"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

“Silver Lining?”

 

            Our project to remove the pond from the back yard continued with me channeling my “ant” powers. I started by lugging the large flagstones, purchase many years ago and no longer available, over to extend the path from under our Live Oak to our side gate. This gate only opened in one direction, but with carefully placing various flat rocks under its swing, it now moves both ways. That process took four hours one morning as I carefully assembled the puzzle one piece at a time. Gravel, reclaimed from the pond’s interior, added a finished touch to the area.

            The next part of the removal, getting the pond from the ground itself, took my husband’s strength. We decided to break it down into pieces and put back into the hollow to help with filler. At the moment, we’ve dumped three trash cans of leaves from the front yard and another four cans of dead Purple Heart mush. I stomp on the area after each load. Eventually, we’ll top it all with soil and smooth it out. That won’t happen until we’ve done the final rodent proofing along the back wall.

            Yesterday, we moved the fairy statue to the front yard. Four wheelbarrows of rocks allowed us to ring it in an eight that includes the bird bath purchased last summer. Once we’re through our seasonal freezes, I’ll start selecting flowers for this new area.

            With these changes, I try to focus on the silver linings. My front yard, damaged by years of freezes and droughts, will now display one of my favorite statues. Its new location means I’ll cover the area with different types of flowers than the ones out back. The pond, tucked out back for my personal pleasure all of these years, now shifts some of its features into the front for everyone to enjoy.

            We haven’t decided exactly what to do with the area opened up with the pond gone. At the moment, it’s a “maybe this” or “possibly that” flow of creative ideas. Those possibilities, too, provide silver linings for me as we move into this unpredictable year.

 

Copyright 2025 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

“What’s in a Name?”

         I unexpectedly found myself deep in the morass of racism last night when one of my in-laws posted a Wikipedia link about Robert E. Lee. She proclaimed that one of our local high schools bearing the general’s name shouldn’t have its name changed.

        Her argument was that Lee fought honorably for “states’ rights.” When I and another family member pointed out that he led secession from the United States to protect the immoral act of slavery, she countered that he struggled with the issue and felt states’ rights to allow citizens to own slaves superseded the rights of those slaves. She rationalized that slavery wasn’t even the main issue, but that economics drove the states to draw up their declarations. Then she added the statement that she’d read somewhere that Lee wasn’t cruel to his slaves.

         Think about this.

         In the year 2017, someone I know has stated that states should have had the right to maintain the institution of slavery.

         My brain went bat-shit crazy! Fortunately, the other person in our Facebook exchange began attaching very accurate sites with concrete evidence—the actual Declaration of Secession for each Confederate state. Every single state either referred to slavery directly, or inferred to the institution by mentioning “property.”

         I’ve read tons of complaints recently about the “negativity” that overwhelms social media; and how people want their feed to be positive and up-beat. I’ve had a rule over the years that I don’t go onto someone’s page and pick fights, but when I saw that pile of shit last night I realized I cannot and will not stay silent.

         To be truthful, until now I’ve never given much thought to the names of any of our local high schools, but honest reflection tells me that our Robert E. Lee High School should have borne the name of someone like Grant. These Confederate leaders fought for a dishonorable and immoral cause—and they lost.

         The proliferation of tributes to these men suggests agreement with their beliefs by those of us who’ve allowed this practice to continue. The time to correct this misconception is now. The mindset that these men heroically fought for a noble cause needs to be countered with diligence and fortitude. 

Copyright 2017 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.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman