Friday, May 30, 2025

“Slippery When Wet”

 


 

            The promised rain arrived last night and continued through the morning. Jarred out of sleep with blaring weather alerts, I waited for sunrise before heading to the park to document the glory of a deluge. The runoff river flowed as designed with the lake its final destination.
            As my oldest sandals hit a patch of silt, I realized taking pictures there presented a slip-n-slide adventure. “Don’t do anything stupid,” my son’s frequent admonition turned me away from seeking a lake view shot. Instead, I recorded the slick stairs with a mental note, “slippery when wet” and returned home as lightning broke across the sky and thunder tapped against the car.

 


















Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
             

Thursday, May 29, 2025

“After the Rain”

 

            As our area hits another spring of drought, I joyfully celebrate every time rain falls. Sometimes, with camera in hand, I document the clouds rolling in and record a deluge as it descends upon the house. Other times, my lens focuses on what happens after the rain when leaves bud, flowers bloom, and grasses grow overnight.


           

Our downpour the other night reminded me of other sudden storms and begged me to dive back into my photographs from previous springs and summers. Take a walk today and enjoy the world after the rain.

 


















Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

Wednesday, May 28, 2025

"Working Weekend"


 
            Life hands many of us solvable problems that eventually settle down. A sore throat that eases after sipping hot tea laced with lemon and honey.  A car repair setting back the budget for several months. A job loss batters you down for years. If you have family and close friends, you rely upon their experiences, emotional support, and sometimes financial help to recover and move forward.
            Over the years, I cannot remember a time when life handed us an obstacle that we had to handle all alone. As isolating as the caregiver years felt, we still had each other to turn to at the end of each day. In recent months, life has plowed into some of my single friends and family members. An unexpected illness, a slow recovery from surgery, or an overwhelmed and overworked emotional pounding pummeled people I love into a pulp. Always reluctant to ask for help, they put out tentative, subtle signs that events have pulled them underwater. Caught up in my own ups and downs, I missed my own brother’s growing need for relief.
            My brother, challenged by both physical and learning differences, structures his day with routines. He spends his life in a “rinse and repeat” cycle. His work requires the same things daily. He buys the same groceries every week. He pays his bills in person and often in cash when he can. He relies on television for entertainment and news. Last winter, he convinced me to skip our usual trips to his house—he was sick with a stomach bug and wanted rest, and then his job, for several months, required overtime that meant working either extra hours or even extra days. He insisted that he was fine, just tired and not up to visitors.
            Eventually, he ran out of excuses to delay our visit, and February found us descending into his darkened home. He hadn’t replaced light bulbs in each room. His clean laundry piled high in his bedroom while dirty laundry took over part of his garage. He had handled getting a new thermostat for his air conditioner, but his car’s ENGINE light warned of trouble. When we tried to shower that night, only ice cold water came out. He’d lived without hot water for many months.
            We sat down and made a list and plowed through most of it together. That’s when his “aloneness” hit home. All of the chores, big or small, fall onto him. With his extended working hours over several months, he simply gave up on tackling anything but keeping his clothes clean. Together, we hung and folded, sorted and tossed. Together, we took his car in for its repairs. Usually, he walks home from the repair shop. What a luxury to have someone there to drive him home! As a family, we swept and mopped his floors, took out an oversized bush near his front door, and stripped and remade all of his beds. One working weekend with three people reset his household chores.
            His bathroom, though, required more work. The bolt holding the toilet in place had stripped. My scrub brush with Barkeeper’s Friend erased the mildew, but all of the caulk needed to be removed and replaced. The popcorn ceiling over his tub flaked, and every fixture showed its age. We broke down this room’s work into three parts: plumber repairing the toilet first for sanitary reasons; new caulk and paint that we can do; replacing all of the fixtures and the hot water heater (plumber again).
            Arriving at the house this last weekend, we found the toilet repaired and the mildew completely gone. I “watered” the ceiling to make the popcorn easier to remove. While my husband sliced through the old stuff, caulked the tub, and repainted the room including a touchup of the tub’s exterior, I partnered with my brother to streamline his linen closet to only the sheets and towels he uses, bagging away old sets of sheets for donations.
            This next week, he will call his plumber to get prices for his hot water heater and possibly updating all of the twenty-year-old fixtures, including the light. If all of this is within the budget, he’ll get things fixed. We discussed the importance of having hot water again being more important than updating the shower head, faucets and lights. We made pledges to one another that he will let us know when things go wrong, but I know there are many things around him that he simply doesn’t notice as needing attention. I left with a new list of “Must Do” already started. However, he had maintained all of the housework we’d helped him with from the previous visit—no clean laundry piled high or dirty laundry stacked in the garage, no un-swept or un-mopped floors. If we keep on a regular schedule to provide extra hands on working weekends, all should be well.   























Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

Friday, May 16, 2025

“My Secret Stash—Part Two”



 

            I started this year with a chocolate treat hidden in the freezer, Life Saver rolls in the cubby by my knee, and a mini-Milk Duds box in plain sight on my computer desk. The Andes Crème de menthe evaporated sometime after an atrocious Trump act after Valentine’s Day. I needed reinforcement that only chocolate could provide, snuck a few pieces from the freezer to fortify myself, with the promise that the remaining pieces would return to frozen safety for another day of trial. I annihilated them a few days later.
            The Life Saver rolls have survived a little better. One roll, given to my husband for him to have a treat on his desk, got eaten on a random day when he was feeling the need for something to crunch. A second roll, shifted to my purse for a traveling treat, remains untouched. The book contains three other rolls, also intact. As every day we face new assaults upon our functioning government, I celebrate that these measures of my mental resistance stay untouched.
            My Milk Duds, a highly visible challenged to my stress eating, sits boldly in plain view each and every day. I don’t know if I’ll make it through to the end of the year before some catastrophic intentional action occurs, but I’m giving it a try.
            My sugar intake, tied directly to my coping strategies, has bumped up a notch this week with a nightly piece of cheese cake. Other weeks, one bowl of ice cream in the evening rewards my fortitude for not exploding or imploding.
            I knew dealing with this regime would force me to deal with when, where, and how much I could spend my time with letters, emails, phone calls and resistance. As friends and family pound out a daily rejection of MAGA madness, I’ve limited my intake of news and responses to the chaos. During the first round, my feet walked miles in protest. This time around, I’m studying the situation carefully. I spend my hours reading about the psychological matrix of the believers in hopes of finding a better strategy to deal with their determination that anything that hurts another person or group proves their righteousness.
            After reading a long thread on Facebook that spewed anger at every program that protects the rights of anyone not white, male, and Christian, I saw the brainwashing that can’t be erased by reasoning. This man, representative of so many others, believes his way of life is endangered if any one group moves toward equity or equality. His emotional make-up cannot handle the idea that rising up another person can do anything to improve his life. He longs to beat those that he perceives as different into the mud, and standing in victory on top of a bloody mound. He represents years of entitlement giving him the right to blow up our democracy because he’d rather see it gone than have to share it with “others”.  
            After reading all of his hate and anger, I know my secret stash won’t be enough to carry me though this period of people intentionally destroying our economy, rejoicing in ICE smashing windows and dragging someone out of cars and onto the pavement, or stripping citizens of rights because they no longer believe in the Constitution.  

 Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

Thursday, May 15, 2025

“Pruning to Propagate”


 

            Earlier this week, I spotted a Swedish Ivy at HEB that dangled possibilities before me. Years ago, these plants filled hanging baskets that adorned our back redwood lattice. Draping with Spider Plants and Boston ferns, their delicate glossy scalloped leaves contrasted to the spikey Spider’s hardiness. They sport a soft white or mauve flower each spring and fall. Of course, I added the ivy to my grocery purchases and found a nice spot for this piece of memory in the front yard. As they propagate easily, all I need is one to begin a new line of a forgotten favorite. A few clippings placed into a Mason jar of water, and roots will sprout soon.








            Inside, my three Pothos dragged down to the floor. Winter’s unrelenting freezes showed no mercy to the ones housed in our small greenhouse, and outside only three or four pots now sprout in resilient defiance. Instead of cut flowers adorning the dining room table, the promise of more Pothos baskets sits in filtered light.






            My Jade became leggy over the last few weeks. I lopped them off and have their cuttings set aside to cure. All of the Jade will shift outside to take advantage of our longer and hotter days and more sunlight to spur their growth. My troubles with Jade come from ignorance on my part, but this year my research should result in new growth for old plants and new plants that thrive.





            My focus on nurturing each of these plants stems from a need to control something in the world around me. Every day, something new becomes endangered as our current regime slices brutally through our democratic rights. Propaganda’s incessant wail forces me to retreat to my garden where I can prune to propagate promises for tomorrow.
 
Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman