December 30, 2020

I hope you had a good Christmas. I hope there was something special, one moment of, if not joy then at least a sense of contentment. We all know that life is comprised of so many disparate moments, and emotions, and experiences that, good or bad, become etched upon our brains, a part of our memories, and a portion of the book of our lives that we, alone are writing.

I recall Christmases past that were busy, busy times; I’ve cooked a feast for 13 and more people and I’ve done that more than once. We were still sleeping upstairs and the room that is now our bedroom was empty at the time of that first big feast, and we set up two trestles with a piece of plywood on them for our table. We have an old cedar chest that is about six foot long, and that became a bench for the occasion. Luckily, it’s a flat-topped, very sturdy piece that was the exact right height for that particular diner table.

Looking back on that first big feast, the most memorable moment was when my now late son, Anthony, a strapping and always hungry teenager turned to me and said, “We should eat like this every day!”

I also recall David looking at all that food, and I could just see his mind calculating the cost. I simply reminded him that a feast was supposed to be a lot of food—and that we had budgeted for that one. Taking his cue from me, he relaxed.

That first Christmas family feast was more than twenty-five years ago, and yet I can still reach back and touch the joy, and the love. I guess because it’s the way I’ve conditioned myself over the years to look on the positive, I really don’t recall how exhausted I felt, though intellectually I know that I was. I also know that there was a huge disagreement between a couple of my guests, a great roaring war of words, though for the life of me I can’t recall who, or what it was about. Again, conditioning. I tend not to hang on to the negative.

I’m proud of that conditioning because as a child and a teenager, I was most definitely Wednesday’s child—full of woe!

But being full of woe, or bitter, or filled with negativity feels awful. And when I discovered that life was a choice, I decided that since I didn’t like feeling awful, it was up to me to change that. It took a while, but now, I never feel that way for very long. That icky black miasma of negative vibes? Yeah, I don’t have that anymore. Little flashes, a few difficult moments, that’s all. Kind of like how when your power goes out and you have a backup generator that kicks in, but it takes a few seconds to do so and you’re in the dark? I’m like that when it comes to those down moments.

We ate well last week in the Ashbury household. On Christmas Day, we had a prime rib roast that turned out exceptionally well. And on Sunday, I roasted a duck that had been in my freezer for a few months. Our daughter loves prime rib but refuses to eat duck. So she very happily had chicken breasts, which went well with the sides I’d chosen to serve with the duck: rice with raisins, candied yams, and David’s choice of veggie, squash. As for the family members we were socially distant from over the holiday weekend, I spoke with some of them and texted with the rest.

In between our two big meals, we ate leftovers and on Saturday evening, the three of us were in the living room, watching that new Wonder Woman movie that had premiered the day before.

And now it’s time to look forward to the New Year. I saw an ad on CNN for a New Year’s Eve countdown, and I’m curious. Will they be in Times Square? I know there will be no crowds there on Thursday evening. If that’s the case, and they do film from there, I want to see that. It’ll likely be the only New Year’s Eve in Times Square with no people, ever. A once in a forever kind of event! I don’t want to miss that.

There’s a commercial for a dating service that I saw the other day: it was a match between Satan and a young woman named 2020. Talk about gallows humour! I was laughing and realized that my laughter was the whole point of the ad—and at the same time, a commentary on how best to cope with that which seems impossible to cope with.

Laughter really is the best medicine. So wear that damn mask, and laugh. The sound carries well through the fabric, and the sparkle in your eyes makes for a very nice smile, indeed.

David and I wish you all a very happy and healthy and delightful 2021!

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

 

 

 

 December 23, 2020

I always used to treasure those rare times when in the winter, and late at night, I would step outside. Snow would be falling, and all around, in the midst of this ever-growing town of ours, the silence that wrapped around me seemed almost otherworldly.

I’d sink into that silence, become as one with it, and marvel at the beauty of the crisp air and the sweetly dancing snow that seemed to celebrate its way down to earth. Those were wondrous times, a beautiful break in the midst of a very busy and hectic life. And never more so than in the last few days before Christmas, when busy was the understatement of the year.

One other time I recall being aware of what felt like an unnatural silence was in the few days following 9/11. I worked in a small town about 20 minutes away from home, in the accounting office of a factory. In those days I was a smoker, and the company provided a picnic table outside for those of us who insisted on trying to destroy our lungs. But the factory was situated on the approach of two regional airports and the larger, international one in Toronto.

I hadn’t realized how many planes would be over head at any given time, until there were no planes to listen for at all. It was such a moment that I recall it exactly even today.

That strange and otherworldly kind of silent moment, that’s what this Christmas is turning out to be like, isn’t it? Here in Ontario, we’ll be in lock down beginning Boxing Day—December 26^th. Even so, very few people I know of are planning any large family gatherings for the holiday.

There’s no joking on the radio or among friends and family about Christmas shopping, or all the associated chatter with malls versus online, crowded parking lots, or getting stuck in a massive crowd trying to find the perfect gift. There’s no worrying about the annual holiday feast or making a list before a last-minute run to the liquor store to ensure you don’t run out of libations. The radio airwaves may still feature messages about drinking and driving, but I haven’t heard any. Of course, I haven’t been in the car and I must confess that tends to be where I listen to the radio.

Here, in the Ashbury household, it will be just the three of us humans and our six little fur babies. Later, when the lockdown is lifted, we’re hoping to indulge in turkey at our Sonja’s; we’ve always done that this time of year but really, never on Christmas day itself, so in that respect that’s no different. One year, we didn’t have our “family Christmas supper” until April! The major difference, of course, is when it happens it will be a much, much smaller group who gathers.

So, looking forward to that (eventual) wonderful turkey (our Sonja makes the best in the family), we are instead having a prime rib roast on Christmas Day. We’ll have baked potatoes, and cauliflower with cheese sauce. I will indeed make the annual carrot pudding, a steamed confection my family loves. And that’s it. But considering how so many people in North America are going hungry, that’s a feast—and one which we will be very grateful to have.

I expect to speak to our oldest, our son on Christmas Day, and I know I will be in touch via text with every one of my grandchildren. I may get momentarily sentimental and play a few Christmas carols on my computer, but otherwise, I know that both Christmas Eve and Christmas night will find me in my living room, legs up as I relax in my recliner, blanket on my lap and my e-book open and resting atop it.

The other major gathering we would attend during this season, David and I, was the Boxing Day brunch that my brother and his wife hosted each year. Last year, his sons did the cooking for all of us. This year, of course, we were already not going to have this event before the pandemic. This will be our first Christmas without my brother—my first ever without him. That one fact had already guaranteed that this year would be slightly less bright than last. In that way, I’ve been prepared for a quieter Christmas since February 29^th.

Life all around us seems to have paused and quieted on such a regular basis this year already, it’s becoming the norm and not the exception it once was. And all by itself, a slowing down of every day life is not a bad thing at all. Of course, the reason for all this quiet is not a good thing. Too many have fallen ill, and far too many have died.

And too many more people, people who work hard day after day after day hear little during their days save for the constant, droning sound of medical monitors and equipment working to keep other people alive.

The truth of the matter is that we’ve used symbols and images to represent a season, instead of letting the season be its own representative. We’ve focused on those trappings instead of keeping the reason for them at the center.

Christmas is celebrated because long ago on a dark night, amid the silence of the world readying for sleep, a baby was born—a baby destined to grow into a man who would, by the sacrifice of his life, become the savior of the world.

A joyfully solemn event, that needs only an open and grateful and submissive heart in order to be properly commemorated.

David and I wish you all the joy your hearts can hold, a few tears so that the joy becomes extra sweet, and that you always, always, wear your damn masks.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

 

 December 16, 2020

Christmas is less than two weeks away, but it’s never felt farther off. The season for me isn’t about things. I’m passed the age where I look forward to getting gifts. From the time when I was a child, and up until I married and hell, even for several years after that, the only time I could look forward to getting something new for myself was at Christmas.

After the loss of my father, I grew up with a single mom who worked as a nurse at a time when nurses didn’t make much money. Any “new” clothes I received usually were courtesy of a great-aunt who did housekeeping for a wealthy family who, my luck, had a daughter about my age and size.

I can recall one time receiving a bag of clothes that contained a beautiful red and black cable knit pull-over sweater and a pair of black slacks with stirrups! I had always wanted slacks with stirrups. I felt like a princess when I put them on!

Likely, because of all those early experiences, I learned to focus on the season rather than the trappings and have for some time. I much prefer to give Christmas gifts than to get them. Not that getting isn’t very nice, and not that I’m not grateful for every gift. It is, and I am. But I no longer dwell on that. When asked by family what I would like for Christmas, I am hard pressed to think of anything.

What Christmas means to me, and what makes it a wonderful occasion to anticipate, is spending time with my family. When I have spent time with each of my children and their children, and lately their children during the season, then I feel content and blessed beyond measure. When I’ve made face-to-face contact with my entire family, that to me is a great Christmas.

The virus infection numbers are still on the rise here. Our area is on orange alert – one down from red, which is one down from lockdown. Where my son lives, their area is on red alert. The latest numbers for here are from yesterday, when we learned that we’d topped 100 cases—we’ve got 105. Last week was the worst week for new cases here, ever. So David and I have made the very painful decision that we won’t be seeing our family this Christmas.

This is the right decision, because by this time next year, we should have had our vaccinations, and getting together should be easier for us all. I don’t want to get this virus, and I sure as hell don’t want to pass it on to anyone, either. Our son has type 1 diabetes, a disease he contracted after a bad case of pneumonia that damaged his pancreas, when he was in his early thirties. He’s vulnerable—as are both his father (COPD) and I (heart disease and diabetes).

It is the right decision but it was not an easy decision to make. There’s a part of human nature that sees the shining promise of Christmas, and the dark threat of Covid, and makes us want to run and cling to the shining, to the light. That’s a false choice.

Christmas is an annual celebration, and I can remember a couple during my lifetime when other things happened around the same time of year that were hard and hurtful. Christmas will return and will be available to celebrate every December 25^th for the rest of my life.

The decision that we’ve made really is this: we choose to miss this one year’s Christmas gatherings, and thereby live to celebrate more joyfully for years to come, beginning next Christmas.

This virus is real, and we are taking all precautions, David and I. In choosing to stay home, we are protecting ourselves and our loved ones; we are also doing our part to prevent our local hospitals from being overrun with patients who have Covid-19.

In a lot of places, especially in the United States, the hospitals are so full of Covid patients that they’re nearing the breaking point. This is a tragedy not only for those who may be turned away from receiving care when they need it most; it’s a horrid situation for those health care providers to be in; dedicated professionals whose only wish is to help those who need them. For them to have to contemplate turning away patients, or deciding who lives and who dies? Do we have any idea of the gravity of the decisions we’re forcing on our medical personnel? The moral and emotional burden we’re asking them to bear?

David is going to put up our little tree, so we can have a feeling of Christmas. And our Christmas wish for ourselves and for everyone one is really just one wish.

That we all find some joy in the moment of not only Christmas, but in every day, and that we hold onto the hope of a host of many much brighter and happier tomorrows.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

 

 

 December 9, 2020

Life with small dogs can be said to be many things, but boring sure isn’t one of them. You may recall my many essays over the years featuring our wonderful Mr. Tuffy. Three months after our daughter moved in last year, bringing with her Tuffy’s only puppy friends, her chihuahuas, we discovered that he had a massive tumor, and had to say goodbye to him.

In all the years of his puppy life that Tuffy and my daughter’s oldest, Bella, knew each other, he never had been successful when she was in season—though he did sire one litter of pups with Bella’s adopted sister, our daughter’s chihuahua/terrier cross, Ivy.

As a side note, I will tell you that her two oldest dogs’ full names are Bella Donna and Poison Ivy. Our daughter has my father’s sense of humor.

In the aftermath of losing Tuffy, we were surprised when we discovered that Bella was pregnant. Jennifer’s lone male chihuahua, Zeus, had been neutered years before, so Tuffy was the only possible sire. Bella gave birth to three puppies, two males and one female. The bigger of the two boys, who was all black and very fluffy, my daughter sold to a friend of hers. I believe I told you at the time, that we had a dilemma which puppy to keep of the two remaining.

It was no surprise to anyone that, in the end, we kept both.

Bear and Missy do not look like they’ve come from the same litter. Now, at a year old, they’re fully grown. Missy is a solid ten pounds, and Bear is a solid three. On a good day.

Bear is perfectly healthy, just small. He’s delicate in a lot of ways, and he’s smart. He eats delicately and if the bigger than him, but still small dogs get wrestling, he doesn’t just jump in. He carries out strategic little attacks. Yes, he’s that smart.

David thought he was too small to survive, and that fear of losing another dog played on him heavily, which was why he’d changed his mind as to which of the two we would keep—and is the reason why we kept both. David couldn’t bond with Bear when he was tiny, but I could and already had when he announced his “change of heart”. So, in terms of emotional “possession”, Bear is mine, and Missy is his.

This is a delineation that the puppies themselves seem to agree with. It’s been a year, as I said, and David has come around and loves Bear as much as he loves Missy. They come to bed with us each night, and when Missy starts to bark at things only she can see, Bear crawls up close to me. He wants no part of her antics, behaviour that can and has gotten her banned from the bedroom for the night.

Missy has a nick name, “box of rocks”, a name that is a nod to her relative intelligence. She’s not very smart, but she is loving, and loves her routines, and her brother, and her people. She’s totally in love with Zeus, my daughter’s male teacup, and gets so excited whenever she gets near him, but he’s not overly impressed.

Missy is the first dog to be walked every day, and that happens now around noon. Noon, because by that time I am ready to take a break from my writing, something I have no choice but to do when it’s walk time.

Why, you may ask, must I stop writing when I don’t even walk any of the dogs? Let me tell you.

The moment the door closes behind David and Missy, Bear begins to make noise. He howls, like a wolf or a coyote caught in a trap. A loud, piercing, lament of sorrow, is that sound. And if my daughter’s dogs are downstairs (they are always down with us if she is at work), then under his leadership, they all begin to howl, too.

When the weather was warmer, I found it an easy fix to open the door to the porch. Once Bear was on the porch and could watch for the return of the daddy and the sister, the howling stopped. However, now it’s December, and cold, and Bear, because he is a small sized, albeit long-haired chihuahua, really feels the cold. Walks for him require sweaters. So, no porch in the winter for him.

Fortunately, in the last few weeks I have discovered that the “Lament of the Abandoned Bear-Bear dog” lasts only about three minutes. Long enough to inspire a headache sometimes, and always interfere with any focus for writing. But it does cease, thank goodness. And of course, after about fifteen minutes, his sister and daddy return, and all is well for Bear and for us.

Until, of course, David takes Bear for his walk—leaving behind a clearly abandoned and totally desolate Missy dog. A Missy dog who has no choice, of course… but to howl.

And yes, my friends, this happens every single day. As I said, boring, those two little fur babies definitely are not.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

 

 

 December 2, 2020

As we continue to travel down this path of uncertainty that is the year 2020, many of us find ourselves discovering who we are underneath the layers of the minutia that became our lives during the relatively good times of the last few years.

I hear a lot of people saying how weary they are of this whole “pandemic thing”, and how they just don’t want to do it anymore. They want to get back to normal. The foot stomp is, of course, implied.

People who say words to that effect clearly have never had to endure much hardship in their lives. The one thing that going through tough times teaches you is that you have to persevere until the hard times leave again. And yes, they always leave again.

In our earliest years as a couple, we went through huge tracts of time when David was out of work. Now, I know I didn’t say out loud, “I’m sick of having to do without. I am so done with this.” I likely thought it, but I wouldn’t have said it aloud, because even I knew, as a young mother, that the hard times would be played out and there really wasn’t much I could do about it except endure.

That is not to say we suffered in silence and did nothing.  We supplemented. David worked at clearing driveways in the winter, he cut wood in the fall, thanks to the generosity of a neighbor who said we could take from his bush what we needed to heat our house. In the spring and summer, we drove around looking for cast away beer bottles. In those years, when drinking and driving was an activity many participated in, there were plenty of bottles to be had. We often put bread and milk on the table from the coins earned turning those empties in. We never sat back and did nothing. But whether or not you can land a job isn’t up to you alone. David always looked for work. And then one day, that neighbor who had offered us all that free wood, hired him. He also owned the quarry, you see, and had watched with his own eyes how hard David worked even without a paycheck. That was, incidentally, the last time David was ever permanently out of a job. There were a few seasonal lay-offs in his first years with the quarry, but that is another story.

Now I can say that I feel blessed having acquired my tolerance of tough times through the innocuous years of simply going without material things. I could have had a bit of a hissy fit and stomped my feet and said I refuse to believe it….and in the end my wallet would still have been empty and my cupboards perilously close to bare. And, with that kind of attitude, my state of mind would have been in a deep hole, and that’s not good for anyone.

In 2020 if someone has a hissy fit and decides to go maskless, to congregate with others who feel the same, the end result might not be as harmless as an empty wallet and hungry belly. The experts are worried that the rash of Thanksgiving travel in the week just passed will result, two weeks down the line, in another, and worse upsurge in cases of the virus. And then a week or so after that, hospitals will be completely overwhelmed with patients. And then a week or so after that, there will be even more refrigerated trucks in use as temporary morgues.

I can’t not think about this. Look, I know you’re tired of all this, but you’ve got to hang on. Hang in there. Vaccines are coming. Relief is coming. You just have to keep on keeping on. The truth is that people are going to die because other people can’t be bothered to wear their damn masks. To save lives, all you have to do is hang on, and wear the damn mask.

For those you know who claim the pandemic was all a hoax to get rid of Trump? He’s on the way out now—he really is—and the pandemic is still here. Oh, and if those you know are arrogant enough to believe that it is all a conspiracy against them, and their dear leader who really and truly is on the way out…please ask them, for me, if they really believe the entire world is in on it?

In Iraq where their legislature was gathered on the weekend just passed and pictures of it televised, they were chanting death to America and they were burning colored posters they’d clearly created for the purpose, posters with pictures of Trump on top and Biden on the bottom. The legislature, the people in the street doing all this chanting and burning? They were all wearing face masks. I doubt the Iraqis would be in on a hoax on the side of any Americans, even if they don’t care for Trump.

To those that you, dear reader, know who are still in denial, tell them Morgan said: deny it in your quiet thoughts if you must, but please, please wear your damn mask!

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

 

 

 November 25, 2020

We awoke Sunday morning to three inches of snow on the ground, and while it did seem to be melting, it also kept falling throughout the day. This was two days after it being in the high fifties, again. That turned out to be another set of warm few days that made us all want to check the calendar to make certain it was November!

Monday morning, I did a double take, because my back yard had a wide patch where there was no snow and the rest had yes, three inches. It took me a moment to understand the wind must have been out of the west. We have a line of cedar trees on the hill at the edge of our lower back yard, and they acted like a giant natural snow fence for part of our yard.

There was a time when the first snow fall would have arrived in late October and stayed until mid-May. There would rarely be a complete January Thaw, and yes, that was a thing. But that few days of warmer temperatures rarely got rid of all the snow. That first one, the base of our winter accumulation, looked old and tired when it finally would be revealed in mid-to-late April.

Now those were winters! I can recall riding in my mother’s car as we made our way home, down our country road with snowbanks higher than our car. Some days, you had to count the driveways to get to the right one. We built snow forts, had a natural outdoor skating rink that stretched for a mile…as I said, those were real winters.

We are acclimating ourselves to being in a “locked down” state of mind once more here in the Ashbury household. This county, while not high by some standards, our infection numbers are climbing, and they are in fact higher than they were during the first wave last spring.

I’m not surprised. They told us it would happen that way. Studies of the last great pandemic to hit us, the Spanish Flu outbreak of the last century, showed that it was the second wave that proved to be the deadliest.

In these modern times, with all of the scientific improvements that have allowed us to know how to slow this virus and to take hope in the knowledge that innovations have allowed for an new kind of vaccine, the only low point is the failure of the common human being to process information efficiently so that they are able to discern the main thing, and keep that as their focus.

All the innovation in the world doesn’t mean squat when knuckle-dragging humans insist on clinging to their inner primordial psyches.

As I listen to the words of those who cling to their right not to wear a mask, it reminds me (the parent and grandparent me) of arguing with a child, trying to get them to willingly do something that you know is right and good and will keep them safe, and that they just do not want to do.

I understand, a little, the psychology behind this. Modern life moves too fast and is scary. Sometimes, crap happens that is difficult to understand. Some people don’t want to understand the logical and scientific reasons why things happen. It’s easier to just make something up and by doing so, have someone or something to blame. If you have someone or something to blame, then you can vent your fear and energy on hurling hate at your target, making yourself believe you feel better—that you feel in control in a world where that sensation is too often unattainable.

The psychological placebo of conspiracy theory, however, never lasts long. And before you know it, you have to find an entirely new conspiracy theory to replace the first one…and so on and so on and so on.

Because making stuff up or believing as true that which others make up without actually exercising the brain that the Good Lord gave you is nothing more than a placebo. It does nothing to help you grow as a human being. And it does just the opposite of giving you any kind of control in your life. Instead, clinging to conspiracy theories makes you a slave.

Some people are afraid to grow up. And I guess in a free society, that has to be allowed. I just wish they’d all go to a playroom somewhere, lie down on their towels and take a nice, long nap.

Oh, and lest I forget…wear a damn mask!

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

 

 

 

 

 

 November 18, 2020

If you don’t count today, there are 37 more days until Christmas. And a week from tomorrow, my American friends have their Thanksgiving Day, followed, of course, by Black Friday.

All these “special holidays” in the midst of a pandemic certainly make for interesting, and complicated times.

I’ve been sitting in my little bubble up here in Canada, with my little routines, and only going out for medical related appointments, and to check in on my brother-in-law, my late sister’s husband, for whom I am “the designated alternate decision maker”. Yes, I promised him I would serve as his power of attorney shortly after my sister’s death. Of course, despite the fact that he was about ten years her senior, I never imagined I would have to do anything. Sadly, he has Parkinson’s and dementia, and has needed my help since 2018. He’s in hospital and has been for awhile, because he cannot manage on his own, and because dementia has caused behaviors in him that translate to his sometimes being a danger to others, and to himself.

My brother-in-law isn’t happy about being where he is, and that to me is the saddest thing of all. You see, he believes he can take care of himself just fine. Of course, he can’t. I had never before had any close contact with someone who has dementia. It’s a heart-breaking disease, one I sincerely hope I never develop. And if I do, I hope I don’t turn miserable and ornery with it, because that is just no good at all, for anyone. Fortunately for me, my daughter has delt with dementia patients and was able to give me some pointers. Still, I really hope I never get it.

But since we have no say over what might occur in the future during our aging process, I can only hope for the best.

So here I am in my bubble, as I said, and at this time staying home with no visitors because of course the entire continent is having a surge in Covid-19. We are having one here in Canada but our numbers are not nearly as high as those in the U.S. Since we are by choice, more or less on lockdown, I’ve been thinking a lot about what’s happening “out there”. One train of thought I rode for a while was that it’s going to be really hard for people who do not even believe that Covid-19 exists, if they get it. They don’t wear masks, they don’t social distance because they don’t believe it’s real. It’s going to be a real shock for those folks if they contract the virus. And I was wondering how many of them would have to contract it in order to make a difference to the anti-masking crowd. I have seen several individuals on different news casts saying that they thought it was a hoax until they got sick themselves. Then they look into the camera and say words to the affect of, “Covid is real. Wear a damn mask.”

The key part in that last paragraph was that I was wondering.

Because I read reports in the last few days from a healthcare provider in the Dakotas who says she’s had patients whose dying words deny the virus. Here I was safe in my belief that more people would admit it’s not a hoax when they or their family members actually contract it, and they put paid to that idea completely. They’re so anti-fact that they’re refusing to believe, even in the face of their own impending death from it that Covid-19 is real.

Well, that just seals it. It's official. I will never understand some people.

I was all prepared with this logical argument to make here today, that it’s better to miss one Thanksgiving dinner with family now and enjoy the rest of them together through the years yet to come than it is to insist you have to celebrate as a crowd of 25 this year—and end up losing possibly several family members to the virus.

But why should I bother trying? If the people I am trying to reach are so obtuse as to cling to their lies even in the face of their own imminent deaths, why should I think I have even a snowball’s chance in hell of changing their minds?

So I am not going to belabor the points I’ve made about this damn pandemic anymore. You want to be “free”? You want to not wear a mask because “it’s not about a virus, it’s about control”? [By the way, I saw that on a billboard during a newscast last week and had to give my head a shake] Okay. You win. Don’t wear a mask.

As long as you stay away from me, and don’t get close to anyone who doesn’t believe as you believe. I hope you don’t get sick and die. Seriously, I don’t wish that on anyone. But if you do? Ah, well. Sorry about your luck.

Since I mentioned Christmas at the opening of this essay, I’ll finish with it—or rather, by reimagining an exchange in the movie, A Christmas Carol—the Alastair Sim version. In the original, two men seeking donations for the poor were trying to get Scrooge to open his money bag. Scrooge responded by asking the men if there were no prisons? Were there no workhouses? Do you recall that scene? So, instead of workhouses, let’s imagine that Scrooge asked about masks instead.

I know I said I wasn’t going to bother, but I can’t not. Thanksgiving comes every year; so does Christmas. Get together next year, and it will be a sweeter reunion, and because of your great, super-human sacrifice of missing one holiday season in person gathering, there will be chairs filled at your table that might otherwise, next year, be empty.

Covid is real. Wear a damn mask.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

 

 November 11, 2020

This past weekend was incredibly warm for November. Sunday was David’s birthday—he turned 68. It was also our Sonja’s birthday—she turned 43, but don’t tell her I told you that.

In years past, David and I would take the gang out to one of our better Steakhouse chains in the area for a supper, complete with a plethora of appetizers as well as desserts for those who wished to indulge. If I get any dessert at that restaurant it’s usually a tiny crème brûlée, because I’m not a fan of anything overly sweet.  The restaurant provides a complementary and very large piece of an ice cream cake with whipped cream and lots of rich chocolate for each birthday celebrant. It’s far too big of a portion for one person to eat. So generally, everyone else gets a fork and the two pieces of cake are shared.

This year is different, of course, but thanks to the cooperation of the weather (it hit 70 on Sunday), we hosted an outdoor “barbeque” where steak and garlic shrimp skewers were the main entrees. We also served a few grilled burgers and some boneless, skinless chicken breasts cooked in foil. There were seven adults at this outdoor celebration and one baby, not too big a crowd, and we have all been very careful in these times to keep ourselves safe.

The number of active cases of Covid-19 in our combined county/city on Sunday was 77, down from 79 the day before. Also, the week ending November 8th has been the worst week for new cases here since the pandemic began, with 61 new positive tests for the week ending Sunday. The virus and its continued reign over our lives is one stressful element that will continue on for some time to come.

How are you feeling now that we’re well into November? Would it surprise you to learn that every single person up here who I have spoken to feels a tremendous sense of relief beginning Saturday? One thing that has become apparent to me over the years is that not all news casts are created equal. We always would watch Canadian, American and British news to get the best, most well-rounded picture of what’s really going on in the world. We still do that, but perhaps not as devotedly as once we did.

Perspective is an interesting phenomenon, don’t you think?

As we take time on this Remembrance Day/Veterans’ Day today to honor the sacrifices of all those who gave their lives in the major wars of the twentieth century, I hope we devote a few minutes to trying to put ourselves in their “heads”.

What was it that they believed to be so precious, so sacred, that they stepped up and volunteered to wear the cloth of their country? What great cause moved them to accept a weapon and, not only put themselves in harm’s way, but be willing take the lives of others?

These were ordinary people who said, “I’ll go.” They had families they loved and lives they were living, and yet, they went to war, and many never came home. Why would they do that? It must have been something extraordinary, don’t you think?

I’ll never forget the snippet of an interview I saw with a man who, in his halting English, explained why he had risked his life to come to our country, and why, on the cusp of voting for the first time, he had tears on his cheeks. His eyes glistening, he whispered one word: freedom.

I had never heard that word said with such majestic reverence before. We perhaps are guilty of taking the splendid idea represented by that word, that concept, for granted. Those of us who were born from the twentieth century forward here in Canada and in the United States, have, for the most part, always been free.

I also recall the warnings, issued in high school by history and sociology teachers alike that we must guard our freedom, for it could be taken from us. These warnings came particularly on special days of commemoration, like today. Maybe at the time we shrugged those warnings off, believing that nothing like that could ever happen here. Certainly not to us, and certainly not here.

If the last four years have taught us anything, it is that we can indeed have our freedom stolen from us because that very nearly happened. And we’ve learned that democracy is more fragile than we knew, and we must do all we can to guard it.

Freedom isn’t free; and it isn’t infinite. My freedom to act how I choose has a limit, and that, of course, is where my actions would harm you. Because I am convinced by the science, I wear a mask when I leave my house; I keep my distance from anyone not of my household; I wash my hands with sanitizer while I am out, and give them a good scrubbing when I get home.

I do this to protect you and I pray with great fervor that all y’all will do that, to protect me. And if you need further convincing, I leave you with this thought:

When have you ever been given such a simple, no-sweat way to save a life and be a hero?

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

 

 

 

 

 November 4, 2020

It’s November, just. I think something was going on yesterday in the country to the south of us. There appeared to be a lot of tension and excitement, and regular television programming, what there is of it these days, was pre-empted.

As far as I can see, whatever it was is still happening. I’m hearing the words tenterhooks, premature, and patience.

But I’m not going to talk about that, because there’s just no way I can do that and have it come out well for me. So instead, I think I’ll talk for a moment about the strange weather we’re having this week.

Just this past weekend, we got snow. Wet snow came down, at times looking like a blizzard, and it was icky! I snuck a peek around my monitor to look out my window and at one point there were so many white flakes in the air I couldn’t see across the street. In the end, there was not much of an accumulation, just a coating on grass and cars, but it was cold enough for it to stay overnight. I am not a fan of snow, and even less of a fan of snow and/or ice on the outdoor walking surfaces.

I now have to try to recall where I put my ice claw, a device that fits on the end of my cane. Without the claw that covers the rubber tip of my cane with a small, metal five-pronged pick, I would not be able to use said cane as a walking device on snow or ice.

So, Sunday, snow. Today? According to the weather network dot com, it’s going to hit fifty-seven degrees today. And for the next few days our daytime temperatures are slated to be in the mid-sixties.

Let me say that again. In the mid-sixties in November in Canada. You remember, I trust, that in our national anthem, we refer to ourselves as “the true north, strong and free”. We don’t call ourselves the frozen north, because, well, we all of us up here just assume you all down there and the rest of the world knows that about us.

I have an American friend who once said that Canada was the country that used ice as a construction material, and he wasn’t far off. We’re slated to have these warmer temperatures for the rest of this week and into the next. And it’s not even supposed to hit the freezing mark overnight.

I would like to take this opportunity to remind Mother Nature that the relative and pertinent phrase is “a frosty day in July” and not “a summer day in November”.

Tenterhooks, premature, and patience.

The greatest of these three words is patience, but I’ll add one more to it. Faith. It’s a difficult set of qualities to cultivate in this life, having patience and faith, especially in these modern techno-savvy times. Life these days moves at the speed of sound, it seems, and so we like to have things when we want things and for some of us the idea of waiting is hard. Very, very hard. Keeping the faith is the same, difficult to do because we are so used to having it—whatever it is—now and may think that we don’t need faith.

Children are famous for their lack of patience, but the lack sadly isn’t relegated only to the young. The good thing about having cultivated patience as a matter of course would be that when the time comes and you really need a storehouse of it, you have it. You’re able to take a deep breath, and relax, and wait. You have patience and faith to spare, and that’s amazing.

If you’re not the sort of person who’s known for their patience (and that includes me, by the way, though I do have faith), you can learn to fake it. Those who know me best chuckle at the concept that I’m a patient person. They say my motto is “grant me patience, Lord, but hurry.”

And they’re right, absolutely, though I would point that even they know if I ask for something, who it is I ask it of.

So, let’s all do this faking thing together, shall we? Let’s take a deep breath, and then another. And we’ll tell ourselves that everything is fine and will turn out exactly the way it’s meant to be.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

 

 October 28, 2020

First, I want to begin this essay with these words: I am at home, and I am well.

But last week at this time, I was in my local hospital. I’d arrived there by ambulance on Sunday the 18^th, and on Wednesday, I was awaiting transportation to a larger General hospital in a city that lies about thirty-five minutes to the east. That hospital has a full function cardiac department. I was going there in order to have my second, ever, angiogram.

The last one occurred in December of 2002, about four months after my first and only heart attack which I suffered in August of that year. In November I’d begun having angina, and the doctor told me if angina woke me up from a sound sleep, then I was to head to the hospital, which I did.

An angiogram is a test that takes pictures of the coronary arteries and the blood vessels that supply the heart. During the test they use a catheter, inserted into a blood vessel to inject a special dye into the blood, in order for the pictures to be taken.

Due to the ongoing presence of the pandemic, new rules are in place in our hospitals, here. In order for me to be able to undergo the angiogram, I had to first have two negative Covid-19 tests, taken within twenty-four hours. Once that was a fait accompli, (late Tuesday afternoon) the procedure was scheduled for the next day. I didn’t even think of complaining about the Covid tests, even if it did feel like my brain was being sting-tickled with vinegar and a wire. Taking every precaution is one way we prevent the disease from spreading. I happen to believe that is very important.

Eighteen years had passed since my last angiogram, and as one would expect after that amount of time had passed, some improvements have been made to the procedure. The major one I was aware of was this: that if a blockage was found and if the doctor decided a stent would be appropriate, it would be done then and there.

Unlike that last time, the access point for the catheter was not my femoral artery, but my radial artery – in my right wrist. And also, unlike that last time, my test results this time were excellent. There were no blockages, and nothing to explain the couple of incidents of unstable angina that I’d experienced. They did find some mild plaque in one of the arteries. The doctors reached the conclusion that this plaque could be treated with medication. They added two new meds to the ones I was already taking, and increased the dosage of two others, and I’m (obviously) fine with all of that.

I am grateful for all the services that I received, beginning with the ambulance ride to the hospital. I was taken into the emergency room immediately, put on a stretcher, and hooked up to blood pressure and heart monitoring equipment.

They admitted me to a room on the Cardiac ward around nine Sunday evening. After the first Covid test came back negative, I was moved from that room to another, this one with a roommate who was also awaiting the results of his second test.

My roommate turned out to be a gentleman. I’m old fashioned enough that I felt some objections wanting to emerge as I realized that. I soon learned that this was not uncommon at all. They have to manage the patients they have, as well as the ones they don’t but might receive. Restricting rooms by gender means blocking beds from use, and even under normal circumstances, that’s not good.

I came home early Thursday afternoon, and I have decided to take things easy, rest a fair bit, and try to “chill”. I’ll probably get back to pushing myself eventually, because I don’t think such a relatively short stay in hospital is enough to convert this A type personality into a beta forever.

But it’s always, good, at least in my humble opinion, to take full advantage of the opportunities we’re given. And that is never so true as when the opportunity comes wrapped in a scare, and reminds us that we are, after all, very mortal.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

 

 

 October 14, 2020

It’s autumn, all right. We used to call it sweater weather, but we’re older now. It’s jacket weather, to be certain. I love the “fresh air” days. You know the ones I mean, those days when you open the door and inhale deeply, and then sigh with the pure pleasure of smelling fresh air. We’ve had a couple of them this month, already. Last Friday, our daughter, who is a very early riser, decided have the doors opened wide, to bring all that lovely fresh air into the house. We were still in bed, bedroom door closed, and she had really hoped that she would be done with her cleaning project and house airing before we got up.

Our thermostat for the furnace is in the living room, a major recipient of all that fresh air. This meant, of course that the furnace was chugging away throughout the time the front and back doors were wide open. The thermostat is set at 72, but I think the outside morning temperature here on Friday was about 42. Well, the outside temperature and also the inside temperature—in the living room.

An interesting thing happens in the rooms that have closed doors and open heat vents when the furnace keeps pumping out the heat because the thermostat in the living room tells it to. I got up for a bathroom visit just shy of 7 am and while I might have considered staying up before opening the bedroom door, I changed my mind and headed straight back to my very warm and toasty bedroom afterward.

Normally first thing in the morning before actually getting up, I do like to have the blankets off for a bit, as I tend to sleep warmer than I like, but thanks to that open door and shot of cold from the bedroom to the bathroom and back, that was not a problem on Friday.

David got up for the same reason I had when I came back to bed. I told him to put his robe on, which he did—bless him for doing that so trustingly when the bedroom was so toasty. He took the puppies with him, as he always does, putting them outside while he goes into the bathroom. Then he came back to bed. He'd left the dogs in the living room because our daughter, and her dogs were up and downstairs. The puppies love that. They don’t miss us at all during those mornings when they get to be with Jenny and their mommy dog, and the others.

That is to say, usually, they love that.  Missy-dog has a distinctive sound she makes when the bedroom door is closed, and she wants in. I’ve heard it because a few times David has ejected her from the room during afternoon nap time. It’s a pitiful and pathetic low-pitched moaning-whine, and I heard that sound five minutes after David came back to bed on Friday morning.

I got up and opened the door, and Missy shot into the room, and around the bed, likely trying to get as far away from the cold as possible. Even Bear, who doesn’t mind (and often prefers) being left alone on the sofa with a blanket around him perked up, ran down the doggie staircase, and headed into the room, too.

Bear, our boy puppy, son of Mr. Tuffy, and Zeus, our daughter’s teacup chihuahua can neither of them jump onto the couch so yes, we have a doggie staircase. But I digress.

When we all four of us got out of bed an hour later, those darn doors were still open. My office, however, had been closed up the entire time, so I just headed into that small sanctuary of warmth and stayed there until the doors were finally closed. The house did smell nice and fresh, and really that freshness was and is worth a bit of discomfort.

Autumn is also soup weather. We do buy canned and packaged soups, for convenience, and for cooking. David can’t eat regular spaghetti sauce as it gives him tummy troubles. But he does like a soup – tomato with basil and oregano – so when we make spaghetti, we use that. We also use canned mushroom soup when we fry pork chops. It’s either my homemade coating mix, or mushroom soup when it comes to the chops.

But the soups I was referring to are the ones I make myself. I will confess to using a bit of prepared vegetable, chicken, or beef broth—I prefer the powdered forms—but everything else in my soups are home ingredients.

There are family favorites, of course: cream of potato (either with leek or bacon), cream of mushroom, and cream of broccoli. Any stew or pot roast is the source of homemade beef barley soup with veggies, or occasionally just beef and veggies soup. I also will make either chicken noodle or chicken with rice soup. A new favorite the last couple of years has been butternut squash with red pepper soup. Sometimes, I get a text from our second daughter asking if there will be soup. Others, it’s my husband who hints for soup.

I am more grateful than I can say that even at this time in my life when I can’t do anywhere near as much as I used to around the house, I can still make a damned good pot of homemade soup.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury