"Grandmother's Cookbook"

                        My mother’s childhood showcases trauma and loss. Her father lost their farm during the Depression and moved his family into the small town of Danville, Illinois. Her oldest sister, Lois, drowned while swimming in the local lake within a few years. Around the time Mom turned nine, her mother died. Her father, left with five children still at home, found himself unable to care for his three youngest girls. They ended up within the foster care system. Fortunately, the small town meant all of the Thompson siblings went to school together. She visited her sister Nellie, a newlywed, often. Mom remembered the marble-topped furniture in their home, the lean years of lunch consisting of half a head of iceberg lettuce sprinkled with salt, and the wild antics of her older brothers, known for pranks that resulted in scoldings from the local police. Only a few treasured pieces came into Mom’s possession once she reached adulthood. She received a golden bracelet, which she wore at her wedding. The bracelet became a tradition to wear at weddings with my sister and me encircling our wrists with it. I inherited this lovely piece and used it for the cover art of my novel.

            The other prize from Mom’s childhood came in the form of The American Woman’s Cook Book, edited by Ruth Berolzheimer. All of the frequent moves made by my parent’s military lifestyle meant somethings never made it to the next assignment, but Mom always tucked this cookbook into a box that came with us. Over the years, both of my parents pulled this book off the shelf for recipes. My husband and I turn to it regularly, with me recently vowing to try new-to-us recipes weekly. The volume, though, contains not just ways to prepare various dishes, but also a look into life for the housewife in the 1940s. The thick work contains color plates of finished delights. It suggests menus for parties and holidays. Within its sheets one can find pages of food equivalents. Struggling with ideas for school lunches for the kids? Need a tip on how to set your plates for a fancy dinner? Want the perfect Hollandaise Sause (one of our favorites)? How about the best banana nut bread or pancakes on Earth? You can even find specific instructions on how to help with the war effort.

 

                 This volume represents a life that showcases hardship and hope.

 

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman      

I am like IOUNIO's "Time Traveler" today, as my fingers trail thought the pages of Grandmother's cookbook. 

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"Running on Empty"

           My son voices his worry that David and I will sap our energy too much in caring for my mother. He knows about the middle of the night aid to take Mom to and from the bathroom, realizes she wakes up at the crack of dawn; he understands her need of someone being constantly within calling distance. When he expresses his concern, I remind him we spend a huge portion of each evening enjoying our own interests. We spend time together watching something mindless on television while munching popcorn.

         But I do worry about those days when I’m snapping at everyone and everything because that’s an indication that I’m feeling neglected or overwhelmed. When my siblings come to give us a break, we try to sleep late and head out of the house to our favorite places like browsing through the shops in Gruene, Texas. If my brother or sister arrives early on a Friday, we sometimes escape to the cabin in the hill country. That perfect retreat always offers the respite we need. If we don’t get a long break, we find ourselves overtired.

         I love the advice everyone gives about David and I needing to take care of ourselves and get adequate breaks. What people don’t realize is that unless someone volunteers to come over to sit for an evening, we can’t take off for a stroll through a mall or an evening movie. We count ourselves fortunate that our son lives in the neighborhood. He spends an incredible amount of time “hanging” with Grammy. If I have a doctor’s appointment, I know he’ll come over. I don’t like to overuse my son, though. Is this a normal response? I don’t know. I fear the months in the future when Mom’s needs will increase, when my need for breaks won’t fall into the “occasional” category. I think on some level, I don’t want to misuse my son’s offers for help now because I may need him more in the future.

         As we enter the second year of caregiving, we’ve reached our stride. This morning, I ran Mom’s bath while David started his pre-work routine. He stepped in to help Mom into the tub. While I stayed with her as she soaked in her bubbles and listened to her new Susan Doyle cd, David packed his lunch. Then he returned to help lever Mom out of the tub, dashing from the room to get dressed while I toweled Mom dry, applied lotion to her skin, and dressed her. Entering the family room, we found David already munching on his morning cereal.

         Our lives have a steady routine that flows most days in surprising harmony. Those days where I can’t do anything right for Mom sprinkle throughout the month. Those moments when she drives me crazy because she doesn’t want anything I’ve cooked happen infrequently. Those nights where we get up two or three times with her occur no more than once or twice a week. So, for now we’re holding our own.

         And when I find that we’re “running on empty” I think we’ll fall into music, or books, or hobbies to recharge ourselves.     

Camera in hand!

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman          

"Sacrifices"

 

         A huge part of love means sacrifice. I don’t mean martyrdom where you bemoan your losses or announce to the world the costs of your grand gestures. I mean the simple day-to-day surrender of your needs because someone else’s needs prove greater. Placing another person’s wants first isn’t fashionable anymore. This saddens me. I believe too many people seek happiness by chasing a mirage when the reality is that contentment comes from helping the important people in our lives.

         I don’t believe anyone can traverse this life alone. I don’t believe in some magical cut-off point where parents should no longer aid their children. I don’t believe there comes a time when a child shouldn’t strive to care for his or her parents. I’m not talking about just financial support, either. We must give emotional sustenance when we see someone we love “starving.” If you look beyond all of the hype of what’s “acceptable” or “normal,” you’ll find multitudes of families who bond together, work together, and sacrifice together to reach a goal. That goal may benefit one family member more than another, but that’s okay. Some day in the future, it may be that beneficiary who steps in to offer support—to sacrifice.

         

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman          

"Stay In Today"

          In the past, I loved my ability to plan ahead. Every week at work, I’d prepare a list of goals:  Grade essays (two class sets per day), file student work, call dj for dance, reorganize closet. My list making continued at home. I memorized the grocery store, making my list in order so I could swing through the aisles at warp speed. I jotted down goals for paying off debts and objectives for dropping weight. I projected into the future with a six month, one year, and five year plan. Sometimes, with my vision so focused upon tomorrow, I think I missed some of the delights of the present.

         The turn my life has taken this last fifteen months means I’ve faced the challenge of changing my mindset. Each morning I write down the date in my journal, and then my major goal:  STAY IN TODAY.

         On the surface, this seems a simple target, but for me it’s horrendously difficult. On the days I do well, I find I have infinite patience. I don’t pressure myself under the weight of all of the unknowns of tomorrow. Instead, I focus on stripping the beds, flipping Mom’s pancakes, brushing the dogs’ teeth, and planning dinner. I look at the bills and pay whatever’s in the stack and avoid the worry about what may destroy our budget six months down the road. I doggedly place one foot in front of the other and give myself a mental shake whenever I start to slip beyond today

         When I successfully STAY IN TODAY, I relax. I take a moment to listen to bird call or appreciate the sun as it dapples the back yard. I linger over words when I write. I laugh aloud at Everybody Loves Raymond even if I’ve seen the episode one-hundred times because my mother giggles the antics of Ray. I remember to say, “I love you” and “Thank you” and to cherish the unending support I get from my husband.

         Old habits, though, break down slowly. Last night my mind flitted into tomorrow’s possibilities, and insomnia hit. I’d forgotten that when I delve into “what ifs” I find sleep difficult. My imagination created scenarios of events unfolding over which I’ve limited control. It wove tension into my stomach and pounded uncertainty into my head. I found myself wondering why my inventiveness at night turns to the darkest paths of pessimism. Eventually, I envisioned all of the troubles that may loom ahead, and one-by-one I placed them into a bright yellow box. I sealed the lid tightly and tucked it up on a shelf. Sleep embraced me almost immediately

         And so I find myself feeling sluggish this morning. I’m a little peeved with myself at falling back into my old pattern because trying to project into tomorrow holds too many unknowns and wastes energy that I need now. When I picked up my journal, I neatly placed in the date and bold block letters: STAY IN TODAY!  



I'm learning to "Stop and smell the roses!"
First blossom this year in our back yard

          

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"New Voyages"

 

David Chapman--artist

         I never want to spend my life fretting over the words never said, or the acts never completed. The changes in our lives during this last year bring home to me the importance of giving our best to those we love. Sometimes, I get so caught up in the minutiae of a situation that I bog everyone else down. “The Big Picture” always calls for taking risks and believing with heart over head. That outlook proves difficult for my often straight column approach to life, but whenever I’ve chosen my heart, I’ve never gone in the wrong direction. Whenever I push away my heart, anxiety suffocates me. Taking a breath, eating a meal, and sleeping at night all become impossible.

My head analysis tells me the “right” decisions, the cautious choices that assure safe passage across rough seas. My head won’t even weigh anchor if the voyage looks too dangerous.  The head must have life boats in tip-top condition. It makes certain there are enough jackets available for unexpected passengers. It plots my route and stays true to my course. But no matter how carefully my head plans for every exigency, a tidal wave broadsides me, flips my vessel over, and makes life boats and life jackets useless.

         My head, you see, doesn’t calculate for the totally unpredictable event. It cannot. That’s the heart’s job. The heart latches onto dreams and nightmares. The heart foresees the tsunami and still sets sail. The heart accepts risk because life’s random. That capriciousness doesn’t dissuade the heart. The heart believes.

         In the rough seas I now traverse, my heart speaks strongly to me. Believe. Believe. Believe. And so I trust my decisions. The moment I listen to the murmuring song of my heart, the decisions I must make ring true and clear. The head will step forward eventually. It will find the means of making the dreams a reality. By singing along with the heart, the voyage will prove challenging, but not impossible.    

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman             

“February Freeze”

            The ice and snow that froze Texas into place in mid-February of 2021 skipped over our house snuggled safely among a police station, fire station, and hospital. Survivor’s guilt blanked my days as I watched family and friends struggle with rolling black-outs, or even losing electricity for several days.

            Before the storm hit, I fretted over the phone with my sister over our brother, Charles, driving to work in his ancient car because he’d never driven on snow or ice before. Finally, I called him and talked him into going into work ahead of the storm. The hospital has given him a room or cot in the past when hurricanes swirl in the Gulf. I begged him to see if they would let him stay one night.

            When he called to let me know he would go in well before the bad weather hit, I reminded him to leave water running in his kitchen and bathroom sinks. He laughed since my sister had just given him the exact same instructions.

            None of us predicted that the freezing temperatures would cascade the entire state into a collapsing grid nightmare that plummeted households and businesses into darkness and cold for many days.

            Charles didn’t return to his house for a couple of days, and when he did, it was to find the pipe in his master bathroom had burst. The water cascaded down from the ceiling, with the deluge flooding almost every room in his home. He ran next door and a neighbor helped him turn off the water. Then he made a frantic call to my sister, as both she and her husband were already fully vaccinated for COVID-19 and live about ninety minutes away. My sister reached me (my phone service was spotty due to the storm) to get the name of the plumber my brother uses. She left urgent messages on his voicemail, texts, and email! Her diligence paid off because the plumber had Charles second on his list. The burst pipe was replaced within days.

            My sister also found a general contractor who ripped out the saturated carpet within a few days. This contractor went through the house with expert care, itemized every repair, and sent a detailed report to the insurance company. Within days, my brother knew how much money he’d receive. He and the contractor spent a couple of days selecting new tile floors, vanities for the bathroom and other odds-n-ends to reassemble my brother’s home.

            The speed in getting Charles’s house repaired ground to a halt since thousands of homes and businesses in Texas overloaded lumber yards and home improvement stores with orders. Something as common as sheetrock became a backordered item that didn’t appear until April. Eventually, and slowly, the contractor healed Charles’s damaged home.

            Last night, Charles called to chat about the freezing temperatures that aim our way again. His joked that his new tile floors can handle any water that may come his way!

 

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

"Weddings and Funerals"

Best friends      

sharing whispered secrets late into the night     

laughing at inside jokes     

crying at sentimental Hallmark card commercials     

dreaming     

Best friends     

writing voluminous letters across the years      

freezing moments with photographs     

offering comfort and strength     

supporting      

Best friends     

visiting at weddings and funerals     

revealing superficial news     

concealing heartbreak and disappointments      

surviving     

Best friends     

reconnecting despite differences     

creating new laughter      

rediscovering commonalities     

hoping     

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“And Dying”

         I never intended to write about death and dying. I thought this topic could stay bound within the contexts of the current social psychological theorists, but recently I’ve found myself examining my feelings in dealing with my mother’s terminal illness.

I studied Kübler-Ross’s theory, of course, when I worked on my degree in Psychology. Effortlessly, I can recount her five stages of grief. My life over the last few years anecdotally supports much of what she wrote. I know, too, about theories on resilience. Although I haven’t consciously researched the topic of grief, I’ve definitely lived it. As I skim the endless variety of topics available to families dealing with Huntington’s disease, dealing with the last stages of this disorder surfaces in discussions.

My faith rests totally in the strength of the human mind, the spirit of community, the cycle of life. Whenever living with Mom’s Huntington’s disease pulls me under, I’ve reached out to my husband, my son, my sister, and my brother. They yank me back into the light when I feel surrounded by darkness. I have several friends, some in distant cities, who offer comfort and support through their kindness and concern.

And so we deal with dying like we deal with living. We admit our shortcomings during those endless nights and horrendous days. We don’t deny our anger and bitterness as illness chips away Mom in larger and larger chunks. We let sorrow enter our home and sit upon the sofa on Saturday mornings.

 We take each day as it comes. We linger over the good moments. We sip and savor giggles and smiles. Words like sacrifice, care, generosity, family and love take on deeper and more honest meanings as they become part of our daily life.  

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Pledge to Honor”

four walls   

         love, duty, responsibility, need   

                     box me into near solitude   

pressed by decisions   

         I bare this weight without grace   

                     floundering   

the brace of your love   

         supports me   

                     alone I will fail   

with three   

                     I can survive   

longingly, I look to our past   

         ache for its loss   

I fear today   

I dread tomorrow   

         trying to fulfill my pledge to honor   

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Sacrifices”

         A huge part of love means sacrifice. I don’t mean martyrdom where you bemoan your losses or announce to the world the costs of your grand gestures. I mean the simple day-to-day surrender of your needs because someone else’s needs prove greater. Placing another person’s wants first isn’t fashionable anymore. This saddens me. I believe too many people seek happiness by chasing a mirage when the reality is that contentment comes from helping the important people in our lives.

         I don’t believe anyone can traverse this life alone. I don’t believe in some magical cut-off point where parents should no longer aid their children. I don’t believe there comes a time when a child shouldn’t strive to care for his or her parents. I’m not talking about just financial support, either. We must give emotional sustenance when we see someone we love “starving.” If you look beyond all of the hype of what’s “acceptable” or “normal,” you’ll find multitudes of families who bond together, work together, and sacrifice together to reach a goal. That goal may benefit one family member more than another, but that’s okay. Some day in the future, it may be that beneficiary who steps in to offer support—to sacrifice.

          

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman