“From Nancy Drew to Stephanie Plum”

            Nothing pleased me more as a child than coming home to find a book-sized box on my twin bed. I always knew that I’d have hours of entertainment from the latest in my Nancy Drew mystery series. My sister hooked me on the young detective by loaning me a copy of The Secret of the Old Clock. By the time I turned seven, my parents decided to join the book club in order to keep up with my demands for the next edition.

            I loved reading the Nancy Drew series for several reasons. Even as a child, I enjoyed to puzzle over things and put together evidence and clues to solve a mystery. My goal with each book? Discover the solution to the crime or mystery before Nancy, of course! I smugly applauded my reasoning every time I put together the pieces of Nancy’s puzzles. Although I liked Nancy quite a bit, I identified more with her best friend, George. I felt George had a little more spunk than Nancy. As I read the books, I never imagined myself at the wheel of the blue roadster. Instead, I sat in the passenger seat, the loyal buddy ready to accompany Nancy on her adventures.

            Thinking back, perhaps Nancy Drew’s perfection put me off as a child. She always wore the perfect outfit, said just the right things, and never bungled nor had a misstep. With her impeccable father and flawless boyfriend, Nancy’s noble determination to help those around her made her an ideal heroine. I, however, needed someone with a little grit.

            As an adult, I still love reading light mysteries. Only now, it’s the latest Janet Evanovich installation that baits me. I hate having to wait for the next adventure of Stephanie Plum. Of course, this character embodies the antithesis of Nancy Drew. That clumsy, gritty, complicated heroine I longed for as a child appeared on the bookshelves in 1994. I identify with Stephanie Plum’s boldness. I love her imperfect family and her bumbling crime solving methodology. Whether she’s pressed against super-hot Morelli, or simmering next to sultry Ranger, Stephanie’s imperfection draws me into her world. As I lose myself into Stephanie’s adventures, I identify with her and not her best friend (which may be fortunate as Lulu’s a humongous, gun toting, ex-ho stuffed into Spandex.)

 Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman   

“A Quick Walk?”

The temperature dropped last night for the second night in a row. I haven’t checked with the news yet on how “low” we dipped, but this morning’s breeze didn’t slap me in the face with humidity. When David suggested that we take Mom out for a quick walk to the park, I jumped at the idea.

            The moment I pulled out my Skechers, Koi started yipping while Bridget picked up her own momentum by jumping on and off the bed, nudging me with excited joy. David put socks and shoes on Mom while I gathered together her foot rests for the wheelchair, one of her sporty hats she likes to wear outside, and bottled water for all of us. We stalled trying to get out the door because the dogs’ tornado-enthusiasm tangled harnesses and leads.

            “And they’re off! I exclaimed as the dogs bolted across the yard, towing David as though he weighed nothing. I maneuvered Mom over to the driveway, following David and dogs at a more sedate pace. Mom and I wished a walk could become part of our daily routine (sans dogs) once reasonable temperatures return to our area.

            Live Oak Park bustled with energy—relay teams running through the back trails, parents pushing strollers, children mastering new bicycles, families staking out picnic areas. Mom and I saluted every jogger and walker as we wandered our way up to the top of the park where we rendezvoused with David, Bridget and Koi.

            “Do you want to loop around the lake?” I asked Mom, not certain if the mile walk tired her. When she nodded affirmative, we zigzagged down the ramps to loop over to our rain thirsty lake. We paused to mourn the lily pads and wondered if the fish survived by retreating to the depths of the lake’s center. Then we began to retrace our steps.

            We ambled on the journey home. The dogs, tongues scraping the pavement, walked with the demure pacing of the best trained dogs. My legs, screaming from pushing Mom and the wheelchair uphill the entire way home, couldn’t muster a faster clip. By the time we walked up the front door ramp, our hike had turned into a forty minute excursion. Mom quickly kicked off her shoes and tossed her hat aside, David hustled to pour us cold glasses of juice, and both dogs sprawled on the floor, looking more dead than alive. As for me? I’m can’t wait for our next quick walk.  

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“The Best Nap”

Malahide Castle

Dublin bound for half a day   

with seats in the upright position   

fitfully dozing during the long flight   

as snatches of movies weave into my dreams   

maneuvering through city streets    

in search of Malahide Castle—our first stop in enchantment   

the cobwebs of travel puff away       

catch on the gossamer of history       

we walk hand-in-hand from parlor to pantry       

forgetting our fatigue as we meander through gardens   

we linger, lusting for greener pastures   

hunger nudges us to homemade bread and thick potato soup   

--Clontarf Castle’s soft beds lure us upstairs   

hot showers, cool linens blend with child play   

we stretch on pristine sheets and tumble into perfect slumber   

sleep embraces us soothingly as we spoon together   

glass tinkling, or pixie laughter?   

the voices of Ireland lull us into serenity   

Clontarf Castle

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Reunion”

            My thirty-fifth high school reunion starts tonight, but I won’t attend. I can’t make plans for future events anymore because I don’t know what the future holds. Making a decision last summer on whether everything would line up “just right” proved impossible, so I declined the invitation for the two days of celebration. I find that my comfort zone in planning ahead shrinks down to scheduling an outing a week in advance—and then I make certain that others involved in the plans know I may cancel at the last moment.

Felice Casorati,
"Dreaming of Pomegranates," 1913.

            I never predicted that life would lead me to this moment. I thought my retirement days would evolve in whatever manner I selected—morning gym runs, afternoon writing sprees, evening park walks. I’d read voraciously. I’d start new craft projects. I’d design and construct my gardens out front. I’d stretch out on a blanket and dream of pomegranates.

            In recent months, the unexpected life twists of many of my friends, those graduates from the class of ’76, make me realize life’s difficulties never cease. Mistakenly, I thought all of those early years of struggle would lead to later years of contentment and security. Instead, my generation feels battered and rejected. Three friends have lost their thirty year careers. Each day, they search for another job, compete with this generation’s youth, fight to regain footing unexpectedly kicked out from them. I don’t know how to comfort these people. “Hang in there,” or “I’m thinking of you,” or “Things will work out,” seem pitiful platitudes in the face of their dilemma.

Another group of my peers watch their own children battle against the economy. They welcome their children back into their homes because these young adults often cannot afford expensive rents, high car payments, and repayment of school loans on the stagnant pay they receive. One friend called the other night, thrilled that her daughter landed a job doing something that didn’t require her expensive college degree, but at least it offered full time work with a salary and benefits.

Then my graduating class members face the ailing health of our parents. I am not alone in my role as caregiver. As I’ve reconnected with friends from my past, I find comfort in the support they give me. Some have already walked down this path while others begin their journey along with me. Their encouraging words, quick wit, and genuine understanding prop me up on my toughest days. Unfortunately, I’ve also witnessed several classmates fight personal health issues. The tremendous courage and grace under pressure I’ve seen makes me thankful that these friends touch my life.

I remember the graduates from my class as intelligent, generous and talented people. Some of us still hold onto the idealism that we can make a difference in the world—maybe not on a huge scale, but by how we handle life’s challenges! I may miss the festivities this weekend, but the real reunion happens every time a friend from the past contacts me.  

 Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman            

“Frustration”

A gray mist engulfs me   

            Substance without form   

                        Not there—but there   

I inhale bitterness   

and its parasitic nature   

            Infiltrates me   

                        My lungs pull it inward   

                        as I gasp for breath   

                        trying to exhale its pungent mold   

                        trying to breathe as it weighs me down     

                                                presses against me       

                                                            from inside   

                                    Invading my body   

                                    freezing my logic   

                                                pulling me into panic   

            because I can change nothing   

                        It        

            has no form—   

                        nothing to hold onto   

                                    or push away   

A gray mist   

Copyright 1995 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman