"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

"Puddle Reflections"

           Rain pounded our roof a couple of nights ago with a rhythmic beat that lulled me into a deeper sleep. Our parched earth must have sighed in relief as the water fell. At first, the soil sucked the moisture below the surface, a dry sponge soaking in every drop. As the rainfall continued, the water began to pool into puddles. With morning light, small mirrors decorated the ground. These miniature ponds delighted me as they symbolized satisfaction. Our Mother’s thirst sated after months of want.

          One small puddle near the back door, which translates into muddy paw prints on my carpet, made me smile instead of groan. A little mud after our months of drought seems a small price to pay. I keep my fingers crossed that the grass that once grew in this spot returns with the spring (and possibly more rain.)

           Nature offers her interpretation of sky and leaf. The littlest things life provides, like unexpected puddles of rain, refresh a flagging spirit. The promise of Spring rests with each pooled drop.

         The sky and trees reflected by the shallow rainwater brought me joy. The night's storm left the leaves shimmering and clean, a natural baptism. The inches of water resting upon our Mother represents rebirth in the weeks to come.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“A Lesson in Art”

 

            Take a few moments to check out the latest art my son’s offering on his site! These extremely unique pieces are his vision of a black and white world that reflects what we see in the mirror and model through our mannequins of perfection.

https://www.jcmgstudio.com/

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

 

"Brain Dead"

            Yesterday’s writing products included two personal reflections, which I whipped out easily once I focused on my topics, and two poems. I labored long and hard over the poems, with the delivery of each taking much longer than the laid-back nature of my prose musings. My unexpected block of time stemmed from taking a substitute assignment with high school students who labored over their personal narratives. We mirrored each other, faces scrunched in concentration as fingers tapped quickly, hesitated, and then flew across our keyboards. My role as guide-on-the-side left me with blocks of time to both think and write. In my teaching days, I would have shared all of my pieces with my students to model my drafting processes and discuss improvements to the end results. As a substitute, I only share if the classroom teacher left instructions to work with the class. One student yesterday queried about my writing, and I explained that I wrote a blog. She nodded her head absentmindedly, shifted her Chromebook for me to see her assignment and offer my feedback. I always hope that my modeling writing (and all of the messy processes that go with it) sends the message that writing continues throughout a person’s life. It doesn’t end with school.

            I entered today’s campus with the knowledge that writing wouldn’t be an option with first grade students. Imagine my delight when I found a student teacher in the room, ready to take over the class! I did a happy dance because of this unexpected treat of another block of time to write as I observe instead of teach.

            I hauled my favorite pen and current spiral from my tote. I flipped through yesterday’s lists, cross-outs and scribbles. I smugly stretched side to side, flexed my fingers, and poised my ball-point over the blank page. And nothing came. I inhaled, exhaled, shot my eyes around the room for inspiration (elementary school teachers cover their walls with brilliance and imagination). Nothing.

            I changed over to a computer, loaded Word onto the screen and fixated upon the pulsing cursor on a blank screen and only two words came to me “brain dead.” Ha! That’s all I needed!

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

               

"Silhouette"

reflecting on glossy screen

delving into the mirrored universe

holding onto reality through voyeurism

crawling through a web in search of  just-the-right-word

looking through the window-or

stepping through the doorway

choosing motion over inertia

fearing stillness’s unbearable pain

losing myself within eternal bytes

entrapping my soul within the glass

Copyright 2010 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Puddle Reflections"

           Rain pounded our roof a couple of nights ago with a rhythmic beat that lulled me into a deeper sleep. Our parched earth must have sighed in relief as the water fell. At first, the soil sucked the moisture below the surface, a dry sponge soaking in every drop. As the rainfall continued, the water began to pool into puddles. With morning light, small mirrors decorated the ground. These miniature ponds delighted me as they symbolized satisfaction. Our Mother’s thirst sated after months of want.

          One small puddle near the back door, which translates into muddy paw prints on my carpet, made me smile instead of groan. A little mud after our months of drought seems a small price to pay. I keep my fingers crossed that the grass that once grew in this spot returns with the spring (and possibly more rain.)

           Nature offers her interpretation of sky and leaf. The littlest things life provides, like unexpected puddles of rain, refresh a flagging spirit. The promise of Spring rests with each pooled drop.

         

 

The sky and trees reflected by the shallow rainwater brought me joy. The night's storm left the leaves shimmering and clean, a natural baptism. The inches of water resting upon our Mother represents rebirth in the weeks to come.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Blocked”

         I grabbed my spiral notebook yesterday with the intention of writing something spectacular. The blank page pulsed with emptiness. After a few minutes, I wrote the word “Blocked” across the top, believing that by labeling my affliction, I would begin the process of overcoming it.

         No other words followed. I left pen angled across the page, hoping that seeing the two paired together on the coffee table would trigger some inner well of creativity, and words would flow forth effortlessly.

         Nothing happened.

         Not a single word.

         I don’t know why my ideas and thoughts ram against this invisible wall. In my mind, I see them ebbing and flowing. I stand on a precipice, watching my words undulate in silent waves. They never reach the shore.

         So this morning, instead of taking pen and paper in hand, I pull up Word. The curser’s insistent blink-blink-blink-blink challenges me. I type the single word, “Blocked” again, centered perfectly on the page.

         And words push through the water’s rolling surface.

         Not perfect.

         But there.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Tuffs of Koi”

         This winter, two year old Koi donned a luxuriously heavy fur coat. Whenever he sat in my lap, my fingers stroked this soft pelt with delight. If I wanted to massage the dog’s muscles, I had to delve under inches of fuzz before I’d feel skin.

         The warmer weather of spring means Koi leaves bits and pieces of his coat throughout the house. He loves having his fur groomed and often brings his chewed up brush to the couch, so one of us can comb through his fleece. He adores the attention and pampering that he gets when I run the brush through is hair.

         However, over the last few days I cannot keep up with Koi’s shedding enough. Everywhere he goes, he leaves little fluffs of himself. Since he follows me throughout the house, clumps of white trail from bedroom to hallway to Mom’s bedroom. Koi loves perching on the back of Mom’s dark brown sitting room couch where he spies upon the neighbor’s cats. Lately, he’s left so much of his coat upon the loveseat that we could’ve cloned a second Koi.

         I hate vacuuming and don’t want to haul out the machine every day to collect these little tuffs of Koi. Instead, as I move from room to room with my daily routine, I keep an eagle eye out for the cottony down. By the end of each day, I’ve collected quite wad, and I keep thinking that I should recycle this fur into something functional, but . . .

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Puddle Reflections”

         Rain pounded our roof a couple of nights ago with a rhythmic beat that lulled me into a deeper sleep. Our parched earth must have sighed in relief as the water fell. At first, the soil sucked the moisture below the surface, a dry sponge soaking in every drop. As the rainfall continued, the water began to pool into puddles. With morning light, small mirrors decorated the ground. These miniature ponds delighted me as they symbolized satisfaction. Our Mother’s thirst sated after months of want.  

          One small puddle near the back door, which translates into muddy paw prints on my carpet, made me smile instead of groan. A little mud after our months of drought seems a small price to pay. I keep my fingers crossed that the grass that once grew in this spot returns with the spring (and possibly more rain.)

          Nature offers her interpretation of sky and leaf. The littlest things life provides, like unexpected puddles of rain, refresh a flagging spirit. The promise of Spring rests with each pooled drop.

The sky and trees reflected by the shallow rainwater brought me joy. The night's storm left the leaves shimmering and clean, a natural baptism. The inches of water resting upon our Mother represents rebirth in the weeks to come.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“The Art of Waiting”

         Punctual people spend a lot of time waiting. I haven’t figured out yet why doctor’s offices and dental office receptionists state firmly, “Arrive ten to fifteen minutes before your appointment” when they know the schedule consistently runs at least half-an-hour late. Because I don’t want to be the cause of any inconvenience, I arrive promptly at the assigned moment where I then sit and wait for almost an hour.
         Punctual people wait on friends and family. We arrive at the time designated on the invitation for a party and end up setting up tables, icing birthday cakes, or running a vacuum as the host and hostess (known for their lackadaisical approach to everything) takes a quick shower. They always look bemused as they ask, “Would you mind?” Although tempted to say, “Yes. I’m a guest, not a maid,” I’ve always bit my tongue and pitched in to get the final preparations complete for the guests who arrive “fashionably late.”
         Punctual people arrive at mandatory meetings and get the choice seats because the room waits in emptiness. I always hated the principal who delayed starting a meeting until the majority of the faculty sauntered into the cafeteria or library. My favorite administrator demanded butts in seats at a certain time, started her meetings at precisely that second, and had another administrator note down who strolled in late. Many of my peers hated her approach because they felt she wasn’t treating them with “respect.” I never could figure out how coming to a meeting five or ten minutes late (or later) should call for anything other than a reprimand.
         Punctual people learn coping strategies quickly. My husband, the only punctual child in his family, spent plenty of time sitting in the car while he waited for the rest of his family to show up. He sang songs to himself, wrote lyrics in his head, and perfected his daydreaming technique. I’m certain this practice makes him a better artist today. Once I knew which friends or family members dallied, I learned to bring along a book. I don’t know how many times I’ve pulled up in front of someone’s house, on time, and had to wait. By escaping into a paperback, I turn a possibly stressful situation into something pleasurable.         Punctual people find other punctual people. It doesn’t take long for someone like me to cultivate friendships with other people who respect time. I realize that people who run late can be on time when it’s important to them. Once I know that their tardiness is a general disrespect that they hold towards other people, I give myself permission to pull away from these individuals. When I discover that a person even uses time as a means of controlling and manipulating me, I begin avoiding invitations or events with this person.
         Punctual people call on the rare events when we do run late. At work, I’d email my administrator if I had a conflict with her meeting with the specific reason for my tardiness. If I’m running late to rendezvous with a friend for drinks or dinner, I call or text immediately and give an accurate ETA. If I get stuck in traffic, the electricity goes out, or the dog throws up on my outfit, I take a moment out of my time to notify the person who will end up waiting on me. I cannot even begin to count the number of times someone hasn’t shown up at the appointed time and not bothered to call. I’d like the option of saying, “Hey, let’s just forget it! Maybe we’ll get together another day.” Instead, I find myself sitting on the edge of the couch in my Sunday best waiting, waiting, waiting.
         Punctual people get labeled as “Type A” and uptight, but in reality we simply have manners. We’re able to put the needs of others first. We respect their time as well as our own.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
             
  

“Cows in the Road”

In route to Doolin, Ireland Sept. 2010

          When my father first met my mother, he told her he and his family owned “land in Texas.” Although my mother’s family no longer owned their farm in Illinois, others in her family still farmed their acreage. Visions of Giant must have briefly flashed through my mother’s mind until my father jokingly admitted that the “land” consisted of the two plots his parents and aunt owned in League City, Texas. My mother, interested more in Dad’s good looks than his possible oil rigs or herds of cattle, married him anyway.

          As a couple, my parents moved frequently. During the first few years, Dad’s training took him to twenty-four different places, and my mother followed him each time. In later years, they entertained us kids with tales of Texas Panhandle dust, Shreveport gumbo, and Florida lizards big enough to ride. By the time I came along, Dad had completed his training and began three or four year assignments in exotic places like New Jersey and Delaware. After a year in Vietnam, Dad decided to say goodbye to Air Force life and retired in San Antonio, Texas. He wished to be closer to his own aging mother and great aunt, who still resided on the family “estate” in League City, but he didn’t want to be too close.

          My siblings and I, transplanted so many times in our childhood, fixed deep roots in Texas. If you heard my sister speak, you’d never suspect she’d lived anywhere but here. Having spent from the age of two to five in New Jersey, I had a different accent for quite a while, and my blended twang belongs uniquely to me. My brother, somehow, escaped the Texas drawl. All three of us have never thought about leaving the state. As a matter of fact, my brother lives in my parents’ home while Mom’s living with us. My sister and her husband landed in Bay City after they graduated from college thirty-seven years ago, and David and I settled back in San Antonio as soon as I graduated from college.

          Now, I don’t go around claiming Texas is the grandest state in the nation. Nor do I deride others for living in different states. Most of the time, I muddle through each day without much claim to “Texas Pride.” When we travel to other states, I enjoy the beauty and unique features of each place, but I’ve always been glad to return home—until Ireland.

          David and I try to spend our vacations in new places, but we talk of returning to Ireland eventually. On our last trek up to our cabin in the Hill Country, the summer’s drought scorched everything in sight. The contrast to Ireland’s lush green made me wince. Clouds of dust enveloped our SUV as we snaked down our rocky road, and we stopped for some cows in the road.  Instantly, I transported to another street. This lane, slicked wet by an earlier rain, rolled among soft green hills. We paused in our journey on this faraway track because of cows in the road.

          I know the “What if we leave Texas?” temptation is only a game we play. We’ll cling to our soft hills, green only in the spring, and our winding rugged roads because our roots have fastened themselves so deeply below the rocky ground (probably in search of water).

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"The Middle Child"

Middle child   

between curly hair with doe brown eyes   

and an only son   

one five years ahead, the other five behind   

imitating the elder while   

lingering in childhood with the younger   

envying her poised elegance and   

longing for his sweet innocence   

Middle child   

between worldliness and naiveté   

flanked by her play for independence   

and his everlasting childhood   

expecting more from myself   

learning by her mistakes   

benefiting when parents learn   

it’s something kids just do   

Middle child   

between reserved solitude   

and gentle attachment   

becoming reliable and resilient   

out of necessity and then habit   

passing white glove inspections   

knitting and purling the blanket of family   

needing its comforting warmth   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“TGIF”

          Friday. Friday! Friiiiiiiii-dayyyyyy!

         Now, many would wonder why I cheer because it’s the end of the work week since I’m “retired.”  But Fridays still hold a special place for me. I may not leave the house every day to go to work; but in caring for my mother, I pull ten hour days. By the time Fridays arrive, relief washes over me for several reasons.

         First, even if we do nothing all weekend but take care of Mom and watch television with her, there’s someone else around to stir up the pot of conversation. My mother tends to watch different things, too, when David suggests them. Women of her generation learned to defer to men on even the littlest things like selecting television viewing. With David around, my muscles get a break from the lifting that Mom requires as we move through the day.   

            I also love Fridays because they mean I’ll get to spend a little time outside over the weekend. This weekend, because we finally had rain, we’ll mow the yard. In our previous life, David always trimmed hedges while I piled branches, and we both bundled. David would weed-eat, and I would mow. Once David finished weed-eating, he’d take over the mowing, so I could start all the sweeping. We’d finish simultaneously. Now, we stagger yard work. David will go out and do part of the work while I stay with Mom. Then we switch off. He’ll come inside to stay with Mom while I finish the yards.

            Twice a month, Fridays herald the arrival of one of my siblings. Tonight my brother, Charles, will pull into the driveway. With an extra pair of hands available, it becomes easier to take Mom out to a restaurant or to a store. I don’t have to handle the stress of getting her into or out of the car if she goes rigid, which is a terrifying experience. Their stronger arms and backs can lift her into the car if she stiffens into a life-sized doll. The luxury of having someone else lift the wheelchair into and out of the station wagon can’t be under appreciated.

            When my brother or sister comes to visit, David and I have the opportunity to run errands together. It amazes me that I miss doing little activities with him. Even a run to HEB together has become a special treat. Sometimes when my siblings visit, David and I will meet up with our son; and the three of us will run up to Gruene to have lunch at The Grist Mill. A few months ago, my mother could handle an outing like eating out coupled with a little shopping, but leaving the house becomes more and more difficult for her.

            So when I wake up on Fridays, I do a little singing and jigging in celebration because I spot The Weekend ahead.

My brother acting like he does nothing on his visits!

  

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

        

“A Bad Mood”

         Do you ever have those days where your heart feels cranky? Where every attempt at a smile distorts into a scowl or a twisted Joker grin? Where you filter every nice word or act of kindness from another person through a stinky film of cynicism, and the end result is FUNK?

         My mood has snapped and snarled at all living beings for the past twenty-four hours, and I have absolutely no excuse for my foul behavior. I survived the last three years of my teaching career mired in the worst situations public schools offer. The parents and students ran the school while a parade of administrators attempted “rescue” and left in shameful defeat, and the faculty clung together in defiant unity. I had plenty of reasons to go into work grumpy. I had plenty of reasons for staying cranky as I blew my ever trusty whistle into the faces of little tyrannical shits (a behavior foreign to me a few years earlier). But now?  

         Within the framework of my mother’s schedule, I can manipulate my own chores. Some days, I schlump around in my nightgown until noon! Although my most recent draft of my novel sits untouched on my desk,  I do manage to scribble a few lines here and there in my spiral notebook, or I slip into my bedroom to type a paragraph. Occasionally, I email a letter to a friend, or take a few moments to read my favorite blogs, or get coins in one of my games. Although I don’t get to leave the house for several days on end, and I don’t get to read like I used to, I have discovered many movies and television shows that I never watched in the past because I didn’t have the time.

 The monotony of my days just cannot explain the level of crabbiness I feel, so I lay blame on the full moon, the pull of the tides, or the unseen ripple in the space-time continuum. Some days, I just can’t muster the energy to play nice. The good thing about falling into a bad mood for no reason? The mood will lift just as easily and inexplicably as it descended.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

“A Beautiful Day”

         The most difficult part of caring for my mother comes on beautiful days like today. We woke up this morning with crispness. The air carried a snap to it that caused me to pull the covers up a little higher and bury myself a little deeper into bed. When I let the dogs outside, I lingered in the doorway, sniffing autumn. Sunrise takes on a clear golden glow this time of the year, and I long to grab my journal or a novel and swing under the live oak for hours on end.

Edna Abrams and Koi
September 29, 2011

         Because my mother can no longer get into and out of her wheelchair without aid, she needs someone close by throughout the day. I never dreamed that her condition would mean sacrificing morning walks to the park or afternoons spent in the gardens. Her limitations restrict my movements as well. During most of the day, we stay in the same room together unless I’m doing housework. Even when I do chores, I swing into whatever room Mom occupies to see if she needs anything—and just to let her know I’m near even if she can’t see me.

         My days become a difficult balancing act. On the one hand, it’s similar to having a very young child around—one that needs food to be the right temperature and cut into very small pieces; and one that requires help in bathing, dressing, and toiletry needs. On the other hand, I give care to an adult—and my own parent. I still try to defer to Mom’s desires and requests with respect. As speech becomes more and more difficult for her, expressing her wishes isn’t always easy. If she starts to laugh or cry, I’m at a loss to unravel what she’s asking for or from me.

         Each day, Mom begins her bed routine around three in the afternoon. One symptom of her disease is an urgency to eat. She’ll demand meals or snacks in two or three hour intervals and waiting for something to eat proves almost impossible for her. Because Huntington’s Disease affects her ability to swallow, she’s limited in her food choices. I tried a few months ago to rely on frozen meals as a solution to getting her something to eat as quickly as possible. After a week or so, Mom commented that the food tasted horrible and started refusing to eat them. I now prepare huge meals that I know she likes and freeze them in smaller portions.

         Once Mom eats her dinner, she insists on brushing her teeth and getting ready for bed. That means we’re pulling on her nightgown by four every afternoon. Since Mom gets up by 4 o’clock or 5 o’clock each morning, she feels exhausted pretty early in the evening because she doesn’t take any naps during the day. Mom will ask for help in getting into bed, get up ten minutes later with a request to go watch television, and repeat the bed-television-bed-bathroom-television-bed cycle until six o’clock. One day, she did this obsessive rotation more than twenty times!

         Recently, she’s taken to ringing her service bell just to make certain that she hasn’t been left alone. Today, because she watched Children of the Corn earlier, she rang the bell several more times than usual, finally asking with a devilish grin if we had an ax in the house “just in case.”

         Intellectually, I understand Mom’s need to have someone close at hand. My mother’s body traps her in space. Emotionally, it sometimes proves impossible for me to stay within the confines of her disease. Today, I escaped on a quick drive to Sonic once David returned home from running errands we used to do as a family. I keep reminding myself, though, that every day holds beauty. I simply need to look for it.        

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

“Facebook Changes”

         When I clicked onto my Facebook account today, a new feature with short explanations greeted me. Yes, another change! The little box informed me that all of the “Top Stories from the Last Day” would lead, being followed by “Recent Stories.” These tops stories, selected by Facebook, have a little blue corner tab to let your deselect them. Once you’ve done that, you’re given the option of seeing the “Four Top Recent Stories.” I suppose these new features offer something faster for the person with a million friends. Another new feature is the ability to “See what your friends are up to right now,” which offers Peeping Tom a view on just how boring everyone’s life can be. The menu bar, also changed, no longer has a place for clicking onto your Profile.  You accomplish that by selecting your name and Profile picture in the upper left corner. As I progress through the next few days, I’m certain to stumble upon other features that now work differently.

         Of course, all of the “Top Stories from the Last Day” railed against Facebook for once again making changes! You see, our brains get lazy. We love the security of sameness. When rattled by unexpected change, we feel discomfort. The last time Facebook changed, status after status started up for a “Change Facebook Back” bombardment. Of course, nothing happened, and our brains assimilated and accommodated the new until it became comfortable. I know if someone asked me today to describe the previous setup for Facebook (which I loved), I couldn’t. The old is forgotten, the new assimilated. Now that new will become the old.

         In the meantime, Facebook users’ distress at the changes will make them rail against the inevitable. For some of us, there’ll be a mental shoulder shrugging, a shake of the head, and an acceptance of the new. Others will continue to resist, feeling disoriented and disgruntled for days before their brains take in and accept the changes. Then there will be the final group. These patrons will find another social network (like Google+). The irony of making a bigger change in protest of change being totally lost to them.

 Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“A New Journal”

            My freshman year in high school, I participated in a peer counseling program. The extensive training took place in a local hotel. The students who volunteered for the program, along with the faculty members involved, underwent eight hour sessions in counseling and therapy techniques for an entire week. At the end of my training, I could work in our campus “Rap Room” where other students could come in for confidential counseling. This multifaceted instruction knitted the peer counselors into a tight group as we learned about ourselves and each other. I don’t know if the teachers and administrators realized the depth of the therapy sessions we received, but that week profoundly affected my life. My goal to go to Texas A&M to eventually try for the veterinarian program altered forever into a love of studying behavior.

            The peer counseling training impacted me in another way because during that week I met another student, a senior, who kept a journal. In the months that we set up our counseling program back on our campus, this other student shared her journals with me. Her provocative poetry and insightful musings amused me. I fell in love with the idea of recording my life, my feelings, and my interpretations—myself—into the pages of a spiral notebook. So back in 1972, I started my first journal. I wrote about everything and nothing. All of the disappointments of high school lay neatly recorded in these little unassuming spirals. All of my first attempts at poetry, often with explanations, reside within these pages. All of the self-doubts and insecurities of living alone, starting college, and falling in love live within these volumes. Somewhere along the line, I shifted from spiral notebooks to folders crammed with so much notebook paper that the brads barely punch through and fold back.

            I never hid my journals, and occasionally I’d read a piece to my parents or a friend. Usually, my most current journal sat upon my desk for easy access in case I wanted to scribble down a thought or vent an emotion. The first time David came down to meet my family, I had to work. Being at loose ends, David decided to read my journal. My mother walked in and found him stretched across the bed, and stood in shocked silence. No one in our family would ever invade the private space of another family member, so to find David perusing my journals seemed wrong to her. David told me, of course, of his faux pas as soon as I returned home. Although I wasn’t upset, I don’t believe he’s ever picked up my journal since that one day.

            Eventually, a friend witnessed me scribbling in one of my folders and asked about it. When I explained to her that I’d been writing since high school, she decided the folders and spirals needed replacements, and she bought me my first bound journal as a Thank You gift. I remember holding the small volume in my hands, flipping through the colorful pages with their decorated corners. My fingers itched to write!

            Last night, I started Volume 72 of my journal. Almost thirty-nine years (to the day) from when I composed my first entry. This volume wraps a giant marigold around the spine and over the front and back covers, exploding in bright orange and yellow. My pulse quickened as I put pen to virgin paper, and once I started writing I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. I never know what thoughts and feelings my journals will hold. The unpredictability of life assures that this newest addition to my collection will center me through my heartbreaks and celebrate with me in my joys.    

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman