"Shoes"

 

         The other day, someone posted on Facebook a photo of Fred Astaire lounging in a chair, relaxing by a humongous pile of shoes. I couldn’t help but smile. I immediately passed the photo along and thought blissfully of my love for shoes.

       

  As a little girl, I had wonderful Baby Jane patent leather shoes for my Sunday best. The white pair I wore from Easter Sunday until September. The black pair came out after Labor Day because you never wear white after Labor Day. I loved these shiny shoes and carefully walked in them to limit the chances of scuff marks along their smooth surfaces. My sister envied these shoes. Her long and very narrow foot made it more expensive for my parents to purchase shoes for her, so she ended up wearing practical loafers or Saddle Oxfords. And like many younger sisters, I found myself longing for her plainer shoes. I loved the black and white practicality of her Oxfords, and when I finally owned a pair of penny loafers of my own, I polished the copper coins to a sheen.

            When I hit fourth and fifth grade, many of my friends wore Converse shoes. I longed to lace my foot up into a high top, but my parents’ limited budget meant I donned plain white tennis shoes purchased at the local Winn’s store. Near the end of junior high, my mother surprised me with these fantastic brown leather boots that climbed almost to my knees. The boots fastened up with a hook-n-eye, and I loved them dearly. Their smart two-inch heels gave me the height I needed since I still stood a little less than five feet. Fortunately, my foot size didn’t change once I hit thirteen.

            In high school, the demands of our dance team meant my parents shifted shoe money to tap shoes and short, white western boots that looked very smart when performing high kick routines. I schlepped around in white tennies again until I discovered huaraches after a trip to across the border. These wonderful sandals looked fantastic with anything from sundresses to swimsuits. They withstood any amount of abuse and still looked good enough for casual wear. I wore my sandals until they fell apart after I started college!

            The long miles I trekked daily while at Texas A&M meant I selected my shoes during college more for comfort than for style. A good pair of running shoes and a pair of soft suede boots the color of caramel carried me through my studies. I didn’t buy any dress shoes until I purchased my wedding sandals—something with thin straps and high heels that cost more than the simple dress I wore.

            Over the years, I’ve indulged my fondness for footwear. Soft green suede pumps, kill-me heels with peek-a-boo toes, black leather boots or purple faux snake skin. Shoes with sequins, little satin bows, or bold and clunky buckles lined up in my closet.

            Since retirement, I’ve pared my pairs. My closet cubby designated for shoes now has empty slots. I tend to grab my black Skechers or a simple sandal if I leave the house. The other day, while getting ready for a wedding, I pulled out some of my favorites and oohed over their clever bows and sexy heels. I’ve decided that I may have to start dressing up a bit, just to get my shoes out of the house once in a while.                 

 Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Low Maintenance"

 

            Believe me when I say, I don’t know if I should brag about my “low maintenance” lifestyle, or if I should pretend my nature demands indulgent splurges on superfluous items and activities, so that I can feel like I belong with the rest of my gender. My baffled looks always give me away when I don’t know the name of a designer purse, have never purchased haute couture clothing, and don’t know the difference between a Milano and a Converse. My entire wardrobe fits into an eight foot-by-four foot closet which I share with my husband. My lingerie bares the labels Fruit of the Loom and Hanes. Every nightgown or pajama set I own fits into one drawer, and I own one pair of blue jeans. I can count on my fingers the number of times I’ve had my hair cut by a professional. I went from cutting my bangs into a crooked zigzag at the age of four to mastering several different styles by the time I reached thirty. My first and only manicure and pedicure excursion occurred just two summers ago, and I’ve never had a massage or visited a spa. I barely registered jewelry on my radar, so I didn’t bother piercing my ears until seven years ago. When my son decided to pierce his ears, I went along and decided on a whim to discover the whimsical world of earrings. Every Christmas, I ask for a bottle of perfume which I carefully ration to last until the next holiday season. I broke down and joined the world by purchasing a cell phone, which I kept for six years before getting a new one last summer. (I changed carriers, so I had no choice!) The car I drive is currently only twelve-years-old, but I’m renowned for driving the same vehicle for twenty years. I haven’t up-dated the television and sound system in the family room, so they’re eighteen years old. I’ve forgotten the ages of the washer, dryer, refrigerator, and microwave. Our rule for appliances simply states: If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

Over the years, I’ve had female friends question my assertions that I’m happy, and I admit I went through a rough period in my thirties when I whined about my limited selection of clothing for work. At that time in my life, I fantasized about moving into a bigger house, taking a yearly vacation, and going out to eat whenever and wherever I wanted. When my father died so unexpectedly ten years ago, my perspective changed. I reassessed the things I valued—and discovered I really don’t value things at all. Instead, Time became a hot commodity for me. I treasure the moments spent with my family and friends. I understand the importance of piddling in the garden or strolling through the property. I love to linger over a delightful phrase in a book or craft my own perfect prose or poem. None of these activities require expensive clothing or fancy shoes, yet all of them bring great pleasure to my life.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman            

“Extended Family”

 

            I worked for the same school district for my entire thirty year career. The younger teachers I know who joined the district during this last ten years often asked how I survived in such a hostile environment, and I found myself explaining over and over again that the district had grown into dysfunction only after we’d gone through a string of narcissistic superintendents concerned more with their personal agendas than with education.

            I told these teachers about the extended family that wove throughout our schools. Husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, parents and children all became partners in educating every child. Our high school won national recognition as a Blue Ribbon campus one year, and became a New American High School in 2000. Our pride extended beyond the football field or basketball court, and the faculty and staff from all of our campuses had a hand in creating a thriving learning environment. We had core educators who mentored new teachers because they cared.

            I described to these newer teachers how our leadership trusted the campus principals to make choices that would benefit the entire learning community. They did not micro-manage. Our principals were given freedom to pull their teachers into the decision making process. Imagine having input over every element of your curriculum! If I needed something to make me a better teacher, I knew I could walk into all of those open administrative doors and simply ask. I couldn’t always get what I wanted, but I know they tried to keep me happy. Because the emotional health of teachers can make or break a school.

            Through the majority of my years in education, I had the good fortune to work with the same core administrators and faculty. And although there may have been disagreements, those squabbles never caused permanent rifts. And “the powers that be” didn’t play god and shuffle administration and faculty around from campus to campus when there were problems. Everyone stayed put and figured out a way through those difficulties. We worked together (sometimes tirelessly).

            We were family.

            We celebrated weddings, births and adoptions. We applauded at graduations and performances. We cheered each other up on the bad days, and rejoiced with one another on the good years.

            We were family.

            We cried over broken hearts, scraped knees, and lost dreams. We mourned together, too.

            Our losses began slowly. But those wonderful educators who dedicated their lives to making me a better teacher are now in their seventies and eighties.

            Yesterday, my extended family lost another member. My heart aches for her family; her husband who reminded me to make my day a good one, her children who sat in our classrooms, and contributed to our district as adults. I grieve because other educators will never benefit from this dynamic woman’s advice and encouragement. And I’m saddened for I fear that the problems within our educational system exist because the bonds among faculties no longer grow into strong ties that pull teachers permanently into each other’s lives. There is no family.

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

"Low Maintenance"

            Believe me when I say, I don’t know if I should brag about my “low maintenance” lifestyle, or if I should pretend my nature demands indulgent splurges on superfluous items and activities, so that I can feel like I belong with the rest of my gender. My baffled looks always give me away when I don’t know the name of a designer purse, have never purchased haute couture clothing, and don’t know the difference between a Milano and a Converse. My entire wardrobe fits into an eight foot-by-four foot closet which I share with my husband. My lingerie bares the labels Fruit of the Loom and Hanes. Every nightgown or pajama set I own fits into one drawer, and I own one pair of blue jeans. I can count on my fingers the number of times I’ve had my hair cut by a professional. I went from cutting my bangs into a crooked zigzag at the age of four to mastering several different styles by the time I reached thirty. My first and only manicure and pedicure excursion occurred just two summers ago, and I’ve never had a massage or visited a spa. I barely registered jewelry on my radar, so I didn’t bother piercing my ears until seven years ago. When my son decided to pierce his ears, I went along and decided on a whim to discover the whimsical world of earrings. Every Christmas, I ask for a bottle of perfume which I carefully ration to last until the next holiday season. I broke down and joined the world by purchasing a cell phone, which I kept for six years before getting a new one last summer. (I changed carriers, so I had no choice!) The car I drive is currently only twelve-years-old, but I’m renowned for driving the same vehicle for twenty years. I haven’t up-dated the television and sound system in the family room, so they’re eighteen years old. I’ve forgotten the ages of the washer, dryer, refrigerator, and microwave. Our rule for appliances simply states: If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

Over the years, I’ve had female friends question my assertions that I’m happy, and I admit I went through a rough period in my thirties when I whined about my limited selection of clothing for work. At that time in my life, I fantasized about moving into a bigger house, taking a yearly vacation, and going out to eat whenever and wherever I wanted. When my father died so unexpectedly ten years ago, my perspective changed. I reassessed the things I valued—and discovered I really don’t value things at all. Instead, Time became a hot commodity for me. I treasure the moments spent with my family and friends. I understand the importance of piddling in the garden or strolling through the property. I love to linger over a delightful phrase in a book or craft my own perfect prose or poem. None of these activities require expensive clothing or fancy shoes, yet all of them bring great pleasure to my life.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman            

“Shoes”

         The other day, someone posted on Facebook a photo of Fred Astaire lounging in a chair, relaxing by a humongous pile of shoes. I couldn’t help but smile. I immediately passed the photo along and thought blissfully of my love for shoes.

       

  As a little girl, I had wonderful Baby Jane patent leather shoes for my Sunday best. The white pair I wore from Easter Sunday until September. The black pair came out after Labor Day because you never wear white after Labor Day. I loved these shiny shoes and carefully walked in them to limit the chances of scuff marks along their smooth surfaces. My sister envied these shoes. Her long and very narrow foot made it more expensive for my parents to purchase shoes for her, so she ended up wearing practical loafers or Saddle Oxfords. And like many younger sisters, I found myself longing for her plainer shoes. I loved the black and white practicality of her Oxfords, and when I finally owned a pair of penny loafers of my own, I polished the copper coins to a sheen.

            When I hit fourth and fifth grade, many of my friends wore Converse shoes. I longed to lace my foot up into a high top, but my parents’ limited budget meant I donned plain white tennis shoes purchased at the local Winn’s store. Near the end of junior high, my mother surprised me with these fantastic brown leather boots that climbed almost to my knees. The boots fastened up with a hook-n-eye, and I loved them dearly. Their smart two-inch heels gave me the height I needed since I still stood a little less than five feet. Fortunately, my foot size didn’t change once I hit thirteen.

            In high school, the demands of our dance team meant my parents shifted shoe money to tap shoes and short, white western boots that looked very smart when performing high kick routines. I schlepped around in white tennies again until I discovered huaraches after a trip to across the border. These wonderful sandals looked fantastic with anything from sundresses to swimsuits. They withstood any amount of abuse and still looked good enough for casual wear. I wore my sandals until they fell apart after I started college!

            The long miles I trekked daily while at Texas A&M meant I selected my shoes during college more for comfort than for style. A good pair of running shoes and a pair of soft suede boots the color of caramel carried me through my studies. I didn’t buy any dress shoes until I purchased my wedding sandals—something with thin straps and high heels that cost more than the simple dress I wore.

            Over the years, I’ve indulged my fondness for footwear. Soft green suede pumps, kill-me heels with peek-a-boo toes, black leather boots or purple faux snake skin. Shoes with sequins, little satin bows, or bold and clunky buckles lined up in my closet.

            Since retirement, I’ve pared my pairs. My closet cubby designated for shoes now has empty slots. I tend to grab my black Skechers or a simple sandal if I leave the house. The other day, while getting ready for a wedding, I pulled out some of my favorites and oohed over their clever bows and sexy heels. I’ve decided that I may have to start dressing up a bit, just to get my shoes out of the house once in a while.                 

 Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman