"273 Days"

 

 

            May 2020 found me with a knee injury after I did a slip-n-slide and to the ground dive while mopping the kitchen floor. I bounced up from the twist and fall, cleaned up the bucket of water slopped everywhere, and continued on with my routines for several days. I washed the cars. I raked leaves. I walked a thirty minutes a day up and down our hilly neighborhood. During one of those strolls, my left knee snapped in protest. I kept my weight off of it, iced it for days, wrapped it for compression, raised it up “just so” and had it examined by my doctor’s PA two weeks later. She checked it thoroughly; approved of the leg brace I wore into the appointment, and gave me slow, specific rehabilitation guidelines that I followed obsessively.

            My goal, to get back onto my feet again, took months of incrementally pushing my knee forward. Once it was totally back to pain free movement, I returned to life pre-knee injury. Eventually, my daily walk included a hike up the steepest hill in our neighborhood. My self-challenge, to scale the slope five days in a row, proved my downfall when my other knee fizzled out midway up the hill. By the time I hobbled home, my right knee doubled its size, swollen and painful. RICE again for almost two weeks, and then my new doctor checked my right knee. He listened to how I’d rehabbed my left knee and approved of my methodology. Again, the process to regain my knee’s usage without pain took many months with daily goals adjusting gradually. At first, I couldn’t exercise every day without my knee puffing up or nagging me with a hint of discomfort. I would alternate using the recumbent bike with short walks at the park. Eventually, I rehabbed well enough to walk to our park and home again every single day.

            Biking and walking, walking and biking through my days. During the last month, I’ve added dancing to my routine. Dancing stresses knees differently, and I waited a long time to add it back into my life. Waking up today, I checked my exercise progress on my Fitness read-out: 273 days under my Longest Move Streak!

            My challenge for this next year (other than remembering to don my watch) will include dancing more to favorite songs and walking longer distances. Days on the bike, I can nudge the resistance up to reach a new goal.

 

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman    

"Summer Games: Red Rover"

             Our quarters at Dover A.F.B. lent itself to play. Laid out in the pattern of a giant U, base housing had a row of attached houses to the right, center, and left. The front doors and yards of the houses faced outside the U, and we rarely played in that area where the perfectly clipped and edged lawns and pristine white sidewalks reminded us that the families enlisted in the military along with their fathers and mothers. The back doors of our homes dumped into a common play area. Some families, like us, put up fences around their yards for their dogs. Other families kept their back yards open to the field. A huge black topped parking lot filled the cup of the U and provided not only a slot for the family car, but also the perfect roller skating and skate boarding surface. Beyond the parking lot, toward the center was The Field.
            In this field, we played together on endless summer nights. Roaming the area like a pack of stray dogs, all the kids from our section shifted in play from football to baseball to games like “Crack the Whip” and “Mother, May I?” Some evenings, when we gathered a large enough group after dinner, we’d divide into two teams to play “Red Rover.”
            “Red Rover” intimidated me. My pixie sized body rarely broke through the linked hands, meaning I became captured round after round.  The other team never failed to get delight in watching my futile attempt. Every time they sang, “Red Rover, Red Rover, send Lizzy right over!” I’d critically analyze the opposing line for the weakest link. My heart pounded, my breathing picked up, and my little scrawny legs pumped furiously as I flew across the distance to fling myself at the selected spot. I tried torqueing my body at the last second to add force to my plunge, but it never mattered.  The hands never broke free. I’d hang like a wet rag, winded and ashamed while guffaws and catcalls erupted from both teams.
            I learned strategy and tenacity from playing “Red Rover” because I didn’t give up. I could have opted out of this game, retreated to the safety of home and a piece of Mom’s fresh baked pound cake. Or I could have pretended I wanted to play on the slides and swings with the other younger kids. Something in my personality drew me into this challenge, and the humiliation of defeat after defeat never swayed me from my desire to play. Perhaps all of these summer games of childhood served more purpose than keeping us out from underfoot at home. I learned teamwork, tactical planning, perseverance, and doggedness. I tasted victory and survived loss—all of these elements necessary in maneuvering through adulthood’s life games.



Me STANDING between my younger cousin 
and my sitting Aunt Louise


Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Return of the Roof Rat”

            Last fall, a family of roof rats decided to take up residence in our home. At first, we’d hear scurrying during the night. The laundry room became their preferred nesting area, and when we pulled the washing machine out of its nook, we discovered the critters had chewed through the drywall, giving them full access to one side of the house.

            “I want them dead!” was my response as David spent a weekend repairing their damage.

            “I think I can catch them,” he replied before he headed to Home Depot to buy everything he needed to build three live traps.

            Almost immediately he caught three juvenile rats, all too young and stupid not to avoid the peanut butter and dog food bait he’d set out. The parents, however, proved more cunning. They chewed through the water hose of our dishwasher, I’m certain, as revenge for their little ones disappearing.

            “I want them dead!” I exclaimed again as another weekend was wasted fixing that damage.

            “I think I can catch them,” David insisted as he changed the bait and location of his traps.

            It took a few more days before Papa rat was trapped.

          But Mama proved to be shrewd and bold. She’d race along the attic at night or scuttle behind walls. One day, we heard her behind the wall between the kitchen and the laundry room. David gave the wall a sound pound to scare her.

            “I want her dead!” I demanded when she chomped her way through that very wall later in the day.

           Sensing that this female possessed an intellect beyond her mate and offspring, we called our exterminator, who sent someone out immediately. Poison and traps went into both attics, and he placed something outside as well. We never saw that mother roof rat again, but the stench of her decay filled our house for days. Another trip to Home Depot led to our discovery of Gonzo products. Soon the reek slipped into memory.

            A few weeks ago, I scolded Koi for digging into the pot of one of my plants. Over several evenings, he managed to pull out the lovely leaves of a large Brazil philodendron, I thought, while trying to see out the front window. Eventually, I shifted the plant outside to protect it from damage. When something disturbed the soil of a second potted plant, I realized Koi wasn’t involved. A search of the living room revealed more roof rat droppings. I called the exterminator immediately, but his first opening was a week away.

            And David pulled out his live traps again while I set out a poison trap in an area that the dogs won’t access. I made certain to put the dogs’ food bowls up on a counter and cover them every night if the contained any food. I moved more plants outside and kept my eyes open. Whereas the last roof rat family contained their activity in one part of the house, this time we’ve seen sign in four different rooms. Either we have another extended family living with us, or one rat that gets around.

            Last night, David changed the bait in one trap to a little slice of orange. This morning, he woke up to find a male rat captured inside!

           Logic tells me that he’s built a nest somewhere, and I suspect he has a family hidden in the attic. I can’t wait until tomorrow when our exterminator arrives. He’ll strategically place traps and poison throughout the house. We will continue to set the live traps, too.  One way or another, we’ll win this battle!

Today's catch!

Copyright 2017 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

“Patience”

Patience boldly strides into my home each day   

            her bright and eager smile lights her face   

                     her positive energy enervates me with determination   

Patience counsels me as I move through the house   

            she whispers encouraging words   

                        she guides me with her optimistic perseverance   

Patience models tolerance to me   

            her composure fortifies my flagging spirit   

                     her humility reminds me of the gifts of love and care   

Patience walks back and forth endlessly   

            she matches my steps when I long to stop   

                        she inspires me to stay calm and nurturing   

Patience loses energy by midnight   

            her serenity slips and falters with fatigue   

                        her gentle smile becomes feigned   

Patience slips out of the house before daybreak   

            she trudges, head hung in shame, out the door   

                     she mumbles a promise to return recharged     

I eagerly await her next arrival . . .   

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman