"The Saddest Christmas Tree"

            A few summers before my mother became so very ill, I’d started the ambitious project of scanning pictures into our computer to save upon an external hard drive. I began with the pictures my mother had brought up to San Antonio, which included a hodge-podge from her childhood, my father’s childhood, and their married lives. She’d given up on labeling each item, and instead wrote a brief timeline of their life together, centering upon my father’s various assignments within the military. She devoted part of each album to each of her children. Grouped over several pages would be pictures of my sister, my brother, or myself from infancy through our adult years. I didn’t scan every photograph, but I did do the majority of school pictures and major events. I placed, on a special shelf in my closet, some large photographs that would need to be scanned in pieces, reassembled, and repaired in Photoshop. And then I forgot about all of my aspirations when Mom’s needs changed and her care became more demanding.

            The first weekend of November, I spent part of the visit to my brother’s house delving into my parents’ closets. Curiosity enticed me into old boxes and bins, where I discovered my brother’s baby book and infant shoes along with my grandfather’s passport. Stashed safely into a weatherproof bin, I uncovered some old photographs that I’d never seen. I asked my brother if I could take the bin home to scan the contents with the goal of having it back to him by his visit at Christmas.

            Days have a way of slipping by unnoticed, until I realized last weekend that we hadn’t scanned a single photograph. And so my husband and I set about organizing and scanning pictures. David’s a whiz with Photoshop, and he managed to refresh color, repair missing sections of photographs, or reconstruct missing parts on people’s faces. As our project continued, I realized just how wonderful it will be to have this at my fingertips and to make copies for my sister to keep within her own files. We no longer have to worry about something getting lost in a hurricane because copies exist in several places.

            Anyway, in with all of the pictures of places we’ve lived and people we’ve loved, I found a small shot of the saddest Christmas tree. For the 363 TEWS, this little tree symbolized their lives spent away from their families—all of the anniversaries, birthdays, and holidays missed. I found myself, after viewing so many of our family pictures, drawn to this image.

            My heart aches for those men of long ago who longed for their families, homes and traditions. And it breaks to know that our soldiers continue to serve “the longest year” in distant lands. My imagination runs to another daughter skimming through family photographs and pausing when she comes upon another sad Christmas tree in a barracks. 

 

"Nam Christmas Tree" 

 

                                                            

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Ornaments"

         

          The best part of decorating the tree comes from the delight of rediscovering favorite ornaments each year. I love carefully unpacking those special Christmas tree decorations that hold wonderful memories for us. When I cautiously pull the two white “snow” fairies out of their protective boxes, I re-experience the thrill I felt upon finding them in the store over thirty years ago. Even in the earliest days of our friendship, David and I loved all things fey, so discovering these adornments proved fateful.

         Over the years, my appreciation for Christmas ornaments led to an ever widening search for an addition to the collection. Many friends and family members contributed to our tree, and each year as I find the perfect place for each item, I take a moment to remember the giver of these small presents.
 

         I treasure both the little Asian inspired decorations we found in a box we inherited from David’s grandmother along with the last ornament my father picked out for us before he died.

          I cluster the trio of hand crafted ornaments my aunt made years ago, and find a special place for the lovely and unique snowflakes she fashioned.

 

The small collection of ornaments we made on a rainy and cold afternoon with a five-year-old Paul tug at my heart when I hang them each winter. This year, I cried as I held the delicate cross stitched decorations my mother so lovingly sewed years before her Huntington’s disease symptoms robbed her of so much.

 

  

         Decorating the tree at our house takes an entire day. Partly because we have so many adornments, but mainly because I linger over many of the memories these small embellishments bring forth.

 

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

        

"The Crack of Dawn"

            “Santa came!” rang throughout the house.

         Sometimes, these words resounded as early as two or three in the morning. I know now that often my parents stayed up late into the night assembling the pink cardboard sink and refrigerator set (with burners that glowed when you turned them on) or the various bicycles we received throughout the years. Never once did they complain. Never once did they tell us it was too early to get up or send us back to our rooms. Christmas day began the moment one of us bounced out of bed.

         I carried on the same tradition with my son, Paul. His excitement fueled our energy as we’d open all of our gifts in the dark of the predawn, warmed by the tree lights and the pleasure of surprises. Everyone oohed over various presents. Someone clicked on the television to Christmas movies, and our day piddled along with food and family, and a long and lazy afternoon nap for everyone.

         I have friends who have rules for Christmas. I cannot imagine why a day of indulgence should have rules. One friend insisted her kids let her sleep late as part of their gift to her! Another friend has the entire family sit down to a scrumptious breakfast before a single gift can be opened. Then every dish has to be washed and put away before her family opens their presents from family members. Santa gifts sit untouched under the tree until after their dinner later in the day.

         I believe teaching delayed gratification is an important lesson, but not on Christmas day! I love our mad dash to the tree, the ecstatic squeals of delight as we rip through the wrapping paper. I love the sea of paper, tissue, and boxes that lap knee high around us in the living room. I love our lazy afternoons of catnaps and idle chats.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Long Days and Late Nights: The Rat Tale Continues"

 

Right now, my muddled brain functions on only three hours of sleep. I have roof rats to blame for this late-to-bed and early-to-rise schedule. Yesterday morning, one of my husband’s live traps captured a youth, which he released into our park.  Before our exterminator arrived yesterday, my son and I decided to investigate each room in our house. We followed a trail of dropped dogfood into one spare room. Its black floors hid the fact that at least one critter had supped in the room on several occasions. We found the three other bedrooms and bathrooms totally free of rat sign, but in previous days I’d cleaned signs of visitation in the family room, living room, drum room, and laundry.

         My son shifted an étagère and found foliage from one of our plants stuffed under it. A rustling drew his attention to a large basket filled with silk ferns—and a roof rat! Their scuffle resulted in the rat darting and dashing between the piano and the wall and escaping into the kitchen where she dove under the dishwasher.

         Around this time, the exterminator arrived. He hustled and bustled around the house, placing a variety of traps in the different spots we pointed out to him. He also set two large poison traps outside. As he placed one by the pond, he spotted the female, so we know that this family has their custom entrance to our home. He suggested to my husband that we continue with our live traps, and David left immediately to buy supplies to build bigger traps.

         When David returned, I convinced him that we needed to move around the living room to clean and disinfect every surface. He went to bed around 11:00, but I stayed on task well after midnight. Then my son and I plotted our strategy for today’s battle. I will continue wiping down with Clorox wipes every item the varmints could have possibly contacted. For this morning, I’ll concentrate on the Roland drum kit and maybe summon energy to dive into the laundry room. When my son’s available, he’ll help empty out the spare bedroom. We’ll clean, disinfect and reorganize as we go.

         Because the rats have forced us into this cleaning frenzy, we will also retile the room before reassembling it. More long days and late nights ahead.

Copyright 2017 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

        

        

"Return of the Roof Rat"

            Last fall, a family of roof rats decided to take up residence in our home. At first, we’d hear scurrying during the night. The laundry room became their preferred nesting area, and when we pulled the washing machine out of its nook, we discovered the critters had chewed through the drywall, giving them full access to one side of the house.

            “I want them dead!” was my response as David spent a weekend repairing their damage.

            “I think I can catch them,” he replied before he headed to Home Depot to buy everything he needed to build three live traps.

            Almost immediately he caught three juvenile rats, all too young and stupid not to avoid the peanut butter and dog food bait he’d set out. The parents, however, proved more cunning. They chewed through the water hose of our dishwasher, I’m certain, as revenge for their little ones disappearing.

            “I want them dead!” I exclaimed again as another weekend was wasted fixing that damage.

            “I think I can catch them,” David insisted as he changed the bait and location of his traps.

            It took a few more days before Papa rat was trapped.

          But Mama proved to be shrewd and bold. She’d race along the attic at night or scuttle behind walls. One day, we heard her behind the wall between the kitchen and the laundry room. David gave the wall a sound pound to scare her.

            “I want her dead!” I demanded when she chomped her way through that very wall later in the day.

           Sensing that this female possessed an intellect beyond her mate and offspring, we called our exterminator, who sent someone out immediately. Poison and traps went into both attics, and he placed something outside as well. We never saw that mother roof rat again, but the stench of her decay filled our house for days. Another trip to Home Depot led to our discovery of Gonzo products. Soon the reek slipped into memory.

            A few weeks ago, I scolded Koi for digging into the pot of one of my plants. Over several evenings, he managed to pull out the lovely leaves of a large Brazil philodendron, I thought, while trying to see out the front window. Eventually, I shifted the plant outside to protect it from damage. When something disturbed the soil of a second potted plant, I realized Koi wasn’t involved. A search of the living room revealed more roof rat droppings. I called the exterminator immediately, but his first opening was a week away.

            And David pulled out his live traps again while I set out a poison trap in an area that the dogs won’t access. I made certain to put the dogs’ food bowls up on a counter and cover them every night if the contained any food. I moved more plants outside and kept my eyes open. Whereas the last roof rat family contained their activity in one part of the house, this time we’ve seen sign in four different rooms. Either we have another extended family living with us, or one rat that gets around.

            Last night, David changed the bait in one trap to a little slice of orange. This morning, he woke up to find a male rat captured inside!

           Logic tells me that he’s built a nest somewhere, and I suspect he has a family hidden in the attic. I can’t wait until tomorrow when our exterminator arrives. He’ll strategically place traps and poison throughout the house. We will continue to set the live traps, too.  One way or another, we’ll win this battle!

Today's catch!

Copyright 2017 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

“My Christmas Wish List”

           
            Last year, I set my heart on the best Christmas gift for me—bins to reorganize all of our holiday decorations! It took me weeks to move Easter, Halloween, Fall, and Christmas items into the sturdy, stackable boxes. Every time I step into our garage I feel pride that our oldest, most delicate pieces reside in safety.
            This year, I’m continuing my request for Christmas to be either small, or practical, or both. Over this last year, the artists residing in our home produced new paintings, sculpts, and odds-n-ends that required reorganizing our wall art and finding spots on existing shelves while purchasing a few new small pieces of furniture. Guests to our home “ooohh” and “aaahh” softly over every piece as they move from room to room. To be frank, I’ve felt a little envy that not a single room contained my own photography!
            My Christmas gift request became simple. I want my own creative elements on display, too! I spent days selecting just the right pictures to print. When shopping, I suggest swinging by Hobby Lobby, Michaels, At Home, Target and Walmart to search for perfect frames that still keep within our holiday budget.
            During this time, my husband mentioned to us that he’s been looking for a small color printer and suggested that would be the perfect gift for him this year. A little research and luck added and Epson to his work area last weekend. One quick color test, and we knew putting out the various print sizes I desired would take only minutes!  
            Once I remembered the wicker chest in our bedroom contained old picture frames, we shifted into our reuse and refurbish mode. A quick spray of fast drying black paint slicked some old wooden frames into a more modern look. Within a few hours, a bouquet of flowers adorned the walls between the kitchen and dining room. For the moment, I have room for another row of images on one side, and another section designated for my work.
            That means, I need to make certain to use this next year in search of small adventures with my ever reliable Cannon Rebel T1! What a wonderful way to enter this next year—spotting the wonders of nature, capturing just the right shot, and displaying it at home.
 

New photos displayed!

Future display area!!

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman  

"A Layer of Dust"

  
            I clean.
          When stress edges into my day, I wipe down the countertops. I follow the dog and pluck his fluffs of fur from the carpet. Manned with a bottle of Windex, I polish and shine every glass surface of our home.
            I clean.
            My childhood chores so entrenched into my lifestyle that discomfort sits in my belly if I don’t fold the throws and line up the pillows on the couch every morning before heading out for work.
            I clean.
            Armed with vinegar and bleach, sponges, toothbrushes and rags, I lay siege to floor grout and countertops, shower stalls and toilet bowls.
            I clean.
            And I grumble and mumble. I nag about the endless tasks that I must tackle day-after-day, week-after-week. You know the drill. Martyrdom as I bemoan my endless list of duties and try to guilt others into helping me achieve the unattainable. Perfection.
            And so my quest for personal growth veers into a new direction.
            A layer of dust.
            A layer of dust settles throughout the house.
            I bite my lip and ignore the urge to run the cuff of my sleeve around the speakers of my laptop. I force my eyes to front and center in great effort to walk past the étagère where a dancing figurine floats in dust motes.
            A layer of dust.
            And although my willpower currently controls my urge to wipe every surface clean, I hope to eventually live with less perfection.
            A layer of dust.
            And the world hasn’t come to an end.  
 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman