"In Between Gardens"

  

 

            In San Antonio, winter blows into the area the end of October and teases the trees with forcefully cold winds. It dusts grass with frost, and may sprinkle snow, like powdered sugar, over bushes and parked cars. Sometimes rain visits the area when the temperatures drop, treating us to fingers of ice or sleet. And we hit the pause buttons on our lives. We stay home, hunker down, and wait out the freeze—which means a twenty-four hour stop in our routines. Bad weather pushes her way out as quickly as she invites herself in.

 

            Our gardens and lawns already show signs of spring. Dandelions bob their heads in the soft midday breeze. Crabgrass crawls across the yard, playing with sleepy Bermuda. Dead-looking Plumbago sprouts up from around the roots of last year’s plants while Mountain Laurel fills the air with purple Kool aide scents. Live Oak leaves turn dusty and brown before they fall to the ground in defeat.
 

            I wait and watch. Impatient to see who won against winter. Will the ferns fight back and uncurl their delicate fingers soon? Will the clover return with its delicate pink blossoms? As I clear away the papery pulp of my Wandering Jew, I know by May this hardy groundcover will have returned to full glory.  

            My gardens and yards transform daily. Sometimes I believe I can hear the growth, if I listen carefully. So right now, the status remains in flux—my gardens poised between death and life.

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

"Slipping into Fall"

 

 

            This time last week, a “cold” front forced me to rummage through the old oak toy box that sits at the foot of our bed, trying to locate a pair of sweatpants. I relished the idea of swapping out my fall and winter clothes, folded neatly in the chest, with my spring and summer clothing hanging in my closet.

            Usually, this annual exchange signals my belief in the arrival of fall to central Texas. Anyone familiar with the weather in our area knows that summer starts in April and lingers through October. We have two “springs”—the one that thaws everything in February and teases our flowers to bloom in March, and the one that comes right before autumn’s birth. The second spring rejuvenates our yards and gardens with another round of blossoms triggered by the return of rain into the area once the hundred degree temperatures creep back to the lower 90s.

            After that round of rain and bloom, a front ushers in fall with a blast from the north that lowers temperatures at night into the 40s, or maybe even dipping into the first frost of the season. I celebrate this shift in weather by throwing open all of the windows. Our twenty-year-old air conditioner sighs in relief!

            I take my morning juice or cup of tea outside and sit at the bistro table. Overhead, the sky aches in pure blue. The breeze, slight and cool, carries children’s laughter. To honor the shift in weather, I’ve donned a soft robe and slippers for my feet. Up north, weather changes dramatically. I remember definite demarcations signaling each new season. In central Texas, our endlessly long summers invade into the other seasons, whittling them down to only a few precious weeks. And so I like to savor the cooler days and nights, pay tribute to them with my ceremonial clothing switch-out and log fires in the backyard pit.

 

 

 

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"The Last Rose"

         Texas summers sizzle starting the end of April. Sundrenched days, with soaring temperatures, sap energy so that by August, even birds of prey sag as they catch thermals. Dust carried over the ocean from Africa finally rests on Live Oak leaves or coats tired purple sage. The large leaved cannas unfold in the shade, avoiding direct sunlight by tucking their blossoms into the shadows. The oppressive heat kicks our world into slow-motion. We wait impatiently for the first cold front that signals rusty Autumn.

         That first push of cooler air hits around the end of September, bringing Texas’s second Spring with raindrops and thunderheads. Our Mother, cracked crazily by heat, thirstily gulps each droplet. Her fissured face softens with the moisture. She smiles and sighs, her joyous relief sprouting grasses dormant from the drought, budding blue blossoms on plumbego, rejuvenating Mexican lantana, and pulling the wandering Jew out of dimness and into this kinder sunlight.

         Outside my window, tucked into an L of our house, grows a pink rosebush. Brought home years ago as a gift for Mother’s Day, this little plant survives each year, coming back tenaciously after brief freezes and lengthier dry spells. When our second Spring arrives, this small rosebush celebrates with one last rose.

         Trapped within the confines of the house in caring for my mother, my eyes constantly drift to the windows’ views. As I wash dishes, I watch our squirrels hoard acorns from the Live Oak. When this lone rosebud appeared, I felt drawn to capturing its beauty, to chronicling the last rose of this year.  

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

 

    

“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 Last Rose”

         Texas summers sizzle starting the end of April. Sundrenched days, with soaring temperatures, sap energy so that by August, even birds of prey sag as they catch thermals. Dust carried over the ocean from Africa finally rests on Live Oak leaves or coats tired purple sage. The large leaved cannas unfold in the shade, avoiding direct sunlight by tucking their blossoms into the shadows. The oppressive heat kicks our world into slow-motion. We wait impatiently for the first cold front that signals rusty Autumn.

         That first push of cooler air hits around the end of September, bringing Texas’s second Spring with raindrops and thunderheads. Our Mother, cracked crazily by heat, thirstily gulps each droplet. Her fissured face softens with the moisture. She smiles and sighs, her joyous relief sprouting grasses dormant from the drought, budding blue blossoms on plumbego, rejuvenating Mexican lantana, and pulling the wandering Jew out of dimness and into this kinder sunlight.

         Outside my window, tucked into an L of our house, grows a pink rosebush. Brought home years ago as a gift for Mother’s Day, this little plant survives each year, coming back tenaciously after brief freezes and lengthier dry spells. When our second Spring arrives, this small rosebush celebrates with one last rose.

         Trapped within the confines of the house in caring for my mother, my eyes constantly drift to the windows’ views. As I wash dishes, I watch our squirrels hoard acorns from the Live Oak. When this lone rosebud appeared, I felt drawn to capturing its beauty, to chronicling the last rose of this year.  

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

 

    

"The Cabin"

           Head straight down the Scenic Loop and take a right midway between Leakey and Camp Wood. A gravel road snakes between live oaks, cedars, and mountain laurels. After driving at a crawl over ruts and dry creek beds for about a mile, a cabin hides behind a row of plump cedars.

          The place, constructed from a metal office building, looks unassuming. A huge screened-in porch juts from the front, its lattice now gray with age. Directly in front of the building squats our fire pit where we grill steaks or build s’mores.

           Our hill country place rests on twenty-six acres of solitude. When sitting out front, the whispers of the wind fingering through leaves blend with bird song. No traffic passes by, and even a dragonfly’s wing beating the breeze creates a soft purr.

          Hills tuck the cabin into a protected pocket, and two dry creeks zigzag through the acreage, providing a safe route for spring floods. Trails, worn on the hills and down the gullies by deer and wild boar, offer private paths for the hiker.

           Every visit, we make our way gradually around the perimeter of the property, checking the condition of the fence line. We stop at the pinion pines, pause at the highest summit behind the cabin and remember our first camp snugged among the live oak and mountain laurel. Gratitude floods through me for the legacy of this land. Older memories than my own hide in fossils and formations, revealing the layered evolution of our world.

           For twenty years, my feet have walked the rocky paths. First visits, we pitched tents, living close to the land. Later, the cabin allowed us to ease in luxuries like electricity. Inside, always left ready for the next visit, reside quilted comforts and soft beds. With no television, radio, or cell phone reception, life’s pressures subside within hours of arrival. The seclusion of the cabin nurtures imagination and inspires reflection. It is my Walden Pond.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman