November 29, 2017
I may have shared with you the fact that David would leave me a note every work day, and had done so for the last few years. Here is my beloved’s note to me on last Friday—his final day of work:
End of days! Parole!!! Last time! No more lunches to make! The only 4:30 is in the PM! The alarm is history! New Beginning! New Life! New adventures!
Over the years, our family and friends would assert that between the two of us, I tended to see the glass as half full, whereas David tended to see it as half empty. The note he left me on Friday was a proclamation that he was going forward with an optimistic attitude. I was very gratified to see that, because I know that this moment for him was bitter sweet.
Facing the future can be uncertain. For someone like me who tends to also be on the anal side, it can be more than a bit scary. The truth is, I’m very optimistic, if I have my ducks in a row. I’m not really sure that I do this time. Only time will tell. In moments like these I rely heavily on my faith. God is in control of my life. I have nothing to fear. I just need to focus on the things I’m supposed to do, and let Him handle everything else. For me, there’s nothing tougher than “let God and let go”.
While a part of me as dreaded this moment—a total change in my own routine, as well as switching from work earnings to pension earnings, not really knowing exactly how much money will be involved—the other part of me rejoices for all the reasons my husband noted above, plus one other.
I have seen him struggle over the last year, especially, because of his COPD, and the general pains of arthritis and getting older. He’s felt frustrated because physically, he couldn’t do the maintenance at the quarry like he used to do. In the last couple of years, when they needed his expertise—and he had quite a bit after 39 years in the industry—he assumed the role of supervisor, standing on the sidelines and telling them what to do to fix what was wrong. He couldn’t get in there himself and actually do the work, and that was a wound to him. I’ve seen him struggle to breathe when it’s cold outside. I’ve prayed for the day when he wouldn’t have to do any of that anymore, and that day has finally arrived.
Despite some of my comments here and there, I’m not really concerned about no longer having my house to myself. The truth is, we’re both good at being together and being separate in the space we have here. My office only has one door, instead of two. One of the first things he wants to do is purchase another door to hang, so that I can close both doors when I need to. That’s a good first step. But we’ve already taken other steps so that we can each be on our own.
A year ago, my beloved moved his computer into the living room, making his “office” in the corner of that much larger space. He has wireless headphones, so that when he wants to watch television he can do so without disturbing me as I work. The headphones are good for him, too, since he has suffered significant hearing loss over his career, and they allow him to really hear the programs he watches.
I am looking forward to what adventures life has in store for us. And being older, our definition of that image-evoking word, “adventure” is definitely different than it would be for someone much younger.
I still feel understandable trepidation as we move forward. I just have to remind myself to put a smile on my face, and look bravely toward the sun.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, November 29, 2017
Wednesday, November 22, 2017
November 22, 2017
The last week of my husband’s working life has arrived and so far, nothing is the way either one of us thought it would be. My beloved is counting down the days until Friday—but the first two days of this week he did so from home.
They had a sudden change of plans, and needed to fill an emergency order, the result of which, for Monday and Tuesday, there was nothing there for my beloved to do, as they suspended regular operations. They offered to bring him home on Monday, and to give him Tuesday off, and of course, he chose that rather than to stand around outside in the cold doing nothing for two days. So today, he’s back at it, and Friday will be his last day on the job.
I looked on his extra time at home as a blessing, because I had pulled a muscle in my left knee on Friday. It was nice having him here to help me out. Whenever my arthritis acts up, and I have even more pain than usual in my legs as a result, I try very hard not to just sit around. I try to keep moving, even if it is painful. I’ve found, however, that after a few decades, my tolerance for pain and my ability to keep a smile on my face and a bounce in my attitude are not what they once were. But life does go on.
David is really looking forward to next Monday. He told me he’s planning to get up with the alarm, so he can turn it off, and then go right back to bed. It’s something I’ve heard a lot of people adding to their wish lists—to finally “follow through” on what the working Joe or Joan would love to do when the alarm goes off in the morning, but of course they don’t because they have to get up and go to work.
For David, if he were to begin to set his alarm to get up at 6:30 in the morning once he’s retired that would be, in fact, sleeping in 2 hours from what he’s used to. He says he’d like to get up no later than 7:30, because he doesn’t want to waste the day.
That’s my preferred time to get up, too. I do haul my butt out of bed, even if I am tired. My reasoning is two-fold. First, by that time, I’m usually sore from being in bed so I really do need a change of position. Second, I know that if I continue being tired I can go into the living room, get into my recliner, and doze pretty much whenever I want to. My daytime priorities are my writing, and some housework. I make supper for us every day except Friday and Saturday. David doesn’t like to cook so I don’t ask him to or expect him to, it’s as simple as that. Last weekend when I was in so much pain, he heated microwave meals and soup—and that is the most “cooking” he’s done in the last couple of decades.
As it stands now, David plans to take the first week of the rest of his life, doing very little. He wants to enjoy the absolute freedom he’s accused me of having day in and day out, the freedom to do whatever he wants to do.
If he equates freedom with total inactivity, I’m pretty certain one week is all he’ll want to spend doing that. Though he is much more talented than I am when it comes to lounging about, I know he’ll become bored doing nothing for too long.
I need my routines, as trite as they may be, and my pattern of “multi-tasking”—mixing creative work with the physical, in order to keep my mind from stagnating and my body in some form of working order.
I’m thinking that before long, he’ll discover the very same thing is what he’ll need, too.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
The last week of my husband’s working life has arrived and so far, nothing is the way either one of us thought it would be. My beloved is counting down the days until Friday—but the first two days of this week he did so from home.
They had a sudden change of plans, and needed to fill an emergency order, the result of which, for Monday and Tuesday, there was nothing there for my beloved to do, as they suspended regular operations. They offered to bring him home on Monday, and to give him Tuesday off, and of course, he chose that rather than to stand around outside in the cold doing nothing for two days. So today, he’s back at it, and Friday will be his last day on the job.
I looked on his extra time at home as a blessing, because I had pulled a muscle in my left knee on Friday. It was nice having him here to help me out. Whenever my arthritis acts up, and I have even more pain than usual in my legs as a result, I try very hard not to just sit around. I try to keep moving, even if it is painful. I’ve found, however, that after a few decades, my tolerance for pain and my ability to keep a smile on my face and a bounce in my attitude are not what they once were. But life does go on.
David is really looking forward to next Monday. He told me he’s planning to get up with the alarm, so he can turn it off, and then go right back to bed. It’s something I’ve heard a lot of people adding to their wish lists—to finally “follow through” on what the working Joe or Joan would love to do when the alarm goes off in the morning, but of course they don’t because they have to get up and go to work.
For David, if he were to begin to set his alarm to get up at 6:30 in the morning once he’s retired that would be, in fact, sleeping in 2 hours from what he’s used to. He says he’d like to get up no later than 7:30, because he doesn’t want to waste the day.
That’s my preferred time to get up, too. I do haul my butt out of bed, even if I am tired. My reasoning is two-fold. First, by that time, I’m usually sore from being in bed so I really do need a change of position. Second, I know that if I continue being tired I can go into the living room, get into my recliner, and doze pretty much whenever I want to. My daytime priorities are my writing, and some housework. I make supper for us every day except Friday and Saturday. David doesn’t like to cook so I don’t ask him to or expect him to, it’s as simple as that. Last weekend when I was in so much pain, he heated microwave meals and soup—and that is the most “cooking” he’s done in the last couple of decades.
As it stands now, David plans to take the first week of the rest of his life, doing very little. He wants to enjoy the absolute freedom he’s accused me of having day in and day out, the freedom to do whatever he wants to do.
If he equates freedom with total inactivity, I’m pretty certain one week is all he’ll want to spend doing that. Though he is much more talented than I am when it comes to lounging about, I know he’ll become bored doing nothing for too long.
I need my routines, as trite as they may be, and my pattern of “multi-tasking”—mixing creative work with the physical, in order to keep my mind from stagnating and my body in some form of working order.
I’m thinking that before long, he’ll discover the very same thing is what he’ll need, too.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, November 15, 2017
November 15, 2017
In August of 2010 we returned home from a vacation that had included a visit to Disneyland in Orlando, to attend an RWA conference. The month before, we’d said goodbye to our Boots-kitty. He was an all black Persian, that had originally belonged to our Sonja. She brought him with her when she moved in here for a time. Having been an indoor cat until then, he became quite fond of the outside world while Sonja was with us, and when she and our son moved to an apartment in another city, she thought it would be cruel to suddenly deprive him his new-found freedom outside. Though we live in a town, this is a quiet neighborhood, with little traffic and plenty of cats.
We agreed to keep him, since he was already a member of the family. That was in 1997, so he was old, about 14 or 15 when he left us. A week before we came home from our vacation in 2010 it was to learn that a new cat had arrived—on her own as it were, or if you believe in such things, sent here by God when she was likely abandoned. I say abandoned, because she had no front claws. People who declaw cats don’t generally let them outside. Efforts were made, of course, to find her home and her owner, all to no avail. The area vets had never seen her before, and she had no “chip” implanted.
Now, her arrival was eerie, to say the least. She was all black, like Boots, except for a patch on her chest. Not a Persian like Boots, but she appeared to have some Maine Coon in her, and she had long hair. She showed up on our porch on a rainy day. My daughter was staying here looking after our old dog, Rochie, while we were gone, and discovered the cat when she came home in the middle of her work day. She spoke to this kitty, of course, as no one in this family would ever chase away a stray. My daughter returned to work, and when she came back again at the end of the day, the cat was still here, so she invited the kitty in.
This black cat went straight to the corner of the living room where Boots’s green cat stand had stood (and which I had removed when I came back from the vet on that fateful day because I couldn’t bear to look at it), turned to look at my daughter, and, (so my daughter said) gave her merry hell for the stand being gone. To appease the small beast, my daughter asked this interloper kitty if she wanted some treats.
Whereupon this cat made its way to the kitchen and jumped up on the same chair that Boots would jump up on to receive his treats. For these two reasons, my grandson’s girl friend named this cat Spooky, while he named her Creepy.
Not caring for either of those names, I called her Puddy. When I came home from vacation, I walked straight to where she’d been ensconced since she arrived—inside, on the fourth step of the stairs going up to the second level. I patted her, and spoke to her, and that was it. She followed me into my office, and was the first critter to inhabit the spot on my writing desk between my monitor and tower.
In her attempts before we arrived home to locate her owner, my daughter had taken her to the vet, as I said, to see if there was a chip in her, but there was not. The vet told her at that time that Puddy was an older cat—likely at least seven or eight years old. My daughter thought that perhaps she’d belonged to an elderly woman who’d had to be moved by her family to assisted living. She said she sees that all the time in her line of work (she’s a community care giver). They tell mom they found a wonderful new home for her beloved kitty when the truth is, they simply put the cat outside and abandon it.
Puddy made her place in our family, and when Mr. Tuffy arrived a couple of years later, she tolerated him once he acknowledged her position at the top of the family totem. She was demanding at times, earning the nick-name bitch-kitty. And in the last month or so, she became very affectionate with me. She demanded to be held a lot, and I accommodated her as often as I could. I had the sense in the last couple of weeks especially, that she was saying goodbye.
On Monday, October 30th, my beloved let our Puddy out the back door as he did every morning, before he left for work. She would go out early each morning and then when she was ready, would come right back in through the cat window and yes, she could go out the cat window too, but why make the effort when one of her staff was there to wait on her?
On this particular Monday, however, Puddy didn’t return. That had never happened, not once in seven years. We looked for her, of course, and called all of the area vets, and the proper authorities. We found no sign of her, and even while I looked and called, I somehow knew we wouldn’t.
She left us as she’d arrived, and as she’d lived—on her own terms, taking in the love and affection and massive amount of Temptation cat treats as her due. I don’t expect to see her among the former pets I’ll encounter at the rainbow bridge. I believe there’s a woman with a prior claim, who’s lap she’ll belong in, and that’s as it should be.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
In August of 2010 we returned home from a vacation that had included a visit to Disneyland in Orlando, to attend an RWA conference. The month before, we’d said goodbye to our Boots-kitty. He was an all black Persian, that had originally belonged to our Sonja. She brought him with her when she moved in here for a time. Having been an indoor cat until then, he became quite fond of the outside world while Sonja was with us, and when she and our son moved to an apartment in another city, she thought it would be cruel to suddenly deprive him his new-found freedom outside. Though we live in a town, this is a quiet neighborhood, with little traffic and plenty of cats.
We agreed to keep him, since he was already a member of the family. That was in 1997, so he was old, about 14 or 15 when he left us. A week before we came home from our vacation in 2010 it was to learn that a new cat had arrived—on her own as it were, or if you believe in such things, sent here by God when she was likely abandoned. I say abandoned, because she had no front claws. People who declaw cats don’t generally let them outside. Efforts were made, of course, to find her home and her owner, all to no avail. The area vets had never seen her before, and she had no “chip” implanted.
Now, her arrival was eerie, to say the least. She was all black, like Boots, except for a patch on her chest. Not a Persian like Boots, but she appeared to have some Maine Coon in her, and she had long hair. She showed up on our porch on a rainy day. My daughter was staying here looking after our old dog, Rochie, while we were gone, and discovered the cat when she came home in the middle of her work day. She spoke to this kitty, of course, as no one in this family would ever chase away a stray. My daughter returned to work, and when she came back again at the end of the day, the cat was still here, so she invited the kitty in.
This black cat went straight to the corner of the living room where Boots’s green cat stand had stood (and which I had removed when I came back from the vet on that fateful day because I couldn’t bear to look at it), turned to look at my daughter, and, (so my daughter said) gave her merry hell for the stand being gone. To appease the small beast, my daughter asked this interloper kitty if she wanted some treats.
Whereupon this cat made its way to the kitchen and jumped up on the same chair that Boots would jump up on to receive his treats. For these two reasons, my grandson’s girl friend named this cat Spooky, while he named her Creepy.
Not caring for either of those names, I called her Puddy. When I came home from vacation, I walked straight to where she’d been ensconced since she arrived—inside, on the fourth step of the stairs going up to the second level. I patted her, and spoke to her, and that was it. She followed me into my office, and was the first critter to inhabit the spot on my writing desk between my monitor and tower.
In her attempts before we arrived home to locate her owner, my daughter had taken her to the vet, as I said, to see if there was a chip in her, but there was not. The vet told her at that time that Puddy was an older cat—likely at least seven or eight years old. My daughter thought that perhaps she’d belonged to an elderly woman who’d had to be moved by her family to assisted living. She said she sees that all the time in her line of work (she’s a community care giver). They tell mom they found a wonderful new home for her beloved kitty when the truth is, they simply put the cat outside and abandon it.
Puddy made her place in our family, and when Mr. Tuffy arrived a couple of years later, she tolerated him once he acknowledged her position at the top of the family totem. She was demanding at times, earning the nick-name bitch-kitty. And in the last month or so, she became very affectionate with me. She demanded to be held a lot, and I accommodated her as often as I could. I had the sense in the last couple of weeks especially, that she was saying goodbye.
On Monday, October 30th, my beloved let our Puddy out the back door as he did every morning, before he left for work. She would go out early each morning and then when she was ready, would come right back in through the cat window and yes, she could go out the cat window too, but why make the effort when one of her staff was there to wait on her?
On this particular Monday, however, Puddy didn’t return. That had never happened, not once in seven years. We looked for her, of course, and called all of the area vets, and the proper authorities. We found no sign of her, and even while I looked and called, I somehow knew we wouldn’t.
She left us as she’d arrived, and as she’d lived—on her own terms, taking in the love and affection and massive amount of Temptation cat treats as her due. I don’t expect to see her among the former pets I’ll encounter at the rainbow bridge. I believe there’s a woman with a prior claim, who’s lap she’ll belong in, and that’s as it should be.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
Wednesday, November 8, 2017
November 8, 2017
Today is a double birthday celebration in the Ashbury family! Today, my beloved turns sixty-five years old—and our second daughter, our Sonja, turns forty.
Both are landmark birthdays, and despite the way both of the celebrants sometimes grumble about making a fuss, or the ever constantly mumbled, “please don’t remind me”, I believe that birthdays are to be celebrated.
They are proof that so far, the bastards haven’t beaten you down. They haven’t won. You survived another year, and you’re still here, baby!
That sentiment isn’t as negative as it might appear, at first glance, to be. It kind of reminds me of that old joke about a man, falling from the sixtieth floor of a building, being heard saying as he past the thirtieth floor, “so far, so good”.
I know that I tend to always give a mostly upbeat message in these essays, and that’s because despite everything, I’m a mostly upbeat person. Maintaining a positive attitude affects things more than I can prove to you; the more positive you remain, the more positive you feel, and the more positive life actually becomes for you.
That doesn’t mean I don’t know how crappy things can be, how dark, or how hopeless. I do know because I’ve been there, which is why I insist upon having an attitude of gratitude, and celebrating the bright side as often as possible.
When I do those two things, I’m saying, sure, there is a dark side to life, and crap happens. Crap happens to everybody—but I don’t care. I don’t care that there may be horrors or disasters in my future. They will happen, with or without me. I will get through them. They don’t come to stay, they come to pass. Like the song says, “if you’re going through hell, keep on going.”
Life is entirely too short to spend your time worrying. We already spend enough time working, and wondering what the future could be. Friends, you add worry to that mix, and that is a triple ‘w’ that has nothing to do with the internet. How much better to give life it’s due: go to work, do your best, then at the end of the day go home, and try to remember that life is really for learning, laughing, and loving.
I’m not sure how we will celebrate these two milestones this year. I’ve heard no news or whispers from the rest of the family, so I don’t know if the kids are planning anything for David, or not. Although he was very humbled and deep-down pleased by the open house his company hosted for him at the beginning of October, he’s never really cared for parties. I’m not sure why that is, exactly, but there you have it.
He and I differ in that regard.
Party or no party, I do know the kids will be certain to call on the day of, and visit as soon after as they can. Our kids usually don’t forget our birthdays, though they have a couple of times. We certainly understand how busy life can be, especially for those still dealing with kids. And when they do forget those things, well, I believe there’s a value in human growth and development when we make those little faux pas from time to time and experience a bit of rue. Not a bad way to keep the ego in check, either.
Since this is a Wednesday, I’ll serve my beloved one of his favorite suppers, and give him a pass on doing the dishes.
That might seem like just another Wednesday in the Ashbury household. But the difference, I believe, as it is in most things, is in what lies within the heart.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Today is a double birthday celebration in the Ashbury family! Today, my beloved turns sixty-five years old—and our second daughter, our Sonja, turns forty.
Both are landmark birthdays, and despite the way both of the celebrants sometimes grumble about making a fuss, or the ever constantly mumbled, “please don’t remind me”, I believe that birthdays are to be celebrated.
They are proof that so far, the bastards haven’t beaten you down. They haven’t won. You survived another year, and you’re still here, baby!
That sentiment isn’t as negative as it might appear, at first glance, to be. It kind of reminds me of that old joke about a man, falling from the sixtieth floor of a building, being heard saying as he past the thirtieth floor, “so far, so good”.
I know that I tend to always give a mostly upbeat message in these essays, and that’s because despite everything, I’m a mostly upbeat person. Maintaining a positive attitude affects things more than I can prove to you; the more positive you remain, the more positive you feel, and the more positive life actually becomes for you.
That doesn’t mean I don’t know how crappy things can be, how dark, or how hopeless. I do know because I’ve been there, which is why I insist upon having an attitude of gratitude, and celebrating the bright side as often as possible.
When I do those two things, I’m saying, sure, there is a dark side to life, and crap happens. Crap happens to everybody—but I don’t care. I don’t care that there may be horrors or disasters in my future. They will happen, with or without me. I will get through them. They don’t come to stay, they come to pass. Like the song says, “if you’re going through hell, keep on going.”
Life is entirely too short to spend your time worrying. We already spend enough time working, and wondering what the future could be. Friends, you add worry to that mix, and that is a triple ‘w’ that has nothing to do with the internet. How much better to give life it’s due: go to work, do your best, then at the end of the day go home, and try to remember that life is really for learning, laughing, and loving.
I’m not sure how we will celebrate these two milestones this year. I’ve heard no news or whispers from the rest of the family, so I don’t know if the kids are planning anything for David, or not. Although he was very humbled and deep-down pleased by the open house his company hosted for him at the beginning of October, he’s never really cared for parties. I’m not sure why that is, exactly, but there you have it.
He and I differ in that regard.
Party or no party, I do know the kids will be certain to call on the day of, and visit as soon after as they can. Our kids usually don’t forget our birthdays, though they have a couple of times. We certainly understand how busy life can be, especially for those still dealing with kids. And when they do forget those things, well, I believe there’s a value in human growth and development when we make those little faux pas from time to time and experience a bit of rue. Not a bad way to keep the ego in check, either.
Since this is a Wednesday, I’ll serve my beloved one of his favorite suppers, and give him a pass on doing the dishes.
That might seem like just another Wednesday in the Ashbury household. But the difference, I believe, as it is in most things, is in what lies within the heart.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, November 1, 2017
November 1, 2017
In the Ashbury household, the countdown clock to retirement is at R minus 23. My beloved’s last day on the job is Friday, November 24th. The day following is the company Christmas party, to be held at a steakhouse not far from the job site. We’ve been invited to attend, and it will be, in all likelihood, the last time my husband sees any of the people he’s worked with—some for as long as twenty-five years.
He’s never been one to mix socially with his co-workers. He never really made any close friends on the job. In fact, he really only has a small handful of people he considers to be close friends. I actually believe that’s how it is for most of us. We could all probably count the people we have met in our lifetimes in the hundreds, but close friends and confidants generally without using all the fingers of both hands.
David commented in his note this morning that he thought it was going to be harder to get up each morning the closer he drew to the end. He really is tired, and looking forward to no longer having to get up at 4 in the morning. I’ve been a witness to how difficult it’s been for him these last couple of years. He’s worked hard all our lives, even to the point of, early on in our marriage, shoveling driveways in the winter when he was out of a job. He deserves his rest.
We’ve done a fair bit of talking, as you can imagine, over the last little while, about what our daily routines will be like. He insists that he doesn’t want to waste his days away, and so will likely get up at no later than seven-thirty each morning. Of course, for him that’s three and a half hours later than normal.
I’m more of the theory that we’ll kind of release the norms of getting up and going to bed. David used to be a night owl, and so did I though we went through those particular stages at different times in our lives. My brother told me recently that he tends to go to bed and get up early, whereas his wife of more than 50 years now gets up and goes to bed late.
I won’t be surprised if we have a similar circumstance, after a while. We’ve never lived in each other’s pockets our entire lives. We’ve never been a couple who had to do everything together. We’ve always pursued our own interests, and actually enjoy the time we spend by ourselves (as in, himself and myself). Aside from the three weeks he’s had off over Christmas the past couple of years, we haven’t spent day after day together, not in the last, well, thirty-nine and a half years. There was always work, and so this is going to be…interesting.
We joke about it a little, because we are both very much aware that no one is perfect. We’ve been together a long time, but that doesn’t mean we live, sleep and eat hearts and flowers. No one does. We’re each of us very capable of getting on the other’s nerves. For his part, my husband plans to get himself a scooter, and go out a couple days a week. For my part, I plan to get up earlier, and encourage him to nap if he’s tired. One takes one’s alone time where one can find it.
We aren’t marching into our futures, secure and solid in our idea of what it’s going to be like for us. We’re old enough to know that few things are as imagined. But we’re also wise enough to understand that this is the dawn of a new phase in our lives. So we’ll face it the way we’ve faced most challenges over the years.
We’ll do the best we can, and try very hard not to sweat the small stuff.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
In the Ashbury household, the countdown clock to retirement is at R minus 23. My beloved’s last day on the job is Friday, November 24th. The day following is the company Christmas party, to be held at a steakhouse not far from the job site. We’ve been invited to attend, and it will be, in all likelihood, the last time my husband sees any of the people he’s worked with—some for as long as twenty-five years.
He’s never been one to mix socially with his co-workers. He never really made any close friends on the job. In fact, he really only has a small handful of people he considers to be close friends. I actually believe that’s how it is for most of us. We could all probably count the people we have met in our lifetimes in the hundreds, but close friends and confidants generally without using all the fingers of both hands.
David commented in his note this morning that he thought it was going to be harder to get up each morning the closer he drew to the end. He really is tired, and looking forward to no longer having to get up at 4 in the morning. I’ve been a witness to how difficult it’s been for him these last couple of years. He’s worked hard all our lives, even to the point of, early on in our marriage, shoveling driveways in the winter when he was out of a job. He deserves his rest.
We’ve done a fair bit of talking, as you can imagine, over the last little while, about what our daily routines will be like. He insists that he doesn’t want to waste his days away, and so will likely get up at no later than seven-thirty each morning. Of course, for him that’s three and a half hours later than normal.
I’m more of the theory that we’ll kind of release the norms of getting up and going to bed. David used to be a night owl, and so did I though we went through those particular stages at different times in our lives. My brother told me recently that he tends to go to bed and get up early, whereas his wife of more than 50 years now gets up and goes to bed late.
I won’t be surprised if we have a similar circumstance, after a while. We’ve never lived in each other’s pockets our entire lives. We’ve never been a couple who had to do everything together. We’ve always pursued our own interests, and actually enjoy the time we spend by ourselves (as in, himself and myself). Aside from the three weeks he’s had off over Christmas the past couple of years, we haven’t spent day after day together, not in the last, well, thirty-nine and a half years. There was always work, and so this is going to be…interesting.
We joke about it a little, because we are both very much aware that no one is perfect. We’ve been together a long time, but that doesn’t mean we live, sleep and eat hearts and flowers. No one does. We’re each of us very capable of getting on the other’s nerves. For his part, my husband plans to get himself a scooter, and go out a couple days a week. For my part, I plan to get up earlier, and encourage him to nap if he’s tired. One takes one’s alone time where one can find it.
We aren’t marching into our futures, secure and solid in our idea of what it’s going to be like for us. We’re old enough to know that few things are as imagined. But we’re also wise enough to understand that this is the dawn of a new phase in our lives. So we’ll face it the way we’ve faced most challenges over the years.
We’ll do the best we can, and try very hard not to sweat the small stuff.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
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