“My Vote”

         As political leaders play their games on television and over other media, I pull back and worry. I worry about my siblings and myself, and our fifty-fifty chance of inheriting the mutated gene that causes Huntington’s disease. Our genetic code may switch on soon, and our cognitive and emotional well-being becomes endangered. This disease will compromise our ability to work, drive, or walk, think and talk. Both my sister and I retired from education within the last couple of years, and so we have small retirement incomes. Both of us have husbands who earn their own incomes.

         My brother stands alone.

         So as the political pandering continues, I feel angry and frustrated by the portrayal of low income people as not having good character. The words “lazy” and “irresponsible” keep being thrown around with imperial disregard to the life events that lead someone into a low paying, “dead end” occupation.

         My brother has learning disabilities. He attended school at a time when our educational system could identify learning differences, but our teachers didn’t know how to address these problems. I remember spending hour after hour each evening and on the weekends drilling my brother on letter sounds, basic phonics, and sight words. He learned to read because he has a remarkable memory. Eventually, we discovered that his visual disability actually distorted letters and shapes. His eyes perceived images, but his brain processed what he saw into contorted versions. My brother’s school struggles led him to want to work with other children who faced problems. He attended a junior college to study Early Childhood Development, received certification to work with young children, and became a teacher for Head Start.

         His low salary at Head Start meant that he eventually left the work he loved and took a job as a custodian, first with a school district and later with a local hospital. He felt comfortable with this highly physical and repetitious work. Over the years, I’ve watched my brother work harder than anyone I know. He volunteers to work holidays, does extra shifts if someone call in sick, and stays through hurricanes to be the first to clean up after storm damage. My brother’s always works forty hours a week, or more. His income stays under $18,000 a year. He represents the working poor in this country.

         My brother lives a modest life. He budgets every penny to break even each month. He has no cell phone. During the last hurricane, we had to call the local police and beg that someone drive by his home to make certain of his safety. My brother doesn’t own a computer, and he obviously doesn’t have internet. This year his vacation consisted of staying at home and going to see two new releases at his local movie theatre. He has no IRA, or a pension plan from his employer. Even if his income allowed it, his learning disabilities make it difficult for him to understand the financial nuances required to make retirement decisions.

         If my brother carries the Huntington’s disease gene, he eventually will depend upon governmental programs—for everything. I cannot be my brother’s keeper. My own finances won’t stretch enough to cover his entire salary if HD forces him out of work. My sister cannot be my brother’s keeper. She and her husband’s retirement incomes won’t bare the weight of a second household.

         When I hear and see mindless people thoughtlessly and cruelly making judgments about those who have less, anger floods through me. These heartless people, who often have so much, don’t want to understand that Life isn’t fair, and so we must have social structures, provided by our government, to care for those who cannot care for themselves. I don’t mind that some people manage to manipulate the “system” and get more than they “deserve” because that won’t be the case with my brother, or my sister, or even myself if we succumb to Huntington’s downward spiral.

         I am not a statistic.

         My sister is not a statistic.

         My brother is not a statistic.

         So when I cast my vote in November, I’ll select the politicians that err on the side of humanity.       

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

“Simple Stories”

Mornings find me slipping into TV Land as I feed Mom scrambled eggs or syrup saturated pancakes. I sit beside her on the couch, holding her Boost as she struggles to take single sips at the straw. My childhood favorites fill the background with black and white clarity. The pleasant plots contrast to Mom's daily decline. The soft humor nudges giggles from us. Will Beaver get his tonsils removed? Will Laura's big toe come out of the faucet? Will Aunt Bea's pickles win the prize?

These episodes uphold with gentle playfulness, honesty and optimism. Perhaps these simple stories simmer in my subconscious, providing the basis for my undying belief in people striving to do the best for those they love.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Nostalgia”

The Crimson Rambler
Philip Leslie Hale, 1908   

masterpieces   

moments of custom   

memories of etiquette   

polite smiles  

curtsies and bows

the good ol’ days in softness 

a vivid palette of bold sunlight   

fields of flowers and fanciful fantasies   

gentleness, hope, grace   

perfection within illusion   

masterpieces   

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman



“The Readers”

Words shared across time   

in lazy hammocks under a cloudless sky   

reclining upon overstuffed divans cocooned in golden silk   

perching on table’s edge
walled by leather bound volumes heavy with musk   

lounging under tree branches as shadows dance across the page   

wind’s breath kissing pursed lips   

lost in a crowded room   

standing in solitude   

drifting away from prim daily obligations while haloed in sunshine   

drenched in orange blossoms   

absorbing thoughts and ideals   

whispered dreams   

escaping into ancient worlds or a lover’s arms   

imagining a future sublime

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
  

A Lady Reading
a Book
in a
Library
Interior

Thomas Jakob
Richter, 1879

A Love Story
Emanuel Phillps Fox, 1903

A Woman Reading
Antonio Rizi, 1896

At Home
Juilus Lebalnc Steward, 1897

Dans la Bibliotheque
Auguste Toulmouche,
1872

Easter
Joseph Christian Leyendeker, 1905

Girl Reading or A Fair Student
Charles Edward Peerugini 1878

Morning Sun
Harold Knight, 1913

My Eldest Daughter, Suzanne with Milk and Book
Carl Larsson, 1904

Peaceful Reading
Fernand Toussaint (1873-1955)

Reading by the Morning Light
Karl Vilhelm Holsoe

Woman Reading on a Settee
William Worchester Churchill,
between 1905 and 1910

The Letter
Jan van Beers, 1885

"Grandmother--Marie Byars Chapman"

           For some people, if you’re not blood, you’re not family. Even when you marry into a family, acceptance rests on personal whims or some private family game where the rules change with the winds of favoritism. Within this family structure, a newcomer feels unwelcome and lost. Having one person reach out and extend friendship provides an anchor to the outsider. Marie Byars Chapman provided that moor for me.

            When everyone spoke of Grandmother, their voices carried a mixture of awe and resentment. Grandmother’s house meant rules. It meant remaining quiet inside, putting on your best manners, and wearing shoes. Even as they grew up, her grandchildren bore the view that Grandmother equaled decorum and manners, a strict adherence to etiquette that chaffed the younger generation.

           My experience with Grandmother, though, came from a different perspective. She opened her home to me graciously and offered her affection to me abundantly. She introduced me to her friends as her granddaughter, not her grandson’s wife. She phoned to talk to me about my job, invited me out to shop and have lunch. For her, family was a state of mind—and a state of heart.

           I loved the time spent at Grandmother’s house. We’d sit in her family room, surrounded by books and plants, and talk about everything. We’d read the same books at the same time, and then talk about them for hours. David, a devout non-reader of fiction, became enamored with authors like Mary Stewart, James Michener, and Mary Renault.

            Forbidden topics like sex, religion and politics emerged in our endless conversations. Although we often had differing opinions, Grandmother always encouraged and never stifled me. She appreciated intelligent and witty conversation, and I loved the stories she wove for us during those lazy Saturday afternoons or long evenings when we’d dine together on left-over meatloaf converted into a stew.

           Eating with Grandmother proved an adventure. She loved dishes and had many different place settings. Often, she left it up to me to select the plates and glassware. Her love of fine china meant our shopping trips always included a run by Plate and Platter. Over the years, she added to my teapot collection with several lovely pieces that I still display.

           Grandmother added other things to my life, too. Her passion for music (she taught piano her entire life and had two baby grand pianos in her living room) taught me to persist in my own passion for writing. Grandmother worked most of her marriage, providing an income through her music lessons when her husband started his plastics business. She admired strong and independent women and encouraged my dedication to my career. She valued an honest, no nonsense approach to life, and yet she challenged us to reach for our dreams. No one praised David more for his art and photography. Never once did she disapprove of or diminish the life David and I built during those early years of our marriage.

           Grandmother shared with me stories of her childhood. She talked of her father’s movie theatre where she played piano while her sister, Charl, sang. She spoke of the newspaper, too, that her father published. Her stories included tales about David’s grandfather, who dabbled into a bit of everything. One of her favorite anecdotes played out like a Tracy-Hepburn comedy where, getting ready to go to the hospital to see a new grandchild, their argument over proper attire resulted in her donning her diamonds and mink while he resorted to his most faded shirt and stained pants!

           I miss Grandmother. When I listen to a composition written and performed by my son, I wish she could hear each note. When I discover a new author, I long for her commentary. When I watch the evening news, I imagine her quipped response. I miss her tenacious spirit and sharp intellect along with the generous way she pulled me into her life.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman