“Brain Challenges!”

In October, I began using the mini-Mac my son gifted me when Windows 10 no longer had support. Over the years, I’ve used Mac hardware and software, but each time I shift back, my brain stubbornly sticks to the other computer. 

A few days ago, I couldn’t find the Dictionary and Thesaurus for Pages although I’d used it a couple of weeks before. The shift to Tahoe had rippled down into my having to go into this-n-that and do a restart to access both of those with a highlight and click again. I’d also saved a template to Pages that vanished with the update. I grumble to myself, “I obviously did this before. . .” 

This morning, I decided to capture a few photographs of the remaining ice outside. When using my iPhone, pictures transfer to my new computer effortlessly. Select. Airdrop. Location (usually Downloads for me). Then comes the challenge of editing each picture, which I struggle with every single time. Using my Canon requires me to attach a cable between it and the computer hub. I’m not Tony Stark. This simple mating takes me at least four tries. The camera gives me its usual “BUSY” message, but I drew a blank on how to select and import the newest pictures. I’m not even trying to run them through anything like Photoshop. That’s for a different day. 

I tell myself every time I type a piece or load a picture that adjusting to all of this new stuff is really good for me. I have to do Google searches and view YouTube instructional videos to do something that used to be done on autopilot. I need to view these brain challenges an additional part of my daily exercise routine.

Cardboard left for squirrels!

Copyright 2026 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

"Changing Leaves"

          Running around the past few days on Christmas shopping errands, awe stopped me in my tracks. Our Red Oak and our neighbor’s Arizona Ash decided to don bright, contrasting reds and yellows. My husband’s iPhone and my old trusty Canon captured this brilliant moment.

            Enjoy!

Copyright 2024 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