June 24, 2020

It’s officially summer here in Southern Ontario. We celebrated this benchmark almost immediately with a heat wave. Of course, we must have a heat wave because, hello, summer! If you sense a bit of sarcasm there, you’re very intuitive.
David took a load of laundry down to the basement on Saturday, the day after the summer solstice. Before he could get the wash going, however, he had to really push on the door that until that day had opened easily. He nodded. “Yep, it’s summer, all right. The basement door is sticking again.”

I’d like to say that I am happy for the arrival of summer, because my arthritis will hurt less. There were years when that was true. But anymore, cold and damp, cool and damp, or hot and damp—it’s all icky for me. I do what I can by covering my ankles all the time, and when necessary, tossing a blanket over my knees to protect them from the daggers known as a draft. That’s normal for me at this point in my life, no matter the season, and that’s just the way it is.

My daughter, who is a PSW and has clients in the community, assures me it’s all good. I’m not over the hill yet, she proclaims. Some of her older clients insist on having the heat on even in the summer. She comes out of their homes completely sweat-drenched. I told her not to worry, I didn’t think I would ever get to that point. The look she gave me was a definite “we’ll see.”

Our table gardens are doing well. I’ve ordered a soil testing kit, because the couple of veggies that aren’t doing well may be failing because of the acidity of the soil. Our son and his wife stopped in for a visit on Father’s Day. David was really pleased, because it allowed him to show off his gardens to his son, and to ask his advice. Our first born is an avid gardener and has delved more into the science of the craft than we ever did.

Relationships—familial relationships—often seem to be wrapped up in traditions and clichés. The men will grunt over grills and gardens, and the women will coo over cookies and kids. I know that clichés become clichés because they were slices of real life that happened over and over and over again. We could also, more simply, call it human nature, and it is in a way.

But perhaps that human nature is not so stereotypical as once it was.

What used to be true in this family was the grunting of my beloved and our oldest over “quarry stuff”; our first born followed in his father’s footsteps and works in the aggregate industry in this province. In fact, he started the thriving career he now has, by working along side his father. My daughter-in-law and I tend, at those times when the conversation turns to crushers to roll our eyes and grin at each other.

The Covid-19 update in this county isn’t as bad as in some places. The people in our county took this threat very seriously. We’ve had 121 confirmed cases in this the county all together, and four deaths. Of the remaining 117, all but 5 have recovered. I do not believe for one single minute that this means we’re out of the woods. This virus isn’t finished messing with us.

I will continue to go once every two weeks to the grocery store and yes, I will wear my mask. But beyond that, I am going to continue to stay home. Some of the restaurants in our area are opening up to patio seating, and that’s fine. David and our daughter will be going for breakfast in the very near future. Me? Bring me a takeout item once every few weeks, and I’ll call it good.

Next week, on Monday, I have an appointment at the optometrist. I’ll wear my mask, and socially distance myself—and I sincerely hope they have their appointments spaced out sufficiently to allow for that. It’s a small office but they have, in the past, liked to crowd people in.

I have an update on my rose bushes. I had three rose bushes, you may recall. The most recent two I got from the girls for a Mother’s Day, and I asked to have those two planted out the bedroom window beside the first, so that I could see them. But only the original one was visible to me, and only if I pressed my face against the glass. The other two were just plain out of sight.

Well, that original one, because it nearly died a couple of times, is thriving this year as it never has before – as a wild rose bush. And it’s vines have crawled all the way in front of the window on the small trellis I had David place there the year I planted some sweet peas.

They still don’t have much scent, but they sure are pretty. And I don’t have to squash my nose to see them! 

Love,
Morgan
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury