"Summer Games: Red Rover"

             Our quarters at Dover A.F.B. lent itself to play. Laid out in the pattern of a giant U, base housing had a row of attached houses to the right, center, and left. The front doors and yards of the houses faced outside the U, and we rarely played in that area where the perfectly clipped and edged lawns and pristine white sidewalks reminded us that the families enlisted in the military along with their fathers and mothers. The back doors of our homes dumped into a common play area. Some families, like us, put up fences around their yards for their dogs. Other families kept their back yards open to the field. A huge black topped parking lot filled the cup of the U and provided not only a slot for the family car, but also the perfect roller skating and skate boarding surface. Beyond the parking lot, toward the center was The Field.
            In this field, we played together on endless summer nights. Roaming the area like a pack of stray dogs, all the kids from our section shifted in play from football to baseball to games like “Crack the Whip” and “Mother, May I?” Some evenings, when we gathered a large enough group after dinner, we’d divide into two teams to play “Red Rover.”
            “Red Rover” intimidated me. My pixie sized body rarely broke through the linked hands, meaning I became captured round after round.  The other team never failed to get delight in watching my futile attempt. Every time they sang, “Red Rover, Red Rover, send Lizzy right over!” I’d critically analyze the opposing line for the weakest link. My heart pounded, my breathing picked up, and my little scrawny legs pumped furiously as I flew across the distance to fling myself at the selected spot. I tried torqueing my body at the last second to add force to my plunge, but it never mattered.  The hands never broke free. I’d hang like a wet rag, winded and ashamed while guffaws and catcalls erupted from both teams.
            I learned strategy and tenacity from playing “Red Rover” because I didn’t give up. I could have opted out of this game, retreated to the safety of home and a piece of Mom’s fresh baked pound cake. Or I could have pretended I wanted to play on the slides and swings with the other younger kids. Something in my personality drew me into this challenge, and the humiliation of defeat after defeat never swayed me from my desire to play. Perhaps all of these summer games of childhood served more purpose than keeping us out from underfoot at home. I learned teamwork, tactical planning, perseverance, and doggedness. I tasted victory and survived loss—all of these elements necessary in maneuvering through adulthood’s life games.



Me STANDING between my younger cousin 
and my sitting Aunt Louise


Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Summer Games: Mother May I?"

             By three o’clock each day, the temperature climbed to triple digits, bubbling the street and immobilizing all. Birds searched out bird baths, backyard ponds, or lazy sprinklers to find relief from summer’s relentless boil. In our neighborhood, the kids retreated into our home during the hottest part of the day. We pulled out worn decks of cards and played War or Concentration. Clue and Scrabble filled many hot afternoons. Sometimes, we stretched out limp and liquid on blankets under the sycamore out back, transistors tuned to KTSA, and Mom’s colorful Tupperware glasses topped with cherry Kool-Aid sitting within easy reach. The slightest whiff of a breeze tickled against our skin, carrying a hint of evening’s promised respite from our Texas humidity. Often the Wiggle Worm chased us madly around the yard, or we dared fate with the Slip-n-Slide. Everyone scattered by dinner time with pledges to regroup at seven after the temperature eased from broil to simmer.

            Early evenings found everyone back in our front yard, a melting pot of kids united for the purpose of enjoying evening entertainment. The eldest kids rock-paper-scissorred to determine the first leader, and then preformed a second round to establish the game. When “Mother, May I?” rang out, I always danced with pleasure for this contest didn’t rely on physical prowess to win! My slight stature hindered me in many games we played, but in this activity I stood equal to my taller, brawnier, and older peers.
            All of us lined up at the edge of our driveway, facing the leader—“Mother,” who stood across the wide lawn in the palm tree’s shadow. One by one, “Mother” called a name and instructions in a sing-song, “Kelllll—leeeee, give me three giant steps!”
            The expected response in order to move forward? “Mother, may I?”
            Sometimes “Mother” granted the request. One by one the players edged closer with giant steps, scissor cuts, baby steps, or frog leaps. Sometimes, “Mother” denied movement, or kept changing the instructions in an effort to confuse us into forgetting our polite, “Mother, may I?” If you forgot the question, the penalty meant returning to the driveway and starting all over again. The goal, of course, was to reach “Mother” and take control of the game. I learned through the years to keep my movements exact, my voice small, and to creep slowly forward while others diverted “Mother’s” attention with heated debate or bold coup attempts.  Once I sidled close enough to “Mother” to take flight, I tagged my way to victory. Usually, we’d while away the early evening toiling at this game until nightfall provided the cover and coolness we needed for hide-n-seek.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Summer Games: Crack the Whip"

  

            The line snakes across the front yard, slithering slowly at first. The leader picks up speed, tugging the line left, pulling suddenly to the right, wrapping quickly into a tight circle and then yanking forward at a full run. Little feet push to keep up the mad pace, fingers painfully vised hand-to-hand, fighting to stay clasped. A whip to the right and feet leave the ground, the last three in line somersaulting into a jumbled dog pile. The leader, powered by an adrenaline rush, darts now. She spins to the second in line, grasps with both of her hands, and twists. She uses her momentum to crack her whip one more time. The tail breaks off with explosive yelps as the leader laps the yard in victory.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Theme Song"

             Recently, I’ve noted several friends refer to their “theme song.” They have one special melody or lyric that harmonizes with significant events in their lives. I’ve tried to think of my one special piece, but instead I hum out tunes from different periods of my life. In high school, it was Elton John’s “Daniel” playing on my 8-track. In college, I remember singing “Some Day Soon” by Firefall when I studied. After I got married, my music mixed with David’s—Eagles, Beatles, Heart, Billy Joel, Kansas, Yes, Rush. I didn’t listen to any one particular group, let alone have a “theme song” that represented my life at that time.

            The 80s blurred by with us searching out new sounds to counter the airwaves’ disco drone. Always a classical music lover, I remember listening at night to a local station that rasped, gasped, and hissed with poor reception; but I didn’t care. I discovered Jazz during these years, and I revisited all the big bands my parents introduced to me as a child. Never having much money during the early years of our marriage, we carefully picked each album we purchased. By the time our son turned two, he expressed a liking to many of the soundtracks for his favorite movies. We had the music from Beetlejuice, Mary Poppins, and half a dozen Disney animated films providing the beep and the bop to our road trips. Out of all of the songs, I never thought of one, though, as my theme.

            Decades merge with a multitude of musicians flavoring my life. Millions of words from lyrics spice up my thoughts at any given point in time, and I’ll sing a refrain or two out of the blue. I have no new favorite song at the moment that makes me think, “This is me!”  I keep waiting for a piece to tug at my heart or make me wanna dance. In the meantime, I wonder about everyone else out there. What is your special song? What makes it special for you?   

 

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Pet Peeves"

            In August of 2011, I decided to generate a list of the top ten behaviors that irk me—just because. It AMAZES me that not a single pet peeve has changed all of these years later!  I haven’t ordered my list in any way. I wonder, though, if any of you also share the same irritants. Feel free to add to my list with your comments!

I hate it when people:

 
greet me like I’m a long lost relative with effusive hugs when  I know it’s all for show

 

agree to be at a certain place at a certain time, show up late (or not at all) and then act annoyed because I’m upset 


swear (usually in front of other people) that they’ll gladly help, and then cancel when it’s too late for me to line up someone else 

preface their criticisms with, “It’s nothing personal, but . . .” and then blast me with a long list of very personal things they’d like me to change

 

dump their problems on me and never offer a reciprocal dumping of my woes 

expect me to be a good person at all times (loving, generous, thoughtful, forgiving) while they can treat me with nastiness 

deny me my right to speak my views because I’m too different from them; yet want me to listen without rebuttal to their diatribes   

preach to the choir (a favorite in educational circles). If you have a problem with something someone says/does, speak privately and directly to that person 

brag about their lives in an effort to exclude me from it 

know what is right; yet choose to do wrong 

2011 Me!

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman