"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   

           

"Open House"

                                    

           

           My parents didn’t earn much money when I was young. Not long before Dad died, he found his final military paycheck stub sandwiched between old tax forms. Imagine his amazement when he viewed a monthly income of just over $500. Somehow, my parents never missed a mortgage payment, car payment, or utility bill. They managed to keep three children well fed and well dressed. Of course, my parents invented the stay at home vacation. We never travelled too far from home in order to avoid hotel or motel bills. All of us looked forward to Dad’s vacation time because we got to eat out three meals a day. We visited the missions, toured the zoo, explored Natural Bridge Caverns, and discovered nearby towns like Wimberley or Fredericksburg. My parents showed their creativity in other ways. One of my favorites? Open House Sundays! New home builders often showed homes and offered cookies and Kool-Aid. Sometimes, free hotdogs with all the trimmings lured us into new neighborhoods. I loved touring the model homes. In a way, I felt like I entered giant doll houses. We’d make up stories about the families that “lived” in these homes as we visited imaginary couples and their children. Through all of the “in town” vacations and Sunday Open Houses, I never realized these enabled my parents to give us nearly free outings. Instead, I saw these activities as fun and amusing. To this day, I still love taking day trips to small Texas towns. I don’t do Open Houses on Sunday afternoons, but I enjoy watching home improvement and decorating marathon shows. They are my pot roasts and mashed potatoes!

 

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Open House”

                                    

           

           My parents didn’t earn much money when I was young. Not long before Dad died, he found his final military paycheck stub sandwiched between old tax forms. Imagine his amazement when he viewed a monthly income of just over $500. Somehow, my parents never missed a mortgage payment, car payment, or utility bill. They managed to keep three children well fed and well dressed. Of course, my parents invented the stay at home vacation. We never travelled too far from home in order to avoid hotel or motel bills. All of us looked forward to Dad’s vacation time because we got to eat out three meals a day. We visited the missions, toured the zoo, explored Natural Bridge Caverns, and discovered nearby towns like Wimberley or Fredericksburg. My parents showed their creativity in other ways. One of my favorites? Open House Sundays! New home builders often showed homes and offered cookies and Kool-Aid. Sometimes, free hot dogs with all the trimmings lured us into new neighborhoods. I loved touring the model homes. In a way, I felt like I entered giant doll houses. We’d make up stories about the families that “lived” in these homes as we visited imaginary couples and their children. Through all of the “in town” vacations and Sunday Open Houses, I never realized these enabled my parents to give us nearly free outings. Instead, I saw these activities as fun and amusing. To this day, I still love taking day trips to small Texas towns. I don’t do Open Houses on Sunday afternoons, but I enjoy watching home improvement and decorating marathon shows. They are my pot roasts and mashed potatoes!

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman