"Inspiration"

Writing, most days, comes easily to me. I sit with pen and spiral notebook and jot ideas, or I face the almighty blank screen of my laptop and wait for my muse to guide my words. One thought may snag my attention, and I’ll obsess over the concept until I create something. Not every piece I produce meets my inner critic’s standards of “quality,” but I ignore that negatively nagging voice and push through until I have something on the page.    

If I pen about a memory, then I become a medium who channels the past into the present. Recounting a recollection proves the easiest type of writing for me. I spent most of my years as I writing teacher modeling for my students the layers of personal narratives. I’d have my students stretch out on the floor and do a visualization activity where they’d revisit an experience. Classroom darkened to reduce visual input, relaxation music playing in the background, and my own voice barely above a whisper, I’d coach my students into their selected memories. I’d take them through all of the senses one-by-one, asking them to take note of specific images within their memory. When I’d let them open their eyes, they would scribble their remembrances as quickly as possible.   

“Get the skeleton of the event down on paper,” I’d preach. “We’ll go back later and add the other layers. I’ll give you the tools you need.”

       And I’d teach them about simile, metaphor, personification and imagery. I’d model my own paper on the board or overhead (and later through my laptop and projector,) fleshing out my skeletal first draft until eventually I finished my narrative. Sometimes, I’d show my students how to take the prose narrative and convert it into a poem by lifting out those special words and phrases that brought life to the piece and utilizing them in a different way.

Some days, writing becomes a laborious endeavor, like today. I flit from idea to idea so quickly that nothing makes it to the page. My brainstormed list bores me, and fatigue prevents me from tapping into my childhood. The current news either depresses me or angers me, and either way I can’t muster the momentum to tackle politics. (Perry will have to wait for another day.) Poetry takes even more energy and focus, so I know it’s a long shot that I’ll suddenly whip out a snazzy rhyme or thought provoking verse.

After a million false starts, I decided to let my mind meander to find its own revelations, but stumbled upon no wonderful Inspiration. Instead, I typed in several possible titles, rejected a few beginnings, and finally decided I’d record the silence of my muse, for she hasn’t whispered a single word to me as I sit and write.

        Do you hear the silence?

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Summer Games: Mother May I?"

             By three o’clock each day, the temperature climbed to triple digits, bubbling the street and immobilizing all. Birds searched out bird baths, backyard ponds, or lazy sprinklers to find relief from summer’s relentless boil. In our neighborhood, the kids retreated into our home during the hottest part of the day. We pulled out worn decks of cards and played War or Concentration. Clue and Scrabble filled many hot afternoons. Sometimes, we stretched out limp and liquid on blankets under the sycamore out back, transistors tuned to KTSA, and Mom’s colorful Tupperware glasses topped with cherry Kool-Aid sitting within easy reach. The slightest whiff of a breeze tickled against our skin, carrying a hint of evening’s promised respite from our Texas humidity. Often the Wiggle Worm chased us madly around the yard, or we dared fate with the Slip-n-Slide. Everyone scattered by dinner time with pledges to regroup at seven after the temperature eased from broil to simmer.

            Early evenings found everyone back in our front yard, a melting pot of kids united for the purpose of enjoying evening entertainment. The eldest kids rock-paper-scissorred to determine the first leader, and then preformed a second round to establish the game. When “Mother, May I?” rang out, I always danced with pleasure for this contest didn’t rely on physical prowess to win! My slight stature hindered me in many games we played, but in this activity I stood equal to my taller, brawnier, and older peers.
            All of us lined up at the edge of our driveway, facing the leader—“Mother,” who stood across the wide lawn in the palm tree’s shadow. One by one, “Mother” called a name and instructions in a sing-song, “Kelllll—leeeee, give me three giant steps!”
            The expected response in order to move forward? “Mother, may I?”
            Sometimes “Mother” granted the request. One by one the players edged closer with giant steps, scissor cuts, baby steps, or frog leaps. Sometimes, “Mother” denied movement, or kept changing the instructions in an effort to confuse us into forgetting our polite, “Mother, may I?” If you forgot the question, the penalty meant returning to the driveway and starting all over again. The goal, of course, was to reach “Mother” and take control of the game. I learned through the years to keep my movements exact, my voice small, and to creep slowly forward while others diverted “Mother’s” attention with heated debate or bold coup attempts.  Once I sidled close enough to “Mother” to take flight, I tagged my way to victory. Usually, we’d while away the early evening toiling at this game until nightfall provided the cover and coolness we needed for hide-n-seek.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Summer Games: Crack the Whip"

            The line snakes across the front yard, slithering slowly at first. The leader picks up speed, tugging the line left, pulling suddenly to the right, wrapping quickly into a tight circle and then yanking forward at a full run. Little feet push to keep up the mad pace, fingers painfully vised hand-to-hand, fighting to stay clasped. A whip to the right and feet leave the ground, the last three in line somersaulting into a jumbled dog pile. The leader, powered by an adrenaline rush, darts now. She spins to the second in line, grasps with both of her hands, and twists. She uses her momentum to crack her whip one more time. The tail breaks off with explosive yelps as the leader laps the yard in victory.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Ghost"

Time pauses   

            when I dream of you   

                        Reversing—   

                                    pulling me back through years   

            until I hear   

                        your booming laughter ricochet     

            You appear before me   

            I embrace your solidity   

                        catch a whiff of Old Spice,   

                                    pipe tobacco   

            My tiny hand clutches yours   

            I am your child   

                       again   

                                    looking up into your deep brown eyes   

            You swing me up   

                        high onto your shoulders   

            I pat your chin—rough, unshaven   

                        Suddenly   

                                    We stand in my front yard   

                                                hugging goodbyes   

                                                promising another visit   

            Plans cancelled by death   

Time pauses   

            when I dream of you   

                        Reversing—   

                                    pulling me back through years   

            until I stand   

                        alone in the night   

            Suffering under the weight of grief   

            Conjuring you with my heartbreak   

                        your voice rises with enthusiasm   

                                    strengthens with determination     

            We argue politics   

            We agree to disagree   

                        again  

                                    looking into your deep brown eyes    

            You vanish   

                        leaving me sorrowful   

            Regretting silly squabbles   

                        Suddenly   

                                    I stand alone   

                                                searching for you     

                                                listening for your essence   

            Knowing you are gone forever  

IOUNIO's "Time Travler" for today's post!

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"Norm!"

 

         We love eating out. Our weekly budget allocates one eat out per week unless we do an extraordinarily thrifty grocery run. Then we can manage another visit to one of our favorite places.

         Over the years, we’ve two places that we’ll visit weekly. Alternating between Greek food at Papouli’s Greek Grill and Mexican food at La Fiesta Patio Café. Our frequent visits mean we earn free meals from both places, allowing us to indulge even more.

         At one point, the owner of Papouli’s would try new menu items with my son and husband offering feedback. He’s helped us celebrate birthdays and anniversaries. We’ve even catered Christmas dinner because, you know, not everyone likes turkey!

         Last night, upon entering La Fiesta Patio Café (Patio Café in our house), the entire staff cheered and waved. All three of us broke into laughter and simultaneously chimed, “Norm!” as we approached our table for three. The waitress carried over our drinks, chips and salsa but didn’t bother with a menu. She knew we’ve memorized everything on their list. Sometimes, all three of us crave their veggie chalupas and will order the same meal. Today found us yearning for different things.

         Many evenings, the staff will amble over to chat with us about movies or their weekend plans if the place isn’t too busy. We’ve slipped into the habit of looking forward to the company as well as the food.

        

 Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

        Our favorite Mexican restaurant closed its doors a few weeks ago. This year keeps hitting us with losses that remind me of the importance of treasuring traditions. Our table for three no longer awaits us. The staff that helped us celebrate special days, and also just a simple weekely eat-out, no longer lightens our days. Papoul's Greek Grill still ramains, but we worry that this tough economy with irresponsible political decisions and tariffs will overwhelm this restaurant, too. For us, our own spending habits have tightened up to absorb the higher grocery bills we're experiencing. I fret that soon, we won't have special places that greet us like Norm. 

Coppyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman      

        

  

“Cartoons with Lunch"

 

 

Thirty minutes to consume
 Frozen pizza, peanut butter and jelly
Thirty minutes to revisit
Childhood companions
Thirty minutes to escape
By joining the Justice League
Thirty minutes to choose
The nonsense of Looney Tunes
Thirty minutes to laugh
Until you cry

 

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

 

"A Blogger's Still Life"

 

         I had no direction in what I hoped to accomplish through my blog. After attending a workshop one Saturday, where a marketing expert advised up-and-coming authors to blog, I decided to give it a try. I knew that I wanted to prove to myself that I could maintain a nearly daily record of my writing skills. Sometimes, I spent part of a morning sifting through the yellowed pages of my old journals, hunting down my early attempts at poetry. I enjoyed meeting young Liz again and selecting different poems to post online. Some days, of course, I wrote new pieces, carefully culling words to record my life’s events. I rediscovered my love of creating poetry over this last year. 

         The easiest posts to write, of course, center upon favorite childhood memories. Recalling the adventures of little Lizzy has helped me to appreciate my parents all the more. I’ve had fun zeroing in on the minutia of my current life, too. I challenge myself to find a way to describe a speck of dust, mimic with words squirrel play, or capture in a phrase the phase of the moon. With some entries, I’ve created scenes played out among imaginary characters. I’ve enjoyed these dips into the lives that I mold with my words.

         I don’t recall when I began chronicles of my mother’s battle with Huntington’s Disease and our ever changing roles as her caregivers. I’ve felt driven to describe the slow deterioration that my mother endures. These blogs voice my concerns and frustrations with the impact of this disease upon all of us. After my mother’s gone, they will also give testimony to her courage, and the love and admiration all of us feel for her.

         My blog sometimes slips into an explanation of my writing process, which often bemuses and amuses me. Over the last few days, though, I’ve shared my personal adventures with my dental and medical problems. The compulsion to share the vulture of anxiety that perched upon my right shoulder as I sat at the keyboard overrode the need for privacy. I found myself wondering about other bloggers. How much do you decide to share with your readers? What slivers of yourself do you carve out of your soul and place on display for all to see?

         My blog, I often joke, keeps me sane as I’ve become more and more housebound by my mother’s disease. It provides me with daily entertainment. It forces me to examine who and what I am. I find myself often visualizing my events as a still life. An artistic rendition of reality filtered through my eyes, heart and soul.   

          

 Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Summer Games: Red Light, Green Light"

            A game of “Red Light, Green Light” often began with only a few of us scrambling from driveway to “Light”. The call, “green light” accompanied with the varied pause and then the shouted, “red light!” acted like the siren’s call, luring kids from throughout the neighborhood to dash with breakneck speed at the target. It never took long for the game to disintegrate into an endless argument on who got caught in movement by the “Light.” Before chaos descended, the game morphed into “Freeze Tag” or “Statues.” Both games shifted tension into uncontrollable bursts of laughter as bodies and faces contorted into hilarious positions.

            I loved “Statues” because one of the older boys would grab my wrists and spin me mercilessly. The world blurred into the muted colors of dusk as I tried to focus on something. Upon release, I’d soar through the hot summer air, capture a pose in midflight, and freeze into position once I bounced to a halt. Everyone wanted their turn to spin and throw me because of my pixie body and “Dizzy Miss Lizzy” good humor.
            As an adult, I’ve come to believe in the value of play. Not being on a team, coached and hemmed in by adults, but unfettered play within a diverse pack of kids that created its own hierarchy and rules. I didn’t get shuttled to and from structured soccer practices. I didn’t spend hours in lessons after school under more adult supervision. I know my mother listened to our games. I remember seeing her outline through the screen door when she snuck a peek at our antics. However, parental presence stayed in the background and the shadows through most of our evening play, emerging only when there was blood spilled or bones broken. All the fussing and fighting that came about as we struggled with pecking order? We accomplished this without adult input or supervision. This autonomy in play, I believe, is the greatest loss for the generations that followed my own.

Playful adult me!

Copyright 2011 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

"Summer Games: Mother May I?"

             By three o’clock each day, the temperature climbed to triple digits, bubbling the street and immobilizing all. Birds searched out bird baths, backyard ponds, or lazy sprinklers to find relief from summer’s relentless boil. In our neighborhood, the kids retreated into our home during the hottest part of the day. We pulled out worn decks of cards and played War or Concentration. Clue and Scrabble filled many hot afternoons. Sometimes, we stretched out limp and liquid on blankets under the sycamore out back, transistors tuned to KTSA, and Mom’s colorful Tupperware glasses topped with cherry Kool-Aid sitting within easy reach. The slightest whiff of a breeze tickled against our skin, carrying a hint of evening’s promised respite from our Texas humidity. Often the Wiggle Worm chased us madly around the yard, or we dared fate with the Slip-n-Slide. Everyone scattered by dinner time with pledges to regroup at seven after the temperature eased from broil to simmer.

            Early evenings found everyone back in our front yard, a melting pot of kids united for the purpose of enjoying evening entertainment. The eldest kids rock-paper-scissorred to determine the first leader, and then preformed a second round to establish the game. When “Mother, May I?” rang out, I always danced with pleasure for this contest didn’t rely on physical prowess to win! My slight stature hindered me in many games we played, but in this activity I stood equal to my taller, brawnier, and older peers.
            All of us lined up at the edge of our driveway, facing the leader—“Mother,” who stood across the wide lawn in the palm tree’s shadow. One by one, “Mother” called a name and instructions in a sing-song, “Kelllll—leeeee, give me three giant steps!”
            The expected response in order to move forward? “Mother, may I?”
            Sometimes “Mother” granted the request. One by one the players edged closer with giant steps, scissor cuts, baby steps, or frog leaps. Sometimes, “Mother” denied movement, or kept changing the instructions in an effort to confuse us into forgetting our polite, “Mother, may I?” If you forgot the question, the penalty meant returning to the driveway and starting all over again. The goal, of course, was to reach “Mother” and take control of the game. I learned through the years to keep my movements exact, my voice small, and to creep slowly forward while others diverted “Mother’s” attention with heated debate or bold coup attempts.  Once I sidled close enough to “Mother” to take flight, I tagged my way to victory. Usually, we’d while away the early evening toiling at this game until nightfall provided the cover and coolness we needed for hide-n-seek.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"A Snapshot"

 

           

            Moments of time stay frozen in my mind, like snapshots of my past. These moments weave together and create a blanket that I often pull out and in which I wrap myself. Small pieces of time, where I felt special as a child, a sibling, a wife, and a mother, make up this cloth. Some memories stay with me sharply, making me aware of how important life’s moments become.

           If I close my eyes and I inhale deeply, I can slip back to an earlier time. I can still catch the sharp, cutting scent of salt and brine as I opened the car door and let Galveston’s aromas enter my world. Gray waves battered against the sea wall’s granite, and sea gulls cried, “Feed me! Feed me!” as they swooped about our heads.
           Eagerly, I pulled Paul from his car seat, his teddy bear body warm in my embrace. He squirmed, twisting away from me, reaching for Poppy’s eager arms. My dad swung Paul onto his shoulders and headed toward the beach with David and me trailing behind.
           Ahead of us, I watched Poppy swing Paul to the hot sand, whip off the child’s sandals, and laugh deeply as Paul whooped with delighted glee. I quickly took off my own shoes, David mirrored me, and we felt the sun scorched sand grate against our feet. Paul hopped from foot to foot, skipping to the water’s edge to let the undulating waves softly stroke his burning toes. He dashed up and down the water’s edge and gloried in the wonder of salty sea wind, cool water, and rough sand. His small legs carried him back and forth into the waves and onto the sand. With wonder in his eyes, he turned to Poppy. 
     Poppy bent to his grandson, pointed at a pile of sea weed. The two watched in amazement as crabs scuttled from the mesh. Paul’s giggle blended in with the cry of the gulls and the clang of distant ships’ bells.
           I realized the wonderful gift grandfather gave to grandson: wind, sand, seaweed and ocean. A world beyond the backyard and the pond at home. A world filled with wonder. At that moment, I knew just how special my role as parent made me. Mother’s give their children more than hugs and kisses each morning and lull-a-byes each night.
           In an instant, I saw how special my role would make me. I joined Poppy and Paul in a twirling, swirling dance in and out of the waves. As dusk fell, I held Paul’s small, warm hand in mine—making a link to our future.
Copyright 2008 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

All parents carry snapshots of the first time their child experiences some new aspect of our world. These mental photo albums, for me, provide a wonderful source for my writing.

“Petri Dish”

 

            Yesterday, a friend asked if I ever planned on returning to the classroom. After thirty years teaching and another eight years working as a substitute, she wondered if I missed my filled-to-the-brim days.

            “I can’t go back to the petri dish,” I responded directly to her question.

            “Petri dish?”

            “You know, the wonderful thing about Facebook turns out to be the Memories section. I never realized just how often I felt sick. How year-after-year, I suffered through stomach viruses and colds. Twice a year, my throat roughened into sandpaper. I caught colds that lasted for three or four weeks, recovered enough to feel decent for another week, and then cycled right back into hell.”

            Since 2020, I’ve had COVID-19 that was mild due to vaccinations and . . . NOTHING!

            At one point, I speculated that I may have had allergies since I fell sick repeatedly each fall and spring when both my husband and son suffered from airborne allergens. But during the last four years, I’ve walked when the ragweed and mold levels tip to purple without a sniffle. I bathed in oak pollen each spring with no scratchy throat, runny eyes, or chest tormenting cough.

            Work and school placed me into a petri dish of viruses that pulled me under within a few weeks of the start of each year and then again after winter break. I cycled from virus to virus and suffered tremendously.   

            The loss of substitute income means I’ve had to realign my budget, but it’s worth every penny lost because I feel so much better! In the back of my mind, I know that as I age, recovering from each round of virus induced illness may become harder. I want to live with as much good health as possible and diving back into the cesspool isn’t a risk I’m willing to take.  

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Inspiration"

             Writing, most days, comes easily to me. I sit with pen and spiral notebook and jot ideas, or I face the almighty blank screen of my laptop and wait for my muse to guide my words. One thought may snag my attention, and I’ll obsess over the concept until I create something. Not every piece I produce meets my inner critic’s standards of “quality,” but I ignore that negatively nagging voice and push through until I have something on the page.    

            If I pen about a memory, then I become a medium who channels the past into the present. Recounting a recollection proves the easiest type of writing for me. I spent most of my years as I writing teacher modeling for my students the layers of personal narratives. I’d have my students stretch out on the floor and do a visualization activity where they’d revisit an experience. Classroom darkened to reduce visual input, relaxation music playing in the background, and my own voice barely above a whisper, I’d coach my students into their selected memories. I’d take them through all of the senses one-by-one, asking them to take note of specific images within their memory. When I’d let them open their eyes, they would scribble their remembrances as quickly as possible.   

“Get the skeleton of the event down on paper,” I’d preach. “We’ll go back later and add the other layers. I’ll give you the tools you need.”

And I’d teach them about simile, metaphor, personification and imagery. I’d model my own paper on the board or overhead (and later through my laptop and projector,) fleshing out my skeletal first draft until eventually I finished my narrative. Sometimes, I’d show my students how to take the prose narrative and convert it into a poem by lifting out those special words and phrases that brought life to the piece and utilizing them in a different way.

            Some days, writing becomes a laborious endeavor, like today. I flit from idea to idea so quickly that nothing makes it to the page. My brainstormed list bores me, and fatigue prevents me from tapping into my childhood. The current news either depresses me or angers me, and either way I can’t muster the momentum to tackle politics. (Perry will have to wait for another day.) Poetry takes even more energy and focus, so I know it’s a long shot that I’ll suddenly whip out a snazzy rhyme or thought provoking verse.

        After a million false starts, I decided to let my mind meander to find its own revelations, but stumbled upon no wonderful Inspiration. Instead, I typed in several possible titles, rejected a few beginnings, and finally decided I’d record the silence of my muse, for she hasn’t whispered a single word to me as I sit and write.

            Do you hear the silence?

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Frying Eggs"

 

The air carries ripples   

a Saran Wrap view   

of my world   

pulling tight off the rooftops   

My Keds melt and ooze   

as I tiptoe across the blacktop   

jumping over bubbles that pop in the road   

My hair plasters against my head   

a blonde Pixie helmet   

I envy the crew cuts sported by the boys   

We stand in a semicircle   

smudging sweat from smarting eyes   

watching in wonder   

Dad cracks the egg   

one-handed like a master chef   

he doesn’t break the yoke   

the edges turn white against the tar   

I lean closer   

 hand resting on Dad’s shoulder   

for a better view   

“See,” I challenged my ring of doubters   

“It is hot enough to fry an egg!”   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Photography"

 

Our Pentax K1000       

taught me patience—       

adjusting for aperture       

calculating speed       

focusing       

framing       

waiting       

click       

our life captured moment by moment       

the special tree       

a candid smile       

the puppy's delight       

our son’s joy       

a wide angle view from the hilltop       

preserved       

memories at my fingertips       

photo albums at attention       

filling closet shelves       

lovingly dated and captioned       

adding weight and substance       

to our existence   

 

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“The Travel Bug”

 

            Amazement fills me whenever I listen to the latest recounting of the adventures of my Travel Bug friends. Even during the worst part of the pandemic, pre-vaccination, they insisted their psychological need to experience new and different places outweighed any risk they’d get from contracting COVID-19. Flying to Guatemala or Iceland, Croatia or Morocco these friends determined their experiences with an illness (many became extremely ill several times) outweighed the depression they’d deal with by staying home.

            As the ultimate introvert, watching these friends and family members engage is high risk behaviors found me hitting the “unfollow” button on Facebook. That way, I didn’t read about the two weeks one spent in the hospital or the months and months of illness due to long COVID a half-dozen friends now deal with daily.

            When I think back to the few vacations we’ve taken over the last forty-four the years, the memories glow soft and warm. Each experience nestles snugly within me. Do I find myself compelled to plan another adventure anytime soon? No. I delved into the costs of a hypothetical trip the other day and realized that my budget can’t absorb that kind of hit. Our appliances are old, and our air conditioner approaches the “ancient” status. Getting infected with the Travel Bug right now would mean I’d have to return to work—something I continue to avoid for a second year.