"If You Can't Say Somethin' Nice"

          Remember Thumper’s Rule? My parents singsong of “If you can’t say somethin’ nice, say nothin’ at all” resounded through our household enough that the line from Bambi entrenched itself into my personal philosophy. I admit, this life paradigm proved difficult for me to follow. My too quick and sharp tongue often engages in slicing and dicing a victim before my better, gentler brain kicks into gear. If I make it through the day without saying something caustic or sarcastic, it’s a major victory for me.

            Whenever I start a new journal, I move first to the last page. I write down personal goals that I can easily flip to daily if necessary. My current journal’s final page carries this reminder:  Be generous. Be gracious. Be gentle. 

            During the last few years, I’ve begun to wish everyone adopted this mantra, or one similar to it. Wouldn’t it be grand if our culture sought generosity in how we treated our children, elderly, and impoverished? Imagine if all of us embraced kindness and courtesy as easily as we slip into derision and division; and gentleness grew naturally from each family and sprouted from neighborhood to city to country to world.

           Ugliness taints our daily news. A foul stench wafts through our society that makes me ashamed because I don’t know how to change things. If I contribute to the maliciousness, I mire myself in the hate.

          If I follow Thumper’s Rule, and say nothing at all, my silence implies agreement.

          I must balance my words and write my thoughts in ways that dispute what’s evil while not using vileness to defend humanity. The battle plays out daily in my mind. Be generous. Be gracious. Be gentle.

          Perhaps I need to add one more—Be resolute.

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman  

          

"The Harpy"

Above all, she soars

Her vicious talons sharp

She swoops

Her wicked claws rip and tear

Into her own children

Cruelly she slices her prey

Ignores their anguished cries

Her evil hunger feeds upon the flesh of her babies

She devours their adoration

Her soul-eating cravings insatiable

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

 

"O.C.D. and Me"

            I understand the need to have things in order. Organization reduces my anxiety, keeps my edges smooth if a day becomes particularly frazzling. Some of my compulsiveness became honed during the years Dad spent in the Air Force. White glove inspections are not a myth. I remember before one move, Mom spent days spit polishing the wood floors and scrubbing the bath tub and sinks immediately after every use. Then she hired a cleaning service to come through our quarters for one final cleaning.

            That upbringing remains part of my nature to this day. When I tackle our home, I utilize a top to bottom method that stretches from the tops of doorways to the woodwork near each floor. A sister-in-law commented once that my walls never had any smudges from my son or his constant parade of friends. I told her that I wiped down our walls every week. She shook her head in disbelief that I’d incorporated that into a regular routine.

            All drawers in the house adhere to a strict discipline. My closet, too, reflects my quirky neatness. I arrange my clothing by type: pants, tops and dresses. Then I tidy everything by length and color. Finally, my around the house clothing gets isolated from my work clothing. If I’m going to splash bleach on anything, it’ll be something old. When I taught full time, I once picked up a note being passed between two girls. It said, “Ms. Chapman may be a bitch, but she has cool shoes!” At that time, my shoe collection had its own little cubby that stayed ordered by season, heel height, and color. Retirement means I’ve minimized my shoes down to the basics that I arrange by season and color.

            In recent years, I think because my work week varies from school to school, I’ve developed a technique of making certain I never leave anything behind. This method focused upon my tote, and originally I used it before leaving a campus. This year, I do the ritual before leaving the house each morning and before leaving work each afternoon. I preform the routine diligently and sequentially about 15 minutes before I leave: Phone-zipped into one compartment. Lunch bag and water bottle. Journal. Calendar. Spiral. Book. Every item in its space. Then I zip up the bag and set it onto my bed in the morning or the floor next to my feet at the school. Right before I leave, I unzip and do one more check. I believe this procedure keeps me from leaving anything behind that I may need once I change locations. It keeps my anxiety lower to know I won’t have to make unnecessary trips back to a campus.  

            My habits allow me to spend less energy on searching for a missing pair of shoes or getting to work without my phone. For me, a little O.C.D. goes a long way!

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

     

"A Dog's Life"

Koi with Baby

            Koi’s sharp yip reverberates through the front window while his tiny body bounces with anticipation of my arrival. My fumble of key in lock frustrates him into a body slam against the door. Upon opening the door, this little dog doesn’t jump against my legs. Instead, he dashes toward the family room, scoops one of his stuffed toys into his mouth, and zooms into the master bedroom. I drop my purse and tote and immediately give chase. Koi’s keep-away game rockets us back into the family room in a mad circle around the coffee table. Then I dash behind him in a loop back into the bedroom where he sails onto the bed, leaps back to the floor, and whips around the corner just ahead of my grasp. One final maneuver on my part, and I capture the toy from his mouth, pop open the back screened door, and hurtle the toy into the back yard. Koi propels himself over the threshold, scoops the toy back into his mouth, and slows down enough to pee on his favorite bush before following me to my swing.

            We linger under the tree. Sometimes I read. Other times I talk to my sister or brother. Koi barks at Calico Sal, the patched cat from across the street, or he rubs noses with the dog next door. Sometimes, he sits closer to my feet, his toy resting between his paws until I signal that it’s time to go inside.

            I love that Koi lives a pampered life of belly rubs and walks to the park. His little heart knows with certainty that the big black box in the kitchen holds deliciousness (chunks of cheese). He never doubts the invitation onto our bed each night where he’ll cuddle as he snoozes. Security and safety shelter him each day. He lives a splendid dog’s life.

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Not My Story"

            Many days an adventure unwinds that isn’t my story. The events pivot around one of my siblings, my son, my husband, or a very close friend. The lessons learned, though applicable to many, still spur from someone else’s life. As much as I long to write about the journey’s trials and tribulations, I must remind myself, “It’s not my story.”

            If compulsion forces me to write and to share, I get permission from the major role player, or I write poetry about the essence of the experience. I create a short story that fictionalizes and disguises all but the life lesson. In that way, I make the circumstances everyone’s story.

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman