"A School Dream"

Me during my early years teaching!

         I pulled my car into the fenced enclosure, neatly sliding into the correct slot, my assigned number. Walking around to the passenger side door, I heaved out my black tote, hitching it onto my right shoulder as I leaned forward to heft out the plastic crate filled with essays and a class set of journals. My muscles screamed in protest by the time I reached the Administration building where I quickly checked my box for any important messages, so I set everything down long enough to rotate my shoulders, fill my pitcher with ice, and chat with a colleague about the day ahead.

         Cutting across the patio, I nudged open the glass doors and trudged up a short flight of stairs, turning to the left towards my classroom. Outside my door waited an impatient group of students.

         “Finally.”

         “Geeze, Miss. Can’t they do something about your schedule?”

         “You’re always late!”

         I ignored their lament as they recited the same complaints every morning. My work day didn’t start at my own classroom on my home campus. Instead, my day began on our nine-ten campus teaching a career studies class to freshmen. I “borrowed” a teacher’s room on that campus every day, and her resentment at being displaced meant I had to schlep supplies back and forth because she forbade my students from using her tape and staples. She’d taped little X marks on the floor where I had to make certain the desk legs hit. Her rows must be perfectly straight. Because I had to leave these freshmen five minutes before the end of the class period to drive to my other campus, an administrator asked this other teacher to step in so the students would have supervision. This teacher refused, though. I reasoned that my seniors were capable of waiting in the hallway a few minutes every morning. Unlike the freshmen, I doubted they’d start throwing punches or vandalizing anything. However, they did like to complain.

         My key turned quickly in the lock. One student grabbed the crate while the others filed into the room. Someone flipped on the lights while another student pulled out the bin that contained the class’s journals. The instructions written on the board before I left the afternoon before meant these seniors settled down quickly while I caught my breath.

         The windowless room with its dark-paneled walls and orange carpet constantly carried a scent of mildew. I’d tried to warm the room with overflowing pots of philodendron and scented candles. I’d stapled an old bedspread from ceiling to floor along one corner of the room and placed a small couch with pillows and a floor lamp to create a reading/writing nook. The room, too tiny for the number of desks it contained, didn’t feel cramped because I’d clustered the them into groupings of various sizes.     

            Last night, I found myself back in that old classroom. I hadn’t step foot into that space in eighteen years, yet in my dream last night I lugged my tote and crate, swept up those stairs, and greeted my students. I caught the wafting aroma of mold and cranberry candles. I scanned the instructions on the board on the unit on Abnormal Psychology. And for a moment, I relived in a vivid dream a moment that represented millions of moments from my teaching career.

            This school dream marked the first return to work from my subconscious mind. I don’t know why this particular scene surfaced, but the memory reminded me of the joy teaching brought into my life for many years. I didn’t mind teaching five preparations across two different campuses because those seniors sitting outside my door resented losing five minutes of instructional time. They longed to delve into Freud, Skinner, and Bandura. So if I drift back to work in my sleep, it’s wonderful that I slip back into one of my best memories where teaching school was a dream.

 Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"First Impression"

David, my husband, didn’t make a good first impression on my parents. As a matter of fact, he dressed so shabbily the first time he came over to their home in League City that I almost didn’t let him into the house.

His shoulder length light brown hair, streaked with blonde highlights from exposure to the summer sun, formed a tangled and windswept halo around his head. His t-shirt, yellowed with age, had no arms and had a chewed collar. I wondered if David had chewed the mangled fabric himself, or if one of his Westies had mistaken the shirt for a dead animal and mauled it.

I almost didn’t want to check out the rest of David’s attire, but my eyes shifted downward on their own accord. His shirt perfectly matched the condition of the bleached cut-offs he wore. Below the ragged hems of his shorts hung frayed front pockets. The back of his cut-offs had no pockets at all, and I fleetingly wondered where he kept his wallet and keys. However, a look at his hands answered that question. He carried a pair of relatively new Converse high tops in his hands, the wallet and keys stuffed inside. In horror, I looked at his bare feet.
 

As my mind wrapped itself around the image David would present to my parents, I heard my mother come up behind me and say, “Well, Lizzy, let him in!”

Over the years, David took quite a bit of teasing about his appearance on that first meeting with my parents. Being gracious and loving people, they set aside their misgivings and looked beyond the rags to find the richness of David’s character.


To this day, David always manages to find his favorite black and orange flower print shirt no matter how deeply I bury it in the back of his closet (I’m thankful he’s up-graded from the tattered white t-shirt). I do manage to keep him in respectable shorts most of the time, but I suspect he’s just humoring me. Although David does wear shoes now, he kicks them off as soon as he crosses the threshold!



David at 58! September 26, 2015

David didn't change his "look" for the first few years of marriage!

 

 

This is the way I think David would like to dress every day! Oh well . . .

I'll admit, I like garb, too!

David by David Chapman!

Copyright 2005 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Bridget"

Turning the corner of the hallway, I immediately noticed a few teachers clumped outside one of the classroom doors. Ohhs and ahhs floated through the air, piquing my curiosity immediately. My heeled shoes clacked against the hard, waxed tile as I joined the tight group to investigate.

           My heart quickened as I realized the commotion centered around a small, tri-colored puppy nestled against Sharon’s neck. The pup whimpered a little and tried to snuggle in even closer. Now my heart melted.

           “I can’t keep her,” Sharon said in dismay. “My husband doesn’t want to have to train a new puppy right now.”

          “May I hold her?” I asked as I stroked the puppy’s sleek fur. Sharon reluctantly handed her over. Now I lost my heart!

           In my hands I held a tiny beagle, terrier mix. Her coat, mainly black, shimmered blue in the light. A brown spot dotted her eyebrows above each eye, and the same shade of brown outlined her eyes and spread around her body creating a wedge between the black and white on her coat. The brown masked her snub little nose, too. I inhaled the sweetish musky scent of all puppies and knew I needed this little dog, probably more than she needed me.

           “Let me call home,” I looked over at Sharon. “I’ll see if I can take her.” The pup snuggled into my neck as I reached the Teacher’s Lounge. Dialing home, I quickly told David about the dog. After Dixie, my son’s dog died a few years ago, I’d sworn that I would only get another dog if all of the variables fell into place. I wanted a young puppy, a female, a tri-color beagle and terrier mix. Fate had literally handed me the dog for which I’d unknowingly longed.

           Of course, David instantly agreed to bringing the puppy home. He didn’t ask our son, who was still asleep. David volunteered to drive over to the campus within the hour to pick up the dog. I went back to Sharon, told her we’d take the dog, and followed her to her room where she had a little slip of sheet, some food and water, and a little box for the dog. She gave me the vet records since she’d already taken the puppy in the previous day for shots, de-worming, and a flea treatment. I offered to pay for all of these expenses, and she thanked me profusely since her husband was upset over her spending so much.

           David swung by the school a little over an hour later and found the puppy curled into a tight black ball on my lap. We shifted her gently into the box, and she settled back to sleep immediately.

           As David left the room, he asked, “ Do you have a name yet?”

           “No. I’m thinking of some possibilities. Maybe you and Paul can come up with some suggestions.”

           The day crawled by with me trying to come up with names. I’d found out more of the puppy’s story. A custodian had found her on the road side, with another larger, dead dog. The puppy, when he approached, was trying to nuzzle the dead dog as though trying to figure out why the other dog wouldn’t move. He was certain the other dog was the puppy’s mother. My heart broke to hear such a sad tale.

           Arriving home, I headed straight into the office. There sat David, puppy curled into a tight ball of glossy black. Before I could even say a word, Paul turned from his computer and said, “Her name’s Bridget.”

          “Bridget?” I queried as I kneeled down on the floor next to David. “Why Bridget?”

           “It’s one of my DAOC characters. She’s fast, intelligent, and bold,” Paul explained.               “We figured she’d need a good, strong name to help get her settled.”

          “Bridget,” I whispered as I pulled the bundle into my arms. She woke up and instantly began licking my face with enthusiastic affection. Already she recognized me. “Welcome home, Bridget. Welcome home.”

Copyright 2006 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

Bridget before she died. 

"Swimmers"

 

        The sun dappled lake entices swimmers with coolness after a long, hot summer. One bather cautiously tip-toes to the edge, tentatively dipping into the coldness. She retracts her foot, shoots a glance over her shoulder, and eases back into the water. Another swimmer, grabs the tree rope, swings apelike over the lake's mirror, whoops with glee, and cartwheels into the depths with the careless abandon of joy. A final swimmer stands poised on the dock. In one flawless motion, he dives and cleaves the water's surface with barely a splash. A few feet away, he emerges and boldly slices his way across the lake. To everyone entering the lake of life, no matter what your approach, may you remember the unexpected currents and drop-offs. Swim safely and don't drown!

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Water Nymph" by David Chapman

Pen and Ink

"A Blogger's Still Life"

 

         I had no direction in what I hoped to accomplish through my blog. After attending a workshop one Saturday, where a marketing expert advised up-and-coming authors to blog, I decided to give it a try. I knew that I wanted to prove to myself that I could maintain a nearly daily record of my writing skills. Sometimes, I spent part of a morning sifting through the yellowed pages of my old journals, hunting down my early attempts at poetry. I enjoyed meeting young Liz again and selecting different poems to post online. Some days, of course, I wrote new pieces, carefully culling words to record my life’s events. I rediscovered my love of creating poetry over this last year. 

         The easiest posts to write, of course, center upon favorite childhood memories. Recalling the adventures of little Lizzy has helped me to appreciate my parents all the more. I’ve had fun zeroing in on the minutia of my current life, too. I challenge myself to find a way to describe a speck of dust, mimic with words squirrel play, or capture in a phrase the phase of the moon. With some entries, I’ve created scenes played out among imaginary characters. I’ve enjoyed these dips into the lives that I mold with my words.

         I don’t recall when I began chronicles of my mother’s battle with Huntington’s Disease and our ever changing roles as her caregivers. I’ve felt driven to describe the slow deterioration that my mother endures. These blogs voice my concerns and frustrations with the impact of this disease upon all of us. After my mother’s gone, they will also give testimony to her courage, and the love and admiration all of us feel for her.

         My blog sometimes slips into an explanation of my writing process, which often bemuses and amuses me. Over the last few days, though, I’ve shared my personal adventures with my dental and medical problems. The compulsion to share the vulture of anxiety that perched upon my right shoulder as I sat at the keyboard overrode the need for privacy. I found myself wondering about other bloggers. How much do you decide to share with your readers? What slivers of yourself do you carve out of your soul and place on display for all to see?

         My blog, I often joke, keeps me sane as I’ve become more and more housebound by my mother’s disease. It provides me with daily entertainment. It forces me to examine who and what I am. I find myself often visualizing my events as a still life. An artistic rendition of reality filtered through my eyes, heart and soul.   

          

 Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"This is Texas"

 

Mountain Laurel out front

         The air conditioner hummed, churning out cool air since the outside thermometer climbed. As usual, Texas teased everyone with an early taste of spring. Our weather casters gleefully warned, though, that one more blast of cold air will surge from the north, plunging our temperatures once again.

Rose out back

         During the night, this rush of artic breath exhaled, and Texas shivered. All of the blossoms on the trees screamed, the buds of my roses yowled at the biting wind, the birds retreated to huddle in nests, and the squirrels in our backyard despaired because they threw out the tuffs of cushion padding they’d collected all winter.

         I sit smugly at my monitor, fully confident that this final flirt with freeze will usher in spring. Every March, around my parents’ wedding anniversary, winter invades our home one more time. With the fury of a thwarted two-year-old, winds will howl. Sometimes we’ve had rain and ice with this final tantrum. Sometimes hail the size of golf balls hammer our roofs and dent our cars. Sometimes snow flurries whirl and swirl, leaving the ground dusted in white.

         I respect this final ferocious fit of winter.   

Clover peeking through the new woven fence

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"No Ideas"

         Yesterday, for the first time since I started my blog, I skipped making a post. Usually if I haven’t had time to write, I’ll find an old poem or even repost a previously shared poem. Yesterday, the thought crossed my mind, briefly, that I needed to either blog about something or select a poem. Obviously, I did neither. Instead, I grabbed a shovel and a garden spade, headed out into the front yard, and began pulling (actually—digging) weeds.

         

The torrential rains from a few days ago left our skies clear and cerulean. A cool breeze fingered my hair as I knelt upon the damp earth while the background of birdsong provided the rhythm to my chore. You won’t hear me complaining about the clover that clumps in large patches in my lawn. I won’t whimper or whine about the dandelions that hit mid-calf and have shot roots three to six inches deep. Instead, I relished the mud that caked my hands and packed under my short nails. When I dug out a weed’s root and found the soil wet, relief flooded through me. These weeds mean the end of our long drought. At least for now, we’ve cycled into a weather pattern of cooler fronts carrying rain. Gray clouds boil across the sky, dump and inch or two of rain, and move on to another location.

          Once I removed the bush-sized weeds, David mowed. To anyone passing by, our lawn looks a lovely green. Most of the grass recovered from the scorching of the summer, and the mowed smaller weeds camouflage most of the damage the drought inflicted.

         So today, I have no new ideas for a blog post. In my mind, I’m kneeling in gratitude among the weeds, thankful in the knowledge that our Mother’s receiving the nourishment she needs to sow.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman