“Gonzales, Texas”

Gonzales County Courthouse (1894-1896)
www.usda.gove

        
          For years, we drove from our home in San Antonio to my sister’s home in Bay City, passing through the quaint town square of Gonzales. Every time we slowed through this small town’s streets, we promised ourselves that we’d stop and check out the shops and historical sites. Once the trip to Bay City became too long for Mom, we started using Gonzales as a midway meeting point. My sister, mother and I decided after one rendezvous that we really needed to spend an entire weekend there.

Carriage House Belle Oaks Inn Bed and Breakfast
www.belleoaksionn..com

         A little research led us to the Belle Oaks Inn Bed and Breakfast. This splendid home, converted into a B & B by some Aggie alumni, offered a carriage house remodeled into living room, small kitchen, and two bedrooms and bathrooms weekend paradise. A mother-daughter weekend rarely happened for the three of us, so this memory remains one that I enjoy pulling out and reliving.

         Mom could still walk at this point, but she used a walker for longer distances. She could manage going from the carriage house to the main house for breakfast every morning, and the beautiful pool, gardens, and patios didn’t challenge her too much. I think we visited every store along the square, and we discovered a few local restaurants with fantastic food. However, at the end of each day we pulled into the Dairy Queen near our B & B to order a chocolate milkshake for Mom and MooLattes for Paula and me. The locals greeted us as though we’d lived in the area our entire lives.

         The respite from this brief visit lingered in my mind, and every time I started feeling grumpy or stressed, I’d remember the lazy days in the pool and the genteel grandeur of this wonderful place. It didn’t take long before I convinced David to take me back to Belle Oaks, and Gonzales, for a much needed anniversary escape.

         With our stay, we booked the Riata room in the main house instead of the Carriage House. We spent idle hours during the first evening lounging on the upstairs balcony and playing in the pool. The next morning, we donned our running shoes and took off on the “driving tour” on foot! We walked up and down streets carefully marked by the town to view splendid homes built in the late 1800's and early 1900's. With camera in hand, we snapped shots of the County Courthouse and local churches as we strolled along.

www.belleoaksinn.com

         We haven’t managed to return to Gonzales, but I think fondly of this oasis of rest situated just a short drive from home. I believe I’ve begun to think of it as an emergency haven, like our cabin in Leakey, that I can travel to when I need to recharge.  

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman            

“Her Fall”

http://www.layoutsparks.com/1/78508/girl-falling-edge-cliff.html    

I held your tiny hand, tugged you away from danger      

            carried you safely to the other side      

I protected you from water’s edge and ocean’s undertow—        

            the drowning tears of your uncertainties      

I watched from the sidelines as you changed—       

dwindling into someone I no longer recognized      

Now, dismay burdens me,        

cements me in place as you scale the precipice      

I call out, “Don’t! Turn back! Wait for me!”      

            as your compulsion drives you higher, higher      

I perceive the cracks in your mask      

            even as you disillusion those who still believe in you         

I reach futilely skyward, my feet anchored in place,      

            unable to halt your ascent over crumbling rock       

I try, and try again, to guide you to sure footing          

            but you ignore my words, indulging in illusions of independence      

I weep, a witness to your self-destruction,        

as your frailties and obsessions force your fall         

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

"Time Gentles Us"

Time gentles us.    

The harsh edge of youth, worn smooth by experience, flashes still in our eyes.    

The dreams we created during marathon letters, the hopes we shared in late night talks, the idealistic     beliefs in our power to craft our world still simmer within us.    

We write, sing, dance and paint.    

We invent and design even as we age.    

Our minds conceive one more challenge, and we strive instead of giving up or giving in.    

Shallowness flaws some of us who search for The-Next-Best.    

Praying to the false deities of selfishness, some listen to the wrong sermons.    

“If I’m happy, then . . .” becomes the excuse for broken promises and heartless escapism.    

Are we the hopeful or hopeless generation?   

Have we fashioned a world of possibilities or of twisted humanity?    

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"A Saturday Off!"

          My sister and brother-n-law appeared on our doorstep yesterday afternoon to give David and I a break from caring for my mother. I cannot describe the relief that flooded through me since it's been six weeks since our last break. The first item on my agenda? To head to the store for grocery shopping. I had one egg in the fridge and two heels in the bread box. Instead of rushing through the store, I took my time, making certain I gathered every ingredient for this next week's meals.

          Everyone pitched in to cook tacos for dinner, and then my sister met the challenge of Mom's nightly obsessive routine: bed, family room, bed, family room, bed, bowl of ice cream, bed, bathroom, bed, family room. Fatigue finally pulled Mom into sleep around 9 o'clock.

          David and I grabbed our tooth brushes and a change of clothes and headed to our son's house a few blocks away. We usually stay home when my siblings come to help, but that means we still hear the demanding little bell pinging in the morning. This visit we decided we really needed a solid night of sleep. We'll all gather for an early lunch. If Mom's up to it, we'll take her to Cheddars. We've found that if we get to a restaurant early enough, before the crowds or noise, Mom can handle eating out.

          I don't know how to spend the remainder of our free day. I toy with the idea of running to Target or Walmart to grab a paperback. A book geared for escapism, but that I can finish in two days. I think David will entertain himself with games and guitars. He's actually painting again and has a piece up on the easel.

          If I have learned anything through my mother's experience, it is to find joy in the simple things. Spending an evening listening to my son's latest vacation adventures, getting to finish a cup of tea before it turns lukewarm, sleeping past sunrise on a Saturday morning become precious commodities.

       

A few moments together away from responsibilities

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“The Art of Waiting”

         Punctual people spend a lot of time waiting. I haven’t figured out yet why doctor’s offices and dental office receptionists state firmly, “Arrive ten to fifteen minutes before your appointment” when they know the schedule consistently runs at least half-an-hour late. Because I don’t want to be the cause of any inconvenience, I arrive promptly at the assigned moment where I then sit and wait for almost an hour.
         Punctual people wait on friends and family. We arrive at the time designated on the invitation for a party and end up setting up tables, icing birthday cakes, or running a vacuum as the host and hostess (known for their lackadaisical approach to everything) takes a quick shower. They always look bemused as they ask, “Would you mind?” Although tempted to say, “Yes. I’m a guest, not a maid,” I’ve always bit my tongue and pitched in to get the final preparations complete for the guests who arrive “fashionably late.”
         Punctual people arrive at mandatory meetings and get the choice seats because the room waits in emptiness. I always hated the principal who delayed starting a meeting until the majority of the faculty sauntered into the cafeteria or library. My favorite administrator demanded butts in seats at a certain time, started her meetings at precisely that second, and had another administrator note down who strolled in late. Many of my peers hated her approach because they felt she wasn’t treating them with “respect.” I never could figure out how coming to a meeting five or ten minutes late (or later) should call for anything other than a reprimand.
         Punctual people learn coping strategies quickly. My husband, the only punctual child in his family, spent plenty of time sitting in the car while he waited for the rest of his family to show up. He sang songs to himself, wrote lyrics in his head, and perfected his daydreaming technique. I’m certain this practice makes him a better artist today. Once I knew which friends or family members dallied, I learned to bring along a book. I don’t know how many times I’ve pulled up in front of someone’s house, on time, and had to wait. By escaping into a paperback, I turn a possibly stressful situation into something pleasurable.         Punctual people find other punctual people. It doesn’t take long for someone like me to cultivate friendships with other people who respect time. I realize that people who run late can be on time when it’s important to them. Once I know that their tardiness is a general disrespect that they hold towards other people, I give myself permission to pull away from these individuals. When I discover that a person even uses time as a means of controlling and manipulating me, I begin avoiding invitations or events with this person.
         Punctual people call on the rare events when we do run late. At work, I’d email my administrator if I had a conflict with her meeting with the specific reason for my tardiness. If I’m running late to rendezvous with a friend for drinks or dinner, I call or text immediately and give an accurate ETA. If I get stuck in traffic, the electricity goes out, or the dog throws up on my outfit, I take a moment out of my time to notify the person who will end up waiting on me. I cannot even begin to count the number of times someone hasn’t shown up at the appointed time and not bothered to call. I’d like the option of saying, “Hey, let’s just forget it! Maybe we’ll get together another day.” Instead, I find myself sitting on the edge of the couch in my Sunday best waiting, waiting, waiting.
         Punctual people get labeled as “Type A” and uptight, but in reality we simply have manners. We’re able to put the needs of others first. We respect their time as well as our own.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman