"Hankies"

          A box of Kleenex can survive in our house for six months, sometimes even a year. Not because we never get colds or fight allergies, but because we use old fashioned handkerchiefs. These little square pieces of cloth decorated my childhood. My little purse, clutched in my hands as I sat in the church pew, contained a rosary, a nickel for the offering basket, and a lacy handkerchief. Easter baskets often included an embroidered square that I folded neatly next to my white gloves, resting both treasures in my top drawer along with my Troll dolls and Rat Finks.

lace

embroidered

         My father always carried white handkerchiefs, first during his Air Force years, and later as a deputy sheriff. I practiced my skills with the iron using his hankies, which puckered into tight, crinkled balls from the dryer’s heat. Each handkerchief required sprinkles of water, a hot iron set at cotton, and rhythmic back and forth pressure to smooth them wrinkle free. I remember pressing out the rumples, and then folding the fabric in half. Using the tip of my iron, I’d set creases, fold again, crease again until each handkerchief stacked neatly into a regimented pile. The television kept me company during this chore, and I found it therapeutic in its repetition. I remember the pride I felt when my mother let me iron the sheets, and when I graduated to doing more complicated shirts and dresses, I felt honored with the trust this chore represented.

Dad's practical white;
Mom's new stripes

         My mother inherited Dad’s handkerchiefs. When she resided in an assisted living facility, she’d leave one here and another there. Some found their way back to her apartment because the aids trailed after her and swept them from the ground when she dropped them. Many never found their way home, so within a couple of months I raided her stash of new hankies that Dad had purchased, but never used. Before she misplaced all of his handkerchiefs, I decided to buy new ones just for Mom. It took me a while, but eventually I located nice sets at Kohl’s.

         Hankies fit Mom’s needs better than tissues. When her neurologist tried a new medication on her a few years ago, she drooled continuously. A wimpy tissue would never have absorbed her output! Hankies also offer a level of softness superior to tissues. Mom can blow her nose all day when she has a cold and never come out looking lie Rudolph. In a pinch, we’ve grabbed a handkerchief for a rag to sop up spills as well as using them instead of paper napkins.

         Recently, I’ve found myself tucking one of Dad’s hankies into my pocket or purse as I head out the door. I found comfort in clutching these soft squares of cloth as I sat through three funerals this winter. In a way, I’m carrying a part of my father with me in times of great sorrow. Within this society of disposable tissues, mops, dusters, and diapers the resilience of my father’s handkerchief symbolizes the continuity of life and traditions, even one as small as a hankie.   

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Kirk or Picard?"

 

            I love the entire Star Trek franchise. Only nine when the first series debuted, I recall propping up my head against a stack of pillows, my favorite blanket in hand, to watch the adventures of the Enterprise and her crew. My sister’s love for Chekov mystified me as Spock captured my attention with his devotion to logic and science. I dismissed the antics of the plastic characters in Lost in Space while I longed to join the journey “to boldly go where no man has gone before.”

            The rash and brash cockiness of James T. Kirk hooked me from the first episode. I loved his assertive leadership and boasting attitude. A Cavalier risk-taker, Kirk’s impetuousness influenced my playground spunk. I emulated his swagger in mock battles. I mimicked his self-confidence as I bossed other kids around. I fought against “aliens” and outwitted opponents with a mixture of wit, charm, and arrogance that guaranteed my popularity in the neighborhood. Small for my age, I learned from Kirk that acting first and thinking later edged my ability to hold my own among the older kids. With flailing fists or whipping jump rope, my brazen attacks against villains may have landed me in trouble with my parents, but no one messed with Lizzy during my Captain Kirk phase.

            As an adult, a different captain of the Enterprise captured my interest. Star Trek: The Next Generation aired its first episode in 1987 with Jean-Luc Picard in charge. This captain didn’t have Kirk’s devil-may-care defiance. Picard, who learned from his youthful mistakes, provided a rational and diplomatic leader for his crew. He often displayed his boldness with subtle nuances that appealed to my grown-up Lizzy. Picard liked music, and art, and books. He understood consequences to his actions. He tried to think first and then act, very different from my childhood idol, Kirk. Picard entered my life when I had matured into relying upon negotiation to solve playground problems. His tact and discretion became traits I admired and wished, sometimes desperately, to claim as my own.

            So when the question arises, as it inevitably does in Geek conversations, “Which captain of the Enterprise is better, Kirk or Picard?” I have my reasons for loving both. The child in me clings to Kirk with his youth and energy while the adult in me would love to sit and sip Earl Grey, hot, with Jean-Luc.   

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"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