“Go Spurs Go!’

            I just don’t get it.

            The frenzied, obsessed, crazed behavior of Spurs fans puzzles me.

            One day, they love their team. Their besotted comments flood social media constantly with tweets and status updates on the magnificent players and coaches. As I scroll down my Facebook Home page, I’m bombarded with pictures of Duncan, Ginobili or Parker doing some heroic deed. My friends plaster praise and promote their team with profuse passion.

            Then a game turns sour, and so does the support for the home team. Fans feed their frustration by frantically documenting play-by-play groans and curses. The favored player from two nights before becomes a target for malicious venting. And I don’t even want to touch the comments spewed about the refs.

            The Spurs often do a back-and-forth win-lose dance during playoffs. I suspect it increases viewership. It definitely augments revenue to go into more games. Professional sports are, after all, big business.

 

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

             

 

 

“Going to Seed”

            We don’t mow our yard every week, and when we do cut the grass, we have our mower set to the highest level possible. Unlike our neighbors who labor continually in their yards, we take a careless approach to the lawn itself.

            We let our grass go to seed.

            All of the negative connotations of neglect seem insignificant because we’ve learned that grasses need to reseed. The long drought we’ve seen over these last couple of years means patches of our lawns have shriveled up. With this year’s rain comes relief, and the only way to reestablish section of our yard is to let it go to seed.

            I love walking through dew drenched grass in the mornings as I check the gardens and pond. The gossamer fibers tickle my feet. Later in the day, sunlight polarizes the hue of the grass, crisping the greens into sharpness. By evening, a slight breeze kicks up, and the seedy fingers of grass hula dance.

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

           

 

 

"Ghost"

Time pauses   

            when I dream of you   

                        Reversing—   

                                    pulling me back through years   

            until I hear   

                        your booming laughter ricochet     

            You appear before me   

            I embrace your solidity   

                        catch a whiff of Old Spice,   

                                    pipe tobacco   

            My tiny hand clutches yours   

            I am your child   

                       again   

                                    looking up into your deep brown eyes   

            You swing me up   

                        high onto your shoulders   

            I pat your chin—rough, unshaven   

                        Suddenly   

                                    We stand in my front yard   

                                                hugging goodbyes   

                                                promising another visit   

            Plans cancelled by death   

Time pauses   

            when I dream of you   

                        Reversing—   

                                    pulling me back through years   

            until I stand   

                        alone in the night   

            Suffering under the weight of grief   

            Conjuring you with my heartbreak   

                        your voice rises with enthusiasm   

                                    strengthens with determination     

            We argue politics   

            We agree to disagree   

                        again  

                                    looking into your deep brown eyes    

            You vanish   

                        leaving me sorrowful   

            Regretting silly squabbles   

                        Suddenly   

                                    I stand alone   

                                                searching for you     

                                                listening for your essence   

            Knowing you are gone forever  

May 1999

 

“Nooks-n-Crannies”

 

            Some tasks simply must wait until enough time becomes available before I can tackle them. Even then, my frame of mind needs to zero in on the “time plus effort” equation to evaluate if I really want to take on the chore.

 

            Yesterday, I set about accomplishing the housework that no one else sees, that takes days and days to finish, but often results in the most satisfaction. I spent two and a half hours in the master bathroom taking every item out of the linen closet, sorting through each storage bin for expiration dates of over the counter remedies, organizing hair clasps and head bands, and thoroughly cleaning under the bathroom sink. I dusted every slat on the blinds and buffed every surface to a shine.

 

            My master plan continues into our bedroom today. With vacuum attachments in hand, feather duster nearby, and music swirling around me, I will tackle every drawer! Nineteen in all. I’ll sort through two trunks, and reclaim the closet. I will mercilessly chuck old panty hose into the trash, critically evaluate my affection for a favorite and faded nightie, and decided that calendars dating back three years no longer hold importance.

            I’ll tax my muscles as I inch heavy furniture away from the walls to attack dust bunnies that have bred several litters. My fingers may ache by the end of the day from polishing every surface, but I’ll celebrate smugly when the work winds down because I’ll know the job’s well done.

            And tomorrow? On to the next room and another full assault until I’ve conquered every little nook-n-cranny within the house.   

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Cardinal Flirtation”

 

            We have a pair of cardinals nesting in our yard each year. I suspect that the pair we have this year remembers us from last year since they ignore the dogs, barely avoid the squirrels, and linger within sight when I stretch out comfortably in a lounge chair.

            The male teased me mercilessly last night. I saw his brilliant crimson against the green lawn as he cocked his head this way and that. Determined to finally capture him on film, I grabbed my camera and quietly slid outside. I tried to sit off to the side, but soon realized that he kept a distance too far for my camera’s reach. Slowly, I crept under the Live Oak, stopping under the arch our bushes create next to the fish pond.
 

 

            I know, without a doubt, that the cardinal spied me. He flitted flirtatiously from branch to branch, following a pattern of perch, hop, perch, hop, swoop, perch and hop. He circled around me in a predictable display of cockiness. He’d linger along the rooftop, grace the back of one of the wrought iron chairs, and play hide-n-seek among the leaves. His head peeked around leaves and small branches as he challenged me to capture his arrogant pose.

 

            Always just a little behind a branch. Always just a little too fast for my shutter. Always just a tease away from the perfect pose.

 

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman