"Parking Lot Woes"

Today’s grocery run took an unexpected turn when our car wouldn’t start. It didn’t make the usual click-click-click associated with a dead battery. Turning the key resulted in nothing at all. Tempers rose, bubbling quickly to the surface within the scorching heat that sweltered around us. Each of us focused upon a different problem. My husband tried a few more ignition starts and puzzled over the soundless response while my son dug out the owner’s manual. Worried more about the groceries that sat in the trunk than determining the source of the problem, I grabbed a cart and reloaded everything. Once in the store, I started to explain our predicament when the clerk interrupted, “Give me your name, and I’ll take your cart back to the cooler.”

         By the time I sprinted back to the car (we always park in the furthest slot to add to daily steps), sweat soaked my hairline. My husband and son hoped that a dead battery caused the problem and sent me back inside for distilled water as the levels looked low. I rushed back into the store, dashed over to the water section, lunged for the last jug, and zigzagged to a self-checkout register. Darting around traffic and fellow shoppers, I breathlessly arrived at the car to find it running. A fellow shopper had a wonderful little jumper box that started our car immediately.

         I spun around and headed back into the store one more time to fetch our food. 

       On our drive home, we discussed how this car gave no prior warnings of the battery dying: no slow engine crank, no dashboard warning light, no rapid clicking sound. No advanced indication that we’d find ourselves stranded in an H.E.B. parking lot.

         Our adventure brought home a realization that we didn’t have anyone to call for help. I’d left my phone charging and with it the number of our neighbor and sister-in-law, two people who would’ve dropped everything to rescue us. We have a nephew who lives close by the store, but none of us have his current number. Tomorrow, I’ll make certain each of our phones carries the numbers of all of those neighbors and friends instead of it being in one phone.

         I find myself thankful for the man who helped us in the parking lot, and for the personnel in the store who cheerfully stashed our groceries away and kept an eye out for my return. I didn’t even have to ask for the cart! These little acts of kindness have restarted my faith in the goodness of others.

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

         

"Hiatus"

   

          Fifty-six days. Fifty-six days without putting pencil to paper. Fifty-six days without sitting in front of my computer, Word loaded, a blank page created just for me. Fifty-six days without a blog post shared on Twitter and Facebook. 

          Fifty-six days. 

          I missed the earliest signs of my slow slippage into a mild depression that stagnated my spring. Did it spawn from a wicked oak allergy that pulled me into listlessness? Did it feed hungrily upon the fatigue that mixed with frustration and cursed me after the new year? Did it sneak into my daily routine, rote as brushing my teeth or donning my shoes? 

          Everything turned sluggish, laborious—weighty. 

          My words bogged and clogged, never pulling out of my mood long enough for me to physically sit down to write until tonight. When I reached for my camera, the delight of finding a perfect field of wildflowers aborted in aggravation because of impatience and dissatisfaction. I found one flower, but not a field.

One flower, but not a field

          Yesterday, I realized that I don’t even sing as I drive to work or run errands. I can’t remember the last time I be-bopped to a tune in carefree abandon. 

          Seeking sunshine and positivity drives my personality, making these months of hopelessness highly unusual. I plunged into probing and prodding down to a source, and through reflection recognized a few causes for my slide into a funk—and know that as I put light onto these hidden memories and experiences, I will write—and write, and write, and write. 

          I will end this ugly hiatus from life’s joys. 

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

         

"This Week"

Words

         Batter—

                  Become wounding fists

                           Punching gut

Fury

         Rages—

                  Mauls rational thought

                           Devouring differences

Cruelty

         Cuts—

                  Cultivates hateful insanity

                           Breeding spite

I recoil in disbelief

         Evaluate—

                  Nurture my flagging sensibilities

                           Defending choice

I fold into myself

         Protect—

                  Shield my diminishing spirit

                           Blocking pain

I triage my wounds

         Heal—

                  Bind my bleeding-heart liberalism

                           Seeking restoration

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"On The Edge"

         The working poor live on the edge of poverty, where every little thing can impact their lives tremendously. Emergencies that many people absorb by dipping into a savings account, or using a credit card, hit hard because there is no reserve stash of cash. If your extended family survives on a month-by-month budget, turning to them for help adds to a layer of embarrassment and failure to the problem.

         On Thanksgiving, when we arrived at my brother’s home, a pool of water on the front porch greeted us. We immediately suspected a water leak and sniffed out the problem before we even put our bags into the spare bedroom. The water line going to his refrigerator hissed. Cutting open the wall, we found a nasty spray of water. The plumber my brother uses was out of town for the holiday and wouldn’t be able to check out the problem until the following Tuesday. We headed to Walmart (the only place open) and bought a variety of patch options, which we Frankensteined over the whole as a temporary fix. The hissing leak slowed to a sighing trickle.

         As the plumber did his repair, my brother called with the news. First, he was extremely lucky. The water hadn’t backed into his kitchen. His kitchen cabinets and the sheetrock along that wall remained dry. All of the water had flowed forward and had seeped out to the front of the house along the exterior foundation. We worriedly asked about the plumber’s fee. If he only did the repair and didn’t patch the sheetrock, the bill would run about $400.00—a huge chunk of money out of the fund our family maintains for my brother’s home and car emergencies. We decided that we could run down to my brother’s house in a few weeks to fix the wall. The hole hid behind the refrigerator, so it wasn’t an eyesore.

         As usual, events in our own lives kept shifting back the trip to repair the wall. Then horrendous rain storms pushed back the date even further. The hideous gap remained for over four months. Although it didn’t take long to cut a patch, float and tape and texture the area (plus add a new coat of paint to the wall), that repair would’ve added a huge dollar amount to the plumber’s bill if he’d used his supplies and time fixing the wall.

         My brother’s gratitude for our help always reminds us of how difficult it is for someone working full-time, but not at a livable wage, to absorb setbacks. When he stated optimistically, “If you have to have something go wrong, just hope it goes wrong in the right way,” I had to smile.

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Wants VS Needs"

         I’ve read some pretty mean comments on social media recently. Insulting words lashing out, sometimes with no obvious reason for the inflammatory temper tantrums. Suddenly, a conversational steam turns ugly. I sit dumbfounded as I read through cruel, malicious responses from people I thought to be reasonable—and nice.

         Most of the time, I try to understand both sides of the issue. If I weigh in (many times I bite my tongue and keep away from my keyboard), I attempt to find factual support for the issue at hand. Sometimes I balance myself onto a middle ground. Occasionally, I respond with well thought out deliberation. Fortunately, I have a blog wherein I can pull together longer reflections.

         In my dream-state last night, I mulled through this-n-that in an effort to distill recent events into some kind of cohesive theory that applies to a bigger picture, and I tossed-n-turned myself into a dichotomy of wants versus needs.

         Many people state belief systems as though they are needs. They need to follow their religious doctrines.  They need to spank their children—and everyone else’s, too. They need to defund programs like education and welfare. They need to take care of their own—even if that means making decisions that harm others. They need to own guns. They need to stop abortion. They need to segregate themselves way from minorities. They need to prepare for Armageddon.

          Whenever these people speak out, they truly feel that these things are essential requirements for their safety and happiness—for their duty to family, or church, or country. Their insistence that things are needs lends a level of urgency and unreasonable panic to their daily lives. When they feel that these needs are threatened, they respond with illogical anger and boiling hostility. They view their world as always threatened by someone else encroaching upon or diminishing their basic needs and rights. It must be rough living with so much distress and disharmony.

         I wish I could wave a magic wand over these people and shift their mindset to the fact that all of these things are wants, and not needs, because the urgency and fear shifts dramatically with this worldview.

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman