"Background Noise"

  

            Sometimes, when I sit down to write, I’ve no idea what words will appear on the page. My diligence to my craft means I put pen to paper every day (or in this case fingers to keyboard) and simply write. Many of my journal entries recount mundane trivialities of a simple life, some dip into a distant past while others slip into a hopeful future. My thoughts may focus on something currently in the news, but it’s just as likely for me to focus on the fact that it’s Friday—again.

            Then those days come where I shove aside all of the ideas that pulse in the forefront of my attention and spend time concentrating on sighs, the impatient pant of the dog laying at my feet, the distant drone of the dryer as it whubs—background noise that lets me transcend the ordinary.

            Then I hear the words whispering to my subconscious. Soft. Seductive. Evasive. A whiff of perfume that lingers in an empty room. And I hold my breath, fearful that the slightest movement would frighten my words into flight. Send them scurrying back and deeper into darkness.

            So I hunker down on my haunches, hand held outstretched with palm open in supplication. I practice patience. Wait motionlessly, head cocked to the side so I can perceive the words surrounded by heartbeats.

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

             

"The Fall"

 

        

              The day begins with me alone on a front porch swing, taking the time to savor the morning stillness before anyone else awakens.

            Yesterday right after dawn, I donned my tennis shoes, hung the Canon around my neck, and made a short hike down the road to a gate that guarded river access. I spied a trellis heavy with grapevines; its fruit long lost to birds. Moving cautiously downward, I found a clearing where water shallowly pooled. Snapping pictures, I captured sunlight and water—rocks hidden under a rising mist.

            I tiptoed across a natural bridge of stepping stones, attending to each one to make certain my feet found purchase as I made my way across the moss slickened steps. Trying to gather morning’s essence, I hunkered down on a ledge to change angles, finding beauty from east to west.

            

            I dangled my camera around my neck, its heavy weight bumping against my chest, and its weight reminded me to take care. But a loose and slippery rock foiled my sensible shoes and snail pace, catapulting me into a cartwheel. Instinct snapped into place, and I caught the camera before it plopped into the water. Who cares about a bruised hip, battered shoulder or bumped head? My hands cradled my camera as my head bounced a second time. Like a mother who’s swept in to pull her child away from catastrophe, I checked my “baby” for damage as I swiped at the lens and casing with a dry corner of my shirt. Reassured that water hadn’t seeped beyond its hardened shell, I powered it down and began to laugh.

            Water trickled down the right side of my body and my right shoe squished as I made my way further up the bank, pulling away from the river’s edge. For a second, my blurred vision worried me. Had I hit my head that hard? And then I realized that my glasses lay somewhere behind me. Half-blind and half-drenched, I searched my way back down the path—hoping my glasses had tumbled onto the ground when I took off my light jacket—fearing that they lay under water.

            I backtracked onto the spit of rocks, avoiding the one that spilled me into the water; and began to patty cake the cool surface, squinting in an attempt to sharpen my vision. My fingers found my frames before my eyes, and I plucked them gratefully from their hiding place under a large leaf.

            My mishap meant I meandered around the water’s edge with wet pants and a soggy shoe as I preserved wild flowers blooming one last time before the coming of Fall.

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman   

           

"In Between Gardens"

  

 

            In San Antonio, winter blows into the area the end of October and teases the trees with forcefully cold winds. It dusts grass with frost, and may sprinkle snow, like powdered sugar, over bushes and parked cars. Sometimes rain visits the area when the temperatures drop, treating us to fingers of ice or sleet. And we hit the pause buttons on our lives. We stay home, hunker down, and wait out the freeze—which means a twenty-four hour stop in our routines. Bad weather pushes her way out as quickly as she invites herself in.

 

            Our gardens and lawns already show signs of spring. Dandelions bob their heads in the soft midday breeze. Crabgrass crawls across the yard, playing with sleepy Bermuda. Dead-looking Plumbago sprouts up from around the roots of last year’s plants while Mountain Laurel fills the air with purple Kool aide scents. Live Oak leaves turn dusty and brown before they fall to the ground in defeat.
 

            I wait and watch. Impatient to see who won against winter. Will the ferns fight back and uncurl their delicate fingers soon? Will the clover return with its delicate pink blossoms? As I clear away the papery pulp of my Wandering Jew, I know by May this hardy groundcover will have returned to full glory.  

            My gardens and yards transform daily. Sometimes I believe I can hear the growth, if I listen carefully. So right now, the status remains in flux—my gardens poised between death and life.

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

"Frostbite"

 

 

            Cold weather blasts into central Texas so infrequently that waking up to a morning with frost dusting any surface provides a spectacular photography opportunity. When I ventured outside this morning with the dogs, frost coated the top of our hot tub. Its sparkle drew my eyes, and I rushed back inside to grab my camera to capture a few shots before the morning sunlight heats the cover and melts away our evidence of last night’s freeze.

 

           



I know many of you sit frozen into place by mountains of snow, and you’ll probably look at these jewels and think, “No big deal.” However, I like pausing in the daily grind just long enough to celebrate Nature’s subtleties.

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Giving"

             The Christmas my sister asked for a stereo with a turntable, my parents realized disappointment lingered under the tree since they could only afford that one gift for her. At the grand age of ten, I’d asked for a multitude of toys—all small items easily within my parents’ tight holiday budget. My brother, only five, found joy in individually wrapped Hot Wheels and packs of Wrigley’s Double Mint gum.

            Our Christmas mornings began early. My parents never restricted us to waiting until a “decent” hour when it came to opening gifts. I suspect they felt as much excitement as us kids. A shouted, “Santa’s come!” would rouse the entire household. Somehow, a pot of coffee already brewed on the stove, and my folks would sip from their mugs and listen to our exclamations of surprise as we sorted and opened our gifts.

 

            Of course, on that Christmas, my sister opened her stereo. Dad proudly showed her all of the features—AM and FM stereo and a turntable. They had also purchased a couple of 45s and an album for her. I recall her face as she rubbed her hands over the box, turned the album in her hands to read the back cover, and then watched as my brother tore into another package. I’d whittled my pile down by then, but a few gifts still encircled me on the floor.

            My brother and I opened a couple of boxes each while my sister sat with her records in her lap and her stereo, enclosed in cardboard, by her side. Tears welled in her eyes, and she mumbled something. And as any fifteen-year-old girl would do, she scurried down the hallway into the haven of her room. My mother ducked into her own bedroom, then entered my sister’s room. After a few minutes, they both rejoined us. My sister’s tears dried, her mood lifted again as she and my father decided to set up her stereo in her room.

            In later years, I learned that my parents had anticipated my sister’s letdown in receiving one main gift. Wisely, they’d set up three envelopes, one for each of us children. Inside, they’d placed the receipts for the gifts they’d nestled under the tree. When my sister left the room in silent tears, Mom showed her the envelopes and explained that they’d spent the same amount on each of us.

            I’ve come to appreciate the foresight my parents showed on that long ago Christmas. The five years that stretched between my sister and I, and again between my brother and I, meant we often fell out of sync in our wants and needs. By staying on a prescribed budget and spending the same on each of us, they gave us more than simple presents. They showed us that they’d try to treat us equally, and yet as very separate individuals. That’s a tremendously important lesson for parents to teach—a wonderful life lesson to give.

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Christmas Lights"

            “Ooooh, sparkly!” becomes my obsessive observation every holiday season. As we drive through neighborhoods or around business decked with lights, my optimistic nature finds solace in the early nightfall because the world twinkles and glows. Inside our house, rings of lights loop around our tree, and I’ve placed candles in every room and merrily enjoy their dancing glow each evening.

            The exterior of our house, though, remains darkened. Every year, I eagerly await my husband’s promise to adorn the front bushes with lights. That’s all I ask for, a few strands thrown carelessly over the bushes, and I’d rejoice. I know, I know—if I really wanted lights out front, I’d simply do it myself. Except . . . it’s one of those few things that I ask of my husband that I feel goes “beyond” the norm. One of those silly “women” demands that almost every other man in our acquaintance does effortlessly for their wives. Some Christmases, I’ve pulled the boxes filled with lights out of storage and left them in a prominent spot in the living room in anticipation of the possibility that David will suddenly feel an overwhelming urge to decorate outside. If that doesn’t’ happen, I begin my verbal nudging (aka nagging). However, my wishes for decorations outside often go unmet. Some holidays, I actually put the boxes of lights away after a couple of weeks, defeated.

            Currently, the light bins dominate the living room again. Last year, I purchased new lights to add to the collection. They never left their boxes, though. My confidence holds strong that lights will go up this year because my husband’s taken three days off this week. However, just in case, I did post this on his Facebook page when it floated around a couple of weeks ago:

 

                                      from TexasHillCountry.com (Facebook)
 

 

 

Beggars can’t be choosers, after all.

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

"Santa's Visit"

  

Mom, me, Charles, Paula-- Christmas 1963

 

            The Christmas I turned six, we loaded the car and headed from Dover AFB to Danville, Illinois to spend the holidays with my mother’s family. I think my parents wanted everyone to see my brother, Charles, who had just turned six months old. Dad preferred extremely early morning starts, and on this trip he and my mother woke us up around four in the morning. They bundled us into the car with pillows and blankets and encouraged us to go back to sleep. The trip, with stops for breakfast and lunch, would take more than twelve hours. My folks’ tight budget prevented a midpoint stop at a hotel. They played the radio and talked continually to keep my dad alert. Often, they’d have four or five hours of the trip travelled before one of us kids would wake up.

            I remember the excitement I felt when we finally reached Aunt Nellie’s house. She lived in an older Craftsman-styled home. I remember ice and snow covered the yard, but someone had cleared the sidewalk and porch steps to welcome us. Relatives burst from the front door when we pulled alongside the curb, and hugs and kisses pulled us into the front room where a Christmas tree dominated the front corner.

            Aunt Nellie and Uncle Paul directed us into our rooms. They’d borrowed a baby crib from some friends for my brother and situated it in the same room with my parents. Aunt Nellie had cleared her sewing room and snugged a bed under the window. My sister and I would share this room during our visit. This room remained cozily warm because Aunt Nellie always had something cooking in her oven.

 

Paula and me--Christmas 1963

            Both my sister and I are practically Christmas babies. Her birthday is on the 21^st while mine is on the 26^th. So on Christmas Eve, Aunt Nellie made a huge cake to do a joint celebration, and the entire family gathered around to sing for us. My cousin and his wife brought their baby, and I remember wearing my red ski pants and black boots for pictures on Christmas Eve.

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            Wonderful and magical things happened that Christmas. First, Charles sat for the first time on his own. One moment he was sitting like a little puppy dog, propped up on his hands, and the next he was wobbling with hands in the air, cooing in delight. I remember running into the kitchen to announce this feat, and by the end of our visit, he’d mastered sitting alone.

            But the second magical moment came on Christmas Eve. Paula and I played on our bed in the sewing room. She had on blue ski pants, the type with the band that looped under your foot. I had on red. The bed, in front of a large window, gave us the perfect spot to kick as we watched the blue and red reflections. As we entertained ourselves with our impromptu choreography, someone knocked loudly on the window.

            Santa!

            He stood in all of his glory, just on the other side of a thin pane of glass! His white beard tumbled down his huge belly, and he called our names and laughed merrily. His red suit (complete with hat and boots) stood out against the white snow.

            I remember screaming in delight as my sister and I pressed our faces to the window. We lost sight of him as he disappeared into the back yard.

            The entire family crammed into the little room trying to decipher our babble about seeing Santa Claus. Some of the adults poo-pooed our claims while others went outside to check for footprints, which they found.

            No one ever admitted, even once we were grown, to donning a costume that Christmas Eve. So I have to believe that we really did have a visit from Santa.

 

Me with baby Wendy--Christmas 1963

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman