"A Song in My Head"

          I woke up this morning singing a Beatle’s tune. Sometimes, and I don’t know why, a song plays in my head. We’ve all had it happen. A little ditty will float into our consciousness and linger there. Sometimes, it plays through once and disappears as quickly as it appeared. Other times, it accompanies us throughout our day, a theme to our emotional state.

        Today, “I’ll Follow the Sun” lilts in and out of my thoughts. I’m including the lyrics for those of you who may not know the tune. I remember singing this song every night as I rocked my son to sleep. I always sang him “sun” songs like “You Are My Sunshine,” and “Sunshine on My Shoulders” along with this Lennon and McCartney piece. My repertoire included other pieces like “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” and “Can’t Help Lovin’ Dat Man” from Showboat.
       Anyway, I hope my theme song from this morning plays all day long, since it’s a song I associate with a small head resting on my shoulder as I rock and sing.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“I’ll Follow the Sun”

Writer: LENNON, JOHN WINSTON / MCCARTNEY, PAUL JAMES

One day, you'll look

To see I've gone

But tomorrow may rain, so

I'll follow the sun

One day, you'll know

I was the one

But tomorrow may rain, so

I'll follow the sun

And now the time has come

And so, my love, I must go

And though I lose a friend

In the end you will know

Oh-oh-oh

One day, you'll find

That I have gone

But tomorrow may rain, so

I'll follow the sun

And now the time has come

And so, my love, I must go

And though I lose a friend

In the end you will know

Oh-oh-oh

One day, you'll find

That I have gone

But tomorrow may rain, so

I'll follow the sun

"Sharing Loss"

  
         The night of my father’s unexpected death, we gathered at my parents’ house in League City. I don’t know who suggested that we watch a movie together to take our minds off of our loss, but before I knew it, I was stretched out on the floor in the family room watching Jackie Chan and Owen Wilson in Shanghai Noon. It didn’t take long for us to burst into uncontrollable laughter at scene after scene.
         And in that raucous, rolling mirth and uncontrollable giggles nestled the first knowledge that we would recover from our unexpected loss. Grief, of course, shrouded us for months and months; yet, that first evening of laughter meant the world would go on. Our lives would change forever, but we’d find myriad reasons to smile and laugh again.
         Our personal grief entangled the next day with the September 11^th terrorist attacks. The television, on in the background as we dressed to go to the funeral home, suddenly caught my sister’s attention.
         “Did that plane just hit a building?” she asked.
         The surreal elements of our personal lives halted as we stood to watch the initial reports, before the second plane hit. We left the house and hurried to the appointment to make arrangements for Dad’s funeral, knowing immediately that the attack would affect our lives immediately.
         At the funeral home, the television ran in another room. The director’s phone calls to Fort Sam Houston Cemetery went unanswered. Mom, able to collect herself as she listened to the news, commented that all of Dad’s friends at the sheriff’s department would go on alert. She made an immediate decision not to have a viewing. We picked out an urn. The director finally reached the National Cemetery at Ft. Sam only to be told that we couldn’t schedule any plans until after the crisis had passed. Mom gave instructions for Dad’s cremation, and we all decided that David, Paul and I would drive back to San Antonio with his ashes. We’d schedule a service later.
         I’ve always admired my mother’s strength, but never more than that day. When she called the Department of Defense to inform them of Dad’s death, the young officer handling her call burst into tears. I sat on the floor, holding the checklist of numbers to be called, and listened as my mother consoled this young man. He had friends in the Pentagon.
         I marveled that my mother, so wrapped in her own loss, could take a moment to consider the shock and loss felt by a stranger.
          Over the years, I've learned the power of laughter. Maybe if people took a moment each day to giggle or grin, or to belly laugh until they cried, our world would hold a touch more optimism.

Karl and Edna Abrams July 1983

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
        
        
        
        
            
          

                                                                                                   

"Close Enough"

          Writing sometimes surprises me. I’ll stumble upon a topic one day, mull it over for a few hours or a few days; and when I finally get the words out onto the page, delight fills me. I celebrate when the right phrase paints the picture that’s in my mind. I mentally pat myself on my back and do a victory lap whenever the spirit of a poem holds true from beginning to ending. Occasionally, I’ll revisit an older piece of prose, or a poem written long ago, and feel satisfaction that this creation grew from within me.

         Then comes a block. The cursor keeps its metronome beat. It pulses in recrimination because I’ve summoned it to the page and left it hanging. The swirling, whirling words within me can’t find form or substance. An emotion vaporizes before I can make it solid. A thought teases me in a seductive lap dance then leaves me wanting. (That would work better  if I were a man!)

         Frustration, hesitation and perspiration often accompany the writer into the creative process. So when the sunlight contrasting with shadow plays across my vision, I long to create just the right description. I hunger for perfection as I grope for each phrase. My goal, however, to produce writing almost daily means I accept the concept of “close enough.” I embrace that as I learn my craft and fine tune my abilities; discrepancies will abound between that unflawed poem and my final draft.

         The art of writing teaches important lessons. I’ve learned to welcome imperfections in other aspects of my life. Each day, in essence, is a rough draft. As I fill the pages of my life, I don’t mind false starts, revisions or rewrites. I’m even happy when sometimes I don’t—quite—get—it—right. Close enough, but not perfect.  

 Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Sedona"

 

         When my father died so unexpectedly from a massive heart attack, my world titled. Everything I did and said seemed unbalanced and skewed. A few weeks after his death, the school district wanted me to go to training in Sedona, Arizona with a group of wonderful women, and I cried nightly because I couldn’t make any decisions. A phone call from one friend who was also going on the trip convinced me to come along.

         Sedona began my healing. Notice, I use the word “began” because recovering from grief takes years. I took the first steps to life without my father by boarding the flight from San Antonio to Phoenix. The trip there remains a blur in my memory, but I distinctly recall standing at the car rental kiosk with five other women, and none of them wanted to drive the minivan from Phoenix to Sedona. Being fall, darkness would accompany us on the drive for more than half the trek. Now, I’ve never minded driving, even to places I’ve never visited, but my mind felt cotton swaddled and addled half of the time. Perhaps that’s why I ended up driving? At any rate, I soon positioned myself behind the wheel with one friend as navigator.

         Our exit from Phoenix went without obstacles, slowed only by the five o’clock traffic common to most cities. Having driven many times in Houston, Phoenix’s highways seemed fairly easy to navigate. Before long, we zipped onto a wide open stretch of highway. I remember conversation flowing around me filled with chuckles and “remember when” scenarios. A sunset exploded across the western sky, and darkness swathed our car as we sped along. For endless miles, our isolated van passed no other vehicle. The highway had few lights, with exits creeping up unexpectedly. My navigator, listening to the chat from the back seat, missed the exit we needed to take, and the next one didn’t appear for another five or six miles. We looped around, took a left turn instead of a right, and briefly pondered the possibility of driving aimlessly up and down desert highways like some Twilight Zone characters. Eventually, we rolled into Sedona’s warm lights and found our motel.

         Snow and ice descended during the night. Not much by Arizona standards, but as a Texan, I felt uneasy as I moved behind the wheel of the rental. Taking things slow and easy, we made our way from our motel to the hotel hosting the workshop. The presenters crammed activities and information into us at warp speed, and by the end of the first day we each longed for the escape that shopping in this wonderful little town offered. We hit the specialty shops with enthusiasm. I longed to do a little hiking on some of the trails, but as the designated driver, I didn’t get to go that first day. By the end of the second day of training, I felt as though I’d explode if I didn’t get to walk to at least one of the famous vortexes of Sedona.

         When everyone else wanted to go see a movie, I opted to grab my camera case and head out on a trail that zigzagged beyond our motel. My spirit (numbed by so much grief and loss) found peace as I strolled along. I don’t know when I started crying. I don’t know when I stopped. I stayed out on the trail for over two hours, pausing when I needed to feel grounded. I took photographs of many of the views, yet I knew I couldn’t capture the healing energy that flooded through me.

         Grieving has taken on a new meaning over the last couple of years, for I’ve learned we can mourn for the living as they struggle through their final sorrows. Within the next few years, I will return to Sedona to walk, once again, the trails that eased my wounded soul.

 Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Meet June Cleaver"

 

        

          I watched Leave It to Beaver through the first runs, no TV Land for me. At the time, I saw nothing wrong with June Cleaver’s immaculate appearance each episode. After all, my own mother got up every day, put on make-up and styled her short hair. She never donned a pair of blue jeans, or wore flip flops or tennis shoes. Although she didn’t parade around the neighborhood with a string of pearls around her neck, she always dressed nicely. I don’t know if that’s just the way women presented themselves in public back then, or if it had more to do with the limitations of my mother’s wardrobe.

         As a woman working outside of the home, I’d skim out of panty hose and bra the moment the front door closed behind me. As I pulled off my bra, I pulled on a t-shirt. I never owned any cute tops to wear around the house.  Even in my slimmest days, I preferred shorts or pants with elastic around the waist. During the school year, my after work attire consisted of either the one pair of Levi’s I owned, cotton shorts from Wal-Mart, or sweat pants. The money I spent on clothing went to my work wardrobe. I rarely spent anything beyond the minimum to clothe myself for summers and after work.

         During this summer, I relied upon my old standbys. Most of my shorts and t-shirts date back four or five years. I figure I’ll get one more summer out of them. As the temperatures have dropped, I’ve rummaged through the closet and the old toy chest that rests at the foot of our bed. I have sweat pants that are obscenely faded and ragged, or I have my old “business casual” wardrobe from work—there is nothing in between.

         “You look like June Cleaver,” David commented the other day when he returned from work.

         I glanced in the mirror in disbelief. I wore brown tailored pants and a very nice print top. Without thinking, I’d pulled out the earrings and necklace I’d always worn with the outfit. The drill of throwing on at least a little mascara, blush, and lipstick remains part of my morning routine, and my new short haircut always looks “spiffy.”

         I laughed at David’s comment, but realized that I have stepped into the hausfrau role effortlessly. And, if I have to be compared to a TV mom, I’d rather it be June Cleaver than Rosanne!    

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman