“Garages”

         My parents parked their car in the garage. A rare phenomenon in today’s world, but fairly common in my youth. Most of our neighbors kept their single car sheltered in the garage each evening. Fathers headed to work in the morning, and the empty space became an extension of our play area. Mom swept the smooth surface daily while Dad swished water over the cement every Saturday as part of his weekly yard work routine. We actually had a neighbor across the street who waxed her garage floors monthly (but that’s a totally different story).

         Our unfinished garage became a daytime fort when the sun bubbled the blacktop of our street into an oozy barrier to outdoor play. We’d haul a huge fan into the enclosure, zigzag clotheslines from corner to corner, and create tent heaven. This large space meant each of us had his or her section. I remember sitting cross legged on the cool cement as I devoured my latest Nancy Drew mystery. Beside me rested my little white transistor radio where Bruce Hathaway from KTSA introduced the latest summer hits. Charles enclosed himself into another corner where he feathered a water laden paintbrush over his watercolor books. Some days he played with his trucks, imitating the low grumble of a backhoe. Our tented town disappeared before Dad returned home from work.

         Some days, Mom gave us finger paints and let us decorate the entire surface with wild designs. She added sidewalk chalk to our art supplies, so we could spill art down our long, sharply sloped driveway. Other days, we hauled out our skates and converted the garage into a rink. I remember circling round and around to pick up enough speed that I’d catapult out the front, pick up momentum on the inclined driveway, and careen recklessly (and miraculously) into a 90˚ turn onto the sidewalk. Our garage became home to our own Tonka Truck Mayhem where our trucks performed incredible feats of death defying leaps and crashes, complete with sound effects.

         The house my parents moved into in League City boasted a large, two-car garage. With this added space, they decided to use part of the area for a ping pong table. Whenever they needed to place more than one car into the garage, they’d simply fold the table up on its hinges and slide it into the center. Eventually, my brother housed his car into the second side, but often his side provided space for setting up a train set.

         The first house David and I rented sported a two car garage, but we never got both cars parked inside because of David’s ultra-light. The wings folded up and slipped into a covering and neatly took up one side of our garage. When we bought our home, the ultra-light trumped the car in getting covered space in our single car slot. Eventually, the craft found another home, but by that time we’d become accustomed to having our cars sheltered under the canopy of our neighbor’s huge Arizona ash. The decision to convert part of the garage into David’s office seemed simple enough. We sectioned the garage into two parts. The back part became an enclosed laundry room and David’s first office. We kept the garage door on the front part, moved our old kitchen cabinets into this area, and set up a work and storage area.

         When we began the process of combining households this summer, the little garage became a dumping ground. Odds-n-ends stacked precariously on top of each other. If we didn’t know what to do with an item, box, or bin, we stashed it out of the way. “Out of sight, out of mind” didn’t hold true for me over the last few weeks. I longed to carve out a few hours of time to attack this area of the house. When my sister and her husband arrived on late Thursday afternoon, I knew I’d finally get the block of time I needed. Friday morning, before the temperature could climb, I headed into the garage. I cleaned out all of the lower cabinets, dumped out and reorganized all of the drawers. With a little effort, I rearranged things enough to open up additional storage space for a few more bins.

         Once I shifted enough around, Paul decided that he could move a few pieces of his equipment around and free up enough space in the old office to set up his DW kit! I love the idea of having our garage being a “play” area again. This time no one’s skating in circles or building tents. Instead of the sound of Tonka trucks smashing, it’ll be the sound of cymbals escaping from the garage.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

          

"Saturday in the Swing"

Saturday in the swing   

      serenaded with cicada song   

           and the chuck-chuck-chuck    

                of chiding squirrels   

I float   

      aimless—and appreciative   

           of quiet moments spent swaying   

My dog calls greeting to our neighbor   

     rolling her Rs like that old Ruffles commercial   

          she’s a sentry   

               sniffing out lizards   

A breeze plays with my writing paper   

     dances the words among the shadows   

           cast from sun and leaves   

                making me dizzy in the Texas heat   

A paw taps my knee   

      accompanied by a whine   

           I’m abandoned   

                for central air   

Moisture collects     

      on the back of my neck   

           on upper lip   

                around my hairline   

                     behind my knees   

I inhale humidity   

      yet I linger   

           savoring my Saturday in the swing   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"A Walk in the Woods"

The woman stood in the sunlight, swiping the beads of sweat that smarted her eyes to tears. Her tongue licked her parched lips. Her hands plucked at her t-shirt, pulling it away from her saturated skin. She puffed hot breath down her shirt front, but only succeeded in hastening the roll of perspiration down her cleavage.

           “You could strip down,” her husband teased from the open doorway as he yanked his own soaked t-shirt over his head. Swiftly, he unfastened his Cargo shorts and stepped clear of them as they pooled on the deck.

           The look she shot his way momentarily heated the air another degree or two, and then a smile broke across her face. “You’re right, of course,” she agreed as she hastily kicked her sandals aside. With an ease her husband admired, she freed herself from t-shirt and shorts. For a moment, she hesitated as her eyes held his in challenge. Then she stripped down to bare skin. She pivoted on the deck, raising her arms in supplication to the hot July sun. Closing her eyes, she whispered an incantation calling for the slightest breeze to tease across her heated skin and dry the moisture that slicked her figure.

           “I think I’ll take a walk in the woods,” she held out her hand to her husband. “Are you coming?”

        He took her hand and swiftly guided her into the cool canopy created by the trees. Once out of direct sunlight, he felt a subtle shift in temperature as shade and shadow played across his skin. A breeze as gentle as a sigh whispered to him, and he grinned crookedly at the cross expression that still played over his wife’s countenance. Bird song encircled them as they moved further down the path, and eventually he sensed the easing of her tension. His muscles relaxed, and he shortened his stride to match her more leisurely pace.

           In silence, they walked hand-in-hand. Carefully, they picked their way over the trail and eased out of the hard work they’d done all day. So many days, they rushed through obligations and responsibilities. Today, at this single moment, they set aside their toils and troubles, stripped away their stress, and took a simple walk in the woods.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Restoration"

I lay prone     

           nose to mother earth     

                     a worshipper submitting     

                               passion and passiveness     

                                         flowing into her with each drop of rain     

I roll     

           onto my back   

                     spread-eagle     

                               opening up     

                                         matching my heartbeat to the sky’s percussion   

I sit     

           offering my face     

                     to wind and rain     

                               drops melt my sorrows away     

                                         purifying me with the holiest of waters     

I stand     

          with arms outstretched     

                     conducting lightning like a symphony     

                               waves and waves roll over me     

                                         cleansing me of life’s dust and debris   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Shoes”

         The other day, someone posted on Facebook a photo of Fred Astaire lounging in a chair, relaxing by a humongous pile of shoes. I couldn’t help but smile. I immediately passed the photo along and thought blissfully of my love for shoes.

       

  As a little girl, I had wonderful Baby Jane patent leather shoes for my Sunday best. The white pair I wore from Easter Sunday until September. The black pair came out after Labor Day because you never wear white after Labor Day. I loved these shiny shoes and carefully walked in them to limit the chances of scuff marks along their smooth surfaces. My sister envied these shoes. Her long and very narrow foot made it more expensive for my parents to purchase shoes for her, so she ended up wearing practical loafers or Saddle Oxfords. And like many younger sisters, I found myself longing for her plainer shoes. I loved the black and white practicality of her Oxfords, and when I finally owned a pair of penny loafers of my own, I polished the copper coins to a sheen.

            When I hit fourth and fifth grade, many of my friends wore Converse shoes. I longed to lace my foot up into a high top, but my parents’ limited budget meant I donned plain white tennis shoes purchased at the local Winn’s store. Near the end of junior high, my mother surprised me with these fantastic brown leather boots that climbed almost to my knees. The boots fastened up with a hook-n-eye, and I loved them dearly. Their smart two-inch heels gave me the height I needed since I still stood a little less than five feet. Fortunately, my foot size didn’t change once I hit thirteen.

            In high school, the demands of our dance team meant my parents shifted shoe money to tap shoes and short, white western boots that looked very smart when performing high kick routines. I schlepped around in white tennies again until I discovered huaraches after a trip to across the border. These wonderful sandals looked fantastic with anything from sundresses to swimsuits. They withstood any amount of abuse and still looked good enough for casual wear. I wore my sandals until they fell apart after I started college!

            The long miles I trekked daily while at Texas A&M meant I selected my shoes during college more for comfort than for style. A good pair of running shoes and a pair of soft suede boots the color of caramel carried me through my studies. I didn’t buy any dress shoes until I purchased my wedding sandals—something with thin straps and high heels that cost more than the simple dress I wore.

            Over the years, I’ve indulged my fondness for footwear. Soft green suede pumps, kill-me heels with peek-a-boo toes, black leather boots or purple faux snake skin. Shoes with sequins, little satin bows, or bold and clunky buckles lined up in my closet.

            Since retirement, I’ve pared my pairs. My closet cubby designated for shoes now has empty slots. I tend to grab my black Skechers or a simple sandal if I leave the house. The other day, while getting ready for a wedding, I pulled out some of my favorites and oohed over their clever bows and sexy heels. I’ve decided that I may have to start dressing up a bit, just to get my shoes out of the house once in a while.                 

 Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman