"Tiny Houses"

Our "Tiny House" in Leakey, Texas

          Recently, a friend brought little, itty-bitty houses to my attention through various postings on Facebook. These tiny houses, and their inhabitants, fascinate me. The first video I watched chronicled a family of three who downsized into hundreds of square feet. Since then, I’ve viewed several other videos on individuals and families making the decision to “Simplify, simplify.” I envy these people who’ve somehow pulled away from their attachments to belongings. I don’t hoard, but I do have collections. Every item carries a specific memory, and although logic tells me that the memory won’t fade if I donate the item, my heart feels otherwise. So when I see others scale down their possessions to simple necessities, I feel awe. I don’t like to think that I define myself by what I own, but I can’t imagine not having my books, teapots, or Christmas ornaments.

Inside our--dining/living/bed areas!

Some people would find these little houses confining, but I understand the womblike comfort of a small space. My enchantment with little rooms goes back to my childhood. No matter where we lived, I always selected the smallest room as my own. I’d pack it with a twin bed, bookcases and desk. I’d put shelves on the walls to take advantage of the vertical areas many people overlook. By candlelight, these rooms felt cozy and calming.



Bath, kitchen, & dining areas!

Every time we go to our cabin in Leakey, I light candles and draw the shades to make the one room cabin welcoming and warm. I daydream about living up there permanently. The one room contains every necessity—kitchen, dining, living, sleeping areas. What else, really, do we need? And if I want space, all I have to do is step outside.

Candlelight and comfort

Logic kicks in eventually, and I realize I’m not ready to walk away from everything forever. Living sparsely for a cluster of days at a time tempts me. I’m charmed by the plainness of our days when I know I can return home. Could I make the change to the degree of these other people? Could I live a home that’s several hundred square feet forever? Is a tiny house in our future?

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“No Choice”

“How do you commit suicide?” my mother asked yesterday. I had perched her upon the toilet and knelt down to pull the Depends she’d worn all night off.

         I looked up at her, “What?”

         “Commit suicide?” she repeated only the last two words of her question as speech becomes more of a challenge for her.

         I eased the Depends down, tossed them into the trash, and pulled a clean pair from the drawer, buying a few moments to think before I answered. “I suppose people pick different ways. Some people take pills, others use carbon monoxide, some use guns, or poison.” I shifted back on my heels to look at her.

         “Can’t the doctors give me something? Can I call and ask?”

       “No, Mom. Not in most states. Definitely not in Texas.” I stood and helped her stand. With her hands gripping her wheelchair arms, I snugged the Depends up over her rump, trying not to notice her weight loss. “Turn.” I nudged her into motion and spotted her as she swung around and sat into her chair.

         “I think I should get to ask the doctor for pills,” she stated very matter-of-factly. “I should decide one night to go to sleep and not wake up.”

         I wheeled her chair over to her bed, perching on the corner so I could talk with her eye-to-eye. “I know you’d like to have the choice, but that’s not our reality.” I picked up her footsies and slipped them over her rigid and contorted toes. “Do you want to get dressed today? Or do you want a clean nightgown instead?”

         “Nightgown.” Mom continued her thoughts as I tugged a clean gown over her head. “There’s nothing else wrong with me, you know. The doctor’s keep saying I’m okay.”

         “That’s right. You’re heart’s perfect. You have great lungs. You’re kidneys are at 43%. You’re healthy except for the Huntington’s. It’s your muscles that just don’t want to work anymore.”

         And so our day began.

      After lunch, Mom asked to return to her room to stretch out with Willie Nelson. Music honky-tonked as I settled Mom into her bed. She now must have her pillow positioned “just so” while the corner of her bedspread has to tuck under her chin.

         “Do you need anything else?” I asked before leaving the room.

         “I’m just trying to figure it out.”

           I sat on Mom’s wheelchair to hear her over Willie’s croon. “Figure what out.”

         “Suicide,” Mom began again. “How am I going to commit suicide?”

         I shook my head. “You aren’t. You’re going to keep living each day the best you can.”

         Mom pointed her finger at me, “I should get to decide!”

         The day continued along this same path, for once my mother’s HD grabs ahold of a topic, it won’t let it go.  

I do not tell my mother that her disease will continue to progress. That today is her best day. Although frustrated by her constraints, my mother’s grown used to needing help for her daily activities. Recently, she grew tired during a meal and complained that she just couldn’t feed herself more although she was still hungry. I sat down and spooned the last few mouthfuls for her. When she finished, she stated, “This is embarrassing.”   

Mom on St. Patrick's Day
2012

        I grieve for my mother every day and on so many different levels. For the majority of the time, she’s extremely aware of her limitations. Frustration with her immobility means she cries daily, and no amount of antidepressants will prevent this ritual. My mother’s confusion, when it happens, circles around vivid dreams that she confuses for reality. Sometimes, the obsessive-compulsive nature of Huntington’s Disease pulls her into a stubborn mindset. This rarely occurs during the day, but some evenings and nights my mother’s irritability morphs into an alien personality with cutting tongue and knife sharp words that stab and wound. Luckily, this demon surfaces rarely and vanishes almost instantly.

         I know my mother wishes to keep dignity in her life. I know she fears the times when she’s confused. I know she hates the moments when she lashes out with poison. Having so little control over the current episodes in her life, I understand why she would spend a day discussing her desire to pick an end time. One can debate the morality of end of life choices, but for a woman in her eighties having a progressively aggressive disease, my mother longs for options that don’t exist.  By the end of the day, she realized that for now she'd pick living over dying, but she wishes that she could have more choices.

        

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“A School Dream”

Me during my early years teaching!

         I pulled my car into the fenced enclosure, neatly sliding into the correct slot, my assigned number. Walking around to the passenger side door, I heaved out my black tote, hitching it onto my right shoulder as I leaned forward to heft out the plastic crate filled with essays and a class set of journals. My muscles screamed in protest by the time I reached the Administration building where I quickly checked my box for any important messages, so I set everything down long enough to rotate my shoulders, fill my pitcher with ice, and chat with a colleague about the day ahead.

         Cutting across the patio, I nudged open the glass doors and trudged up a short flight of stairs, turning to the left towards my classroom. Outside my door waited an impatient group of students.

         “Finally.”

         “Geeze, Miss. Can’t they do something about your schedule?”

         “You’re always late!”

         I ignored their lament as they recited the same complaints every morning. My work day didn’t start at my own classroom on my home campus. Instead, my day began on our nine-ten campus teaching a career studies class to freshmen. I “borrowed” a teacher’s room on that campus every day, and her resentment at being displaced meant I had to schlep supplies back and forth because she forbade my students from using her tape and staples. She’d taped little X marks on the floor where I had to make certain the desk legs hit. Her rows must be perfectly straight. Because I had to leave these freshmen five minutes before the end of the class period to drive to my other campus, an administrator asked this other teacher to step in so the students would have supervision. This teacher refused, though. I reasoned that my seniors were capable of waiting in the hallway a few minutes every morning. Unlike the freshmen, I doubted they’d start throwing punches or vandalizing anything. However, they did like to complain.

         My key turned quickly in the lock. One student grabbed the crate while the others filed into the room. Someone flipped on the lights while another student pulled out the bin that contained the class’s journals. The instructions written on the board before I left the afternoon before meant these seniors settled down quickly while I caught my breath.

         The windowless room with its dark-paneled walls and orange carpet constantly carried a scent of mildew. I’d tried to warm the room with overflowing pots of philodendron and scented candles. I’d stapled an old bedspread from ceiling to floor along one corner of the room and placed a small couch with pillows and a floor lamp to create a reading/writing nook. The room, too tiny for the number of desks it contained, didn’t feel cramped because I’d clustered the them into groupings of various sizes.     

            Last night, I found myself back in that old classroom. I hadn’t step foot into that space in eighteen years, yet in my dream last night I lugged my tote and crate, swept up those stairs, and greeted my students. I caught the wafting aroma of mold and cranberry candles. I scanned the instructions on the board on the unit on Abnormal Psychology. And for a moment, I relived in a vivid dream a moment that represented millions of moments from my teaching career.

            This school dream marked the first return to work from my subconscious mind. I don’t know why this particular scene surfaced, but the memory reminded me of the joy teaching brought into my life for many years. I didn’t mind teaching five preparations across two different campuses because those seniors sitting outside my door resented losing five minutes of instructional time. They longed to delve into Freud, Skinner, and Bandura. So if I drift back to work in my sleep, it’s wonderful that I slip back into one of my best memories where teaching school was a dream.

 Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Springboards”

         When I taught my students writing, coming up with ideas on a topic generated by some “person” out in Test World became a challenge. Eventually, I drilled my students with timed writings. With this strategy, they had five minutes to write on a topic I randomly selected. They had to write the entire five minutes. When the timer sounded, they stopped writing, but not a second before then. At that point, the kids would count up their words and chart the number onto a personal graph they kept at the back of their journals. My goal to create a way for students to overcome the blank page quickly became a favorite activity in class.

         The springboards I used varied tremendously over the years. I spent hours culling quotations from favorite authors, psychologists, scientists, and philosophers. I saw possibilities in song lyrics, comic strips, and scripts from television or movies. Current events always opened doors to possible topics. As each class built its own private history, sometimes an inside joke or allusion fostered different spins on topics.

         I grew to view everything as a possible way to generate ideas for my students. A bag of buttons found at Hobby Lobby meant each student received a “special” button. I’d walk around the room, randomly placing a button on each desk.

         “You are this button. What is your story? How did you end up on this desk? What is your life like?”

         Another time, I’d pull laminated posters out, pair my students off, and have them spend five minutes discussing the picture or painting. Talking about the picture first helped my other language students verbalize their descriptions and always paid off once they started writing. After a short chat, the kids would write, trying to come up with something about the art that would impress their partner.

         Music lyrics (and the songs themselves) generated another avenue for writing springboards. I’d give the kids a few minutes to read through a song, and then I’d play the song in a repetitious loop while my students wrote something about the piece. Some students would focus on a specific line, or even a word. Others created writing on the lyric’s theme. Still others responded to the memory the song triggered. I never tired of the differences that surfaced with this type of assignment. Variety made grading so much easier, too!

         Every trip to Target, Wal-Mart, Hobby Lobby and Garden Ridge Pottery meant a quick search for writing springboards. Little silk butterflies, mini pompoms, jingle bells, and goo-goo eyes all became topic generators. I’d fill film canisters with different herbs and spices. Sniff, taste and write! Often, my students surprised me by their limited experiences with different things. A bag of colorful pipe cleaners led to a wonderful discussion about pipes, the smell of pipe tobacco, and my own memories of my father’s cherry blend.

         Now that I spend part of my day as an author, I find myself tapping into a well of springboards. I jot down a list of possibilities in a spiral that’s never too far from reach. So far, I haven’t run dry on topic ideas, but when that happens, I’ll peruse the aisles of my favorite craft store, find a musical group I’ve never listened to, or take a taste of something totally new.  

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Adventures With the Dentist—Final Episode?”

         The last leg of my dental story took place yesterday. I actually left the house with nerves because I feared a confrontation with my dentist. When I called last week to schedule my appointment, I had a little run-in with the girl handling appointments.

         I gave her my name, told her I had visited the office a few weeks before. I explained that I had completed the root canal and needed a permanent filling.

         “I see on your chart that Dr. T specified a new crown.” Then the girl continued, “I need you to pay $800.00 for the crown right now. Are you prepared to do so?”

         “What?” I exclaimed. “No. No. I don’t need a crown. The endodontist saved my crown. He said I need a permanent filling.”

         “That’s not the notation the doctor left in your file.”

         “I’m not paying for a crown! I don’t need one!” My tone heated quickly. “Look, I just came back from the endodontist. His instructions were to call my dentist and schedule for a permanent filling. That’s all I will have done!”

         “Welllllll,” the receptionist drew out the word as she tried to figure out what to do. “I’ll tell you what I can do. I’ll schedule you for a consultation. Then Dr. T can determine if you only need a permanent filling instead of a new crown.”

         The edge in my voice cut sharply as I stated, “No. You will schedule me for one appointment, and that will be for a permanent filling. Not a consultation. Not a crown. A permanent filling. My sister has come into town specifically to care for my mother while I have this work done. I will not and cannot extend this over two more appointments!”

         Trying to placate me, the young woman offered a compromise, “I’ll schedule you for a consultation but put into the notation that you will probably need a permanent filling to be filled immediately. Will that work?”

         Like I had a choice?

         So yesterday I fretted on whether I’d enter the dental office for a final visit, or if I’d get the run around about a consultation and a second schedule for the permanent filling. I left the house ready to do battle and vowed to my sister and mother that I would return with a permanent filling—or else!

         When I arrived at the office, the receptionist pulled out my file.

         “Hmmm. . . you are here for?”

         “A permanent filling on number 19,” I offered quickly before any other option could surface. I plastered a smile on my face and hoped my confidence would convince the girl that I wasn’t there for a consultation.

         “Oh. Yes.” As she flipped through my file, I saw the report from the endodontist. Relief hit me then because I knew I wouldn’t have to do battle after all.

         Eventually, the assistant pulled me back, took another x-ray, and draped me with my paper bib. The dentist came in and explained that since the root canal “kills the tooth” she wouldn’t use any local.

         Within seventeen minutes, she’d cleared out the temporary filling and replaced it with a new, permanent filling!

         After paying my bill, I told the girl that I hoped I wouldn’t see her for six months when I return for a cleaning.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman