"Before D-Day"

            When Dad did his tour in Vietnam, Mom returned to Danville, Illinois to be closer to her siblings.  One of her brothers, Uncle Red swung by the house once a week to take my sister and me to the A&W for root beer floats.

I adored Uncle Red and puppy dogged behind him every time he visited. His endless patience endured my constant nagging to teach me how to whistle. One visit I overheard him talking with Mom about concern for Dad’s safety. It was weighing him down. I remember linking my arms around his neck as I sat in his lap, trying to cheer him up. He settled me against his chest and told me how he’d gone off to war and was wounded. He spun a tale for me of German troops leaving him behind, thinking he was dead. How lucky he was to get back home!

            When I recounted his story to one of my cousins forty years later, my cousin recounted the horrific truth of Uncle Red’s reality. Not only had he been injured, but German troops captured him. He ended up in a POW camp. My adult heart broke to know that Uncle Red protected me all those years ago. I don’t know if I’ll ever know the full scope of Uncle Red’s experiences.  

            Recently, though, hidden in boxes and boxes of photographs and news articles from my Aunt Louise’s possessions, I found more information about Uncle Red. It didn’t recount his injuries or capture, but instead celebrated his Silver Star award. The Silver Star, awarded for valor in combat, started in WWI as the Citation Star. This award acknowledges the heroism of soldiers during singular acts of honor or valor. Only 100,000 to 150,000 men and women have received it since its creation.  Uncle Red’s II Corp unit was sent to the Italian Front in mid-November in 1943. On January 6, 1944, II Corp engaged in mountain warfare under severe weather conditions. When crossing an open area, enemy machine gun fire from the front and also the flank ripped into the battalion. Uncle Red gave aid to the wounded and carried at least six men back to safety.

            My Uncle’s actions on the battle field, by saving the lives of so many other men at great personal risk, define all of the best qualities of The Greatest Generation. Today marks the 80^th anniversary of D-Day, and I don’t want another year to pass without a tribute to John R. Thompson’s courage six months before. 

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

                          

           

"The Saddest Christmas Tree"

            A few summers before my mother became so very ill, I’d started the ambitious project of scanning pictures into our computer to save upon an external hard drive. I began with the pictures my mother had brought up to San Antonio, which included a hodge-podge from her childhood, my father’s childhood, and their married lives. She’d given up on labeling each item, and instead wrote a brief timeline of their life together, centering upon my father’s various assignments within the military. She devoted part of each album to each of her children. Grouped over several pages would be pictures of my sister, my brother, or myself from infancy through our adult years. I didn’t scan every photograph, but I did do the majority of school pictures and major events. I placed, on a special shelf in my closet, some large photographs that would need to be scanned in pieces, reassembled, and repaired in Photoshop. And then I forgot about all of my aspirations when Mom’s needs changed and her care became more demanding.

            The first weekend of November, I spent part of the visit to my brother’s house delving into my parents’ closets. Curiosity enticed me into old boxes and bins, where I discovered my brother’s baby book and infant shoes along with my grandfather’s passport. Stashed safely into a weatherproof bin, I uncovered some old photographs that I’d never seen. I asked my brother if I could take the bin home to scan the contents with the goal of having it back to him by his visit at Christmas.

            Days have a way of slipping by unnoticed, until I realized last weekend that we hadn’t scanned a single photograph. And so my husband and I set about organizing and scanning pictures. David’s a whiz with Photoshop, and he managed to refresh color, repair missing sections of photographs, or reconstruct missing parts on people’s faces. As our project continued, I realized just how wonderful it will be to have this at my fingertips and to make copies for my sister to keep within her own files. We no longer have to worry about something getting lost in a hurricane because copies exist in several places.

            Anyway, in with all of the pictures of places we’ve lived and people we’ve loved, I found a small shot of the saddest Christmas tree. For the 363 TEWS, this little tree symbolized their lives spent away from their families—all of the anniversaries, birthdays, and holidays missed. I found myself, after viewing so many of our family pictures, drawn to this image.

            My heart aches for those men of long ago who longed for their families, homes and traditions. And it breaks to know that our soldiers continue to serve “the longest year” in distant lands. My imagination runs to another daughter skimming through family photographs and pausing when she comes upon another sad Christmas tree in a barracks. 

 

"Nam Christmas Tree" 

 

                                                            

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Volunteering"

Life as an Air Force brat meant making new friends every few years. It demanded adjusting to new homes and schools. It required living with separation from my father during long TYDs, the Cuban Missile Crisis, and his tour in Vietnam. For many children, such a life becomes a hardship, but not for me.

            My parents worked hard to provide unconditional love and stability within the framework of continual change. I knew that the world wasn’t always a nice, or safe, place; yet I internalized the belief that people are basically good. Service to our country and to the community became an important cornerstone of my upbringing. My parents volunteered in our schools. My mother helped to establish the Helping Hand program in our neighborhood. My father coached football for the YMCA. Both of my parents volunteered for PTA functions and held offices within the organization. I learned from my parents  to measure success in life by the strength of loving relationships and not the amount of my monthly paycheck.

         At the age of fifteen, I began volunteering at Northeast Baptist Hospital in San Antonio, Texas. I spent so many hours at the hospital as a candy-striper that I won an award at the end of my first year for putting in more than one-hundred hours. I loved every rotation at the hospital. In the office, I answered phones and filed forms. One of my duties included going to each patient to discuss meal options for the day. I loved chatting with so many different people. I learned that even a person in pain and discomfort would put a smile on her face when I entered the room. Some days, my assignment found me in the gift shop. I learned how to run a cash register, do inventory, and help pick out the perfect card or gift. Eventually, my duties extended to the pharmacy. This much coveted rotation meant I’d earned the trust of the director of volunteer services. The summer I spent in service taught me valuable lessons about illness and caring. I learned what it meant to become a member of a team, and how important a simple hug can be when a family suffers loss.

         When I went to college at Texas A&M, I didn’t set aside my need to service others. It didn’t take me long to realize that many other college students wanted to volunteer within the Bryan/College Station area. With another friend, we established Student Volunteer Services. Given a small cubical in the MSC, we slowly carved out a reputation with various organizations and with Aggies. SVS became the liaison between the students and organizations. We helped place students into the Big Brother/Big Sister program. We lined up volunteers for different activities sponsored by organizations. We aided students in volunteering in local classrooms, at the library, and at the hospital. My experiences at A&M reinforced my belief that most people are kind and generous.

         “I’m a teacher,” one friend used to state matter-of-factly, “I already donate my time and money!”  And I’d have to agree. Teaching requires a commitment of time, energy, and financial resources. On my meager salary, I purchased additional supplies for my classroom. My extra time found me writing, typing, printing, and mailing out the PTO newsletter. I sponsored Student Council and the National Junior Honor Society. I coached UIL spellers. I went to work early every morning and stayed late every day. My experiences as an educator didn’t differ from almost all of the other teachers at my schools.  I may have received a paycheck every month for my “profession” but nothing repaid the vocation demanded within education.

Tiger Cub Mom

         As a parent, I found myself a Cub Scout leader and Odyssey of the Mind coach during the school year. The demands of work and parenting meant volunteering for other organizations slipped into my summer breaks. Several summers I found myself at Lutheran Social Services, helping with office work initially. Eventually, I sat in on counseling with pregnant mothers as they struggled with decisions on adoption. Again, I found myself serving people during an extremely stressful time of life, and I rediscovered the basic goodness that resides within most people’s hearts.

         My life experiences help me hold onto the conviction that more people strive to do good than evil. Between volunteer work and my profession, I rarely heard a parent say, “I want to spend the rest of my life on welfare.” None of my students longed to stay in minimum wage jobs. No one planned to stay mired in drug or alcohol addiction. I worked with many people who admitted they’d made mistakes in life’s choices. They expressed regrets; often wished that they had the know-how or tools necessary to change. Some people try to tell me that I don’t know what people are “really like,” but I think their hardness prevents them from enjoying the best of life. I believe in the goodness of the human soul.       

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Before D-Day”

 

            When Dad did his tour in Vietnam, Mom returned to Danville, Illinois to be closer to her siblings.  One of her brothers, Uncle Red swung by the house once a week to take my sister and me to the A&W for root beer floats.

            I adored Uncle Red and puppy dogged behind him every time he visited. His endless patience endured my constant nagging to teach me how to whistle. One visit I overheard him talking with Mom about concern for Dad’s safety. It was weighing him down. I remember linking my arms around his neck as I sat in his lap, trying to cheer him up. He settled me against his chest and told me how he’d gone off to war and was wounded. He spun a tale for me of German troops leaving him behind, thinking he was dead. How lucky he was to get back home!

            When I recounted his story to one of my cousins forty years later, my cousin recounted the horrific truth of Uncle Red’s reality. Not only had he been injured, but German troops captured him. He ended up in a POW camp. My adult heart broke to know that Uncle Red protected me all those years ago. I don’t know if I’ll ever know the full scope of Uncle Red’s experiences.  

            Recently, though, hidden in boxes and boxes of photographs and news articles from my Aunt Louise’s possessions, I found more information about Uncle Red. It didn’t recount his injuries or capture, but instead celebrated his Silver Star award. The Silver Star, awarded for valor in combat, started in WWI as the Citation Star. This award acknowledges the heroism of soldiers during singular acts of honor or valor. Only 100,000 to 150,000 men and women have received it since its creation.  Uncle Red’s II Corp unit was sent to the Italian Front in mid-November in 1943. On January 6, 1944, II Corp engaged in mountain warfare under severe weather conditions. When crossing an open area, enemy machine gun fire from the front and also the flank ripped into the battalion. Uncle Red gave aid to the wounded and carried at least six men back to safety.

            My Uncle’s actions on the battle field, by saving the lives of so many other men at great personal risk, define all of the best qualities of The Greatest Generation. Today marks the 80^th anniversary of D-Day, and I don’t want another year to pass without a tribute to John R. Thompson’s courage six months before.    

         

Copyrigiht 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

               

         

 

x

"Magic"

         

          Magic. With our strange incantations, Kevin Patterson and I froze childhood. Tinker Bell’s special dust sprinkled over our heads, and for three years we lived an enchanted life. And the world almost destroyed itself.

How can I explain how those three years, from 1963 to 1966, molded me? Magic.

“Salami. Salami. No cheese. Baloney!” I shouted into the antiseptically clean medicine cabinet, and Kevin’s deeper voice echoed my words. Slamming the cabinet door shut (it would bounce back open), I raced downstairs, catching the banister as I flew over the last three steps, and landed sure footedly upon Mom’s recently waxed parquet floor.  I dashed across Mom’s braided rug, the one that later “smothered” me when I had high fever hallucinations, and skid across the wood plank dining room floor. Fortunately, I stopped before impaling myself upon the arm of one the dining room chairs.

Next, I whipped myself around the corner, flailing my small sun kissed body against the swinging door and dumping onto the black and white checked floor. Scrambling on my knees, I raced for the door and plummeted out of the   house head first. Like Mickey Mantle sliding into home plate, I skidded across the back porch and into the red brick wall that separated our porch from the Patterson’s.

I scrambled onto the top of the dividing wall and perched in a nonchalant pose that said, “What took you so long? I’ve been here for hours.” And I waited for Kevin to tumble out of his back door.

“First!” the word exploded from Kevin. Then he saw me sitting above him. “Ah, geesh. I lost again.” He shrugged his lanky shoulders and pivoted on his heels, disappearing into his house. Seconds later, he reappeared with our feast. Two pieces of salami, no cheese, and a slice of baloney. A meat feast for each of us.

We sat together on our back porch perch and laughed about our daily ritual. Of course, our mothers hated the scrambling, banging, bumbling race; so we did it daily.

That’s a special memory, isn’t it? A private game played with one special friend while our fathers flew missions in and out of South Vietnam. Everyone’s dad disappeared for long tours of duty back then. It was normal. Four weeks home. Eight or ten weeks gone.

So Kevin and I held onto our magic. We roamed our quarter of NCO housing with our mixture of friends. At dusk, eight or ten of us gathered to play “One cheeked-Two cheeked Goons.” Only played as night fell, this hide-n-seek game pitted the girls (two cheeked goons) against the boys (one cheeked goons). The “It” team grouped around one of the swing sets by the open field. Base.

Eyes squinched shut, the boys began croaking in unison, “One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . ."

         “This way!” Paula whispered urgently as she yanked my arm out of its socket. “I’ve got the perfect hiding place for you.”

“Yeah,” I thought with panic as I tried to pull away from my older sister, “like the garbage dumpster again.” I balled my small hand into a tight fist, swung around, and landed a punch squarely into Paula’s gut. Free at last!

“You little pig!” she squealed as I vanished into the shadows. Then she dashed off in the opposite direction in search of her own shadowy hiding place.

“Fifty-three . . .fifty-four.. . . fifty-five . . .” the boys sang on.

I slunk against the wall, using my best James Bond spy techniques. When a car pulled into the large black topped parking area, I threw myself down on my stomach and snaked my way to one of the other swing sets.

I knew I didn’t have the speed to out run the boys. They were all older than me, with long gangly legs and elbows that always got in the way. My little pixie legs couldn’t fly as fast as they could gallop. So I aimed for the second option of “One cheeked-Two cheeked Goon.” If you can’t make it back to Base under your own steam, you try to capture one of the opponents. He became a hostage and could buy you safe passage to Base.

This time I had the perfect plan. I shimmied up the swing set pole, monkey swung to the center pole, and silently squirmed onto the top bar of the swing set. This I did as the boys shouted, “Ninety-eight . . .  ninety-nine . . .ONE—HUNDRED! Ready or not, here we come!”

Lying atop the swing set, I watched the one cheeked goons fan out. Kevin paused by the light of our back porch, and I saw he had his cheek sucked in as a good one cheeked goon should.

His eyes scanned the shadows with meticulous care. Kevin stepped back into a darkened doorway and vanished. Unlike the other boys who dashed around the houses, punched bushes, clambered over cars, and screamed “Gottcha!” every five seconds, Kevin waited patiently. He stood far enough away from Base to make the girls think they could run in free. But I knew better.

Bursts of laughter and high pitched screeches filled the night air as Vicki, Paula, and Susan made their unsuccessful attempts to reach Base.

I waited.

Kevin waited.

“Where’s Lizzy?” Tony shouted, punching his chubby right fist into his left hand. “I really wanted to get her tonight.”

“Why don’t you call ‘All-ee, all-ee in come free?” suggested Vicki.

“No way!” the boys shouted in unison.

“Look,” Mike Patterson’s logical voice sailed confidently through the night air, “she can’t get to the base because we’re all here. So we just stay put. Kevin’s out looking for her. He’ll find her.”

So they waited.

Kevin waited.

I waited.

After a few minutes, Tony blasted, “All-eeee, all-eeee in come freeeee!”

Still, I waited. I’d discovered the perfect hiding place; but if I jumped down, everyone would know about it.

It didn’t take long for everyone to decide I wasn’t coming out, so another round of the game began. From my perch, I watched the boys scatter to their hiding spots. Then I soundlessly swung done.

“Hey,” Kevin whispered as he came up behind me and patted my head, “good hiding place.”

I beamed a smile at him as his hand on my head guided me back into the shadows. My tall and lanky hero wouldn’t give away my secret. Instead, he let me “capture” him and bring him back to Base. A wonderful victory for the youngest in the group.

          And so we passed our spring time evenings. A special hide-n-seek game with regulated rules and ritualistic chants. Magic.

Our mothers coped alone with bills, broken down cars, and burst pipes. They bandaged our scrapes and cuts and tried to hold onto normalcy while our fathers vanished into the shadows of their own dangerous hide-n-seek game.

Somehow, we tenaciously held onto our innocence during those years. During the scorching summer days, when the black top of the parking lot bubbled and oozed, we toiled and tinkered. And when the cooler breeze of evening wafted into our neighborhood, we met outside, clutching newly cleaned Jiffy peanut butter jars in our hands.

“Tonight, let’s catch as many fireflies as we can,” Mike instructed. “We’ll have a miniature light show.”

I opened my jar and looked inside, making certain no peanut butter clung to any edges. Then I scanned the fence line by the swamp and the open field in front of the fence. “I don’t see nothin’,” I whispered.

“Watch,” Kevin leaned closely and pointed his finger to my left. “There.”

As if on his command, a small light flit on. Instantly, it was gone. But then another one sparkled. And another. And another. As twilight deepened, little sparks filled the field. Stars within our grasp.

“Now?” Paula asked impatiently as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

“Now,” Mike signaled.

Silently, we scampered into the field. I scooped the humid air into my jar, and a tiny flight flickered briefly. “I got one!” I shouted and pirouetted blithely. Then I slowly filled my jar.

“Will you look at that!” Paula breathed the words with awe.

We stood together, arms linked, and watched our universe of captured stars twinkle from their jars. Separate worlds, four of them, encased in glass, sitting upon a brick wall. Tiny lights flickering on, off, on. Bright, secure, whole.

I took my tiny universe within my hands and clambered upon the dividing wall. Kevin’s finger glided across the smooth glass; and we sat in silence, our heads bent together, our breaths mixing, as we watched this minute miracle of life. Then with silent agreement, we set the fireflies free. Magic.

And when we found our mothers crying together over their morning coffee chat, we tiptoed away. We heard words like “missing in action,” or “plane downed,” or “prisoner of war.” Whispered words between our mothers as they prepared to go give support to a friend. And when JFK died, Kevin and I sat hand-in-hand by the old black and white TV set and watched over and over again the images we couldn’t understand. Then we crept outside to our perch on the back porch wall, and we cried. We didn’t know why.

Still, we held onto our magic.  When winter storms hit and drifts six feet high surrounded us, we worked together. Like Hogan’s Heroes, we tunneled our way from house to house.

“If you kids go out, you’re going to –ugh--,” Mom groaned as she forced my red rubber boot onto my Saran-wrapped foot, “stay out!” She leaned back and examined her handiwork.

That handiwork consisted of me being twice my width due to the layers of tights, sweaters, jackets, coats, scarves, and gloves.

“I can’t move,” I wailed as I tried to bend over to pick up my red furry cap.

“You’ll be warm,” Mom scooped my hat off the floor and pulled it down on my head. “Now scoot.” Her hand gently pushed my waddling body out the door.

“All set to start our fort?” Kevin’s breath puffed white clouds. He didn’t wait for my answer, but instead he grabbed my twice gloved hand and toddled me off toward the field.

“Me and Mike staked out this area. Pretty neat, huh?”

My green eyes, the only part of my body not enveloped by wool, surveyed the pristine world before me. No footsteps on this field. No snow angels, nor snowmen, nor piles of snowball ammunition. No slush, no mud, no brown ice. Just a silent field of white snow.

“Do we have to ruin it?” I asked.

Kevin thought a moment, “Well, the way I see it, we’ve been offered a gift. It would be awful rude to turn it down, now wouldn’t it? How about you make the first angel?” He helped me turn around and gave me a gentle push so my bundled bottom plopped softly into the fresh snow. “Go on. Give it a go,” Kevin chirped with a smile.

And my second of hesitation melted way as I fell back into the feathery whiteness. With legs and arms moving as fast as the layers of clothes would allow, I made my snow angel.

The rest of the day passed with a flurry of snowball fights, igloo building and fort reinforcing.

“If you come in one more time,” Mom complained as she chunked the caked-on snow off my coat, “you’re staying in!”

After defrosting my toes and fingers, and warming my stomach with hot chocolate, Mom’s exasperation increased because I begged to be layered up again. As she fastened the last button on my coat, she exclaimed, “Next time, you stay in!” But she smiled as she watched me waddle out the door.

By the end of the day, the white field of snow looked like a battlefield. Our igloo’s roof caved in under Tony’s weight. Our lop-sided forts, tipsy snowmen, and muddy tracks scarred the entire area. Our clean and pure world was soiled.

But that night an even heavier snow fell. In the morning, I looked out my bedroom window to see a new world. Pure, white, crystalline. A sprinkling of white fairy dust over all we’d damaged or destroyed. Magic again.

When Dad got orders for his tour, Kevin and I performed our ceremonies with unshakeable belief and faith. We crossed our fingers, rubbed our Troll dolls’ bellies, and ran our Ritual Race while we feverishly tried to hold onto that magic. Even when the movers loaded that last piece of furniture onto the van, we each stood in our bathrooms, calling, “Salami. Salami. No cheese. Baloney.”

And maybe the magic did last. It kept that unspoken fear at bay while Dad spent a year flying his “Gooney bird” propaganda missions over North Vietnam. It brought him safely home. It kept our family whole.

And it haloed my childhood with the warm, golden glow of an exceptional friendship.     

Magic.

Abrams family 1966

Edna Abrams 1963

Copyright 1994 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Fearless Lizzy"

 

            I spent my childhood roving the neighborhood with a feral pack of my sister’s friends. Living on an Air Force base, our parents (translate that to mothers-our dads were flying) meant we left  home at dawn, showed up to feed for lunch, and then disappeared again until porchlights signaled us to come home after dark.

            The summer of ’64, we discovered the playgrounds for the officers' children had superior equipment. The enlisted men had to provide swing sets for their kids that weren’t even dug into the ground. If we swung too high, the entire structure would lift up into the air, spilling us onto the dirt. The officers’ area offered swigs set in concrete bases, an assortment of monkey bars, tetherball, a large fiberglass turtle to crawl on or sit under, and a wonderful climbing set of bars shaped like a train! Adding to the attraction was the fact that this area was banned from us to use.

            Being the smallest and youngest didn’t deter me from keeping up with our wild horde when we ventured into the forbidden zone. I loved nesting under the turtle. Kicking my feet high into the air to propel me into the blue summer sky while on the swing made me squeal. The bars shaped like a train, though, scared me. The older kids challenged each other to jump from one end to the other. At one section, they would swing, pick up momentum, and let go to soar through the air to wrap around a pole that seemed a mile away. The force of their jump would allow them to spin and slip down the long shaft.

            Most days, the older kids left me alone to amuse myself. One fateful day, a couple of boys hoisted me onto the train and sang challenges that I could jump from bar to bar just like them. I remember my sister’s wide eyes and heard the worry in her voice as she warned me not to let the boys bully me. But I climbed up, gripped the thick bar, swung my short legs madly in an attempt to propel myself through the air, and hit the ground.

            My personal memory ends with impact.

            My sister recounts the panic when blood seeped from my forehead. A couple of the boys ran to get help from any of the officer’s wives, knocking on doors and begging for help. They got reprimands instead. We weren’t supposed to be in that playground. The double whack of the bar in front of me and the ground behind me left me unconscious. My sensible sister knew not to even try to move me. She sent the boys to go get our parents.

            Most of the time, Dad missed illnesses and emergencies as he spent months gone on TDYs. This time, he was outside mowing the yard when the terrified boys raced up yelling that I’d fallen and wouldn’t wake up.

            I have no memory of Dad sweeping me from the ground and into the car. I can’t recall the emergency room nurses or doctors checking me out, cleaning my head wounds, and wrapping me with bandages. I have no recollection of saying, on the way home, “Who are you?”

            The U-turn Dad took seems visceral in my mind, but I distinctly can recount that I heard Dad’s words when he carried me back into the ER, “She’s still broken.”

            Fearless Lizzy spent three days in the hospital with a concussion. Nurses or doctors woke me up all night long, quizzing me about my name and age. If I napped during the day, someone would swing by, wake me up, and ask me if I knew where I was. I got all of the ice cream I wanted. Once the doctors felt I was in my right senses, they let me go home.

            I never, ever, returned to that playground. If older, bolder kids challenged me to follow their escapades, I’d glance to my sister for feedback. A slight nod from her meant I could attempt the dare. I trusted her judgement for a long time before I learned to trust my own.

• 

  My sister, baby brother, and me 
  

• 
  

  

  Me standing next to my YOUNGER cousin. I was small!

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman        

 

“Saddest Christmas Tree”

 

            A few summers before my mother became so very ill, I’d started the ambitious project of scanning pictures into our computer to save upon an external hard drive. I began with the pictures my mother had brought up to San Antonio, which included a hodge-podge from her childhood, my father’s childhood, and their married lives. She’d given up on labeling each item, and instead wrote a brief timeline of their life together, centering upon my father’s various assignments within the military. She devoted part of each album to each of her children. Grouped over several pages would be pictures of my sister, my brother, or myself from infancy through our adult years. I didn’t scan every photograph, but I did do the majority of school pictures and major events. I placed, on a special shelf in my closet, some large photographs that would need to be scanned in pieces, reassembled, and repaired in Photoshop. And then I forgot about all of my aspirations when Mom’s needs changed and her care became more demanding.

            The first weekend of November, I spent part of the visit to my brother’s house delving into my parents’ closets. Curiosity enticed me into old boxes and bins, where I discovered my brother’s baby book and infant shoes along with my grandfather’s passport. Stashed safely into a weatherproof bin, I uncovered some old photographs that I’d never seen. I asked my brother if I could take the bin home to scan the contents with the goal of having it back to him by his visit at Christmas.

            Days have a way of slipping by unnoticed, until I realized last weekend that we hadn’t scanned a single photograph. And so my husband and I set about organizing and scanning pictures. David’s a whiz with Photoshop, and he managed to refresh color, repair missing sections of photographs, or reconstruct missing parts on people’s faces. As our project continued, I realized just how wonderful it will be to have this at my fingertips and to make copies for my sister to keep within her own files. We no longer have to worry about something getting lost in a hurricane because copies exist in several places.

            Anyway, in with all of the pictures of places we’ve lived and people we’ve loved, I found a small shot of the saddest Christmas tree. For the 363 TEWS, this little tree symbolized their lives spent away from their families—all of the anniversaries, birthdays, and holidays missed. I found myself, after viewing so many of our family pictures, drawn to this image.

            My heart aches for those men of long ago who longed for their families, homes and traditions. And it breaks to know that our soldiers continue to serve “the longest year” in distant lands. My imagination runs to another daughter skimming through family photographs and pausing when she comes upon another sad Christmas tree in a barracks.  

 

                                                             "Nam Christmas Tree"

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Volunteering”

Life as an Air Force brat meant making new friends every few years. It demanded adjusting to new homes and schools. It required living with separation from my father during long TYDs, the Cuban Missile Crisis, and his tour in Vietnam. For many children, such a life becomes a hardship, but not for me.

            My parents worked hard to provide unconditional love and stability within the framework of continual change. I knew that the world wasn’t always a nice, or safe, place; yet I internalized the belief that people are basically good. Service to our country and to the community became an important cornerstone of my upbringing. My parents volunteered in our schools. My mother helped to establish the Helping Hand program in our neighborhood. My father coached football for the YMCA. Both of my parents volunteered for PTA functions and held offices within the organization. I learned from my parents  to measure success in life by the strength of loving relationships and not the amount of my monthly paycheck.

         At the age of fifteen, I began volunteering at Northeast Baptist Hospital in San Antonio, Texas. I spent so many hours at the hospital as a candy-striper that I won an award at the end of my first year for putting in more than one-hundred hours. I loved every rotation at the hospital. In the office, I answered phones and filed forms. One of my duties included going to each patient to discuss meal options for the day. I loved chatting with so many different people. I learned that even a person in pain and discomfort would put a smile on her face when I entered the room. Some days, my assignment found me in the gift shop. I learned how to run a cash register, do inventory, and help pick out the perfect card or gift. Eventually, my duties extended to the pharmacy. This much coveted rotation meant I’d earned the trust of the director of volunteer services. The summer I spent in service taught me valuable lessons about illness and caring. I learned what it meant to become a member of a team, and how important a simple hug can be when a family suffers loss.

         When I went to college at Texas A&M, I didn’t set aside my need to service others. It didn’t take me long to realize that many other college students wanted to volunteer within the Bryan/College Station area. With another friend, we established Student Volunteer Services. Given a small cubical in the MSC, we slowly carved out a reputation with various organizations and with Aggies. SVS became the liaison between the students and organizations. We helped place students into the Big Brother/Big Sister program. We lined up volunteers for different activities sponsored by organizations. We aided students in volunteering in local classrooms, at the library, and at the hospital. My experiences at A&M reinforced my belief that most people are kind and generous.

         “I’m a teacher,” one friend used to state matter-of-factly, “I already donate my time and money!”  And I’d have to agree. Teaching requires a commitment of time, energy, and financial resources. On my meager salary, I purchased additional supplies for my classroom. My extra time found me writing, typing, printing, and mailing out the PTO newsletter. I sponsored Student Council and the National Junior Honor Society. I coached UIL spellers. I went to work early every morning and stayed late every day. My experiences as an educator didn’t differ from almost all of the other teachers at my schools.  I may have received a paycheck every month for my “profession” but nothing repaid the vocation demanded within education.

         As a parent, I found myself a Cub Scout leader and Odyssey of the Mind coach during the school year. The demands of work and parenting meant volunteering for other organizations slipped into my summer breaks. Several summers I found myself at Lutheran Social Services, helping with office work initially. Eventually, I sat in on counseling with pregnant mothers as they struggled with decisions on adoption. Again, I found myself serving people during an extremely stressful time of life, and I rediscovered the basic goodness that resides within most people’s hearts.

         My life experiences help me hold onto the conviction that more people strive to do good than evil. Between volunteer work and my profession, I rarely heard a parent say, “I want to spend the rest of my life on welfare.” None of my students longed to stay in minimum wage jobs. No one planned to stay mired in drug or alcohol addiction. I worked with many people who admitted they’d made mistakes in life’s choices. They expressed regrets; often wished that they had the know-how or tools necessary to change. Some people try to tell me that I don’t know what people are “really like,” but I think their hardness prevents them from enjoying the best of life. I believe in the goodness of the human soul.       

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Our Shelter From the Storm"

          The late afternoon sky darkened as gray clouds scuttled across the sun. The calm, hot air pressed down upon me like a woolen blanket, and a film of perspiration glazed my skin as I perched on the top step of our porch. The front screen door swung open and slapped shut as Charlie bounded out of the house like a wide-eyed and excited puppy. His little three-year-old body hunched down next to me, and I inhaled the sweetness of his youth.

          Casually, I slung my arm around Charlie’s shoulders, and he tucked in closely to me. In those few seconds, the temperature noticeably dropped a few degrees. A breeze rifled through the leaves of the ancient gnarled oak that towered across the street. A sharp, metallic scent enveloped us, and a chill swept over me.

          “Storm’s comin’,” murmured Charlie.

           “Um.”

           “Good!” he smiled and shifted from his squat, splaying his little feet out before him.

          The tiny hairs on my arms pricked to attention as the wind picked up. The clouds overhead deepened from their soft gray to a harsh charcoal. Thunderheads boiled and bubbled; and thunder, sounding in the distance, rumbled closer with each passing minute. A faint scent of popcorn wafted through our front screen door.

"The Storm" by David Chapman

           One enormous drop of rain plopped on the side walk. Then another. And another. And another. The heavy smell of dust mingled with the green scent of freshly mowed grass. As lightning cut a jagged ridge across the darkening sky, Mom and Paula stepped out of the house and “oohed” at nature’s fireworks. Charlie and I scooted over to squeeze Paula in next to us since she hugged a huge Tupperware of popcorn to her chest. Mom leaned against the porch’s post and turned her face to the fine spray that misted up from the nearby gardenias.

I dipped my eager fingers into the overflowing bowl and pulled out a huge handful of the warm treat. Without a word, I offered Charlie the popcorn. His small hand filled with only five pieces; he sighed in buttery contentment.

           Together we viewed the magnificence of the storm. We murmured our appreciation of the show, and thought of the war in a distant land that displayed its power and destruction on the evening news. My thoughts went to Dad, so far away in his own storm, and I moved closer to Paula for her warmth.

We nestled safe and dry in our shelter from the storm.

Copyright 1995 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Memorial Day"

Karl F. Abrams

      The year my father spent in Vietnam, we moved to Danville, Illinois because Mom wanted to be closer to her family. My uncle, Bob Thompson, still lived in England in the 1960s, visiting the states once every few years. Uncle Bob left his small hometown in Illinois during WWII and ended up being a liaison officer between our military and the British forces. In the middle of all the bombing and deaths, all the struggles to survive, he fell in love—with the country. He rarely spoke of his role in the war but always recounted wonderful stories of the people he met. My other uncle, John Thompson, spun a tale for me when I asked about his scars. He said he parachuted behind enemy lines during the war, but the Germans shot him early in the battle. He told me how the soldiers checked for survivors, killing them if their wounds were too serious, or taking them as prisoners. He stated that he lost consciousness before the German’s came to him and that they left him for dead. He assured me our own soldiers rescued him when they regained the zone in battle. For all my life, I felt relief that my Uncle Red managed to survive for I loved him dearly. Who would have had the patience to teach me to whistle? Who would have treated me to A&W root beer floats? Who would have laughed at my silly jokes while I sat on his lap at family picnics?

    A few years ago, I learned more of Uncle Red’s story. The part he kept hidden from a nine-year-old child. The German troops didn’t mistake him for dead. They picked him up and imprisoned him in a Nazi P.O.W. camp. I don’t know if he didn’t want to answer the inquisitive questions of a child, or if he simply preferred not to mention this part of his life. I know both of my uncles down played war and its repercussions. I believe they tried to make it less frightful for us as we waited for Dad’s return from his own war.

      So when Memorial Day ceremonies play out on television, I think of the young man who carried scars into the night, and how he tried to protect me from my own fears as my father’s battle played across another ocean. Isn’t that the soldier’s way, to offer protection?

      Each of us has an Uncle Red or Uncle Bob, or other family members sent to distant shores because of the power of duty. Luck followed our family because each of these men returned home. Many families will spend today honoring those who didn’t survive. And I wonder about all the little girls who never learned how to whistle because their Uncle Red died on a battle field.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“EIGHT”

Eight   

            Look at the word   

                        How do you say this word anyway?   

                                    Look at the number—   

                                                8   

                                      8   

A Mobius strip   

            Unending   

M. C. Escher

Two circles stacked   

            One   

            on   

            top   

            of   

            the   

            other   

A number of depth   

            Purple rooms   

            Playing poker   

                        Growing   

                                    lectures   

                                    radishes   

                                    corn   

                                    up   

“Mom, why can’t Paula take me swimming?”   

            Life   

                        in full color   

                                    first fetal photos   

                                                explained in one afternoon   

Eight   

            With Uncle Red   

                        and root beer   

            And collections   

                        of dogs   

                        of teapots   

                        of memories   

Layers of happiness   

            enfolded in blood   

Dad’s cheerful letters   

            from a distant war   

                        News flashes   

                                    Bombs   

                                                Destruction   

            Charlie’s lip   

                       torn away   

a bloody hand print on my thigh   

                                                8   

                        unending    

                        Wrapping back onto itself   

                                    joy and fear entwined   

Copyright 1994 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman