"Drought"

This summer’s unrelenting heat means our yards dry a little more each day. I noticed today that several of the bushes out back have dead branches. Nature protects the core, and the peripheral appendages begin to wither. My heart breaks to see this loss.

Loss goes deeper this summer than wilting gardens. I’ve several friends struggling with serious health issues like cancer. I admire the strength they exhibit as they face each day with unbelievable optimism. They handle the new challenges life’s handed them with the unshakable conviction that every thought and effort will bring health back into their lives. For other friends, this summer’s trials come from aging parents needing live-in help, assisted living or nursing home care. Some friends will decide to move in with parents while others will move parents in with them.

            For the generation of our children, we see job opportunities drying up overnight. Imagine spending four years in college, taking out loans to finance this education, and not landing a job up to five or six months later. These adult children find themselves moving back in with their parents as they regroup. Some hold tenaciously to their college part-time jobs because “something is better than nothing.” Those still in school wonder and worry about next year’s opportunities. How long will this economic drought last? Onto this brittle landscape, I watch in frustration as our petty politicians play with matches.

            I know that we need rain. Not a flooding deluge that obliterates everything in its path, but a soft and steady rain—one that brings the sunrise in its wake, one that soaks deeply into the cracked ground, one that cleanses away the dust and cobwebs, one that heals our land.   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Great Depression Grandkids"

Edna Thompson with oldest sister, Lois 

My mother, born in 1930, never shook off the survival strategies from being raised during The Great Depression. With eight kids to feed, the loss of their family farm forced her father to relocate everyone to Danville, Illinois where he found employment. Mom’s childhood memories included her oldest sister, Lois, drowning followed closely by her mother’s illness and death. She recounted the “special treat” of her brothers sharing a head of lettuce with her—a quarter wedge sprinkled with salt and pepper. Self-sacrifice ingrained itself into my mother’s being. 

I watched her ask for little throughout her life, and I know she felt hurt whenever Dad put his own goals ahead of hers. Her closet, nearly empty, contained only nice outfits that could handle church and PTA meetings. She didn’t own a pair of jeans because they weren’t “acceptable” in multiple settings. She had one pair each of shoes in white, brown, and black with purses in the same colors. White canvas shoes, purchased at a local discount store, finished her footwear. Her one jewelry box sheltered her mother’s gold bracelet, a set of pearl earrings with matching broach and necklace from Dad. A few small cameos she never wore rested in the box along with the jade my siblings and I proudly gifted her during our childhood. As an adult, I wonder if her love of jade grew because it was something affordable for kids to purchase for birthdays and Christmas. 

I realized the other day that I’m a Great Depression Grandkid. I didn’t live through those tough years, but the Great Recession and wild rides of unemployment wrapped with inflation mark all of my adulthood. The American Dream of upward mobility skipped over our home. We’ve always had a house, cars that work, and enough money to pay our bills on time. 

Enough isn’t a bad word, either. It allows dignity to grace our lives. “More isn’t better . . . Sometimes it’s just more.” My favorite quotation from Sabrina, but the life lesson taught to me by Mom over and over again. 

Edna Thompson Abrams 1963

Copyright 2026 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Zeros and Ones"

            Conversations lately dive into “what if” the economy gets hacked. What if all of those “ones” become “zeros” with accounts wiped clean? At the moment, I have $3.00 and a handful of quarters in my purse. Trusting that our system works, and that no criminal mind or terrorist group will implode our financial system, means there’s a cross of faith I wear daily.
            Would the people who always have “ones” step forward to care for those who have nothing? Would estranged families reunite to stand together?  Would the best each of us has to offer spring forth in collaboration with neighbor helping neighbor? Would our communities, towns or cities share resources freely? Would state and national governments pull together, providing food, shelter and safety for each citizen?
            What will be the crisis response if more than towers go down?
            I believe those of us who can will share and care.
            I believe in unity.
            I believe in cooperation.
            I believe in decency.
            I believe in sunrises.    




       
Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“My Secret Stash—Part Two”

 

            I started this year with a chocolate treat hidden in the freezer, Life Saver rolls in the cubby by my knee, and a mini-Milk Duds box in plain sight on my computer desk. The Andes Crème de menthe evaporated sometime after an atrocious Trump act after Valentine’s Day. I needed reinforcement that only chocolate could provide, snuck a few pieces from the freezer to fortify myself, with the promise that the remaining pieces would return to frozen safety for another day of trial. I annihilated them a few days later.
            The Life Saver rolls have survived a little better. One roll, given to my husband for him to have a treat on his desk, got eaten on a random day when he was feeling the need for something to crunch. A second roll, shifted to my purse for a traveling treat, remains untouched. The book contains three other rolls, also intact. As every day we face new assaults upon our functioning government, I celebrate that these measures of my mental resistance stay untouched.
            My Milk Duds, a highly visible challenged to my stress eating, sits boldly in plain view each and every day. I don’t know if I’ll make it through to the end of the year before some catastrophic intentional action occurs, but I’m giving it a try.
            My sugar intake, tied directly to my coping strategies, has bumped up a notch this week with a nightly piece of cheese cake. Other weeks, one bowl of ice cream in the evening rewards my fortitude for not exploding or imploding.
            I knew dealing with this regime would force me to deal with when, where, and how much I could spend my time with letters, emails, phone calls and resistance. As friends and family pound out a daily rejection of MAGA madness, I’ve limited my intake of news and responses to the chaos. During the first round, my feet walked miles in protest. This time around, I’m studying the situation carefully. I spend my hours reading about the psychological matrix of the believers in hopes of finding a better strategy to deal with their determination that anything that hurts another person or group proves their righteousness.
            After reading a long thread on Facebook that spewed anger at every program that protects the rights of anyone not white, male, and Christian, I saw the brainwashing that can’t be erased by reasoning. This man, representative of so many others, believes his way of life is endangered if any one group moves toward equity or equality. His emotional make-up cannot handle the idea that rising up another person can do anything to improve his life. He longs to beat those that he perceives as different into the mud, and standing in victory on top of a bloody mound. He represents years of entitlement giving him the right to blow up our democracy because he’d rather see it gone than have to share it with “others”.  
            After reading all of his hate and anger, I know my secret stash won’t be enough to carry me though this period of people intentionally destroying our economy, rejoicing in ICE smashing windows and dragging someone out of cars and onto the pavement, or stripping citizens of rights because they no longer believe in the Constitution.  

 Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Zeros and Ones”

            Conversations lately dive into “what if” the economy gets hacked. What if all of those “ones” become “zeros” with accounts wiped clean? At the moment, I have $3.00 and a handful of quarters in my purse. Trusting that our system works, and that no criminal mind or terrorist group will implode our financial system, means there’s a cross of faith I wear daily.
            Would the people who always have “ones” step forward to care for those who have nothing? Would estranged families reunite to stand together?  Would the best each of us has to offer spring forth in collaboration with neighbor helping neighbor? Would our communities, towns or cities share resources freely? Would state and national governments pull together, providing food, shelter and safety for each citizen?
            What will be the crisis response if more than towers go down?
            I believe those of us who can will share and care.
            I believe in unity.
            I believe in cooperation.
            I believe in decency.
            I believe in sunrises.    




       
Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"The American Dream"

         My son, an artist, struggles daily to build his business. He spends his days in a blend of sharpening his skills using a variety of art programs while searching for potential clients. One of his oldest goals, designing art for clothing, started when he was twelve and custom-made t-shirts for friends. A few weeks ago, he stumbled upon a new local business that can meet his needs for placing larger pieces of art onto articles of clothing. Yesterday, he picked up the first order from this company: a t-shirt, two hoodies, and a pair of joggers that carry his logo plus some original art. Before he made it out of the store, he knew he will need to experiment with a wider variety of items see how his concepts will translate onto things like hats, totes and purses.

         With that new goal in mind, we ran to a Wal-Mart across the street from the mall in search of a black cross-shoulder tote that would be perfect for advertising the different patches my son wants to offer. We had no luck, and as we crossed the parking lot to our car, a young man stopped my husband and asked if he had a screwdriver. His battered, older model Ford van wouldn’t start. My husband pulled a small tool kit from the trunk of our car, and the two men began trying to fix the vehicle while my son and I chatted with the woman and her four-year-old daughter. Eventually, my husband pulled our car around to jump their battery, but the van never started. Another passerby suggested that the jumper cables (provided by the van owner) looked pretty old. He volunteered to purchase new cables while inside the store, saying he’d help the family if they were still stranded once he finished his shopping. The van’s owner suggested that we head on our way since we’d already been helping him for so long.

         As we drove out of the parking lot, an even younger man stood near the stop sign, holding a battered HOMELESS cardboard sign in his hands. As we rarely carry cash with us, we only had a few quarters to pass on to him. His eyes filled with gratitude.

         The juxtaposition of dreams and reality punched me in the gut as we sped down the highway. My son’s aspirations to own his own business and support himself through his creativity contrasted sharply to the stranded couple and homeless teen. I found myself wondering about the dreams these other people might have had before Life wore them down.

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman