"The Puzzle Piece"

            The puzzle pieces, dumped unceremoniously upon the dining room table, hide a magic surprise. I pick carefully through the pile, categorizing pieces by color, sliding edges to the side. Puzzles require thinking inside the box, so establishing borders comes first. Straight lines and matching designs group and regroup until I form pairs and short chains. Once the boundaries hold firm, the real work begins. My hands dance through the choreography: pick up, turn, twist, match, fit. Again and again until out of chaos emerges the picture. Gestalt.
          Then disassembly begins. Tearing down the whole back into the individual bits, I bend and separate until chaos piles again on the tabletop. Haphazardly, I swipe everything back into the box, not noticing a lone piece hiding under the edge of a book. Now the puzzle, unknown to me, loses its wholeness. The lone piece longs for reunification. When I pull another puzzle out of its box and spill it across the table, the hidden part slips into the mound, trying to belong where it no longer fits.
            The piece carries similar colors and shapes to this new picture. I don’t notice the subtle differences each time I try to find a place for it. I pick it up, scrutinizing it meticulously as I try to find a mate. Near matches frustrate me as I try to force the bit into belonging. I even resort to pounding it with my fist before casting it aside. I pick up my rhythm once the piece sits in isolation, an outcast within the group. Eventually, the picture sits in completeness upon my table. My eyes draw over to the castaway that caused me so much irritation, and in shame I realize my mistake. Picking up the stray piece, I recall the picture of the last puzzle I’d assembled. I go directly to my shelved boxes, pluck open the correct box, and return the piece to its home.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"New Voyages"

 

David Chapman--artist

         I never want to spend my life fretting over the words never said, or the acts never completed. The changes in our lives during this last year bring home to me the importance of giving our best to those we love. Sometimes, I get so caught up in the minutiae of a situation that I bog everyone else down. “The Big Picture” always calls for taking risks and believing with heart over head. That outlook proves difficult for my often straight column approach to life, but whenever I’ve chosen my heart, I’ve never gone in the wrong direction. Whenever I push away my heart, anxiety suffocates me. Taking a breath, eating a meal, and sleeping at night all become impossible.

My head analysis tells me the “right” decisions, the cautious choices that assure safe passage across rough seas. My head won’t even weigh anchor if the voyage looks too dangerous.  The head must have life boats in tip-top condition. It makes certain there are enough jackets available for unexpected passengers. It plots my route and stays true to my course. But no matter how carefully my head plans for every exigency, a tidal wave broadsides me, flips my vessel over, and makes life boats and life jackets useless.

         My head, you see, doesn’t calculate for the totally unpredictable event. It cannot. That’s the heart’s job. The heart latches onto dreams and nightmares. The heart foresees the tsunami and still sets sail. The heart accepts risk because life’s random. That capriciousness doesn’t dissuade the heart. The heart believes.

         In the rough seas I now traverse, my heart speaks strongly to me. Believe. Believe. Believe. And so I trust my decisions. The moment I listen to the murmuring song of my heart, the decisions I must make ring true and clear. The head will step forward eventually. It will find the means of making the dreams a reality. By singing along with the heart, the voyage will prove challenging, but not impossible.    

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman             

"My Debt Exchange Program"

         Opening an old spiral in search of blank paper, I stumbled upon budgetary goals from several years ago. Column after column of monthly earning and spending that optimistically dwindled my debt on multiple cards while it built a savings buffer for taxes and unforeseen catastrophes.
         I chuckled to realize that my current debts and assets reads almost exactly the same as where I stood two years ago.
         Have I remained still? When analyzing the red, I noted that my final BALANCE DUE hadn’t nudged at all!
         I’d get discouraged if I didn’t applaud the achievements of my budgeting. Although it appears I’m running in place, in reality I’ve used paid down debt to repair, renovate and replace.
         All of those tallied columns and hopeful projections remind me of the importance of planning. My two steps forward, one step back approach to life would probably frustrate most people, but I can appreciate my accounting accomplishments.

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"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 my husbund and son 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. Then I'll place everything into a fireproof safe! 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

"Butterfly Rainforest"

 

            One small house in the San Antonio Zoo nurtures butterflies. Stepping into this exhibit brought immediate delight to us. With all of the sorrows in today’s world, sometimes pausing long enough to play with butterflies brings wonder and joy.

 

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Little Indulgences"

Two new teapots for the collection

A tablecloth 

A runner

Tea towel treasures

A blue bedspread flowering across the bed

Different earrings dancing and dangling

Tops hanging crisp and fresh

Fresh garden blossoms

Breaking bread with old friends

Copyright 2026 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Lefty Loosey"

      

            I suffer from a lifelong disability—left handedness. Now, some people write or eat with their left hand, but do other things with their right hands. Not me! I drag the right side of my body along with me as a useless attachment that often gets in the way. My left side dominance dictates every aspect of my body. Not only do I write and eat with my left hand, I also chew on the left side of my mouth, listen on the phone with my left ear, and kick with my left foot.

         My first grade teacher, aka The Battleax, made eradicating my handedness her crusade for the few months I remained in her class. I remember her swooping down the aisle as I diligently practiced my letters with my giant pencil and Big Chief pad. She’d harrumph her disapproval, snatch the pencil from my fingers, and force it into my right hand. My smooth, neat letters turned into illegible, rickety scrawls. When the principal suggested my mother pull me out of school, she took over as the handwriting expert. A lefty herself, she’d weathered the same discrimination as a child. Her handwriting, a beautiful, disciplined script that flowered across the page, became my guideline. My mother taught me to write using a blackboard. With the angle changed, I dropped the lefty hook that many left handed people use. As a teacher, watching me write on the board often disturbed my students. They commented every single time I wrote on the board. As a result, I arrived every morning to place the bulk of information on the board ahead of time. I was one of the first teachers to jump at the opportunity to use a computer and projector in the classroom.

         My left side dominance often causes challenges. I do not always approach the physical world in the same way. Many little things in our lives put the lefty at a disadvantage. Cabinet doors open to the wrong side. As I sit at my desk, the drawers run down the right side to make opening and rummaging easy for the right handed person. For me to access the drawers, I have to turn sideways. My mouse, too, rests on the right. I’ve learned to maneuver it by practicing with games like Bejeweled. I practice every day. For some reason, placing keys in locks often creates a challenge. The angle of approach, geared for the right handed person, means I’m battling the door frame as I insert the key. And don’t forget the ignition in cars or the gear shifts!

         Discrimination against lefties is centuries old. I could rattle off many different taboos associated with right versus left. Also, left handed people live shorter lives because they have more accidents. Check your statistics if you don’t believe me. It’s not because we’re klutzes, but because our entire day we must compensate. I figure all of the disadvantages accumulate over our lifetimes, resulting in the false reputation of being clumsy when we’re not.

         So as you cut your Christmas wrapping paper in straight lines with grace and ease I hope you remember your lefty friend’s struggle with right handed scissors. When you examine the not-so-perfect wrapping on the gift you receive, keep in mind the challenges of snipping and folding for the left handed.

                  

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"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

"Drought"

This summer’s unrelenting heat means our yards dry a little more each day. I noticed today that several of the bushes out back have dead branches. Nature protects the core, and the peripheral appendages begin to wither. My heart breaks to see this loss.

Loss goes deeper this summer than wilting gardens. I’ve several friends struggling with serious health issues like cancer. I admire the strength they exhibit as they face each day with unbelievable optimism. They handle the new challenges life’s handed them with the unshakable conviction that every thought and effort will bring health back into their lives. For other friends, this summer’s trials come from aging parents needing live-in help, assisted living or nursing home care. Some friends will decide to move in with parents while others will move parents in with them.

            For the generation of our children, we see job opportunities drying up overnight. Imagine spending four years in college, taking out loans to finance this education, and not landing a job up to five or six months later. These adult children find themselves moving back in with their parents as they regroup. Some hold tenaciously to their college part-time jobs because “something is better than nothing.” Those still in school wonder and worry about next year’s opportunities. How long will this economic drought last? Onto this brittle landscape, I watch in frustration as our petty politicians play with matches.

            I know that we need rain. Not a flooding deluge that obliterates everything in its path, but a soft and steady rain—one that brings the sunrise in its wake, one that soaks deeply into the cracked ground, one that cleanses away the dust and cobwebs, one that heals our land.   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"One-Hundred Degrees in the Shade"

Dust chases us down the road   

engulfs the car   

swirling like powdered sugar blown from a birthday cake   

coating our sandaled feet as we step into the furnace   

The dogs retreat to bunk bed and chair   

anticipating evening’s approach—   

a breeze, teasing and seductive   

Buffalo grass, brittle reminders of Spring’s bounty   

squat in death   

Cedars, tipped in brown and rust,   

finger summer’s dragon breath in search of moisture   

The naked sky, adorned only by a relentless sun   

yearns for bird song   

Silence, even, languishes in the oppressive heat   

Live Oaks, gnarled limbs supplicating to the cloudless sky   

plea for rain   

Wash away the sins of the world  

 

 Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Great Depression Grandkids"

Edna Thompson with oldest sister, Lois 

My mother, born in 1930, never shook off the survival strategies from being raised during The Great Depression. With eight kids to feed, the loss of their family farm forced her father to relocate everyone to Danville, Illinois where he found employment. Mom’s childhood memories included her oldest sister, Lois, drowning followed closely by her mother’s illness and death. She recounted the “special treat” of her brothers sharing a head of lettuce with her—a quarter wedge sprinkled with salt and pepper. Self-sacrifice ingrained itself into my mother’s being. 

I watched her ask for little throughout her life, and I know she felt hurt whenever Dad put his own goals ahead of hers. Her closet, nearly empty, contained only nice outfits that could handle church and PTA meetings. She didn’t own a pair of jeans because they weren’t “acceptable” in multiple settings. She had one pair each of shoes in white, brown, and black with purses in the same colors. White canvas shoes, purchased at a local discount store, finished her footwear. Her one jewelry box sheltered her mother’s gold bracelet, a set of pearl earrings with matching broach and necklace from Dad. A few small cameos she never wore rested in the box along with the jade my siblings and I proudly gifted her during our childhood. As an adult, I wonder if her love of jade grew because it was something affordable for kids to purchase for birthdays and Christmas. 

I realized the other day that I’m a Great Depression Grandkid. I didn’t live through those tough years, but the Great Recession and wild rides of unemployment wrapped with inflation mark all of my adulthood. The American Dream of upward mobility skipped over our home. We’ve always had a house, cars that work, and enough money to pay our bills on time. 

Enough isn’t a bad word, either. It allows dignity to grace our lives. “More isn’t better . . . Sometimes it’s just more.” My favorite quotation from Sabrina, but the life lesson taught to me by Mom over and over again. 

Edna Thompson Abrams 1963

Copyright 2026 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman