“Within My Reach”

 

            Each day, I watch friends, acquaintances, and strangers tirelessly work against the administration and its goal to destroy the foundations of our federal government. I diligently read Heather Cox Richardson’s letter, listen to both Senator Bernie Sanders and Senator Elizabeth Warren every time they stand up for our rights. I hold onto our young representatives like Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez and Jasmine Crockett who relentlessly honor their Congressional duties. I know there are concrete, real-time steps I should take to resist the devastating lies sprouting from every person within this coup.

            But . . . right now all I can handle is grief, loss, and worry within my immediate family. My brother’s dodging of a visit to his home revealed his growing inability to live alone. The coping strategies he’s used his entire life to compensate for his learning disorder has devolved into a rigid, step-by-step routine that shows his inability to problem solve unexpected situations. A light bulb going out translates into eventual darkness in every room of his home. The bolt to his toilet stripped making it wobble in place, and thus breaking the seal ring and making the room unsanitary. That same bathroom grew mildew up the shower tiles and into the old caulk. His bedroom had one wall three feet high of clean clothes needing to be hung or folded while dirty laundry took over a section of his garage. Coins cluttered every piece of furniture and sprinkled on the floors of every room. His vacuum, which he thought was broken, had something blocking the hose. An easy, quick repair by us, but something he couldn’t solve on his own. He resisted mentioning that the engine warning light had appeared on his dashboard a few days before our visit. One catalytic converter later, and an unexpected hit to our credit card, means he’s back on the road again. When only cold water came from the faucets, we added a defunct hot water heater to the repair list. He reluctantly admitted that he’s been using cold water only for a year.

            So focused on all of the things wrong, I missed the important news my brother repeated like a litany over and over again. “I called the air conditioner man and had the thermostat replaced because the house was hot. I did it on my own. I paid for it on my own, not with the emergency account.” He told me this the moment I entered his darkened home. He repeated it during dinner. His recounted it again as I tried to organize his bookkeeping for 2025.

            All I needed to do was say, “I’m so proud of you for handling a major problem on your own.” I should have hugged him tightly and thanked him for taking care of such an important problem without even contacting me. All I could see were the dozen things wrong within his home instead of the one thing he’d done alone.

            Before leaving this time, I broached for the first time the fact that he needs to sell the home he’s lived in for almost fifty years and move closer to either my sister or to me. We help him with insurance, property taxes, and repairs. That repair list grows as the house ages: new hot water heater, new roof, new bathroom tub and tile . . . That’s all I noted within our twenty-four hour visit.

            As the bigger world around me moves on a destructive path, I’m allowing myself the luxury of letting others step in with letters, phone calls, town halls and resistance. Right now, all I can care for will be the people within my reach.

 

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

 

                  

"Family Gatherings"

          My siblings and I talk weekly. The habit, established years ago when you paid for a long distance phone call by the minute, resists change. I usually contact my sister during the week. We chat about family and friends. Although each of us have only met the other’s friends a few times, over the years the life events of these people weave into our conversations. We spend time discussing world events and allergy seasons. We share with one another the grind of our jobs (both retired teachers who now substitute to keep out of trouble.) My sister lives in a small Texas town and participates in her church, political party events, and the “this-n-that activities” of her community. We divide our worries and our woes and multiply our joys. These phone calls ebb and flow with a life of their own. Sometimes they last only a few minutes. Other days we drain our phone batteries.

          In contrast, talks with my brother have slipped into such predictability that variations bring unexpected pleasure. I call my brother during the weekend. We enjoy a little contest on who will call first on Saturday without it being too early. These tête-à-têtes time out to fifteen minutes, give or take. My brother loves following weather, so a hurricane in the Atlantic will swirl us into a longer conversation. If I need to download a problem, he offers a sympathetic and non-judgmental ear. If he faces car trouble or a plumbing problem, we’ll figure out a way to fix the situation. As he is single, he sometimes needs another pair of hands to handle household challenges, but I know he’ll never ask for help. Every few months, I suggest that I visit. Sometimes my sister will rendezvous with us. Sometimes my husband and son will make the trip with me. All of us feel it’s important to help my brother maintain the family home.

          Getting to spend weekends or holidays with my siblings always proves a challenge. My sister and brother-in-law spread their holidays in several directions:  their son, daughter-in-law and grandkids; my brother-in-laws siblings; my brother; and my family. Many holiday choices are dictated by my brother’s work hours. If he has consecutive days off, he’ll head for San Antonio. Often times, he only gets a single day at Thanksgiving or Christmas, and so he’ll make the shorter two hour drive to my sister’s house. It isn’t unusual for them to have Stouffer’s Lasagna as a Thanksgiving meal. When my brother has more days off and decides to come to San Antonio, we celebrate the event will special holiday treats and trimmings.

          Over the last few years, my sister and her husband have tied themselves to their town because of responsibilities for one of their community obligations. My brother-in-law runs the local KC hall, and someone almost always uses it on Thanksgiving. His responsibilities include inspecting the hall after the event. This year, my sister convinced him to delegate some of his duties. She called yesterday with the wonderful news that, although they wouldn’t make it up for Thanksgiving Day, they’d arrive on Friday morning! My nephew and his wife and kids have other plans, and so they won’t be adding to our holiday, but we like that different branches on our family tree begin their traditions with family and friends.

          During this week, television sitcoms revel in the mishaps and mayhem of dysfunctional families gathering for Thanksgiving. I appreciate the humor mixed within the discord, but feel especially blessed that our holiday will embrace a laidback air of “adulting” with shopping during the day and nice dinners and drinks in the evenings. 

Copyright 2016 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

"The Lost Heart"

William McGregor Paxot, The Breakfast (1911)

         William Pennington’s demonic grin gave Lillian only a moment’s forewarning. Not nearly enough time to pick up her skirt and dash out of harm’s way. Willie’s Comanche yell bellowed wildly, causing everyone at the garden party to pause in their conversations to observe the brother as he hunted and captured his younger sister.

         “Oh, Willie, please don’t!” Lillian pleaded as her brother scooped her into his arms and effortlessly ran to the edge of the pond. With strength provided by temper, he flung her into the air.

         Lillian’s indignant yowl ended as she plunged into the cold water. Her breath, knocked out by the icy impact, made her inhale before she resurfaced. The layers of her new petticoats and dress dragged her to the bottom, and in stunned confusion she flailed helplessly under water.

         “She’s drowning!” Timothy Hughes, one of Willie’s comrades from boarding school warned.

         “She’s faking!” Willie countered, but not before Timothy dove into the nearly freezing water.

         In seconds, he located a stunned Lillie and pushed her head above the water. Within a couple of steps, his feet found purchase and he scooped the girl into his arms.

         “She’s faking!” Willie called from the pond’s edge, trying to hide the beginning of concern as he watched his friend struggle under the limp form of his sister.

         “Is she alright?” Mr. Pennington helped Timothy place Lillian on the grown, shifting her head to clear her throat. The girl sputtered, gasping air into her lungs with sudden force, and then she coughed uncontrollably.

         Someone brought a picnic blanket, and Timothy gently wrapped the girl in its wooly warmth. Her eyes fluttered open, but her shaking didn’t subside as he roughly rubbed the cloth against her frozen skin.

         “You’re fine,” he reassured her when he saw the panic in her eyes. “You’re fine,” he repeated as he scowled at her brother. “Can you put your arms around my neck? I’ll carry you back to the house. That’s a good girl,” he praised as he lifted Lillian, still wrapped in the blanket, from the ground.

         “I’ll dash ahead and let the servants know what’s happened,” Willie volunteered, making a hasty exit before his father and their friends decided to turn on him.

         Lillian’s breathing eased as Timothy marched across the meadow. She nestled her head against his neck, snuggling into the warmth of his skin. When they reached the back door, Timothy shrugged aside offers to let someone else carry her. Instead, he strode through the kitchen, and followed Mrs. Pennington and several maids as they escorted him up to Lillian’s room.

         The young man stood, a trail of rivulets running from his soaked clothing, as the women rushed to take care of Lillian. Mr. Pennington entered the room long enough to ascertain his daughter’s safe care, and turned to his son’s friend.

         Taking Timothy’s elbow, he nudged the young man out of the room. “We’ll leave Lillian to her mother’s care now. Why don’t I find you a change of clothes? And a drink?” The older man guided Timothy down the hallway, opening the door to a room. “Someone will pick up your wet clothes. I’ll take you back to see my daughter once you’re both dried.” He didn’t wait for an answer, but turned on his heel, entering his daughter’s room once again.

         Half-an-hour later, Lillian sat propped against pillows, a pile of down quilts pressing warmth onto her feet and legs. She sipped cautiously at the steaming tea her mother insisted she drink.

         Her mother’s creased brow eased a little as the color returned to Lillian’s cheeks. When the soft knock sounded on her bedroom door, Mrs. Pennington called, “Yes? Come on in.”

         Timothy Hughes’s damp head peeked around the door, a charmingly disarming smile spread across his usually serious face. He walked immediately to Lillian, took her free hand into his own, and bowed with honest concern. “I’m so glad that you are safe.”

         Mrs. Pennington caught the confused look in her daughter’s eyes and explained, “Dear, Timothy is the one who pulled you out of the pond. He saved your life!”

         And at that moment, fourteen-year-old Lillian Pennington fell in love.lo

Years later, she’d tell her friends how she knew she’d never, ever love any man but Timothy Hughes. Willie teased her mercilessly about her infatuation, and he made certain he reported every romantic encounter of his friend. But Lillian’s adolescent pining gave way to a stubborn determination that Timothy would marry no one but her. Because of the bond with her brother, Timothy often visited their home, and Lillian made certain she wore her prettiest dresses and spoke the perfect response. She managed to press herself closely to Timothy when they danced, and to sit next to him whenever possible. He enjoyed her adoration, grew to count on her as a fixture in his life. The Pennington and Hughes families regarded the marriage of Lillian and Timothy as inevitable. Everyone knew he only waited to propose because he wanted to “give her time to finish growing up.”

         The young couple elected to wed by the pond, where Timothy had saved Lillian. The Penningtons purchased a home for them that abutted their own property. Timothy happily settled into business with his own father while Lillian spent her days selectively decorating their house. She toiled over fabric swatches and paint samples. She designed beautiful gardens and sunburned her nose as she directed the planting. She threw her heart into making their life together perfect.

         Year after year, she yearned for a child. She hid her disappointment behind brilliant smiles and hoped no one sensed her disillusionment as her days stretched out in tedious repetition. Every morning, she sat in silence as Timothy submerged himself in the daily news. Her thoughts drifted aimlessly to the mind numbing visits with friends or family that she felt forced to make. The weight of her sadness pulled her down and under until she felt herself drowning in the indifference surrounding her.

         “A penny for your thoughts,” Timothy set aside his newspaper one morning in response to a heavy sigh from his wife. He watched her make certain their maid left the room before she began.

         “That’s the problem,” Lillian’s eyes welled with tears. “I’m so bored. I have no new thoughts to add to our life. I don’t want to chatter on about fabrics, paint, or plants.” She pointed an accusing finger at her husband. “Your eyes glaze over whenever I try to explain the value of velvets for the curtains.” At Timothy’s smile, she continued, “This is not the life I dreamed of having.”

         “It seldom is,” he seriously agreed.

         Lillian shook her head and continued, “I’m drowning, Timothy. Just as certainly as all those years ago, when you hauled me out of the pond. Only this time you haven’t even noticed.”

         Timothy eyed his young wife shrewdly, noticed that her delicate mouth nudged downward in a pout, not of pettiness, but of sorrow. He folded the news into a neat pile, drummed his fingers upon the table as he concentrated on his wife, probably for the first time in months.

         “Adele told me about the baby.”

         “Baby?” Timothy asked.

         Lillian leaned forward in her chair, her face serious and eyes determined. “I’ve thought of nothing else since yesterday, and I think I have the perfect plan.”

         “Plan?” Timothy took his wife’s cold hands within his own.

         “Yes. You see, we tell everyone I’m pregnant and that the doctor says I’ll need rest. I have to get away. Adele’s my maid, so it’s only natural that she’d come with me. No one would ever suspect that she’s the baby’s mother. And if we’re lucky, the child will favor you.”

         “Favor me?”

         “Of course, Adele couldn’t come back here. I’m ready to forgive an affair, but she cannot live anywhere in this region. So you see, no one will ever suspect that I’m not the mother,” she squeezed his hands tightly. “I will love the child as my own.”

         “Affair?”

         “Will you stop repeating me?” exasperation filled Lillie’s voice. “I’m telling you that I still love you. That I want this baby more than anything else in the world. Can you do this? Will you do this—for me?”

         “Have you spoken to Adele about your plan?”

         “I wanted to discuss it with you, first.”

            “I don’t want to disappoint you, dear. But Adele’s baby isn’t mine.”

            “Of course it is! I’ve watched how the two of you flirt!” Timothy shook his head. “I’ve seen you in whispering together. Getting quiet when I enter the room.” Timothy shook his head again. “You’re certain you’re not having an affair?” The irony in Lillian’s disappointment made Timothy laugh. She tugged her hands from his clasp, and irritation slapped pink on her cheeks.

            “Darling,” Timothy smiled, “I do believe you’ve given me the most loving gift today! Forgiveness for an affair I’ve never contemplated and the offer to raise my illegitimate child as your own. I’m not certain any man deserves a wife like you.”

            “Don’t look so smug!” Lillian thought a moment. “What about Adele?”

            “I think we need to talk to her.”

            “She said the baby’s father could never marry her. That she’s alone. She cannot go back to her family with a baby.”

            “Then we’ll talk to her about letting us adopt her child. Ring for her,” he shifted back into his chair and shook his head one more time in amazement at Lillian’s misinterpretation and obvious generosity.

            As Lillian rang for Adele, she quipped, “Just don’t take this admission of mine as permission to have an affair with someone.”

            “Of course, dear,” Timothy said as he picked up his newspaper.

 Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Long Distance Relationships"

  

            The first year after my husband and I met, we tethered together a long distance romance through letters, very short phone calls since long distance cost quite a bit in the 1970s, and short weekend visits. We got married before living in two different cities proved too taxing.

            My long distance relationships, after marriage, began with my parents and siblings. From 1976 until 2002, no one in my family of origin lived within a three to four hour drive from me. After Dad died, Mom decided returning to San Antonio for the double benefit of living closer to me and military bases would be smart. For the first time in twenty-six years, I embraced the fun of having family living within walking distance of home. Before Mom’s Huntington’s disease became a daily challenge, we enjoyed shopping together. We’d grab a bite at one of her favorite places. We ventured to Renaissance faires, checked out the casinos in Shreveport, and began her wind chime collection found in different Texas towns.

            With Mom here, I began a different long distance relationship with my brother who remained back in League City. Mom continued to pay the taxes and upkeep on that home as my brother’s full time job, at barely above minimum wage, couldn’t handle property taxes or emergency repairs like a new hot water heater, or washer and dryer. Once Mom died, he still drew on the money she left for groceries twice a month, home owners’ insurance, property taxes, auto insurance, and unexpected car repairs. Once her money drew down, my sister and I continued helping with insurance and taxes, adding to the account without my brother’s knowledge. Eventually, his income rose when his new manager realized his previous boss hadn’t given him any raises in at least ten years. As she gave him the highest possible increases each year, he needed less and less until the account is only used for keeping him in his home—property taxes and home owner's insurance. That home owner’s coverage saved him when the big freeze hit Texas and broken pipes flooded his house.

            When his twenty-year-old car expired on our doorstep a few Christmases ago, we gave him our Ford Focus, then turning eight and nowhere the 250,000 miles of his catastrophic heap. For the first time in years, he hasn’t needed help.

            Until . . . he decided to make certain his car’s gas tank was full before Hurricane Beryl hit the coast. Monday morning he called in panic that his car was dead at a Shell station. In the past, he would’ve called his neighbor for help, but this friend died last year. Now began the terror of knowing my brother, who doesn’t have a smart phone or internet access to contact a towing company, was stranded four hours away from me. My sister’s town got the full force of Beryl, with high winds and flooding rains leaving her inaccessible with no phone service. I got online, talked to someone from the garage my brother uses, and she gave me the towing service they use. My brother walked home, and once I gave him the number, started to try to get his car towed. BUT—you need a charge card to have your car towed, which my brother doesn’t have.

            Next began a frustrated exchange with the towing company with me because I got disconnected from the first operator trying to set up the tow. The second woman got confused and flipped that I wanted my brother and his car picked up at a Shell station and taken to a Firestone, but when she read it all back before disconnecting, the information  seemed correct. Shell to Firestone. I gave her my brother’s phone number as the contact number. On my phone, I ignored several calls from some Florida number, and realized eventually that it was the tow truck driver contacting me because he couldn’t find my brother or his car. When I called the company to find out why no one had picked him up, the operator said they couldn’t find the car. He quickly assigned another truck to go out—this time with the driver contacting me. When he called to say he the car and my brother weren’t at the Shell station, my anxiety doubled. I stated emphatically, “He’s sitting in his car at the Shell station on 518 and I45! I don’t see how you can’t find him!”

            The driver stated directly, “That’s not the Shell station they put into the system. I’m at another station in League City. Don’t worry. I know exactly which station he’s at.”

            And Save a Life Towing found my brother and his dead car, towed it less than a mile down the road, and left us all grateful that this eight hour nightmare was over.

            Worry dogged all our sleep Monday night, but a quick diagnosis with the computer on Tuesday showed the car’s problem. A replaced part that cost less than the tow means my brother’s back on the road.

            In my mind, though, I know that we need to begin brainstorming the possibility of my brother moving closer to family. He lives in the house that’s been his home for 48 years. He’s worked at his job for 24 years. I don’t know if I can convince him that problem solving long distance won’t ever get easier. As all of us age, it may be wiser for him relocate. I can hear him say, “I’m OK. I’m OK. I’m OK.” Then we’ll settle back into the false confidence that we can handle long distance problem solving  just a little longer.

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman