“Slipping into Fall”

 

            This time last week, a “cold” front forced me to rummage through the old oak toy box that sits at the foot of our bed, trying to locate a pair of sweatpants. I relished the idea of swapping out my fall and winter clothes, folded neatly in the chest, with my spring and summer clothing hanging in my closet.

            Usually, this annual exchange signals my belief in the arrival of fall to central Texas. Anyone familiar with the weather in our area knows that summer starts in April and lingers through October. We have two “springs”—the one that thaws everything in February and teases our flowers to bloom in March, and the one that comes right before autumn’s birth. The second spring rejuvenates our yards and gardens with another round of blossoms triggered by the return of rain into the area once the hundred degree temperatures creep back to the lower 90s.

            After that round of rain and bloom, a front ushers in fall with a blast from the north that lowers temperatures at night into the 40s, or maybe even dipping into the first frost of the season. I celebrate this shift in weather by throwing open all of the windows. Our twenty-year-old air conditioner sighs in relief!

            I take my morning juice or cup of tea outside and sit at the bistro table. Overhead, the sky aches in pure blue. The breeze, slight and cool, carries children’s laughter. To honor the shift in weather, I’ve donned a soft robe and slippers for my feet. Up north, weather changes dramatically. I remember definite demarcations signaling each new season. In central Texas, our endlessly long summers invade into the other seasons, whittling them down to only a few precious weeks. And so I like to savor the cooler days and nights, pay tribute to them with my ceremonial clothing switch-out and log fires in the backyard pit.

 

 

 

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Jealous”

 

            Jealousy should best describe my blog right about now—if it had any feelings. My preoccupation with another major writing project (a novel) means I’ve shifted my blog to occasional musings and reposts of poetry.

            Even I find myself worrying about my neglectful ways. I follow several other bloggers who write on a set schedule. They post once or twice a week with diligence. Then I read others who compose and post daily. I did a daily challenge when I first started blogging because writing gave me something to look forward to during the long days of caregiving. I sat with pen and spiral close at hand, scribbled down ideas or wrote short pieces. Some days, a movie or TV episode would capture Mom’s attention for as long as fifteen minutes to half-an-hour. Long enough for me to quickly type up an entry. Some days found me lingering at the keyboard after everyone else went to bed just so I could have a post ready for the next day.

            I carry a little guilt with me on the days I abandon my blog for the plotline of the more involved story. I dally all day in riveting dialogue, or playfully wallow in the luxury that comes from creating a longer, more involved piece of writing. I love the new challenge of researching a particular time period and weaving those details into images for potential readers.

            I don’t forget my blog. It lingers in the back of my mind. Some life event will occur, and I’ll think, “Oh, I need to write a post about that!” Or one spectacular autumn morning after another greets me, making me long to pen a new poem.

            And so today I opened a blank page in Word with the intent of writing something absolutely amazing, or wonderfully witty, or dramatically dazzling. Instead, my mind drifted to the careless disregard I’ve held for my blog, the friend who steadfastly saw me through one of the most difficult times in my life.

And I find myself pledging to spend a little more time with it than an impulsive visit on a lazy morning. I don’t want to turn into that friend who pledges to “get together” but never arranges a visit, who plans lunch out then cancels, or manages forget that rendezvous at a favorite bar for evening drinks. I don’t want to my words to hold empty promises. And so today, I make my intentions clear and known to all (well, all who take time to stop and read). I will take time out at least once a week to visit with my swing in a tree.

 

 

                                Empty, but not abandoned, Swing in a Tree

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Leaves"

As the first frost neared, the water overflowed   

with reflected color of summer’s demise   

High in the wind, a remnant of warm days fell—   

alone—floating, turning, then softly at home   

Autumn silently ran among the towers,   

forcing the windowpanes to lose their fastened grasps   

In shimmering glory they cascaded down,   

shattering to rest at the tree roots below   

There, at last, by the river and on the curb,   

the vestiges of yesterday piled together   

They shift in the wind and await the first snow,   

wait to be buried in a blanket of cold.   

Copyright 1975 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Counting Blessings”

            For each day in November, many people write and post to their Facebook status something in life for which they are thankful. And although I know my life is full of reasons to feel grateful, this month marks the first anniversary of Mom’s final battle with her monster, Huntington’s disease.

            The first weekend of November last year, her tongue became an uncoordinated slug that thrust against anything we put into her mouth. She could no longer draw upon a straw to drink, nor could she pull soft foods into her. Dehydration robbed her body, making her skin pull tightly against her bones. Hours in the emergency room led to some relief when they started IVs to treat the dehydration. Nightmare days in the hospital began where the nurses gave up on trying to get medication into Mom, leaving the task up to me; where we followed Mom’s directives and refused tube feeding; where I made the calls to set up Hospice care.

            Last November slipped into endless days of coaxing miniscule amounts of food, and then water, into Mom. Within the first week of bringing her home, she stopped eating. Three weeks later, we could no longer get her to take the drops of water we offered through a syringe. Three days later, she died.

            Thankfulness comes wrapped in grief. Looking back, I recall spending hours in the rocking chair, reminiscing with Mom about long ago events. She could no longer speak, but often she’d smile. I knew at the time that she struggled to stay with us because of my brother’s promise to see her on Thanksgiving. No calendar marked the days, but her heart knew she needed to be with him one more time. When he entered the room, she raised her hands and took his in embrace. Her smile warmed the room. Whatever energy she had left, she’d siphoned off and saved in some secret spot, and she drew heavily upon these reserves in the day that my brother stayed.

            No one likes to talk about the vigils we endure as loved ones die. No one wants to admit to whispered words of release. For the next three days, I stayed with my mother and gave her permission to leave us. I assured her that we’d take care of one another. That the love she and my father had showered upon us would continue to hold us strong through the rest of our lives. I counted the blessings of our life together.

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

                  

"Beef in Stout"

 

            Comfort food. We all have those dishes that make us feel warm inside, and it’s not from the hot peppers! As a child, I loved my mother’s roast with mashed potatoes and homemade noodles. Give me a bad day, and I’ll pop a roast into the oven. I’ll crack half-a-dozen eggs into the bowl, mix in flour and roll out and cut the noodles. Even if the outside temperature matches the oven’s heat, my craving for comfort food on rough days overrides the desire for cold macaroni salad.

            Over years, the comfort foods have shifted. At one time, only fried chicken would suffice if I’d suffered through a horrendous event. The year my father died? I’d take an Ambien almost as soon as I got home from work since it knocked me out for twelve hours. If I took it too late in the evening, I couldn’t wake up the next morning; so I had to take it no later than five o’clock. I never stopped to think about it, but somehow, a Big Mac would find its way into my hands. I would rouse myself from drugged slumber just enough to scarf the burger down.

            Last year I discovered Beef in Stout when we visited Ireland. This easy dish shifted quickly to the top of my Comfort Food list. I hope you love this dish as much as I do.

             

 

 

“Beef in Stout”

Recipe from  Favourite Irish Recipes: Traditional Fare from the Emerald Isle

other recipe books aat www.jsalmon.co.uk

Stew that dates from the 19^th century

1 tablespoon oil                                   2 tablespoons flour

A walnut of butter                              Salt and black pepper

2 lb. stewing steak, wiped                  2 carrots, peeled and sliced

   and cubed                                        ½ pint stout

2 onions peeled and sliced                  1 teaspoon soft brown sugar

 

                Fresh chopped parsley for garnish
 

Heat the oil and butter in a large saucepan and cook the meat until lightly browned. Remove with a slotted spoon. Add the onions and fry until softened. Stir in the flour and seasoning, then return the meat to the saucepan with the carrots, stout and sugar. Stir well and bring to the boil, then cover and simmer gently for 2 to 2 ½ hours or until the meat is tender. Serve garnished with chopped parsley and accompanied by mashed potatoes and a green vegetable. Serves 4 to 6.

If desired, a half-and-half mix of Guinness and water can be used for the gravy and a few sliced mushrooms added to the stew. Alternatively, this dish can be cooked in the oven at 350 F or Mark 4 for the same length of time.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman