"The Puzzle Piece"

            The puzzle pieces, dumped unceremoniously upon the dining room table, hide a magic surprise. I pick carefully through the pile, categorizing pieces by color, sliding edges to the side. Puzzles require thinking inside the box, so establishing borders comes first. Straight lines and matching designs group and regroup until I form pairs and short chains. Once the boundaries hold firm, the real work begins. My hands dance through the choreography: pick up, turn, twist, match, fit. Again and again until out of chaos emerges the picture. Gestalt.
          Then disassembly begins. Tearing down the whole back into the individual bits, I bend and separate until chaos piles again on the tabletop. Haphazardly, I swipe everything back into the box, not noticing a lone piece hiding under the edge of a book. Now the puzzle, unknown to me, loses its wholeness. The lone piece longs for reunification. When I pull another puzzle out of its box and spill it across the table, the hidden part slips into the mound, trying to belong where it no longer fits.
            The piece carries similar colors and shapes to this new picture. I don’t notice the subtle differences each time I try to find a place for it. I pick it up, scrutinizing it meticulously as I try to find a mate. Near matches frustrate me as I try to force the bit into belonging. I even resort to pounding it with my fist before casting it aside. I pick up my rhythm once the piece sits in isolation, an outcast within the group. Eventually, the picture sits in completeness upon my table. My eyes draw over to the castaway that caused me so much irritation, and in shame I realize my mistake. Picking up the stray piece, I recall the picture of the last puzzle I’d assembled. I go directly to my shelved boxes, pluck open the correct box, and return the piece to its home.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Our Red Oak"

Spring 2013

When we bought our house, an annoying Chinaberry Tree arched over the driveway, dripping its sap and dropping toxic berries every year over anything under its branches. The original homeowner didn’t realize the tree rested right above the house’s plumbing, and it didn’t take long for the roots to invade our pipes. The budget hit convinced us that whatever tree we planted in the front yard, it would reside a safe distance from causing damage to anything buried beneath the ground. 

Two families in our neighborhood planted rows of matching trees one spring with the idea that eventually the branches would form a arc over the separating road. The second year, once the leaves turned a brilliant red, we knew they planted Red Oaks. A year of two later, the neighbor on the corner of our street also planted two Red Oaks. We appreciated their bright leaves every fall and winter. 

When it came time to plant a new tree in our front yard, we didn’t think twice about adding another Red Oak to our street. Our tree, once small and unassuming, now umbrellas over the entire yard. I haven’t taken time to study why some years the trees leaves turn deep, blood red while other years a brown undertone dominate the color. I do know that I watch carefully for the first sign of red. Over the last couple of years, I’ve first caught the change with my iPhone camera as it’s alway nearby. I also make certain to bring out my better camera and lenses to capture the beauty as it flames. 

I thought it would be fun to look at all of those photographs, from that first year the small tree cast only a little shade over the yard to this year’s splendor. Searching through old photo-files brought contentment to me. Documenting such a simple treasure each year lets me appreciate the roots we’ve planted in this spot. 

Spring 2014

First "really red" 2014

Spring 2015

Brown fall 2015

Brilliant red Dec. 2019

January 2023

Dec. 2023

Fall 2024

Dec. 2025

December 2025

Copyright 2026 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“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

 

 

                  

“If It Isn’t Broken”

 

          We try to take a frugal, practical path in life. If something can be repaired, refurbished, or refinished it remains in our household. We don’t ditch something because it’s no longer “in style”. My kitchen cabinets went out of fashion twenty years ago, and I’ll never paint them as is the trend. Appliances like our fridge and dishwasher have been repaired first before we resort to replacing them. My stove top and oven date back to 1993 because we replace elements when they burn out. Other furnishings, purchased during the first years of our marriage, get switched from room to room. My son’s baby rocker gets treated with Murphey’s oil and now sits in the family room. Most of the time my attention skips over the older pieces. They form a comfortable, familiar background. Occasionally, I’ll zero in on something and think, “How old is that crockpot?” or “Those lamps have ancient wiring.” Replacing these items shift onto my “To Do List”.

            A few weeks ago, our alarm clock, the one EVERYONE has, began gaining time. We swapped out the batteries, reset everything, and set it back down into the background of our routines. This morning, the 7:15 alarm sounded. I punched snooze and took my morning medications. Over the last nine months, I’ve added putting on my watch as I head into the bathroom. This morning, when I checked for the outside temperature, I noted it was only 6:30, not 7:15! Our clock gained time again.

            We won’t replace the clock. Like everyone else, we’ll set our phones with an alarm. I do feel a little sad as this piece was a wedding gift. Normally, I get rid of things break, but I think I’ll find a place to store it, even if it’s broken.

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Holiday Nesting"

            Conversations in my house shift from topic to topic at lightning speed. Often, I catch myself thinking, “Oh, I need to blog about that!” or “This will make a wonderful posting!” Yesterday, a chat with my son led us into the minds of women and holiday decorations. You see, he’s of the opinion that men wouldn’t miss spider webs strategically spun by the bushes out front or placemats that change with the passing of each season. He theorizes that men don’t care if wreaths adorn the front doors or if snowmen dance with penguins across the table top.
 

            And so I thought, “Is he right?”

            If I didn’t haul out the Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas or Easter decorations, would those celebrations go by unnoticed by my husband and son? Am I the driving force behind special meals and activities for the holidays?

            I have many women friends rejoicing in “All That Is Christmas.” They started shopping for gifts weeks ago, and report everything’s tidily wrapped and hidden away. Others set out to enjoy marathon holiday movies by recording every sappy Christmas movie on Hallmark. One friend spends day after day decorating every room in her house with different Christmas themes, and another places trees in almost every room. She spends hours and hours decorating each one.
 

 

            The tête-à-tête with my son brought home the importance of home for many of us. We long to adorn our trees and arrange them by a window to share with our neighbors and friends. We trim and garnish, embellish and festoon our homes inside and out. Indeed, we delight in holiday nesting.

 

 Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Home"

a branch from a strong tree   

grafted to another tree   

entwined and interlocked   

growing new   

a child’s mischievous grin   

before he puts a bean up his nose   

a cuddle on the couch   

calling softly   

Love you to eternity   

tasting life in all its flavors   

the spice of banter   

the bitterness of loss   

a sweet ecstasy    

of togetherness   

two hands clasped together   

heads bent over an open book   

laughter at private jokes   

whispering softly   

in yellow halos of light   

Copyright 1995 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"The Cottage"

 

Cottage on Inisheer, one of the Aran Islands, Ireland September 2010   

Whitewashed walls tinged rose by sunrise’s blush   

sashes—a splash of sky   

new thatch mixes with dew’s perfume   

while flowers and ferns embroider the path of home       

Door opens with smiles and cheer       

Enter!       

Enter!       

Peat banked in the hearth       

black pot nestles in amber embers simmering Guinness stew         

Lace daintily drips from the table        

—tatted by Grams’ steady hands       

Oatcakes totter on a platter       

sheep’s cheese, churned butter, honey, cream       

and tea brewed black—a midnight sky swirling with galaxies        

From the loft flows the fiddle’s enchantment        

a boy’s toe tapping, keeping the beat        

drowning out the past’s lament        

tears of yesteryear hidden in another song        

Cottage at Bunratty Castle

Share a pint   

Share a verse   

Share our life     

Welcome home!   

Welcome home.   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

Cottage at Bunratty Castle

 During our entire trip through

 Ireland, a place I'd never visited before, I felt    as though I was returning home.

Cottage on Inisheer

“Beautiful Red Oak”

 

Red Oak in 2010

            When we purchased our home almost forty years ago, the front yard had several trees. A Chinaberry tree stood next to the driveway with a young Mimosa a few feet away. Although many people don’t like Chinaberries because of their messy berries and invasive nature, we knew nothing about the tree. Within a few years, its roots sought out and destroyed our sewer line. We had to remove it, along with the Mimosa, when the plumbers trenched our front yard.

            Replacing the trees took us several years because we simply didn’t know what we wanted. Our back yard’s wooded area included a young Live Oak, two Arizona Ashes, two Swamp Maples, and another Mimosa. I knew more about the ashes as every builder in San Antonio planted these fast growing trees into new bulldozed neighborhoods. The fast growing Swamp Maples shaded our yard, but we saw evidence of rot in both of them within a year or two. We’d almost decided to put in a Live Oak out front when two of our neighbors planted Red Oaks.

            These lovely trees, although young, changed leave colors from their first year of planting. Turning the corner onto our street, their four trees offered shade in the summers and splendid reds each fall. Once we decided to continue the Red Oak’s trail down our street,  we found a small tree at a local nursery.

 

Every year, I eagerly await the turning of the leaves.

 

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

  

"The Cottage"

Cottage on Inisheer, one of the Aran Islands, Ireland September 2010   

Whitewashed walls tinged rose by sunrise’s blush   

sashes—a splash of sky   

new thatch mixes with dew’s perfume   

while flowers and ferns embroider the path of home       

Door opens with smiles and cheer       

Enter!       

Enter!       

Peat banked in the hearth       

black pot nestles in amber embers simmering Guinness stew         

Lace daintily drips from the table        

—tatted by Grams’ steady hands       

Oatcakes totter on a platter       

sheep’s cheese, churned butter, honey, cream       

and tea brewed black—a midnight sky swirling with galaxies        

From the loft flows the fiddle’s enchantment        

a boy’s toe tapping, keeping the beat        

drowning out the past’s lament        

tears of yesteryear hidden in another song        

Cottage at Bunratty Castle

Share a pint   

Share a verse   

Share our life     

Welcome home!   

Welcome home.   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

Cottage at Bunratty Castle

 During our entire trip through

 Ireland, a place I'd never visited before, I felt    as though I was returning home.

Cottage on Inisheer