"The Golden Bracelet"

Another tidbit from my novel!

"Robert pursed his lips, saying nothing as he strode over to the water pump. He grabbed the bar of soap left in a bucket and began scrubbing at his hands. Tomlinson stood in silence as his friend tried to scour away his anger. Finally, Robert lifted the lever a few times and let the cool well water ride through his fingers. His huge hands cupped and scooped the fluid over his head, face, and neck as he tried to cleanse away the wrath he felt. When he turned back to Tomlinson, a calm expression dripped through the rivulets, but his eyes burned with fury. Tomlinson admired Robert's ability to clamp down his rage."

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

https://www.amazon.com/Golden-Bracelet-Elizabeth-Abrams-Chapman-ebook/dp/B076JR8N26

"The Golden Bracelet"

A snippet today from my novel! If you want more, just click on the link!

 

CHAPTER ONE

March 1908

         Five times she stood on the front porch.

         The first time, she squinted her hazel eyes against the glare of the late afternoon sun that stabbed through the west bank of live oaks. The second time, the trees stood like black sentries against a bleeding sunset. By the third time, her fretting hands twisted the dish rag as the hush of dusk descended across the farm. Behind her floated the muted voices of her sons. Far in the distance, the howl of their shepherd, Ranger, carried on the whispering breeze. The hair on her arms pricked to attention as the dog’s howl mutated into insistent barking.

         “Mom?”

         She didn’t shift her gaze from the far field when her eldest son, Lewis, stood next to her. Instead, she cocked her head to listen again for Ranger’s far-off yelp.

         “He’s found her.” The certainty of her words belied the fear wrenching her heart. “Get your brothers and the wagon.” Peering into the gray shadows, she continued with instructions. “Take lanterns and blankets. Water. She’ll need water.”

         The fourth time she stood on the front porch, she wrapped herself within the blanket of early evening. Her eyes picked out pinpricks of light playing hide-n-seek among the stalwart trees.

         The final time, her legs shook uncontrollably that she gripped the porch banister for support. Her stomach pitched, and she fought back bile as it pressed up her throat. In the wagon lay her beautiful daughter, deathly pale in a golden halo of lantern light.

         “She’s alive.”

 https://www.amazon.com/Golden-Bracelet-Elizabeth-Abrams-Chapman-ebook/dp/B076JR8N26

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

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"The American Dream"

         My son, an artist, struggles daily to build his business. He spends his days in a blend of sharpening his skills using a variety of art programs while searching for potential clients. One of his oldest goals, designing art for clothing, started when he was twelve and custom-made t-shirts for friends. A few weeks ago, he stumbled upon a new local business that can meet his needs for placing larger pieces of art onto articles of clothing. Yesterday, he picked up the first order from this company: a t-shirt, two hoodies, and a pair of joggers that carry his logo plus some original art. Before he made it out of the store, he knew he will need to experiment with a wider variety of items see how his concepts will translate onto things like hats, totes and purses.

         With that new goal in mind, we ran to a Wal-Mart across the street from the mall in search of a black cross-shoulder tote that would be perfect for advertising the different patches my son wants to offer. We had no luck, and as we crossed the parking lot to our car, a young man stopped my husband and asked if he had a screwdriver. His battered, older model Ford van wouldn’t start. My husband pulled a small tool kit from the trunk of our car, and the two men began trying to fix the vehicle while my son and I chatted with the woman and her four-year-old daughter. Eventually, my husband pulled our car around to jump their battery, but the van never started. Another passerby suggested that the jumper cables (provided by the van owner) looked pretty old. He volunteered to purchase new cables while inside the store, saying he’d help the family if they were still stranded once he finished his shopping. The van’s owner suggested that we head on our way since we’d already been helping him for so long.

         As we drove out of the parking lot, an even younger man stood near the stop sign, holding a battered HOMELESS cardboard sign in his hands. As we rarely carry cash with us, we only had a few quarters to pass on to him. His eyes filled with gratitude.

         The juxtaposition of dreams and reality punched me in the gut as we sped down the highway. My son’s aspirations to own his own business and support himself through his creativity contrasted sharply to the stranded couple and homeless teen. I found myself wondering about the dreams these other people might have had before Life wore them down.

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"A Teachable Moment

         I enjoy substitute teaching because it changes almost daily. I completely control the schools where I work, the grade levels I teach, and even the teachers I sub for. Sometimes, my days don’t progress as smoothly as I’d hoped, but most of the time I enjoy the fact that I get to satisfy the educator within me.

         A few weeks ago, the assignment I took turned out to be different from what was “advertised”. Instead of teaching a fifth-grade class for the entire day, I found myself changing grades every ninety minutes. I started with the older kids and ended my day with first graders. When a principal makes this kind of modification to the schedule, I simply go with the flow. I don’t mind a little unexpected variety to my day.

         When I arrived at a second-grade class, the teacher instructed me to finish a science activity she had in progress and then to shift the students into a social studies lesson. It wasn’t long before I projected the text on a lesson about Phillis Wheatley. I read to the class that she was taken from her family and home in Africa and brought to the states as a slave when she was seven or eight years old.

         And the assignment within the book stopped at that moment.

         “What do you mean, Mrs. Chapman?” one girl asked. “Were her mom and dad with her?”

         “No. She was brought to the United States and sold to a family in Boston.”

         “But she was little. Like us.”

         My eyes smarted. My throat constricted. “I know.”

       The same little girl continued in disbelief, “But weren’t there those things back then to protect her?”

         “Things?”

         “Those things. Rules. Rules that say you couldn’t do that.”

         “Laws? You mean laws?” My heart weighed down.

         Every educator hits those points in instruction that whatever you say becomes a lesson that the children will carry with them, possibly for a very long time. The lecture or instruction becomes unique and pulls away from text or curriculum. We refer to this as a teachable moment.

         “Our laws are supposed to protect people, but some laws were unjust. Wrong.”

         Another student joined in, “So the laws let people have slaves? How could that happen?”

         Another boy popped out of his seat, “My dad had me Google slavery! We read all of this stuff together. But you know what it all came down to?” He drew a huge dollar sign in the air, “Money!”

         The classroom teacher slipped into the room as he made this proclamation. She couldn’t ignore the tears that smarted my eyes as I continued speaking about the concept of chattel and repeating again that just because something was legal didn’t mean it was right or just. From her vantage in the back of the room, she listened as this room of seven and eight-year-old children grasped that these horrendous happenings occurred to someone close to their own age.

         I glanced down at my schedule and realized I needed to move onto the next class on my list. As I gathered my tote, I listened to the kids bombard their teacher with more questions and knew she’d chuck the remainder of her lesson.

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Fear is the Mind-killer”

"I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.” 

Frank Herbert--Dune

          When in my twenties, I carried this litany from Dune in my wallet. Faced with living alone for the first time in a new place while attending college, my personal anxieties dogged me. On bad days while riding the shuttle to early morning classes, I would whisper these words. When I worried that I wasn’t as smart as everyone else thought, this recitation calmed my soul.

          When in my thirties, I carried this litany (now worn and faded) as solace whenever I felt I failed as a wife, mother, daughter or sister. The dread of not measuring up to the expectations of my principals or peers wrapped me into doubts that eased if I chanted this invocation. 

          When in my forties, my father died. The world tilted. I faced one of my worst fears and survived. Somehow, carrying the little scrap of paper seem unnecessary. The words, permanently etched in memory, offered comfort and soothed my grief. 

          When in my fifties, my life narrowed down into the nightmares of my mother’s Huntington’s disease. Every day filled with uncertainties as I dealt with the horrific symptoms of this disorder. To be honest, I hid from many of my fears. I wasted energy running away from them. I forgot the power of permitting them “to pass over me and through me.” 

          Now I begin my sixties. And I need to carry these assurances with me once again. I’m printing them out on a crisply new piece of paper and folding them into my wallet. Although committed to memory forty years ago, I need them to be concretely within my grasp. I face a different challenge today as a madman dictates our political reality. I must not let his mental illness paralyze my ability to reason and resist.

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

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