“Cold Front— 2026”

Our first major cold front looms in the immediate future. Although we’ve had a few nights with temperatures ducking down into the 30s, they’ve been followed immediately by warm enough nights and days for me to leave our outside plants alone. Some days I’ve pulled back the frost covers to water or allow rain to nourish my large collection of Aloe Veras and newly planted gardens in both yards. Our little greenhouse tucked in the back holds more sensitive plants that can survive a dip now and then, but the little structure can’t handle the stack of cold weather days forecasted for the rest of this week. 

The last few winters, we’ve experienced back-to-back freezing rain, ice, or even snow. I’ve run the scenario through my head on what comes in and where it goes. Yesterday, I shifted furniture around to accommodate our large ferns first. We will pack other plants around them in the front room next to the best source of natural light in that room. The family room, already adorned with inside greenery will crowd in about four or five more plants. I emptied our bathroom, too, to prepare for the smaller pots. 

As we’ll have warmer temperatures with rain for the next two days, I’ll leave the gardens uncovered to take advantage of tomorrow’s promised rain before securing their protective cloths over them before the first cold front of 2026 whips into Texas. 

Copyright 2026 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

Music to listen to as you read today!

“Could’ve, Would’ve, Should’ve

 

            We have a defunct hot tub out back that forced me over the last few months to go through a “could’ve, would’ve should’ve” routine. Calls to several removal companies for bids left me questioning spending a lot of money to remove something because a part of me then feels like I’m not gaining anything but space. The cost, too, would make a huge dint out of the funds I’d allocated for my yards and gardens. I could open up the space, but it would remain an ugly, empty space until next year.
            In a more secure financial year, I would’ve replaced the hot tub with a new model. I would’ve shopped around and indulged in something new and fancy. The decrepit hot tub would’ve been carted away as part of the purchase deal. Of course, I would’ve taken on a new debt, too, at a time when job security and economic safety seems uncertain.
            So I settled on my “should’ve” possibilities. I should view the decrepit hot tub with a different eye. Further research showed how to convert it into a raised garden, a lounge area, or even a pond. Although these ideas should fit into our budget easily, I decided to dive into the easiest option—storage! Like most people, we have items that we don’t use, but may eventually need. When we replaced our floors with tile, we had several boxes left over that shifted from the garage to being stored under an old desk covered with tarps. Various art projects left us with wood and cuts of PVC. I dove under the tarps of two old desks to reveal odds-n-ends that we don’t use frequently, but still want to keep.  
            I should’ve known that this solution—storage-- turned into a simpler task than all of the other possibilities. I cleaned the hot tub interior, hauled and organized various items into its wells, and barely tapped into the space. As I clean, clear, and shift items from the garage and various bins out back, I’ll reorganize with an eye of shifting things into the hot tub.
            I should’ve known that sometimes the most obvious solution is the best one. My ugly hot tub received a much need coat of paint and we covered it with a new tarp to keep it water tight. Instead of removing it, or replacing it, we’re embracing it.

 

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman        

 

           

"Reset"

Paul and Mom July 1992

            Our cabin near Leakey, Texas rests within a remote area where the hills cup around, making cellphones unusable once we turn off of FM 337 onto Rim Rock Road. My parents purchased the land over thirty years ago, long before cell phones existed, when they were about the same age as we are now. I remember lecturing them to wait until we arrived before they unloaded the supplies from one of the many projects we tackled together during those first years. Without fail, they ignored my warnings. We’d pull up to find they’d maneuvered plywood out of the truck bed on their own. Dad often quipped that they weren’t invalids!

Mom and Dad July 1992

• 
  

David and Dad July 1992

• 
  

Finished porch-July 1992

            After Dad died, spending a weekend at the cabin tumbled all of us into grief. We attempted a few trips with Mom, but she cried each time. Once she said, “I see the ghosts of who we were walking outside.” By that time, Huntington’s disease had her wheelchair bound. She’d last a few hours, and then ask for us to bring her home. Once Mom died, we made a few trips up alone where we made a few necessary repairs, cut down a few ever-intrusive cedars, and down-shifted our visit to nights of board games or stargazing. About six years ago, our Escape Hybrid needed extensive and expensive repairs. Because of its age and mileage, we found ourselves purchasing a car that couldn’t handle the rough Rim Rock Road terrain. David’s parents and siblings assured us that we could exchange our car with either their SUV or truck whenever we wanted to make a trip; but in the usual manipulative dance of narcissists, their offer proved shallow.

            For three years, the cabin remained untouched. Last May, David’s cousin and her husband took us up for a weekend. Someone had broken into the place and tossed things around searching for valuables that didn’t exist. This same cousin took me back last November for another quick visual check. Each short view left me determined to get a new SUV, which we did at the end of December.

            This weekend we carefully examined some areas of wood rot in the screened porch area. We tossed around ideas of making the repairs ourselves, but I know that’s unrealistic. We debated over the possibility of taking the area down and just having a huge deck. We discussed finding a local company to hire to do the repairs. At the moment, the damaged area doesn’t hold the danger of falling in on us. We have time to decide the best course. In the back of my mind, I hear my own voice warning my parents, “Wait until we get there. Don’t do anything stupid!”

Our hidden driveway January 29, 2022

• 

  One task accomplished! January 29, 2022

            That past caution reminded us to limit our visit to one major task. David focused on cutting the knee-high grass that covered the driveway and cleared some cedar. I relined the driveway with rocks.

            Both of us used the sunshine and hard labor to step back and away from work and world. We hit “reset” to return home recharged and ready.

 Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

  

"The Enemy Without"

  

my bliss

begins with rusted rake, scarred shovel

continues with ancient clippers that snap winter’s residue

pulses with knees planted to ground

thrives with bulbs separated, clippings rooted

grows with tipsy walls reset with careful hands

pushes skyward with dew dusted blades

my bliss

conquers the enemy without with patience

soothes with dappled sunlight

transforms death with restoration

mornings blend into afternoons

days meld into weeks

Copyright 2020 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Work Ethic"

       Many years ago, I attended a birthday party where for entertainment a woman read our fortunes. I stood in fascination as she described the lives and futures of various friends and family members. I could barely wait for my turn.
            The woman did her card shuffle and looked at me with a sad smile. “You work,” she said softly.
           “Yes,” I responded and waited for her to reveal some future travels or adventures as she had for everyone else.
            She shook her head and glanced down at her cards again. “No. That’s all I see. You work. You work all the time. There’s nothing else that I see.”
            Tears blinded my eyes as I moved off to the side for her to take the next person in line. I rounded up my husband, son, and his friend and told them I wanted to leave. I couldn’t get into the car fast enough. Sobs shook me the second I closed the car’s door.
            “What’s wrong?” my husband asked.
           “You heard what that woman said,” my words drowned by tears. “She saw nothing but work.”
            That casual observation by a party entertainer punched me in the gut because it resounded with truth.
            At that time, I taught high school English. I slipped into my classroom an hour early every morning and stayed almost as long most days. My evenings and weekends involved chipping away at an endless mountain of essays, journals, and projects that never dwindled no matter how many hours I graded. With the time that remained to my day, I did house and yard work. Rarely did I do anything just for pleasure.
            Amazement filled me if I heard about friends taking off for evenings or weekends with “the girls.” How did they find the time? How could they simply leave their jobs and households for a few days at the beach? Guilt over spending that much money and time on myself would make the intended respite stressful for me. In my mind, I’d fret over all the stuff I wasn’t getting done.
            Over the years, I don’t think I’ve learned how to play without donning a layer of guilt like a second skin. For the last two days, I’ve had no substitute jobs because the openings have been at high schools, middle schools, or schools that are too far from my home. This year, I limited myself to only doing elementary schools within a ten minute drive from my house. I grab jobs at the high school campus that’s walking distance from my house, too. Yesterday, when nothing opened up, I convinced myself that the budget hit wasn’t too bad. I changed out of my work clothes and found my rattiest t-shirt and oldest pair of shorts. I headed out to the back yard and did three hours of yard work. In other words, I worked.
            With today off, it means a harder hit to my extra income. I almost talked myself into taking a slot at a middle school where I could possibly have a totally rotten day. I battled back and forth on the importance of the $78.65 I’ll net VS the Middle School Madness of students in May. I decided to stay home for a second day, but feel guilty about not taking that slot.
             As I sit at keyboard, my mind drifts to the hedges out front. My work ethic primly points out, “You should use today to trim those bushes.”
            Another voice, distant and faint, echoes in my memory. “You work. You work.”
            Maybe today I’ll step away from my overdeveloped sense of responsibility and enjoy an unexpected and unplanned day off—and do nothing at all.

Watching acorns grow!

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman  

             
           

“The Travel Bug”

 

            Amazement fills me whenever I listen to the latest recounting of the adventures of my Travel Bug friends. Even during the worst part of the pandemic, pre-vaccination, they insisted their psychological need to experience new and different places outweighed any risk they’d get from contracting COVID-19. Flying to Guatemala or Iceland, Croatia or Morocco these friends determined their experiences with an illness (many became extremely ill several times) outweighed the depression they’d deal with by staying home.

            As the ultimate introvert, watching these friends and family members engage is high risk behaviors found me hitting the “unfollow” button on Facebook. That way, I didn’t read about the two weeks one spent in the hospital or the months and months of illness due to long COVID a half-dozen friends now deal with daily.

            When I think back to the few vacations we’ve taken over the last forty-four the years, the memories glow soft and warm. Each experience nestles snugly within me. Do I find myself compelled to plan another adventure anytime soon? No. I delved into the costs of a hypothetical trip the other day and realized that my budget can’t absorb that kind of hit. Our appliances are old, and our air conditioner approaches the “ancient” status. Getting infected with the Travel Bug right now would mean I’d have to return to work—something I continue to avoid for a second year.

 

“Reset”

Paul and Mom July 1992

            Our cabin near Leakey, Texas rests within a remote area where the hills cup around, making cellphones unusable once we turn off of FM 337 onto Rim Rock Road. My parents purchased the land over thirty years ago, long before cell phones existed, when they were about the same age as we are now. I remember lecturing them to wait until we arrived before they unloaded the supplies from one of the many projects we tackled together during those first years. Without fail, they ignored my warnings. We’d pull up to find they’d maneuvered plywood out of the truck bed on their own. Dad often quipped that they weren’t invalids!

Mom and Dad July 1992

• 
  

David and Dad July 1992

• 
  

Finished porch-July 1992

            After Dad died, spending a weekend at the cabin tumbled all of us into grief. We attempted a few trips with Mom, but she cried each time. Once she said, “I see the ghosts of who we were walking outside.” By that time, Huntington’s disease had her wheelchair bound. She’d last a few hours, and then ask for us to bring her home. Once Mom died, we made a few trips up alone where we made a few necessary repairs, cut down a few ever-intrusive cedars, and down-shifted our visit to nights of board games or stargazing. About six years ago, our Escape Hybrid needed extensive and expensive repairs. Because of its age and mileage, we found ourselves purchasing a car that couldn’t handle the rough Rim Rock Road terrain. David’s parents and siblings assured us that we could exchange our car with either their SUV or truck whenever we wanted to make a trip; but in the usual manipulative dance of narcissists, their offer proved shallow.

            For three years, the cabin remained untouched. Last May, David’s cousin and her husband took us up for a weekend. Someone had broken into the place and tossed things around searching for valuables that didn’t exist. This same cousin took me back last November for another quick visual check. Each short view left me determined to get a new SUV, which we did at the end of December.

            This weekend we carefully examined some areas of wood rot in the screened porch area. We tossed around ideas of making the repairs ourselves, but I know that’s unrealistic. We debated over the possibility of taking the area down and just having a huge deck. We discussed finding a local company to hire to do the repairs. At the moment, the damaged area doesn’t hold the danger of falling in on us. We have time to decide the best course. In the back of my mind, I hear my own voice warning my parents, “Wait until we get there. Don’t do anything stupid!”

Our hidden driveway January 29, 2022

• 

  One task accomplished! January 29, 2022

            That past caution reminded us to limit our visit to one major task. David focused on cutting the knee-high grass that covered the driveway and cleared some cedar. I relined the driveway with rocks.

            Both of us used the sunshine and hard labor to step back and away from work and world. We hit “reset” to return home recharged and ready.

 Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

  

“Too Much Time?”

 

            Like many people, I started working at sixteen and never stopped. The two years as caregiver for Mom as she circled down into the late stage of Huntington’s disease translated into a grueling 24/7 schedule. I returned to work “part-time” as a substitute teacher with the idea that I had freedom to adjust my days as I pleased. Even pre-pandemic, school districts experienced a shortage of substitutes, and I became a sucker for a plea from a secretary to book weeks in advance. I broke my vow to “cut back” to only working two or three days a week as my calendar filled year-after-year.

            Then COVID-19 halted me in my tracks. The spring of 2020 suddenly loomed open and empty. At first, I reveled in the wonder of having enough Time for anything and everything. I finished neglected yard and garden projects. I reorganized every closet and drawer, and ventured into the garage and attics for a purge. I detailed the cars to a showroom shine. I binged on television and movies, and read blissfully.

            Hours? Days? Weeks? Months? Tracking time became unnecessary.

            Until lack of use drained the Mazda’s battery!

            I realized tracking time needed a new type of routine other than up at 5 AM, Monday thru Friday to work all day. Slowly, a weekly sequence evolved. Mondays I designated for ERRANDS DAY that included a grocery store run and take-outs to support local restaurants. To avoid draining the car batteries, Tuesdays turned into CAR DAYS. The RX8 zips down a stretch of highway at 70 mph to keep the engine purring. Wednesdays shifted to WASH DAYS. That means stripping all of the beds, tossing in the towels, and tackling our multitude of throws along with our usual clothing. The tradition of NO CHORE Thursday (started when caring for Mom) continued to this day. I assigned Fridays for COMPANY CLEANING: bathrooms disinfected, mirrors polished, furniture dusted, floors mopped. Saturday and Sunday opened up as free days, too.

            My system means my days don’t blur without some kind of “tick” to mark them. I don’t have to remember if I’ve driven the car from one week to the next, or if I’ve forgotten to wash Koi’s bedding. A glance at my phone yields the weekday, and my morning chores fall into place.

            Of course, it amazes me that I finally have too much time.

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

    

   

"A Mess"

            During the last few weeks, I’ve substituted for teachers whose desks and classrooms qualify as disaster areas. In one classroom, for my own personal safety, I cleared a path through junk strewn on the floor between the carpet where the students sat and the teacher’s desk and computer section. I shifted teetering towers of books, realigned precariously stacked papers, and swept away slippery empty baggies all to guarantee I wouldn’t trip or fall as I went about my day.

            In the back of my mind, I wondered about the impact of this level of disorder on the students. I always wanted my classroom to be inviting. My high school classroom included a reading nook with a small but comfortable couch, tons of pillows for around the room reading, and even a few throws in case the air conditioner chilled the room to subzero temperatures. Pole lamps in the corner offered extra ambiance. If I had a mess from ungraded essays or projects, I hid to out of sight from my students—usually in large plastic stackable crates that took up a corner behind my desk. Because larger students need room, I often tucked my desk tightly into a spot that took up as little space as possible, giving as much square footage as possible to those who stood over six feet and weighed close to 200 pounds. I rarely had discipline problems, and I’d like to think that most of my students enjoyed spending time in my room.

            In my current occupation, I work in dozens and dozens of different classrooms. Rarely do I encounter the chaos that I’ve witnessed in the last couple of weeks. The disarray bursts beyond the messy space and overflows into disrespectful student behavior. In every disorganized classroom, the students struggled to pay attention. Their own personal space (cubbies or desks) erupted with scrunched old classwork and cover creased library books.

            By day’s end, my head pounded. I can only imagine the impact the anarchy must cause on all of those young, developing brains.

     

 Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

"Side Hustle"

            My son works tirelessly to establish his own business that branches out into a multitude of directions. His illustration skills lead him into work ranging from art for educational publications to logo designs to website art. His fine-tuned audio engineering talent means he rocks the house with original beats. He spends days behind the camera taking still photographs or shooting music videos for up-and-coming performers. As a youth, he made extra money selling his original t-shirt art to friends from school. This passion reignited recently, and he spent days researching companies to find the best one to meet his needs for printing and shipping original designs.

            When he approached me a month ago with an idea for my own t-shirt line, I instantly liked the creative outlet that combined playing with words and photography. Before I knew it, and with tons of help and guidance from my son, I started my own line.

            I won’t make a million dollars from this endeavor, but I will possibly have additional income that can let me splurge on a few monthly extras.

This “side hustle” opens me up for a totally new challenge, which I want to do as I get older. I know that keeping a sharp, inventive mind doesn’t happen by inactivity. With this t-shirt task, I will grab my camera more often. Instead of being a slug-a-bug in bed on Saturday mornings, I may head out the door on a photo-shoot at a location that’s totally new to me. I already find myself looking at words and phrases that would appeal to my intended market—women who love comfortable t-shirts, but want something a little nicer than a comic book character or “Best Mom Ever” slogan.

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

              

"Reject"

            REJECT. REJECT. REJECT. REJECT.

            What a powerful word in my world as a substitute teacher. Every day, hundreds of job openings appear at the website used by many school districts. The district I work with the most has a few high schools, a handful of middle schools, and double digit elementary schools. Many of the elementary schools tuck themselves into neighborhoods too far away from my personal guideline—no schools more than ten minutes from my home. This door-to-door time frame puts a restriction on my Type A personality. Otherwise, I’d scurry from one side of our district to another on a daily basis.

            I could go into the parameters on the substitute website and block the campuses with a longer drive, but I don’t. It empowers me to REJECT the job notices from those more distant schools. Like most people, many things in our lives slip out of our control. I must work. However, I finally get to pick when, where, and how often I work. Hitting REJECT reaffirms my ability to determine the course of my days. During my last year or two of substitute work, I decided to shift mainly to elementary schools. That change translates into more REJECT presses. More power to me.

Every day I weigh my options and then have an additional strength—ACCEPT!

COPYRIGHT 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman