"One-Hundred Degrees in the Shade"

Dust chases us down the road   

engulfs the car   

swirling like powdered sugar blown from a birthday cake   

coating our sandaled feet as we step into the furnace   

The dogs retreat to bunk bed and chair   

anticipating evening’s approach—   

a breeze, teasing and seductive   

Buffalo grass, brittle reminders of Spring’s bounty   

squat in death   

Cedars, tipped in brown and rust,   

finger summer’s dragon breath in search of moisture   

The naked sky, adorned only by a relentless sun   

yearns for bird song   

Silence, even, languishes in the oppressive heat   

Live Oaks, gnarled limbs supplicating to the cloudless sky   

plea for rain   

Wash away the sins of the world  

 

 Copyright 2011 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: 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

"Swimmers"

 

        The sun dappled lake entices swimmers with coolness after a long, hot summer. One bather cautiously tip-toes to the edge, tentatively dipping into the coldness. She retracts her foot, shoots a glance over her shoulder, and eases back into the water. Another swimmer, grabs the tree rope, swings apelike over the lake's mirror, whoops with glee, and cartwheels into the depths with the careless abandon of joy. A final swimmer stands poised on the dock. In one flawless motion, he dives and cleaves the water's surface with barely a splash. A few feet away, he emerges and boldly slices his way across the lake. To everyone entering the lake of life, no matter what your approach, may you remember the unexpected currents and drop-offs. Swim safely and don't drown!

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Water Nymph" by David Chapman

Pen and Ink

"Summer Games: Tug of War"

             As a child, seeing a rope hauled out and white handkerchiefs tied in strategic spots made me want to run for cover. Of all the neighborhood games, this one appealed the least to me. A battle of strength and endurance, Tug of War lured the larger and older boys outside. Even a few fathers joined the teams, staking out territory determined by a line.  My Olive Oyl arms couldn’t begin to handle the powerful pulls of this game. As an adult, I realized that we often play this game at work or in our relationships. 

Tug Of War
Us versus Them
Love overcoming Control
Intellect conquering Emotionalism
Endurance vanquishing Selfishness
Perseverance defeating Indulgence
Us versus Them
Right overcoming Wrongs
Strategy conquering Shallowness
Persistence vanquishing Neglect
Reality defeating Rationalization

Art by JCMGstudio

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

"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

“Growing Optimism”

 

Past yard with more green by hose!

            My best therapy occurs in the garden. Watering by hand sends me into Zen tranquility. Finding the treasures planted by birds and squirrels allows me to nurture. I propagate and procreate with cautious hope that new clippings will survive. Over the last few years, our weather swings from brutally freezing winters to the drought driven days of summer.

            This year, my usual Morning Glories never wrapped themselves around the post out back. My Mountain Laurel barely carried a blossom. The heady aroma of honeysuckle doesn’t entice butterflies or bees since not a single bloom drapes down the vine. So far, my sunflower garden has halved its size, and my sage’s purple splendor remains dormant.

             One section of yard, near the faucet and hose, never regained its ground cover. Every morning, I dance and leap over the area once I’ve watered it in an attempt to avoid making the section into a tragic spot of mud. Yesterday, I decided to rob the remaining square stepping stones from behind our defunct hot tub. I created a path to avoid the mud. Next, I planted the creeping phlox we salvaged from Walmart’s discount section last spring. I also had three different pots of suffering mint that needed to go into the ground.

            With diligence and care, this area may become a favorite spot of flowers and flavors!

Stepping stones to new spots

Greenhouse floor

 

Avoiding mud!

Hopeful mint!

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman  

“Sunflowers”

 

 

Travel with me over the last few years and watch my sunflowers grow.

 

Copyright 2024 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

"Rain on the Rooftop"

 

Rain on the rooftop, a Texas lullaby   
Thunder a distant heartbeat, wind a crooning sigh   
Watch the windows weep as lightning cuts the sky   
Clouds roll and tumble, carry raindrops on a ride   
Trees cleanse their dusty leaves—shake off Summer’s dry   
Droplets form to puddles, and rivers start to fly   
Mother Earth’s cracked face smiles and laughs in reply   
To rain on the rooftop, a Texas lullaby   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Prayer"

 

David Chapman-artist

Compassionate Mari       

            the land dies under summer’s cruelty   

            crops wither, leaf and fruit suffer       

            grasses scorch and burn   

  springs expose their bedrock     

  rivers recede, ponds evaporate to mist     

            livestock and wildlife die   

Hear my prayer   

 Gentle Mari   

            cry softly upon the Earth    

            soak our land with mercy   

            wash away our dust of prideful disbelief    

            shower kindness upon the fields               

            nourish our hopes with your grace   

 Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“September’s Spring”

 

            My love for Texas begins and ends with springtime. Wildflowers swathe farmer’s fields, vacant plots of land, and every roadway across the entire state. Nothing comes near to the beauty of meadows crowded with bluebonnets, Indian Blankets and Black-eyed Susan’s. Nature combines just the right amounts of rain and mild temperatures to create perfection.

            My second favorite time of year comes in September. The horrendously hot and dry days of July and August explode into fierce thunderstorms that usher in drops in the temperature. Out in the Gulf of Mexico, tropical storms and hurricanes brew. When they make landfall, their bands of rain push into our region to create a second spring.

           

Our yards and gardens honor us with blossoms one more time.

 

Copyright 2020 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"My Week At-A-Glance:

         My weeks during the school year fill up with so many substitute teaching jobs that most people teasingly remind me, “You know. You’re retired.” Up until this year, I’ve laughed and chimed back that I need work to keep me out of trouble.

The real reason is, of course, financial. As a family, we took on debt to help our son start his own business. Our strategy to shift major purchases onto our shoulders as a family gave him breathing room as he mastered his skills and pulled in clients. We knew from my husband’s experience as a freelance artist that it can take four or five years to establish a business to profitability. When we made the move ourselves, I had a full-time job in education with a steady paycheck. Our son, single, didn’t have a second income to support him as he studied, purchased equipment, and sought clientele. As a family, we’ve allocated part of our income (my substitute work) into paying off business expenses at a faster rate than our son could do on his own.

         This upcoming school year should bring us to our financial goal of clearing almost all of the debt incurred from this investment. I wonder if that means, come the 2019-2020 school year, I’ll do a second retirement—this time from substitute teaching. My calendar will sit blank month after month, with no commitments except for whatever my heart desires. I could write all day, every day!

         But I know my nature. Today, I look at my calendar for next month—empty right now, and think, “What will I do to fill these days?” A little flutter of panic hits me when I consider endless days left open and blank. I suspect that I may dip my toe into substitute teaching for many more years. I could shift to working like my dad did with a few days each month to pay for something special for Christmas or birthdays.

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman