"Over The Fence"

Dixie trying to get Paul to throw her Frisbee

            Years ago, the boys next door would vault over the cyclone fence that we have on one side of our property to play with our dog, Dixie. They’d dash around the yard, trailing a toddling Paul behind them, waving an old blanket to entice Dixie into the chase. An athletic dog, Dixie would zoom in sharp spins around the boys, gather momentum, and make wild leaps through the air. As she grabbed the blanket, she’d twist in the wind, torquing her body and sending the boys tumbling across the grass. Dixie loved her Frisbee. She learned how to throw it herself, sailing it prettily from one corner of the yard to the other. Occasionally, it would float over the fence and land in the yard next door. A good problem solver, Dixie never wasted time with futile barking at the Frisbee. Instead, she’d come straight to one of us; hit us with her paw until we did the “What Dixie? What do you want? Show us?” routine. She’d bound back out the door, taking us straight to the fence.

Dixie at 8 weeks

            The back part of our fence separates our yard from the elementary school in our neighborhood. Over the years, we’ve returned home to find basketballs, dodge balls, baseballs, and footballs all labeled with the proud school name. Sometimes, the teachers would send a couple of the kids to our house to pick up the balls. Most of the time, we’d get home from work and place the balls on the other side of the fence, tucked up by our gate so the students would find them waiting the next morning. In all the years we’ve lived here, we’ve only had trouble twice with students kicking down fence boards. Most of the time, the children respect this wooden boundary.

Hackberry Trees!

            On one side of our back yard, two Hackberry trees decided to take root on the neighboring property. For years a rental house, no one ever cut the trees down, and they’ve pushed against the wooden fence, causing it to have a permanent wave. One of these days, we’ll pull this fence down and zigzag a new fence around the trees. New neighbors purchased the house and filled their backyard with rose gardens and trellised nooks, and they want to help us build benches that wrap the trees. We’d take one; they’d take another.

Koi smooching with Sarah

            Now-a-days, we don’t have boys climbing over the side fence, and remodeling at the school shifted the playground to where balls no longer fly over the back fence. However, conversations do float across these borders. I chat with my neighbor about her new grandson (maybe someday he’ll scale the fence), her husband’s recovery from his stroke, or the latest adventures of Koi and her small dog, Sarah. My neighbor on the other side, a chef by profession, delights in sharing many of his favorite dishes. Occasionally, he’ll pass plates of food over the fence, which definitely beats the balls we used to get.   

  

Favorite place to chat over the fence!

In the fourteen years since I wrote this piece my neighbor's husband died. We became full-time caregivers for my mother as she lost her battle with Huntington's Disease. Our chats over the fence focus on our latest gardening dreams. Little Sarah and Koi no longer kiss through the fence. Sarah passed several years ago, and Koi's loss this spring weighs heavily on my heart. 

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

Sometimes everyone feels a little lost--

"The Art of Waiting"

 

Subliminal artwork on watching your time?
David Chapman, artist

         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
             
  

"Vinegar and Bleach"

          Budgeting since my retirement means reevaluating exactly where I want to spend my dollars. A couple of months ago, I had one of those terrible weeks where every cleanser in the house came up empty. I hate it when all of my sprays and scrubs run out at the same time because they eat such a huge chunk out of our grocery budget. Even with coupons, the cost of Scrubbing Bubbles, Pine Sol, and Windex added together on one bill translates into less to eat for the week. I started fearing that my emaciated body would keel over from starvation as I scrubbed the tubs.

         Last month, I refused to buy another round of cleaning supplies. Instead, I grabbed the largest jug of white vinegar I could find with one hand and a gallon plus container of bleach with my other hand. (Poetic license here, of course, because these two items perch on shelves in totally different aisles of H.E.B). I recycled a bottle from one of my old cleansers and loaded it with straight white vinegar. The rest is history! My love affair with the power of white vinegar has grown daily. I clean my kitchen countertops with it. Hard water stains? Vinegar and salt mixed together takes care of that. Is that a barfed up cat hair ball? Spritz and spray with vinegar, and it comes off the carpet without leaving a mark. My living room and kitchen floors (especially the grout) look new again. My windows glisten and the mirrors practically glow! Add a little baking soda to vinegar to make a paste that can clean almost anything.  Although vinegar has a strong scent, the odor dissipates quickly and leaves the rooms smelling chemical free.

         I have a healthy respect for bleach. It doesn’t matter how careful I am, I always manage to splatter a little dot on my clothing. When I began using bleach as one of my major cleansers a couple of weeks ago, I hauled out an old pair of shorts and an already bleach spotted Aggie t-shirt to use on my bleaching days. I douse  a wad of paper towels with bleach and wipe down every surface of both bathrooms. I disinfect the toilets, sinks, and tubs. I scrub the garage floor with a diluted mixture of bleach and water, and I use it in the kitchen to kill bacteria. With bleach, I make certain I keep the room well ventilated, but that’s easy to do.

         The combination of using these two cleansers (which you never combine when actually cleaning) has impacted my ability to buy more at the grocery store. Because white vinegar and bleach are so cheap, I can purchase gallons of each for very little money. With both items in my arsenal, my house stays spotless for less.  

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 

"Missed Opportunities"

 

you judged me

never listened to my words

never learned of my dreams

never accepted my strength

you excluded me

never extended an invitation

never initiated friendship

never offered belonging

you hurt me

never helped without games

never explained all the rules

never proposed compromise

you hardened me

never allowed for differences

never acknowledged my wounds

never tolerated my spirit

you lost me

never experienced my humor

never encouraged my independence

never received my respect

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Missed Opportunities"

you judged me 

never listened to my words  

never learned of my dreams   

never accepted my strength   

you excluded me   

never extended an invitation  

never initiated friendship   

never offered belonging   

you hurt me 

never helped without games

never explained all the rules 

never proposed compromise

you hardened me  

never allowed for differences

never acknowledged my wounds

never tolerated my spirit

you lost me   

never experienced my humor   

never encouraged my independence   

never received my respect   

 

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

"The Stream"

The stream of people flowed   

in and out of museums   

up and down hundreds of marbled steps   

Laughing loudly,   

children dashing around the Mall   

Vendors with ice cones,   

lemonade, chips and pretzels   

We flowed with the stream   

hot and tired   

from walking all day   

Our voices rose on the summer’s breeze   

happy, vibrant, alive   

Then we came to The Wall   

with mirrored surface   

and name after name after name   

after name   

The stream slowed   

it ebbed   

Voices hushed to soft whispers   

butterfly touches   

caressing the carved names   

We stood,   

fingers woven together   

searching through our reflected images   

for another reflection   

The stream stopped   

losing its motion   

it shimmered in the silent   

deep pools   

Our heads bowed   

we sighed   

Our breath caused motion   

and the stream trickled    

onward   

slowly   

It flowed past the wall   

and spilled onto a   

grassy area   

where past and present   

water the future   

Copyright 1996 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman