"Puddle Reflections"

           Rain pounded our roof a couple of nights ago with a rhythmic beat that lulled me into a deeper sleep. Our parched earth must have sighed in relief as the water fell. At first, the soil sucked the moisture below the surface, a dry sponge soaking in every drop. As the rainfall continued, the water began to pool into puddles. With morning light, small mirrors decorated the ground. These miniature ponds delighted me as they symbolized satisfaction. Our Mother’s thirst sated after months of want.

          One small puddle near the back door, which translates into muddy paw prints on my carpet, made me smile instead of groan. A little mud after our months of drought seems a small price to pay. I keep my fingers crossed that the grass that once grew in this spot returns with the spring (and possibly more rain.)

           Nature offers her interpretation of sky and leaf. The littlest things life provides, like unexpected puddles of rain, refresh a flagging spirit. The promise of Spring rests with each pooled drop.

         The sky and trees reflected by the shallow rainwater brought me joy. The night's storm left the leaves shimmering and clean, a natural baptism. The inches of water resting upon our Mother represents rebirth in the weeks to come.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Gonzales, Texas"

 

Gonzales County Courthouse (1894-1896)
www.usda.gove

        
          For years, we drove from our home in San Antonio to my sister’s home in Bay City, passing through the quaint town square of Gonzales. Every time we slowed through this small town’s streets, we promised ourselves that we’d stop and check out the shops and historical sites. Once the trip to Bay City became too long for Mom, we started using Gonzales as a midway meeting point. My sister, mother and I decided after one rendezvous that we really needed to spend an entire weekend there.

Carriage House Belle Oaks Inn Bed and Breakfast
www.belleoaksionn..com

         A little research led us to the Belle Oaks Inn Bed and Breakfast. This splendid home, converted into a B & B by some Aggie alumni, offered a carriage house remodeled into living room, small kitchen, and two bedrooms and bathrooms weekend paradise. A mother-daughter weekend rarely happened for the three of us, so this memory remains one that I enjoy pulling out and reliving.

         Mom could still walk at this point, but she used a walker for longer distances. She could manage going from the carriage house to the main house for breakfast every morning, and the beautiful pool, gardens, and patios didn’t challenge her too much. I think we visited every store along the square, and we discovered a few local restaurants with fantastic food. However, at the end of each day we pulled into the Dairy Queen near our B & B to order a chocolate milkshake for Mom and MooLattes for Paula and me. The locals greeted us as though we’d lived in the area our entire lives.

         The respite from this brief visit lingered in my mind, and every time I started feeling grumpy or stressed, I’d remember the lazy days in the pool and the genteel grandeur of this wonderful place. It didn’t take long before I convinced David to take me back to Belle Oaks, and Gonzales, for a much needed anniversary escape.

         With our stay, we booked the Riata room in the main house instead of the Carriage House. We spent idle hours during the first evening lounging on the upstairs balcony and playing in the pool. The next morning, we donned our running shoes and took off on the “driving tour” on foot! We walked up and down streets carefully marked by the town to view splendid homes built in the late 1800's and early 1900's. With camera in hand, we snapped shots of the County Courthouse and local churches as we strolled along.

www.belleoaksinn.com

         We haven’t managed to return to Gonzales, but I think fondly of this oasis of rest situated just a short drive from home. I believe I’ve begun to think of it as an emergency haven, like our cabin in Leakey, that I can travel to when I need to recharge.  

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman            

"A Rusted Tub"

 

The Burren Perfumery, County Clare, Ireland--September 2010

         The Burren Perfumery snuggles at the end of a winding road used more by cattle than cars. Even at the end of the flowering season, its gardens hold delightful surprises for the idle traveler. Somehow, among the endless expanse of rock, nature takes root with riotous blossoms, feathery ferns, and ivy clinging to mortar and bark.   

          A narrow footpath takes the wanderer into sunshine standing shoulder high. To the right, the soft morning shadows shelter fern precariously clinging to stone.

           Meandering leads to an old rusted bathtub filled with blossoms and promises. I wonder about bathing in flowers and moonbeams in this mystical land.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"The Art of Waiting"

 

Subliminal artwork on watching your time?
David Chapman, artist

         Punctual people spend a lot of time waiting. I haven’t figured out yet why doctor’s offices and dental office receptionists state firmly, “Arrive ten to fifteen minutes before your appointment” when they know the schedule consistently runs at least half-an-hour late. Because I don’t want to be the cause of any inconvenience, I arrive promptly at the assigned moment where I then sit and wait for almost an hour.
         Punctual people wait on friends and family. We arrive at the time designated on the invitation for a party and end up setting up tables, icing birthday cakes, or running a vacuum as the host and hostess (known for their lackadaisical approach to everything) takes a quick shower. They always look bemused as they ask, “Would you mind?” Although tempted to say, “Yes. I’m a guest, not a maid,” I’ve always bit my tongue and pitched in to get the final preparations complete for the guests who arrive “fashionably late.”
         Punctual people arrive at mandatory meetings and get the choice seats because the room waits in emptiness. I always hated the principal who delayed starting a meeting until the majority of the faculty sauntered into the cafeteria or library. My favorite administrator demanded butts in seats at a certain time, started her meetings at precisely that second, and had another administrator note down who strolled in late. Many of my peers hated her approach because they felt she wasn’t treating them with “respect.” I never could figure out how coming to a meeting five or ten minutes late (or later) should call for anything other than a reprimand.

         Punctual people learn coping strategies quickly. My husband, the only punctual child in his family, spent plenty of time sitting in the car while he waited for the rest of his family to show up. He sang songs to himself, wrote lyrics in his head, and perfected his daydreaming technique. I’m certain this practice makes him a better artist today. Once I knew which friends or family members dallied, I learned to bring along a book. I don’t know how many times I’ve pulled up in front of someone’s house, on time, and had to wait. By escaping into a paperback, I turn a possibly stressful situation into something pleasurable.
         Punctual people find other punctual people. It doesn’t take long for someone like me to cultivate friendships with other people who respect time. I realize that people who run late can be on time when it’s important to them. Once I know that their tardiness is a general disrespect that they hold towards other people, I give myself permission to pull away from these individuals. When I discover that a person even uses time as a means of controlling and manipulating me, I begin avoiding invitations or events with this person.
         Punctual people call on the rare events when we do run late. At work, I’d email my administrator if I had a conflict with her meeting with the specific reason for my tardiness. If I’m running late to rendezvous with a friend for drinks or dinner, I call or text immediately and give an accurate ETA. If I get stuck in traffic, the electricity goes out, or the dog throws up on my outfit, I take a moment out of my time to notify the person who will end up waiting on me. I cannot even begin to count the number of times someone hasn’t shown up at the appointed time and not bothered to call. I’d like the option of saying, “Hey, let’s just forget it! Maybe we’ll get together another day.” Instead, I find myself sitting on the edge of the couch in my Sunday best waiting, waiting, waiting.
         Punctual people get labeled as “Type A” and uptight, but in reality we simply have manners. We’re able to put the needs of others first. We respect their time as well as our own.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
             
  

"Jane Eyre-Rewrite?"

          

        I fell in love with Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre when Mrs. Smith, my sophomore English teacher, assigned the novel to the girls in our class (the boys read Shane). I soaked in every detail of Jane and Rochester’s romance. The twists of fate that landed Rochester in to a foolish and destructive marriage with a madwoman appealed to my teenaged heart. I identified with young Jane’s rebellious indignation. A part of me felt sorrow that discipline and firm instruction at Lowood School distilled the spunk out of youthful Jane and left her a primly proper governess who bordered on being boring. Although I understood the contrast between Jane’s purity and good heart to the madwoman in the attic, I pondered the depth of Rochester’s devotion to Jane.

         I found myself mentally rewriting a few scenes in the book, even from the very first reading. I made Jane less subservient and less timid. By the time I started teaching the novel, I imagined wonderful scenes between Rochester and Jane that—ahem, fleshed out their relationship beyond Jane pining from the security of a curtained window seat.

         In my revision, Jane doesn’t run away from Thornfield Hall at all. She never stumbles into the Rivers’ household to receive the coldly practical proposal from St. John. Instead, I visualized a wonderfully sensual scene where the prudishly proper Jane pulls Rochester into her bedroom after discovering the truth about the real Mrs. Rochester. In my version, she lives in sinful lust with the man she loves.

         I know, of course, that Jean Rhys’ The Wide Sargasso Sea delves into the passionate and youthful Rochester, but I’ve often wondered if other fans of Jane Eyre imagine different scenes and events, or if it’s just me.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman