"The Puzzle Piece"

 

            The puzzle pieces, dumped unceremoniously upon the dining room table, hide a magic surprise. I pick carefully through the pile, categorizing pieces by color, sliding edges to the side. Puzzles require thinking inside the box, so establishing borders comes first. Straight lines and matching designs group and regroup until I form pairs and short chains. Once the boundaries hold firm, the real work begins. My hands dance through the choreography: pick up, turn, twist, match, fit. Again and again until out of chaos emerges the picture. Gestalt.
          Then disassembly begins. Tearing down the whole back into the individual bits, I bend and separate until chaos piles again on the tabletop. Haphazardly, I swipe everything back into the box, not noticing a lone piece hiding under the edge of a book. Now the puzzle, unknown to me, loses its wholeness. The lone piece longs for reunification. When I pull another puzzle out of its box and spill it across the table, the hidden part slips into the mound, trying to belong where it no longer fits.
            The piece carries similar colors and shapes to this new picture. I don’t notice the subtle differences each time I try to find a place for it. I pick it up, scrutinizing it meticulously as I try to find a mate. Near matches frustrate me as I try to force the bit into belonging. I even resort to pounding it with my fist before casting it aside. I pick up my rhythm once the piece sits in isolation, an outcast within the group. Eventually, the picture sits in completeness upon my table. My eyes draw over to the castaway that caused me so much irritation, and in shame I realize my mistake. Picking up the stray piece, I recall the picture of the last puzzle I’d assembled. I go directly to my shelved boxes, pluck open the correct box, and return the piece to its home.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"The Floating Teacher"

 

My job application photo- 1981

            The first three years of my career in education, I “floated.” The term, floating, is a misnomer. The word generates a cartoon image of this cherub-faced teacher drifting through the hallways like a helium balloon, gently tethered to the educational world by colorful hair ribbons and neon shoe strings. Instead, the teacher descends into the lowest level of Dante’s Inferno. The phrase, "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here” took on a new meaning as I struggled to find my footing as a new teacher while trying not to disturb or disrupt the other teachers forced to share their rooms with me.

            One hour of the day, I used the room of Ms. H, my wonderful mentor and friend. I did my student teaching under the guidance of this enthusiastic teacher, so she welcomed me into her room with open arms. She found space in her closets for me to store my personal belongings and kept me sane whenever I broke into frustrated tears.

           The second hour of the day, my class and I met in Mr. M’s classroom. This tyrannical man refused to leave the room because he couldn’t trust me, a first year teacher, to control my twelve-year-old students. He threw a fit one rainy day when a couple of boys tracked mud into the room. Face red and veins bulging, he forced the boys to crawl on their hands and knees to pick up each clump. After class, he stormed out of the room to file a complaint with the principal that my students were too messy. Since clods of mud dotted the entire hallway between his room and the office, his gripe went unheeded. However, his actions made me and my students feel horribly unwelcome in his classroom. I held my breath each and every day that something would set him off. One day during the first few weeks of school, he left the room long enough for me to explain to my students that I desperately needed their help and support. This group of students remains lodged in my memory as the best class that ever lived.  

            A third teacher, Ms. W fluctuated from day-to-day on how much she welcomed me or my kids into her room. I believe she hated the idea of someone invading her space. Teachers become very territorial about their rooms. They bring in little pieces of themselves and their home lives—pictures of their pets and children, favorite knickknacks or gifts from previous students, or saved projects and sample work placed on  special display. Sharing space with an “outsider” creates tension even if the other person tries to be as invisible as possible. Eventually, Ms. W realized I had a wicked sense of humor, and we became friends.

I ended my day at the room of Ms. T, a lovely Southern lady. More than thirty years later, I still treasure the open friendship she gave me from the moment I entered her room. She welcomed my students with all of their little quirks into her space with open arms. Sometimes I watched her instruct her classes and quickly learned the value of a good, skilled teacher.

            Condemning the first year teacher to roam the hallways either builds character or leads to burn-out. I grew determined to capture my own classroom, so I kept a smile on my face and cried or complained to the co-workers I learned would keep my woe private. When I finally received my own classroom, I vowed to welcome any “floating” teacher. I volunteered each year to have any of the roaming teachers in my room, and I made certain I cleared closet space and drawer space for that teacher. Supplies like tape, paper clips, and staplers remained unlocked and available (some of the teachers actually locked their supplies away, so I had to carry those along with the classroom set of books from room to room). I never placed tape on the floor to mark where the desks should line-up, as one teacher had done, and I never yelled at the other teacher’s students. I hope that all of those “floating” teachers felt relief and welcome whenever they entered our room.  

   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"New Voyages"

 

David Chapman--artist

         I never want to spend my life fretting over the words never said, or the acts never completed. The changes in our lives during this last year bring home to me the importance of giving our best to those we love. Sometimes, I get so caught up in the minutiae of a situation that I bog everyone else down. “The Big Picture” always calls for taking risks and believing with heart over head. That outlook proves difficult for my often straight column approach to life, but whenever I’ve chosen my heart, I’ve never gone in the wrong direction. Whenever I push away my heart, anxiety suffocates me. Taking a breath, eating a meal, and sleeping at night all become impossible.

My head analysis tells me the “right” decisions, the cautious choices that assure safe passage across rough seas. My head won’t even weigh anchor if the voyage looks too dangerous.  The head must have life boats in tip-top condition. It makes certain there are enough jackets available for unexpected passengers. It plots my route and stays true to my course. But no matter how carefully my head plans for every exigency, a tidal wave broadsides me, flips my vessel over, and makes life boats and life jackets useless.

         My head, you see, doesn’t calculate for the totally unpredictable event. It cannot. That’s the heart’s job. The heart latches onto dreams and nightmares. The heart foresees the tsunami and still sets sail. The heart accepts risk because life’s random. That capriciousness doesn’t dissuade the heart. The heart believes.

         In the rough seas I now traverse, my heart speaks strongly to me. Believe. Believe. Believe. And so I trust my decisions. The moment I listen to the murmuring song of my heart, the decisions I must make ring true and clear. The head will step forward eventually. It will find the means of making the dreams a reality. By singing along with the heart, the voyage will prove challenging, but not impossible.    

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman             

"My Favorite Childhood Stars"

 

         When I lived in New Jersey and Delaware as a child, every afternoon found me stretched out on the floor, my favorite blanket cuddling me in a cocoon as I watched Sally Star introduce episodes of Popeye and The Three Stooges. Sally Star’s blonde ponytail nestled under her white cowgirl hat. Her broad smile and musical voice lured me to the television while her fringed outfit made me long for my own cowgirl duds.

         Lorenzo and Friends entertained me during my early childhood, too. The program always started the same way, with the lead actor sitting before his mirror, talking to the audience as he applied his makeup. I sat transfixed in amazement as I watched this man transform into the ever silent Lorenzo. Of course Shari Lewis drew me into her wonderful world, too. I loved the quick patter between her and Lamb Chop. My sister explained the art of ventriloquism to me, but I never saw Shari Lewis’s lips move, so I vehemently argued that Lamb Chop and Charlie Horse spoke on their own.

         Once my family moved to San Antonio, Captain Gus became my guide through cartoons. Captain Gus’s bold red mustache and cheery, “Ahoy, Mateys!” or “Ba Ding Bing!” always made me smile. Everyone looked forward to a chance to sit on his boat to watch Popeye, or Bugs Bunny, or Looney Toon. I loved my afternoon escape each day. The warm hearted Captain and the wonderful humor of the cartoons provided entertainment while I ate my after school snack.

         These “stars” from my childhood either started my mornings with their perky happiness or helped me unwind after a day at school. Their goal wasn’t to educate me as much as to entertain me, and I’m thankful for the role they played in my youth.  

          

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Open House"

                                      

           

Dad's "stay-cation" in League City-1990s

           My parents didn’t earn much money when I was young. Not long before Dad died, he found his final military paycheck stub sandwiched between old tax forms. Imagine his amazement when he viewed a monthly income of just over $500. Somehow, my parents never missed a mortgage payment, car payment, or utility bill. They managed to keep three children well fed and well dressed. Of course, my parents invented the stay at home vacation. We never travelled too far from home in order to avoid hotel or motel bills. All of us looked forward to Dad’s vacation time because we got to eat out three meals a day. We visited the missions, toured the zoo, explored Natural Bridge Caverns, and discovered nearby towns like Wimberley or Fredericksburg. My parents showed their creativity in other ways. One of my favorites? Open House Sundays! New home builders often showed homes and offered cookies and Kool-Aid. Sometimes, free hotdogs with all the trimmings lured us into new neighborhoods. I loved touring the model homes. In a way, I felt like I entered giant doll houses. We’d make up stories about the families that “lived” in these homes as we visited imaginary couples and their children. Through all of the “in town” vacations and Sunday Open Houses, I never realized these enabled my parents to give us nearly free outings. Instead, I saw these activities as fun and amusing. To this day, I still love taking day trips to small Texas towns. I don’t do Open Houses on Sunday afternoons, but I enjoy watching home improvement and decorating marathon shows. They are my pot roasts and mashed potatoes!

 

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman