"Family Gatherings"

          My siblings and I talk weekly. The habit, established years ago when you paid for a long distance phone call by the minute, resists change. I usually contact my sister during the week. We chat about family and friends. Although each of us have only met the other’s friends a few times, over the years the life events of these people weave into our conversations. We spend time discussing world events and allergy seasons. We share with one another the grind of our jobs (both retired teachers who now substitute to keep out of trouble.) My sister lives in a small Texas town and participates in her church, political party events, and the “this-n-that activities” of her community. We divide our worries and our woes and multiply our joys. These phone calls ebb and flow with a life of their own. Sometimes they last only a few minutes. Other days we drain our phone batteries.

          In contrast, talks with my brother have slipped into such predictability that variations bring unexpected pleasure. I call my brother during the weekend. We enjoy a little contest on who will call first on Saturday without it being too early. These tête-à-têtes time out to fifteen minutes, give or take. My brother loves following weather, so a hurricane in the Atlantic will swirl us into a longer conversation. If I need to download a problem, he offers a sympathetic and non-judgmental ear. If he faces car trouble or a plumbing problem, we’ll figure out a way to fix the situation. As he is single, he sometimes needs another pair of hands to handle household challenges, but I know he’ll never ask for help. Every few months, I suggest that I visit. Sometimes my sister will rendezvous with us. Sometimes my husband and son will make the trip with me. All of us feel it’s important to help my brother maintain the family home.

          Getting to spend weekends or holidays with my siblings always proves a challenge. My sister and brother-in-law spread their holidays in several directions:  their son, daughter-in-law and grandkids; my brother-in-laws siblings; my brother; and my family. Many holiday choices are dictated by my brother’s work hours. If he has consecutive days off, he’ll head for San Antonio. Often times, he only gets a single day at Thanksgiving or Christmas, and so he’ll make the shorter two hour drive to my sister’s house. It isn’t unusual for them to have Stouffer’s Lasagna as a Thanksgiving meal. When my brother has more days off and decides to come to San Antonio, we celebrate the event will special holiday treats and trimmings.

          Over the last few years, my sister and her husband have tied themselves to their town because of responsibilities for one of their community obligations. My brother-in-law runs the local KC hall, and someone almost always uses it on Thanksgiving. His responsibilities include inspecting the hall after the event. This year, my sister convinced him to delegate some of his duties. She called yesterday with the wonderful news that, although they wouldn’t make it up for Thanksgiving Day, they’d arrive on Friday morning! My nephew and his wife and kids have other plans, and so they won’t be adding to our holiday, but we like that different branches on our family tree begin their traditions with family and friends.

          During this week, television sitcoms revel in the mishaps and mayhem of dysfunctional families gathering for Thanksgiving. I appreciate the humor mixed within the discord, but feel especially blessed that our holiday will embrace a laidback air of “adulting” with shopping during the day and nice dinners and drinks in the evenings. 

Copyright 2016 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

  

"Background Noise"

  

            Sometimes, when I sit down to write, I’ve no idea what words will appear on the page. My diligence to my craft means I put pen to paper every day (or in this case fingers to keyboard) and simply write. Many of my journal entries recount mundane trivialities of a simple life, some dip into a distant past while others slip into a hopeful future. My thoughts may focus on something currently in the news, but it’s just as likely for me to focus on the fact that it’s Friday—again.

            Then those days come where I shove aside all of the ideas that pulse in the forefront of my attention and spend time concentrating on sighs, the impatient pant of the dog laying at my feet, the distant drone of the dryer as it whubs—background noise that lets me transcend the ordinary.

            Then I hear the words whispering to my subconscious. Soft. Seductive. Evasive. A whiff of perfume that lingers in an empty room. And I hold my breath, fearful that the slightest movement would frighten my words into flight. Send them scurrying back and deeper into darkness.

            So I hunker down on my haunches, hand held outstretched with palm open in supplication. I practice patience. Wait motionlessly, head cocked to the side so I can perceive the words surrounded by heartbeats.

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

             

"The Fall"

 

        

              The day begins with me alone on a front porch swing, taking the time to savor the morning stillness before anyone else awakens.

            Yesterday right after dawn, I donned my tennis shoes, hung the Canon around my neck, and made a short hike down the road to a gate that guarded river access. I spied a trellis heavy with grapevines; its fruit long lost to birds. Moving cautiously downward, I found a clearing where water shallowly pooled. Snapping pictures, I captured sunlight and water—rocks hidden under a rising mist.

            I tiptoed across a natural bridge of stepping stones, attending to each one to make certain my feet found purchase as I made my way across the moss slickened steps. Trying to gather morning’s essence, I hunkered down on a ledge to change angles, finding beauty from east to west.

            

            I dangled my camera around my neck, its heavy weight bumping against my chest, and its weight reminded me to take care. But a loose and slippery rock foiled my sensible shoes and snail pace, catapulting me into a cartwheel. Instinct snapped into place, and I caught the camera before it plopped into the water. Who cares about a bruised hip, battered shoulder or bumped head? My hands cradled my camera as my head bounced a second time. Like a mother who’s swept in to pull her child away from catastrophe, I checked my “baby” for damage as I swiped at the lens and casing with a dry corner of my shirt. Reassured that water hadn’t seeped beyond its hardened shell, I powered it down and began to laugh.

            Water trickled down the right side of my body and my right shoe squished as I made my way further up the bank, pulling away from the river’s edge. For a second, my blurred vision worried me. Had I hit my head that hard? And then I realized that my glasses lay somewhere behind me. Half-blind and half-drenched, I searched my way back down the path—hoping my glasses had tumbled onto the ground when I took off my light jacket—fearing that they lay under water.

            I backtracked onto the spit of rocks, avoiding the one that spilled me into the water; and began to patty cake the cool surface, squinting in an attempt to sharpen my vision. My fingers found my frames before my eyes, and I plucked them gratefully from their hiding place under a large leaf.

            My mishap meant I meandered around the water’s edge with wet pants and a soggy shoe as I preserved wild flowers blooming one last time before the coming of Fall.

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman   

           

"In Between Gardens"

  

 

            In San Antonio, winter blows into the area the end of October and teases the trees with forcefully cold winds. It dusts grass with frost, and may sprinkle snow, like powdered sugar, over bushes and parked cars. Sometimes rain visits the area when the temperatures drop, treating us to fingers of ice or sleet. And we hit the pause buttons on our lives. We stay home, hunker down, and wait out the freeze—which means a twenty-four hour stop in our routines. Bad weather pushes her way out as quickly as she invites herself in.

 

            Our gardens and lawns already show signs of spring. Dandelions bob their heads in the soft midday breeze. Crabgrass crawls across the yard, playing with sleepy Bermuda. Dead-looking Plumbago sprouts up from around the roots of last year’s plants while Mountain Laurel fills the air with purple Kool aide scents. Live Oak leaves turn dusty and brown before they fall to the ground in defeat.
 

            I wait and watch. Impatient to see who won against winter. Will the ferns fight back and uncurl their delicate fingers soon? Will the clover return with its delicate pink blossoms? As I clear away the papery pulp of my Wandering Jew, I know by May this hardy groundcover will have returned to full glory.  

            My gardens and yards transform daily. Sometimes I believe I can hear the growth, if I listen carefully. So right now, the status remains in flux—my gardens poised between death and life.

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

"Frostbite"

 

 

            Cold weather blasts into central Texas so infrequently that waking up to a morning with frost dusting any surface provides a spectacular photography opportunity. When I ventured outside this morning with the dogs, frost coated the top of our hot tub. Its sparkle drew my eyes, and I rushed back inside to grab my camera to capture a few shots before the morning sunlight heats the cover and melts away our evidence of last night’s freeze.

 

           



I know many of you sit frozen into place by mountains of snow, and you’ll probably look at these jewels and think, “No big deal.” However, I like pausing in the daily grind just long enough to celebrate Nature’s subtleties.

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman