Tuesday, May 24, 2022

"Our Children Kill Each Other"




tears well in our eyes   
indignation puffs us full   
of righteousness   
at children carrying weapons   
we cry in dismay   
at cold-hearted killers   
living desperate lives in disparate lands   
far from our safe homes   
children as soldiers with an arsenal of death   
not ours   
not our responsibility   

tears well in our eyes   
as we cling to the Second Amendment   
our right to arm our children   
with hatred   
camouflaged in mistrust      
we cultivate our subtext of fear   
creating cold-hearted killers   
within our own homes   
children as soldiers with an arsenal of death   
yet not ours   
nor our responsibility   

tears well in our eyes   
disbelief sucker punches us again   
as our children kill each other   
questions, finger pointing,  and the blame game resumes   
but nothing changes   
while the new order of horror   
nurtures cold-hearted killers   
within our own homes   
children as soldiers with an arsenal of death   
ours   
our responsibility  
   

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman








Tuesday, March 15, 2022

“Run Silent”

 

            In the past, my need to fill the page whenever tragedy struck either close to home or in distant locations meant my thoughts on everything turned up in my blog. Then the January 6th attack on the United States Capitol broke something in me. COVID-19 exploded in the homes of both family and friends, and I only recorded its impact in my personal journal, with no desire to blog again. The vital lifeline blogging provided during Mom’s endless battle with Huntington’s disease became less necessary. I didn’t feel the need to write about the troubles that everyone around me also experienced firsthand.

            On February 24th, Russia began a brutal attack on Ukraine. I retreated into books and spent massive hours raking leaves and hauling rocks from our back yard to the front. Our television sets normally remain silent during the day, and my preference to read the news over seeing and hearing it means usually our home runs silent for the majority of each day. Yet, this today the news drives my morning, as it has daily since the war began.

            Helplessness accompanies me as I toil in my yards. Spring’s promise of rebirth hides under the leaves. As I clear each area, green draws my eyes to life’s eternal potential. I treasure my safe shelter.

 

Escaping war news


Hauling rocks, raking leaves 


Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman


Friday, February 18, 2022

“A Forgotten Load

 

            Upon entering the laundry room this morning, dismay accompanied me as I noted unfolded towels in the basket. I’d totally forgotten to fold them on Wednesday! Panic knocked my pulse up a beat as I shot a glance at the washer to see if I’d left a load of wet clothes in the machine. I don’t do this often, but there’s nothing worse than damp clothes sitting for several days. Fortunately, the drum gleamed in emptiness. My next response, of course, was to check the dryer for a load. Today, a set of sheets tangled inside—dried. What a relief! Occasionally, I’ve left wet clothes in both appliances, which ripples down into a wash-redo.  
            I take comfort in the fact that many loads of laundry remain forgotten by other people. My lapse in memory doesn’t indicate anything more serious than absent-mindedness caused by a busy day or interruption in routine. The proof for the commonality of forgotten loads rests with the option on all machines: FRESHEN UP.
 


Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman    

 

Thursday, February 17, 2022

“Morning Musings”


Deer in the morning at the park





            Yesterday’s misty gloom slicked the roads and sidewalks, making me hesitant to venture outside. However, today’s glorious sunshine enticed me from bed by 8 AM.  I couldn’t wait to tie on my Skechers and head for the park. I can now actually walk from my house to the park, do the hiking loop there, and return home without a single nag from my knee. My snail’s pace slowness means joggers on the trail loop me, but every step I take makes me sing, “Victory!”



My son and nephew in 1988


Feeding the ducks in 1988















            With today’s trek, my mind slipped back to all of the times we’ve enjoyed our local park. Passing the mother with her pre-school kids playing on the equipment shot me back to walking my son to the park in his red, wooden wagon. As I looped around the pond, ducks and geese stirred to see if I carried any treats with me. The park now has trails that are paved or graveled in areas that in the past bore feet hardened tracks. When I stood atop the dam today, I saw the past views overlaid with the present.

            Gratitude fills me that we have this lovely place to hike. I love that the playgrounds and baseball and soccer fields get daily use. Disc golf enthusiasts and dog walkers join in with those who fish in the lake. The park’s past, present, and future mingle in my mind as I walked today.


Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman




Spring wildflowers at the park



    

Tuesday, February 15, 2022

“Losing Louise”

Aunt Louise in 1949!


            Every few months, I contacted my Aunt Louise. Sometimes it’s a quick letter posted with a nice card. Most of the time, it’s a phone call. If there’s any kind of weather system heading to any corner of Texas, she’d initiate the contact to make certain none of her Texas relatives had blown or floated away. I often called her around Mom’s birthday in January and her own birthday in July. Over the past year, my calls to Aunt Louise became a series of messages left on her answering machine. Sometimes it was full, but most of the time I could leave requests that she call me. Around her birthday, I decided to send a letter because I worried about her health as she was 94. When the letter came back with addressee unknown, I decided to contact my cousin in Illinois since he often visited Aunt Louise. My aunt lived in a retirement area that allowed her to move from independent living in an apartment to assisted living and nursing care if needed. I thought she must have shifted to a higher care facility without anyone contacting me.

            Reaching my cousin, though, proved difficult. His landline, in a home he’d lived in for more than sixty years, was disconnected. I did a quick online search and found his obituary for August 2020. I later learned he died of COVID-19.  I tracked down his son, who I’ve not seen since we were very young children, to learn that he could access Aunt Louise’s information once he finished moving into his dad’s home. This was during the summer of 2021, and I let it ride because grief laced every word my cousin spoke. He assured me that he’d get Aunt Louise’s new contact information to me.

            In December, I received a phone call from someone I didn’t know. He stated that he’s the executor of Aunt Louise’s estate, and she’d died in November. He asked for my email information and cell number, which I gave him. He requested contact information for my siblings, too. He sent a few emails with information on the VA cemetery and the estate sale he’s having next week. Then, a couple of weeks ago, I received an anxious call from my cousin’s daughter because she hadn’t reached Aunt Louise and hit a block when talking with the nursing home personnel. She only had my number because I’d left it with her brother. She had more frequent contact with my aunt and was upset because no one from the facility had contacted her about Aunt Louise’s death. As she was executor of the estate, she was really worried when I told her someone else had contacted me! I learned quickly that she’s a focused and fiercely loyal advocate for Aunt Louise. She made phone calls and sent emails, demanded to see the will that this other man claimed to have, and let me know that he’s legitimate.  She let me know that Aunt Louise left money in a trust, but I worry more about tracking down any photographs and personal items that found their way to storage. This weekend, there will be a sale of her household goods, and the executor of her estate assured me that he’d hunt for family photographs and send them on to me. We have so little from Mom’s childhood and teen years because she spent nine years in foster care. Maybe Aunt Louise had a box of memories and mementos that will allow us to find both her and Mom again.

 

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman