"Five Dollar Fern"

2020

 
            A Mother’s Day gift many years ago of three five dollar ferns growing in hanging baskets has become a repot tradition to mark the passage of yet another year. This year, two of the ferns bump up into five gallon pots. The third fern, accidentally overwatered last year by someone helping with the garden, almost didn’t survive. Now significantly smaller, it remains in the same pot from two years ago with fresh soil, and the hope it’ll catch up to the others. In the past, they wintered inside in the family room nestled next to light from the sliding door. This last year found them in our small greenhouse until the temperatures dropped into the twenties.

2023

            As the years pass, I notice that while my ferns hold on resiliently, other plants and bushes in our yard and garden have fallen prey to unexpected ice storms and endlessly hot, dry summers. This week a prediction of 104° marks a mid-May day. How can this be? The ferns, sheltered under a tree and given extra water, won’t be harmed, but heat will scorch the new clover I’m trying to establish in the yards. I’ll make certain to place this year’s five dollar plants (Mexican Heather and Orange Lantana) into shaded areas with extra dollops of water added to their soil to make certain they don’t get scorched before they are established. Wish us luck!

2025

March 2026 

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

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“Roses in a Vase”

No one in our household can resist the small roses at HEB. Some weeks, the blooms draw attention to the multicolored petals. Other times, a bright yellow set catches my attention, as my mother, sister and I all carried yellow roses at our simple weddings. A brilliant flaming red or a cool soft pink may tempt one of us. I love capturing their brilliance before they fade away. 

Copyright 2026 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“What I Can Control"

 

            My mornings begin with what I can control. An alarm set for 7:15 AM to remind me to take medications. Rain or shine. Summer or winter. Weekday or weekend. I arise with a routine that sets the tone of my life. I write with pen and paper into my journal or sit before the blank page of my computer for the next hour, maybe two. Some days my thoughts get shared through a poem or personal narrative. Sometimes my private words stay tucked away. My choice on what to publish allows me an element of control.

            By 8:30 each morning, my day shifts outdoors. Rain or shine. Sumer or winter. Weekday or weekend. I section the yards and gardens into concrete, manageable goals that I can accomplish on my own. This spring and summer, I am purchasing new plants and flowers on Monday mornings. My tight budget means I hunt for neglected and reduced items in the garden sections of HEB, Walmart and Home Depot. Each morning I check for growth; and I rejoice with a new tendril, bud, or bloom. My care comforts me and lets me feel as though I have control when a plant grows enough to propagate into another pot.

            Yesterday, I trimmed the hedges out front in anticipation of a larger project—repainting the front porch, back porch and hot tub surround. I know the amount of work required as I’ve done this refresh on my own for years. I will tackle a known entity to allow myself a sense of purpose and control when so many other events in our world spin into chaos. My days with paint brush in hand will allow me to focus on what is right before me.

            I worry that I should do more. I should write more. I should shout loud and clear against this administration that destroys with no intention of rebuilding. I published the link to Project 2025 over and over again. I warned friends and family members month after month about the goals of these people to rape and pillage. Some, even now, smile with smugness as they state, “This is what I voted for!” I cannot control their hatred. I cannot contain their maliciousness.

I cannot change who and what they are. This realization wounds me every single day.        

            

        And so, my energy gets spent on the things I can control. My concentration stays on the people I can protect. My mornings begin at 7:15 AM . . .

   Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Little Roses”

 

            What is my special treat from the grocery store? Flowers. We enter our local HEB from one set of doors to purchase groceries. Our route swings us by the plants and cut flowers at the end of our shopping. A quick evaluation of our cart to judge whether I’m in budget or not means I may indulge in either cut flowers or a small plant. The mini roses often draw my attention. First, their inexpensive price tag means the experiment to keep them alive won’t break the bank.  In the past, I’ve repotted the little roses and successfully moved them to spots outside. Currently, I have one that has survived for almost a year. It’s not blooming yet, but I’m hopeful it’ll hang in there long enough to bloom again.

            I feel absolutely spoiled when a dozen roses end up in our cart. Sometimes, the store has my ultimate favorite—yellow. More often, red or pink bouquets add splashes of color to our practical grocery purchases. I try to take the time not only to “smell the roses” but to preserve them through my photography.  

 

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

             

"Broadway Musicals"

 From Sabrina (1995)

Linus Larrabee: And I want tickets to whatever Broadway show nobody can get tickets to.
[Mack looks inquisitively at him]
Linus Larrabee: I know, I seldom go to the theatre.
Mack: Seldom?
Linus Larrabee: So, I'm not a theatre buff.
Mack: Buff? The most difficult tickets to get will be for a Broadway musical.
Linus Larrabee: [distractedly] Okay.
Mack: That means that the performers will periodically dance about and burst into song.

    I sit before a blank computer screen, listening to “OOOOOOOOO—klahoma” trill from the television in the family room. My mind’s eye displays cowboys jumping from the front porch, grabbing a beautiful partner, and swirling around until the final “okay!” My head bobs to the beat, my toes tap out the rhythm, and my torso sways in my swivel desk chair as song fills the air.

         

          I love musicals. All of them. Every year, I promise myself that we’ll get season tickets for the shows that come to San Antonio, and every year something happens to prevent the purchase. While I’ve only seen a couple of live shows, I know I’d never be disappointed by any performance.

         Sometimes I like to imagine real life as a musical. What dance choreography would I break into as I sashay through my chores? I see the perfect fan kick arcing over the washer, a step-ball-change leap through the kitchen with a final pirouette en dedans as I dust a ceiling fan.  

         My imagination runs wild with a terrific musical number dancing and singing up and down the aisles of HEB. As I move through each lane, more and more shoppers join in as we rumba by the dog food and boogie by the bagels. I belt out a tribute to avocados and croon a love song to Ben & Jerry’s. The entire number ends with a Rockette style chorus line as I twirl out the door and over to my car where a line of tapping bagboys load my groceries to trumpeting fanfare.

         While Linus Larrabee may not approve of people who “periodically dance about and burst into song,” I think I would love to live such a life!

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

        

“Sweet Tooth”

 

            My quest to limit daily sugar intake means I travel a rough, temptation strewn road. A couple of years ago, I edged away from sweet iced tea by ordering half-n-half. I ran victory laps when “unsweet” became my go to order. At home, my Earl Grey hot gradually shifted to less sugar, then honey, and finally nothing but the wonderful blend on its own. We’d dropped all sodas about six years ago, but the urge to down a hot Dr. Pepper when my throat burns with an infection lingers in my memories. Dad’s remedy remains warm and comforting when fever devils me. When COVID-19 invaded our home right before Christmas, I begged for ginger ale and Dr. Pepper to soothe my symptoms. That influx of sodas has left me craving sugar again.

            I noticed a few weeks ago that my tea order at restaurants had relapsed to my sweet addiction. My morning Greek teas, usually brewed without honey, had crept back to a dollop each morning. My eyes draw to pictures of desserts when I browse online, and I shoot furtive glances at the donuts when at HEB. My determination to dodge candy bars and chocolate entered the maximum level of stress when Girl Scout cookies hit the streets. Every night, I allow one indulgence—either a single Blue Bell Krunch Bar or their Fudge Bar. My goal remains focused! I will wean off of that nightly treat and return to my pre-illness status of a monthly sweet treat from our neighborhood Dairy Queen.

            As I struggle to avoid the bombardment of delicacies that constantly barrage my daily routine, I focus on a plan of action that takes me away from the cravings that batter me at the moment. For my benefit, my mantra “Less is more” becomes the chant that pulls me away from reaching for a Milky Way!

 

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

   

“March and Anxiety”

February's freeze 

Snow and ice in February

            I wrestled with Sunday Night Anxiety for many years when I taught. I paced the house snarling at anyone who crossed my field of vision. Some evenings I cried because I didn’t want to go to work the next day. Once I retired, this overblown unease retreated into the background, resurfacing for “special” occasions like doing income taxes or handling unexpected car malfunctions. Worry dogged me whenever Perfection’s crown slipped. Making simple mistakes drove me crazy, even when no one else knew about my blunder.

            Waltzing with worry meant I weighed my thought processes constantly whenever stress strode into my day. With COVID-19 looming daily in the background, I meticulously measured my “Danger! Danger, Will Robinson!” warnings. By March of 2021, getting all of us vaccinated motived my days. I strategized an attack that resulted in booking appointments for both my husband and me within the first days of our eligibility. Beginning midnight of the designated date, I rotated through Walgreens, CVS, Walmart, HEB, and the UT Health sites in fifteen minute intervals. This technique worked again the next week when my son’s age group gained eligibility. By the end of March, all three of us had received the first shot of Pfizer.

            Other Life ripples resolved during March, too. Our 2019 income taxes, buried under a pile of unprocessed forms at the IRS, finally got processed. Our rough-running car came out of its repair running like new. Our yard and gardens, frozen into submission in February, reemerged with subtle hope.

March's Hope

Rebirth and Regrowth

 

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Mask Guidelines"

           

Yesterday my son, our designated shopper, ventured out on a hunting and gathering mission at our local HEB. I took advantage of the opportunity to leave the house, and sat in the car for ninety minutes participating in one of my favorite pass times—watching people.

Today, I feel compelled to pull together some guidelines to help everyone realize that just wearing a mask and gloves doesn’t protect you if you still do stupid things. My suggestions, with explanations may seem harsh, but we live in a new reality.



1. ONLY ONE PERSON IN THE STORE PER FAMILY.

I observed several families heading into the store even with warnings from the management to leave your kids at home. All three families yesterday put masks on the kids although the parents wore nothing. I guess they don’t understand that they can be exposed to COVID-19 and pass it to their children once they return home. Putting masks on their kids just at the store is useless. All of the families I watched had children who were old enough to be left at home for the length of a grocery store trip. I also saw couples shopping together. Again, one person wore a mask while the other didn’t. If you don’t have enough masks for each family member to wear while getting groceries, then only those having masks should shop.



2. KEEP YOUR MASK ON UNTIL YOU DISINFECT YOUR HANDS/GLOVES.
Masks are hot and uncomfortable. They are also protection. I couldn’t believe how many people left the store and yanked their masks down while still walking to their cars. They unloaded their groceries with their noses and mouths exposed. WE TOUCH OUR FACES SUBCONSCIOUSLY ALL THE FUCKING TIME! Nine out oAf ten people in that parking lot swiped at their noses or eyes while placing groceries into their vehicles. All of those people exposed themselves to potential infection.



3. BRING GARBAGE BAGS OR ZIP-LOCKS TO DISPOSE OF GLOVES. 

Take your gloves off just like you’ve seen in all of those medical shows—to where they are inside out, and wrap one glove into the other. Also, don’t take them off until you’ve unloaded your groceries and put the cart away. At that point, put your gloves m into a garbage bag or baggie that can be sealed and thrown away as soon as you reach home. I recommend that you have Clorox wipes, a bleach and water mixture spray bottle, or hand sanitizer in your car. Before you drive off, you can clean your hands. Remember, your mask should still be on until you get home. 

4. ONCE HOME, UNLOAD YOUR GROCERIES BEFORE TAKING OFF YOUR MASK. 

Disinfect your shoes and any door knobs you’ve touched. Since you are now at a place where you can wash our hands frequently, dispose of your mask. If it’s a cloth one, throw it straight into the washer. We have our designated shopper toss his clothes into the wash immediately and head for a shower. If you’re on your own, disinfect your purchases, toss your clothing into the wash, and finally shower yourself.

 

Copyright 2020 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Stay the Fuck Home!”

            My brother, a custodial worker at a hospital, falls into the “essential worker” category. He earns less than a livable wage. He reports to work during natural disasters almost annually as he lives in the Houston area. He will continue to work through the COVID-19 epidemic until he gets sick. I worry that he may die if that happens.

            My nephew works at one of Texas’s largest grocery chains, HEB. His salary, also, doesn’t come anywhere what it should for him to report for work during an epidemic of this scope. Of course, he’s there extra hours so the rest of us can have the supplies we need to stay home. That means he’s exposed through every person who walks into the store.

            Every one of us has friends or family members who continue to work because of their essential occupations. For me, it’s important to give these people as much of an edge as possible. If they must be exposed to carriers of COVID-19, let it be in as controlled and limited way as possible.

            If you follow directives and stay home, you limit your contracts to only a few people on a daily basis. If you are the designated shopper, restricting the people you see means that you help limit the number of contacts my family members come into contact with, too.

            If you have a governor that’s not issuing sensible and safe guidelines that don’t have an economic drive (like suggesting our elderly should be willing to die to keep the economy going for this next generation), look to the states harder hit by COVID-19 and follow those guidelines.

            If you have a mercenary minister who continues to push you into church services, find another church. For years many of my religious friends have claimed that their beliefs aren’t attached to a building—that they can pray and worship at any place and time. Now’s the time to prove it!

            Stay safe for your family and stay safe for mine.

Copyright 2020 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Parking Lot Woes"

Today’s grocery run took an unexpected turn when our car wouldn’t start. It didn’t make the usual click-click-click associated with a dead battery. Turning the key resulted in nothing at all. Tempers rose, bubbling quickly to the surface within the scorching heat that sweltered around us. Each of us focused upon a different problem. My husband tried a few more ignition starts and puzzled over the soundless response while my son dug out the owner’s manual. Worried more about the groceries that sat in the trunk than determining the source of the problem, I grabbed a cart and reloaded everything. Once in the store, I started to explain our predicament when the clerk interrupted, “Give me your name, and I’ll take your cart back to the cooler.”

         By the time I sprinted back to the car (we always park in the furthest slot to add to daily steps), sweat soaked my hairline. My husband and son hoped that a dead battery caused the problem and sent me back inside for distilled water as the levels looked low. I rushed back into the store, dashed over to the water section, lunged for the last jug, and zigzagged to a self-checkout register. Darting around traffic and fellow shoppers, I breathlessly arrived at the car to find it running. A fellow shopper had a wonderful little jumper box that started our car immediately.

         I spun around and headed back into the store one more time to fetch our food. 

       On our drive home, we discussed how this car gave no prior warnings of the battery dying: no slow engine crank, no dashboard warning light, no rapid clicking sound. No advanced indication that we’d find ourselves stranded in an H.E.B. parking lot.

         Our adventure brought home a realization that we didn’t have anyone to call for help. I’d left my phone charging and with it the number of our neighbor and sister-in-law, two people who would’ve dropped everything to rescue us. We have a nephew who lives close by the store, but none of us have his current number. Tomorrow, I’ll make certain each of our phones carries the numbers of all of those neighbors and friends instead of it being in one phone.

         I find myself thankful for the man who helped us in the parking lot, and for the personnel in the store who cheerfully stashed our groceries away and kept an eye out for my return. I didn’t even have to ask for the cart! These little acts of kindness have restarted my faith in the goodness of others.

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman