"Doing Dishes"

         When we first moved to San Antonio in the 1960s, the biggest draw of excitement for the new house came from the dishwasher. The luxury of simply rinsing the dishes, pots and pans and then placing them into a machine that washed them seemed decadent to us. I don’t remember anyone complaining about doing the dishes during those first years that we had a machine.

         This little dishwasher toiled away for ten years before its motor burned out. My father’s comment when he realized the expense for replacement? “I have three dishwashers in this house. We don’t need another.”

Resentfully, the women in the household took over the machine’s duties. My sister usually cleared the table, putting any leftovers into neat Tupperware containers and stacking the dishes in a manageable pile. I manned the sink of hot sudsy water. As Paula brought dishes to me, I’d quickly submerge them, scour them clean, and dip them into the second sink filled with rinse water. I didn’t mind this chore, but I often wished the scenery I viewed wasn’t the dining room table. I swore that if I even owned a home, I’d have a kitchen sink with a window that overlooked the yard. No one listened to my grumbles as I scrubbed. My mother just calmly dried each plate and restacked them neatly so my sister could put them away. I may have complained a little more when it came to doing the pots and pans, but with my SOS Brillo pad in hand no job proved insurmountable.

Me and my window!

When I left home for college and my first apartment, I thrilled in having a dishwasher again. Only I barely used it at first because I lived alone. If I didn’t want ants or roaches invading my place, I couldn’t leave dirty dishes in the sink. If I had to rinse the dishes enough to keep the insects away, then I figured I should just wash them by hand. I didn’t begin to rely upon a dishwasher until I roomed with three other women. We constructed a simple rule. If you cooked, you didn’t clean. Three of us cooked on a rotation. One roommate never touched the stove, so she always did some kind of clean-up, but she never complained.

Eventually, my apartment living gave way to home ownership. When David and I bought our house, which was built in 1966, it had a portable dishwasher. The little butcher block model sat on one wall across from the sink. You had to roll it over to the sink and attach a hose to the faucet. Needless to say, it leaked. We rarely used it, but it didn’t matter.

The sink in this kitchen overlooks a huge back yard filled with trees. I could finally stand on the inside, hands submerged in heat and suds, and watch butterflies and hummingbirds. We lived in our current home seven years before we remodeled the kitchen and added a dishwasher. I didn’t shift back to automation as easily as you’d think. By this time, I had several sets of dishes and glasses that I didn’t want to run through a machine. I still preferred to clean pots and pans by hand. When this machine eventually died, we didn’t rush for a replacement. Eventually, the pace of our daily routine converted dishes into another dreaded chore, and my complaints lead my husband and son to search for a perfect replacement.

Every day, though, I still stand at the sink and gaze out into my gardens. I’ll load most of the dishes into the machine, but hand wash a set of plastic tumblers I bought at Target for under $2.00 a piece! These smoky goblets bore the instructions—hand wash to keep glass appearance. As they look so much like glass that you don’t believe they’re plastic unless you touch them, I figure I’ll spend a little time each day with hands submerged and eyes gazing into the backyard.  

Puppy Koi "helping" with the dishes

 Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Hydrogen Peroxide and Vaseline"

 

         About four or five years ago, my mother had a growth on her nose. At first, we just thought it was a pimple and hoped it would go away. It changed very slowly at first. Then in a week it almost doubled in size. I scheduled an appointment with Mom’s internist. He took one look at the spot and said, “Basal cell carcinoma.” He feared it had grown too large, taking up part of her left nostril, so he referred us to a plastic surgeon for removal and fixing the hole it would leave.

         We arrived a couple of days later at a plastic surgeon’s office. She took one look at Mom’s nose and said, “I don’t remove these. I just fix the hole that’s left after they’re removed. You need to go to a dermatologist to have it taken off.” She didn’t abandon us, though. She requested that her receptionist schedule an appointment with a group of doctors with whom she often worked, making certain we saw someone later in the day. Mom and I treated ourselves to lunch and headed over to the dermatologists.

         Basal cell carcinoma hits people with blue or green eyes, fair skin, and blonde or red hair. Mom fit the description 100%. She’d also spent years sunbathing without sunscreen. During her teen years, the common practice for tanning was to slather baby oil all over your skin. Mom explained that she didn’t intentionally sunbathe often because she always burned. As a matter of fact, if she stepped onto a beach it seemed like she burned! I remember her nose often being pink from sun exposure when she came in after hanging the clothes.

         Anyway, the dermatologist sliced off the growth for a biopsy, telling us we’d have results in about a week. He was pretty certain he did not get all of the cancer cells, warning that Mom would need another procedure called Mohs surgery. Sure enough, we received notification within a week to schedule another appointment.

         A different dermatologist with the group specialized in this procedure. His laidback attitude relaxed both of us, and he insisted that I could sit and watch him work. Layer by layer, he went deeper into the nostril until the cells came out cancer free. It left a pretty large whole in Mom’s nose, but he simply “stole” some skin from her temple and quickly fashioned a patch. A few stitches later, and she looked almost as good as new.

         The main instructions for her recovery proved simple. Keep a bandage on the spot for three or four days, clean the area with hydrogen peroxide every day and slather Vaseline, or any kind of petroleum jelly, on the wound to prevent scarring. Of course, it worked beautifully.

         Since that first Basal cell carcinoma removal, we’ve had to go back on two other occasions to have growths removed from Mom’s nose. Her hands and arms get zapped with cryotherapy, freezing off suspicious areas. The other day, the doctor removed another spot on Mom’s nose (the opposite nostril), handed me the Band-Aids and reminded me to get out the hydrogen peroxide and Vaseline. We know the drill.

         Once I got home, I started thinking of how quickly my mother will heal with the simple “clean and slather” combination. Then I started wondering if it would help Bridget’s hot spots. They still plague her after weeks of cone wearing. I’ve tried Benedryl spray and ointment, Neosporin, too. I went to Polly’s Pet Shop and purchased ointments guaranteed to help, but her spots still linger. So on Thursday I started cleaning her skin irritations with hydrogen peroxide and protecting them with a thick layer of Vaseline. Within twenty-four hours, they looked better!

         Again, it turns out that sometimes the simplest proves to be the best. Two household items we always keep in our medicine cabinet, applied daily, will heal both man and beast.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Hankies"

          A box of Kleenex can survive in our house for six months, sometimes even a year. Not because we never get colds or fight allergies, but because we use old fashioned handkerchiefs. These little square pieces of cloth decorated my childhood. My little purse, clutched in my hands as I sat in the church pew, contained a rosary, a nickel for the offering basket, and a lacy handkerchief. Easter baskets often included an embroidered square that I folded neatly next to my white gloves, resting both treasures in my top drawer along with my Troll dolls and Rat Finks.

lace

embroidered

         My father always carried white handkerchiefs, first during his Air Force years, and later as a deputy sheriff. I practiced my skills with the iron using his hankies, which puckered into tight, crinkled balls from the dryer’s heat. Each handkerchief required sprinkles of water, a hot iron set at cotton, and rhythmic back and forth pressure to smooth them wrinkle free. I remember pressing out the rumples, and then folding the fabric in half. Using the tip of my iron, I’d set creases, fold again, crease again until each handkerchief stacked neatly into a regimented pile. The television kept me company during this chore, and I found it therapeutic in its repetition. I remember the pride I felt when my mother let me iron the sheets, and when I graduated to doing more complicated shirts and dresses, I felt honored with the trust this chore represented.

Dad's practical white;
Mom's new stripes

         My mother inherited Dad’s handkerchiefs. When she resided in an assisted living facility, she’d leave one here and another there. Some found their way back to her apartment because the aids trailed after her and swept them from the ground when she dropped them. Many never found their way home, so within a couple of months I raided her stash of new hankies that Dad had purchased, but never used. Before she misplaced all of his handkerchiefs, I decided to buy new ones just for Mom. It took me a while, but eventually I located nice sets at Kohl’s.

         Hankies fit Mom’s needs better than tissues. When her neurologist tried a new medication on her a few years ago, she drooled continuously. A wimpy tissue would never have absorbed her output! Hankies also offer a level of softness superior to tissues. Mom can blow her nose all day when she has a cold and never come out looking lie Rudolph. In a pinch, we’ve grabbed a handkerchief for a rag to sop up spills as well as using them instead of paper napkins.

         Recently, I’ve found myself tucking one of Dad’s hankies into my pocket or purse as I head out the door. I found comfort in clutching these soft squares of cloth as I sat through three funerals this winter. In a way, I’m carrying a part of my father with me in times of great sorrow. Within this society of disposable tissues, mops, dusters, and diapers the resilience of my father’s handkerchief symbolizes the continuity of life and traditions, even one as small as a hankie.   

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Kirk or Picard?"

 

            I love the entire Star Trek franchise. Only nine when the first series debuted, I recall propping up my head against a stack of pillows, my favorite blanket in hand, to watch the adventures of the Enterprise and her crew. My sister’s love for Chekov mystified me as Spock captured my attention with his devotion to logic and science. I dismissed the antics of the plastic characters in Lost in Space while I longed to join the journey “to boldly go where no man has gone before.”

            The rash and brash cockiness of James T. Kirk hooked me from the first episode. I loved his assertive leadership and boasting attitude. A Cavalier risk-taker, Kirk’s impetuousness influenced my playground spunk. I emulated his swagger in mock battles. I mimicked his self-confidence as I bossed other kids around. I fought against “aliens” and outwitted opponents with a mixture of wit, charm, and arrogance that guaranteed my popularity in the neighborhood. Small for my age, I learned from Kirk that acting first and thinking later edged my ability to hold my own among the older kids. With flailing fists or whipping jump rope, my brazen attacks against villains may have landed me in trouble with my parents, but no one messed with Lizzy during my Captain Kirk phase.

            As an adult, a different captain of the Enterprise captured my interest. Star Trek: The Next Generation aired its first episode in 1987 with Jean-Luc Picard in charge. This captain didn’t have Kirk’s devil-may-care defiance. Picard, who learned from his youthful mistakes, provided a rational and diplomatic leader for his crew. He often displayed his boldness with subtle nuances that appealed to my grown-up Lizzy. Picard liked music, and art, and books. He understood consequences to his actions. He tried to think first and then act, very different from my childhood idol, Kirk. Picard entered my life when I had matured into relying upon negotiation to solve playground problems. His tact and discretion became traits I admired and wished, sometimes desperately, to claim as my own.

            So when the question arises, as it inevitably does in Geek conversations, “Which captain of the Enterprise is better, Kirk or Picard?” I have my reasons for loving both. The child in me clings to Kirk with his youth and energy while the adult in me would love to sit and sip Earl Grey, hot, with Jean-Luc.   

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Puddle Reflections"

           Rain pounded our roof a couple of nights ago with a rhythmic beat that lulled me into a deeper sleep. Our parched earth must have sighed in relief as the water fell. At first, the soil sucked the moisture below the surface, a dry sponge soaking in every drop. As the rainfall continued, the water began to pool into puddles. With morning light, small mirrors decorated the ground. These miniature ponds delighted me as they symbolized satisfaction. Our Mother’s thirst sated after months of want.

          One small puddle near the back door, which translates into muddy paw prints on my carpet, made me smile instead of groan. A little mud after our months of drought seems a small price to pay. I keep my fingers crossed that the grass that once grew in this spot returns with the spring (and possibly more rain.)

           Nature offers her interpretation of sky and leaf. The littlest things life provides, like unexpected puddles of rain, refresh a flagging spirit. The promise of Spring rests with each pooled drop.

         The sky and trees reflected by the shallow rainwater brought me joy. The night's storm left the leaves shimmering and clean, a natural baptism. The inches of water resting upon our Mother represents rebirth in the weeks to come.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Gonzales, Texas"

 

Gonzales County Courthouse (1894-1896)
www.usda.gove

        
          For years, we drove from our home in San Antonio to my sister’s home in Bay City, passing through the quaint town square of Gonzales. Every time we slowed through this small town’s streets, we promised ourselves that we’d stop and check out the shops and historical sites. Once the trip to Bay City became too long for Mom, we started using Gonzales as a midway meeting point. My sister, mother and I decided after one rendezvous that we really needed to spend an entire weekend there.

Carriage House Belle Oaks Inn Bed and Breakfast
www.belleoaksionn..com

         A little research led us to the Belle Oaks Inn Bed and Breakfast. This splendid home, converted into a B & B by some Aggie alumni, offered a carriage house remodeled into living room, small kitchen, and two bedrooms and bathrooms weekend paradise. A mother-daughter weekend rarely happened for the three of us, so this memory remains one that I enjoy pulling out and reliving.

         Mom could still walk at this point, but she used a walker for longer distances. She could manage going from the carriage house to the main house for breakfast every morning, and the beautiful pool, gardens, and patios didn’t challenge her too much. I think we visited every store along the square, and we discovered a few local restaurants with fantastic food. However, at the end of each day we pulled into the Dairy Queen near our B & B to order a chocolate milkshake for Mom and MooLattes for Paula and me. The locals greeted us as though we’d lived in the area our entire lives.

         The respite from this brief visit lingered in my mind, and every time I started feeling grumpy or stressed, I’d remember the lazy days in the pool and the genteel grandeur of this wonderful place. It didn’t take long before I convinced David to take me back to Belle Oaks, and Gonzales, for a much needed anniversary escape.

         With our stay, we booked the Riata room in the main house instead of the Carriage House. We spent idle hours during the first evening lounging on the upstairs balcony and playing in the pool. The next morning, we donned our running shoes and took off on the “driving tour” on foot! We walked up and down streets carefully marked by the town to view splendid homes built in the late 1800's and early 1900's. With camera in hand, we snapped shots of the County Courthouse and local churches as we strolled along.

www.belleoaksinn.com

         We haven’t managed to return to Gonzales, but I think fondly of this oasis of rest situated just a short drive from home. I believe I’ve begun to think of it as an emergency haven, like our cabin in Leakey, that I can travel to when I need to recharge.  

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman            

"A Rusted Tub"

 

The Burren Perfumery, County Clare, Ireland--September 2010

         The Burren Perfumery snuggles at the end of a winding road used more by cattle than cars. Even at the end of the flowering season, its gardens hold delightful surprises for the idle traveler. Somehow, among the endless expanse of rock, nature takes root with riotous blossoms, feathery ferns, and ivy clinging to mortar and bark.   

          A narrow footpath takes the wanderer into sunshine standing shoulder high. To the right, the soft morning shadows shelter fern precariously clinging to stone.

           Meandering leads to an old rusted bathtub filled with blossoms and promises. I wonder about bathing in flowers and moonbeams in this mystical land.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman