"One-Hundred Degrees in the Shade"

Dust chases us down the road   

engulfs the car   

swirling like powdered sugar blown from a birthday cake   

coating our sandaled feet as we step into the furnace   

The dogs retreat to bunk bed and chair   

anticipating evening’s approach—   

a breeze, teasing and seductive   

Buffalo grass, brittle reminders of Spring’s bounty   

squat in death   

Cedars, tipped in brown and rust,   

finger summer’s dragon breath in search of moisture   

The naked sky, adorned only by a relentless sun   

yearns for bird song   

Silence, even, languishes in the oppressive heat   

Live Oaks, gnarled limbs supplicating to the cloudless sky   

plea for rain   

Wash away the sins of the world  

 

 Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Reset"

Paul and Mom July 1992

            Our cabin near Leakey, Texas rests within a remote area where the hills cup around, making cellphones unusable once we turn off of FM 337 onto Rim Rock Road. My parents purchased the land over thirty years ago, long before cell phones existed, when they were about the same age as we are now. I remember lecturing them to wait until we arrived before they unloaded the supplies from one of the many projects we tackled together during those first years. Without fail, they ignored my warnings. We’d pull up to find they’d maneuvered plywood out of the truck bed on their own. Dad often quipped that they weren’t invalids!

Mom and Dad July 1992

• 
  

David and Dad July 1992

• 
  

Finished porch-July 1992

            After Dad died, spending a weekend at the cabin tumbled all of us into grief. We attempted a few trips with Mom, but she cried each time. Once she said, “I see the ghosts of who we were walking outside.” By that time, Huntington’s disease had her wheelchair bound. She’d last a few hours, and then ask for us to bring her home. Once Mom died, we made a few trips up alone where we made a few necessary repairs, cut down a few ever-intrusive cedars, and down-shifted our visit to nights of board games or stargazing. About six years ago, our Escape Hybrid needed extensive and expensive repairs. Because of its age and mileage, we found ourselves purchasing a car that couldn’t handle the rough Rim Rock Road terrain. David’s parents and siblings assured us that we could exchange our car with either their SUV or truck whenever we wanted to make a trip; but in the usual manipulative dance of narcissists, their offer proved shallow.

            For three years, the cabin remained untouched. Last May, David’s cousin and her husband took us up for a weekend. Someone had broken into the place and tossed things around searching for valuables that didn’t exist. This same cousin took me back last November for another quick visual check. Each short view left me determined to get a new SUV, which we did at the end of December.

            This weekend we carefully examined some areas of wood rot in the screened porch area. We tossed around ideas of making the repairs ourselves, but I know that’s unrealistic. We debated over the possibility of taking the area down and just having a huge deck. We discussed finding a local company to hire to do the repairs. At the moment, the damaged area doesn’t hold the danger of falling in on us. We have time to decide the best course. In the back of my mind, I hear my own voice warning my parents, “Wait until we get there. Don’t do anything stupid!”

Our hidden driveway January 29, 2022

• 

  One task accomplished! January 29, 2022

            That past caution reminded us to limit our visit to one major task. David focused on cutting the knee-high grass that covered the driveway and cleared some cedar. I relined the driveway with rocks.

            Both of us used the sunshine and hard labor to step back and away from work and world. We hit “reset” to return home recharged and ready.

 Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

  

"A Walk in the Woods"

The woman stood in the sunlight, swiping the beads of sweat that smarted her eyes to tears. Her tongue licked her parched lips. Her hands plucked at her t-shirt, pulling it away from her saturated skin. She puffed hot breath down her shirt front, but only succeeded in hastening the roll of perspiration down her cleavage.

           “You could strip down,” her husband teased from the open doorway as he yanked his own soaked t-shirt over his head. Swiftly, he unfastened his Cargo shorts and stepped clear of them as they pooled on the deck.

           The look she shot his way momentarily heated the air another degree or two, and then a smile broke across her face. “You’re right, of course,” she agreed as she hastily kicked her sandals aside. With an ease her husband admired, she freed herself from t-shirt and shorts. For a moment, she hesitated as her eyes held his in challenge. Then she stripped down to bare skin. She pivoted on the deck, raising her arms in supplication to the hot July sun. Closing her eyes, she whispered an incantation calling for the slightest breeze to tease across her heated skin and dry the moisture that slicked her figure.

           “I think I’ll take a walk in the woods,” she held out her hand to her husband. “Are you coming?”

        He took her hand and swiftly guided her into the cool canopy created by the trees. Once out of direct sunlight, he felt a subtle shift in temperature as shade and shadow played across his skin. A breeze as gentle as a sigh whispered to him, and he grinned crookedly at the cross expression that still played over his wife’s countenance. Bird song encircled them as they moved further down the path, and eventually he sensed the easing of her tension. His muscles relaxed, and he shortened his stride to match her more leisurely pace.

           In silence, they walked hand-in-hand. Carefully, they picked their way over the trail and eased out of the hard work they’d done all day. So many days, they rushed through obligations and responsibilities. Today, at this single moment, they set aside their toils and troubles, stripped away their stress, and took a simple walk in the woods.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

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“Rat Ripple-down—Part Two”

  The second impact for us on removing the pond out back came with a new garden out front. The fountain, a cheerful fairy, needed a different location. We hauled huge rocks from our cabin in Leakey, purchased a new bird bath, and wheelbarrowed the fairy to a spot to show her off  to our neighbors. No longer tucked into the backyard for my personal joy, she sits encircled by rocks and flowers for all to see.

I decided this spot would display colorful annuals that I’d change by grabbing whatever caught my fancy when shopping at local nurseries (or sometimes the grocery store).  It’s fun selecting blooms that fit my mood and budget. Unlike the perennials I long to place in the new spot out back, I want this smaller garden to change  multiple times each year. 

The simple enjoyment of pulling into the driveway to blooms and blossoms is a wonderful ripple down to our rat solution. I miss the serenity of the pond out back, but it’s tied to memories of Koi drinking from the fairy bowl. Her new role as a planter shifts my grief to a celebration of life simply moving forward. 

2025

2026

Copyright 2026 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

IOUNIO's "Shadows in My Veins"

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"Reset"

Paul and Mom July 1992

            Our cabin near Leakey, Texas rests within a remote area where the hills cup around, making cellphones unusable once we turn off of FM 337 onto Rim Rock Road. My parents purchased the land over thirty years ago, long before cell phones existed, when they were about the same age as we are now. I remember lecturing them to wait until we arrived before they unloaded the supplies from one of the many projects we tackled together during those first years. Without fail, they ignored my warnings. We’d pull up to find they’d maneuvered plywood out of the truck bed on their own. Dad often quipped that they weren’t invalids!

Mom and Dad July 1992

• 
  

David and Dad July 1992

• 
  

Finished porch-July 1992

            After Dad died, spending a weekend at the cabin tumbled all of us into grief. We attempted a few trips with Mom, but she cried each time. Once she said, “I see the ghosts of who we were walking outside.” By that time, Huntington’s disease had her wheelchair bound. She’d last a few hours, and then ask for us to bring her home. Once Mom died, we made a few trips up alone where we made a few necessary repairs, cut down a few ever-intrusive cedars, and down-shifted our visit to nights of board games or stargazing. About six years ago, our Escape Hybrid needed extensive and expensive repairs. Because of its age and mileage, we found ourselves purchasing a car that couldn’t handle the rough Rim Rock Road terrain. David’s parents and siblings assured us that we could exchange our car with either their SUV or truck whenever we wanted to make a trip; but in the usual manipulative dance of narcissists, their offer proved shallow.

            For three years, the cabin remained untouched. Last May, David’s cousin and her husband took us up for a weekend. Someone had broken into the place and tossed things around searching for valuables that didn’t exist. This same cousin took me back last November for another quick visual check. Each short view left me determined to get a new SUV, which we did at the end of December.

            This weekend we carefully examined some areas of wood rot in the screened porch area. We tossed around ideas of making the repairs ourselves, but I know that’s unrealistic. We debated over the possibility of taking the area down and just having a huge deck. We discussed finding a local company to hire to do the repairs. At the moment, the damaged area doesn’t hold the danger of falling in on us. We have time to decide the best course. In the back of my mind, I hear my own voice warning my parents, “Wait until we get there. Don’t do anything stupid!”

Our hidden driveway January 29, 2022

• 

  One task accomplished! January 29, 2022

            That past caution reminded us to limit our visit to one major task. David focused on cutting the knee-high grass that covered the driveway and cleared some cedar. I relined the driveway with rocks.

            Both of us used the sunshine and hard labor to step back and away from work and world. We hit “reset” to return home recharged and ready.

 Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

  

"One Toe Into Stupid"

The road that cuts through our property

            Excitement be-bops in syncopation with music as we snake around the Scenic Loop heading toward our hideaway outside of Leakey. Our vow to spend more weekends in our piece of peace gets swept aside by life’s demands, and so the anticipation for spending a mere twenty-four hours hiking our hills energizes us. Even the dogs know “cabin” means meandering through the hills, sniffing out deer, rabbit, field mice and wild hogs. They fight against the urge to sleep as the car sways into and out of curves.

              Green pulses everywhere. Clouds cap the tallest hills and feather trees with fingers of mist. Raindrops, large and fat, plop against our windshield with unexpected force, but then a few miles further the sun teases through the haze. Next to us, the river runs high in testimony to the heavier rains that soaked the hill country the day before.

            Our new car, hanging closer to the ground than our old SUV, hugs the slick highway with ease, but as I see more evidence of water and localized flooding, I wonder about the condition of the road into our cabin. The three mile final stretch to our place is a gravel and caliche mix with a section of blacktop where one “neighbor” laid asphalt along his property. A dry creek crosses the road in three different sections. One permanent resident in the area owns his own grater and keeps the road passable, but when we pull down the lane our tracks are the only ones to mar the surface. Worry sneaks into the car and settles into my stomach as David crawls us along at a cautious ten miles per hour. He eases the car’s speed even slower as we near a patch of rocks. We crunch over gravelly patches, but when thump, thump, thump rattles the car, he brings us to a complete stop.

            I hop out and scan the area behind us, trying to find the rock we must have grazed, but can’t see anything large or protruding in our wake.

            “I’m going to walk ahead,” I call back to David. “Check out the road near the first dry creek.” Within ten feet, the evidence of just how much rain has hit the area surfaces with the road totally washed out. Nothing short of a 4-Wheel-Drive can make it over this section of road!

            “We’re going to have to leave the car here and backpack it into the cabin,” I suggest to David.

            “Maybe we can fill in that section and crawl on through,” David proposes as he approaches me, trailing both dogs. Then he sees the washed-out patch and scans another worse area about fifteen feet ahead. “Maybe not.”

            “Why don’t we at least move the car off so we’re not blocking the road and hike up to the cabin? We’re this close, and we can at least check it over—even if we don’t stay.”

 

Koi and Bridget on the road on a dry day

            Bridget and Koi meander ahead of me, dodging off the road as they sniff and scout. David snugs the car into a little grassy area, and together we pick our way over exposed rock beds and slip-n-slide up the last hill to our cabin. We quickly circle the exterior of the small house doing a visual check for damage or break-ins. Shedding our mud caked shoes, we both feel relief to find the interior tidy and inviting.

            Our relief, however, proves short-lived since our return trek to the car forces us to look at the road from a totally different view. Our low slung sedan had eased over one stretch because we nosed at a downward angle. Going upward seems impossible since the car needs to climb over four to six inch ledges with sharp edges.

            Panic floods me and I double over weak kneed, “Ohgodohgodohgod, we’re trapped!”

            David stands beside me, “We can hug that area over there,” he points to a berm of rock and gravel created by an earlier grating. “If we fill in this section a little more, I think I can get the car through.”

            “What about that section?” I point up the road about eight feet further along. “Will you be able to zig the car over from that side to this better area in that short of a distance?”

            “We’ll need to fill in a much as we can, but I think I can do it.”

            We lift, shift, heave and shove smaller rocks and gravel into the areas where David plans on driving. By now, the dogs have sensed our anxiety and a muddied Koi tries to follow David into the car. Since he doesn’t want any distractions as he’s driving, I haul the squirming dog into my arms and start guiding David over the stretch of repairs.

            He doesn’t make it very far when the tires sink into the loose gravel and hold fast. Stuck!

            “Should I back up?”

            “No. We’re only moving forward.”

            David pops out of the car to check the front wheel on the driver’s side and begins digging around it. I drop Koi, who scurries into the open car and jumps onto the blanket that covered the backseat. Bridget takes advantage of our distraction and jumps into the car, too. On hands and knees, I claw away everything by the front passenger tire.

            David scrutinizes the path again, decides we’ll not get a better shot, and restarts the car. He has to give it a little gas to push it free and has almost no time to shift its course to hit the next stretch of road at the correct angle, but skill and luck propel him over and onto a smooth patch. Victory!

            Covered in grime and sweat, I sink with relief into the passenger seat.

            “It was like driving over wet marbles,” amazement tinges David’s voice. He shifts out of park and it’s only a few seconds before the car’s wheels touch our neighbor’s blacktop.

            “We weren’t stupid,” I point out. “We stopped when we hit that first rock.”

            “Well, I’d say we were one toe into stupid.”

 

Copyright 2015 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

              

 

Dry portion of our road. A slip-n-slide of clay this trip.

“Huntington’s Disease Scars"

 

 

            Huntington’s disease ravishes the human brain like no other disease. Like fingerprints, this inherited disorder presents differently for each patient. For Mom, we overlooked her earliest symptoms—apathy and anxiety. She loved spending part of her days cross-stitching intricate patterns. Anyone who’s ever sat with needle and thread knows the delicacy of this work. When she set aside an unfinished piece, she told me that she wanted to try a different craft. I purchased a few possibilities from our local Michael’s store, but nothing drew her interest. Around the same time, she stopped reading. Always one book in hand and several on her nightstand, she shifted to barely reading the newspaper. She frequently complained that my dad never took her any place, but whenever he made suggestions, she tearfully nixed his ideas. Anxiety, something many people battle, became part of her daily routine. Sometimes when I called her, she’d cry. My suggestions that she talk to her doctor got the same response, “It’s just a blue day. It always goes away.”        

            When Mom’s feet began dancing during car drives and her fists clenched wadded Kleenex, she’d answer my worried questions with assurances that Dad’s driving drove her crazy. She spent tons of energy controlling her movements when in social situations. Dad finally found a project she loved—land outside of Leakey, Texas. They spent most of their 60s with plans and trips that filled their days. Mom’s anxiety drifted away, but her clenched fists and restless legs appeared whenever she was stressed or tired. I realize now how easy it was for all of us to minimize her early symptoms.

            Right after Dad’s 71^st birthday, a massive heart attack killed him. Within a year, Mom found an apartment walking distance to our home and signed a six month lease to see if San Antonio would fit her needs better. Over a period of eight years, her abilities melted away so slowly that we missed the changes. Once driving on her own, she began handing the car keys to one of us. Her weekly walk to our house became less frequent and then stopped altogether. Her anxiety kicked up again, and she began obsessive behaviors to counter her worst fear—her retirement deposits not being credited to her account. I discovered that she stayed up until midnight to begin calling her bank until her money arrived each and every month. I never could convince her that it was fine to wait until later in the morning.

            None of us noticed that Mom cooked fewer meals for herself. Somehow, I began swinging by her place daily on the way home from work to bring her over for meals we cooked together. When her leg began buckling out from under her, tumbling her to the ground, we scheduled a doctor’s appointment. Fortunately, she had it happen while with the doctor, who scheduled Mom with a neurologist. He suggested several possibilities, and when we mentioned my cousin had Friedreich’s ataxia, he wanted to order genetic tests. Before that could happen, Mom suffered a TIA, landed at Brooke Army Medical Center and her Huntington’s disease went into hyper drive. All of her subtle symptoms blossomed and others surfaced. Her balance evaporated, she couldn’t hold a cup of water or walk unaided. A young lieutenant’s experience with an entire family battling Huntington’s disease insisted to her superior that Mom be tested for it as soon as possible. The neurologist at first resisted the idea because Mom’s cognitive abilities were so sharp. She always recited the “remember these words” drill flawlessly, knew the date, all of our names and birthdates, counted forward and backward without fail.

            The tests, though, never lie. Mom’s Huntington’s disease snuck into our lives without notice and took over everything during her final four years. The stages are recognizable and yet still unique for each patient. Our lives narrowed down, too, as caregivers. I raced to retire from teaching because we knew she’d need care twenty-four/seven. We removed the wall between one bedroom and the bathroom to create a wheelchair wide access point. We structured our days and nights to accommodate her ever increasing needs. When Mom moved into our home, she could get into and out of her wheelchair on her own. She could cook with me, help with laundry, and take trips to see my siblings. She would discuss the news, watch movies with me, and chat about plot lines. By the end, we did everything for her.

            Caregivers don’t talk about having to handle impacted bowels. Caregivers don’t share the horrors of watching a loved one go from eating meals to being unable to take a syringe of water. Caregivers don’t reveal the heartache whispering, “It’s time to go. We’ll be fine. We love you, but you need to let go.”

 

            Mom died in November 2012 after living with us for two years, but we were her caregivers for many years before she moved in with us. Huntington’s disease changed our family forever. We have a resilience now that prepares us to handle new crisis situations with a comparison point—“It’s NOT as bad as Huntington’s disease.”

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman           

"Leaving Town"

            This morning finds me up extra early to prepare for a quick out of town trip. As I assemble all of the necessities we need for Mom, I realize how life has come full circle. Remember all the stuff a weekend trip needed when traveling with very young children? Bags of diapers, wipes, medicines (in case), toys, strollers, booster seat, favorite pillows, blankets, and that special stuffed animal. One bag contained clothing for the days of the trip plus three or four extra outfits for spills.

            Twenty years later, and I pack Depends instead of Pampers. The medications have their own small Rubbermaid tub. I swing a wheelchair into the back of the station wagon instead of a stroller, and I juggle two purses instead of a purse and diaper bag. Mom doesn’t have a favorite stuffed animal, but she takes along her favorite pillow and comforter. I make certain I have the lidded cups she now uses along with the bendable straws and plenty of water to drink on the three hour drive. One bag contains extra clothing in case driving three hours wears Mom out and our one day trip turns into a longer stay until she regains strength.

            Mom asked for this trip a few days ago. For some reason, she has this sudden drive to do things while she still has the energy. On some level, I believe she suspects that even short outings may become too difficult before the year ends.

            Someone thoughtlessly said to me a couple of months ago, “You’re taking care of your mother full time now? I mean, this has dragged on for years!” Her tone of voice carried intolerance and a hint of disbelief, as though she couldn’t believe someone can have a disease that slowly narrows life into counting only good days.

            For us, celebrating good days comes easily. So today we’ll attempt the longest car ride Mom’s done in a couple of years. With luck, she’ll spend a wonderful day and evening with her eldest daughter and make it back to San Antonio with energy to spare. Maybe this trip will be so successful that she’ll plan a trip back to her own home in League City. If fortune follows us, we’ll be leaving town again.

Mom's wheelchair goes everywhere

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"One Hundred Degrees in the Shade"

 

                  Dust chased us down the road

engulfed the car

swirling like powdered sugar blown from a birthday cake

coating our sandaled feet as we stepped into the furnace

The dogs retreated to bunk bed and chair

anticipating evening’s approach—
a breeze, teasing and seductive

Buffalo grass, brittle reminders of Spring’s bounty

squat in death

Cedars, tipped in brown and rust,

finger summer’s dragon breath in search of moisture

The naked sky, adorned only by a relentless sun

yearned for bird song

Silence, even, languished in the oppressive heat

Live Oaks, gnarled limbs supplicating to the cloudless sky

plead for rain

Wash away the sins of the world

 

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“The Road NOT Taken”

Road NOT taken!

           Last weekend we did a quick turn-around trip to our cabin in Leakey, Texas. Because of transportation problems over the last few years, we’ve neglected both the cabin’s exterior and the massive cedar take-over of the acreage. Now that we have our Bronco Sport, heading down the rough road isn’t a problem. David’s selected areas on the property to create trails through the cedars; with going up the hill behind the cabin taking priority as the top of it is our only section where we get cellphone reception.

          The porch, which we built more than thirty years ago, attaches to the metal building and sprung a leak during our long absence. Last November, we noted the water damage, and David decided to bring some GREAT STUFF up on the next visit to seal the leak. In January, he sprayed both from the roof line above and within the porch below. This time, it was obvious that everything dried out. Now we have to figure out how to fix the damage, an extra problem since it’s only the two of us. We brainstormed on ways to remove the rotten parts, reinforce the zone with new wood, and also treat the remainder of the porch’s wood to preserve it. I’ll spend time researching the exterior paints with waterproofing before the next visit. The cabin’s exterior wood needs both repairs and paint. We’ll toil at these tasks for the remainder of this year.

            We’re never ones to shy away from hard work, but since my both of my knees have had slight injuries, I’m extra cautious when we’re at the cabin now since another twisted knee is a major setback I don’t want to deal with. For safety purposes, I wear ankle high, steel toed hiking boots instead of the tennis shoes I’ve worn for years. If  I step down the ramp, my heavy boots adorn my feet. I crawl at a careful pace going up the back hill. I test the inclines of slopes before heading back down. That means a zigzag path with David nearby to offer a hand of assistance.

            On Sunday, we started down one of the dry creek beds. It’s one of my favorite treks. With extreme vigilance, I picked my way along the rocks and gravel. David, eyes forward and moving at his normal pace, left me in the dust! About ten feet in, I called out, “I think this is too difficult for me right now. I’m going back to the road!” Frankly, I didn’t know whether I felt defeated or victorious. One the one hand, I didn’t venture down a road I’ve taken many, many times with ease. Although my knees felt fine, I didn’t want to risk re-injury. The younger, less arthritic Liz wouldn’t have turned back. Even a couple of years ago, I would’ve pushed myself a little harder. The practical, new Liz listened to my body’s whispered, “Maybe not . . .” and heeded the warning. NOT taking the rocky road is a huge victory for my more alert self.

            I suspect my new mantle of prudence will wrap me in security from now on when working at the cabin. I see myself climbing up and down a ladder with paintbrush in hand, and eventually knowing my footing’s sure enough to trek both dry creek beds. It will be done with a slow and steady pace, though.

Actual road I walked!

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman