind the door. I learned later that she begged for him to assign me to a different teacher. He responded, “I’m not letting a first grader, or her mother, run my school!”  

            The next morning, my hysteria made me so ill that my mother kept me home. I knew that the teacher would spank me if I stepped into her classroom again. No amount of reasoning or pleading could convince me otherwise, and another phone call to the school requesting a different teacher for me met with denial.

            My mother sought the advice of my sister’s teacher, a first-hand witness to much of the drama. Since the principal refused to move me to another class, this other teacher suggested that my mother withdraw me from the school. She felt my young age, a new baby in the home, a missing father, and a “strict” teacher spelled nothing but trauma for me.

            During that entire school year, my mother made me do assignments at home. She taught me to read. She drilled me on writing my letters and numbers. She had me bundle popsicle sticks to learn to count, add and multiply. I wrote my first stories while sitting at the kitchen table. She wanted to make certain that I realized I still attended school—her school. The next year, a little maturity and the right teacher made all the difference for me, and because of the foundation laid by my mother, I reentered first grade at the head of my class.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman