March 31, 2021

This past Saturday, Jennifer headed off to purchase a new washing machine. She has lived with us now for nearly two years, and we don’t ask her to pay rent. She is in charge, since the pandemic, of going out to get our groceries, and she helps us a great deal doing more things than I could possibly list. Because both David and I are considered “disabled”, she receives a tax credit for being our “caregiver”, which she is in a very real sense.

She made the decision that since she got that nice tax return thanks to us, she would use a part of it to get a new washer, because ours was most definitely on its last legs. And she took her daddy to the big box appliance/home supply store with her. She didn’t need the help nor any advice on which machine to get, but her daddy really needed to get out. They’d decided to buy the machine and arrange for delivery; then they were going to have breakfast out.

They had masks, and the restaurants here abouts are restricted to the number of clients they can serve at one time. I had no desire to go, but I was glad they were having some father-daughter time. My job was to stay home with the animals. And that, my friends, is another story.

Before he left, David joked that he knew why our freezer had not yet been delivered. He figured it was on that ship that at the time was stuck in the middle of the Suez Canal. I, of course, rolled my eyes. I wondered after they left if they were going to swing past the store where, in the first week of June of last year, we’d purchased that as yet undelivered freezer. I really hoped that if they did, David wouldn’t be too scathing in voicing his opinion of that store’s customer service.

He'd been getting beyond impatient about the situation, and he admitted that he’s not certain anymore that his “filter” is working. I didn’t tell him that it really hadn’t been working well for some time. That didn’t seem to be a useful topic for discussion between us because, of course, the eroding filter between thought and speech isn’t anything that he can truly control.

He is the quintessential crotchety old man.

After they’d been gone for almost an hour, he sent me a text telling me that the store where they’d gone to get the new washer had a 15 cubic foot freezer on hand, and it could be delivered next week—it’s coming later today, actually.

I replied that was good, and after they concluded the transaction to buy that, they needed to go to the original store and cancel the order.

The new washer is electronic, as is everything else these days. It has no center agitator and that means, I’m told, that the washer will no longer go “out of balance” during its cycle. I can’t tell you how many times, while David has been doing our laundry, that our old machine has done that very thing. I’d hear it happen because as luck would have it the washer is in the basement almost directly under where I am sitting in my office.

When Jenny was doing her laundry that would sometimes happen, too. Especially if there were blankets in the machine. I worried the thing would break down one of the times it was hopping down there in the basement.

Last November, before anyone even thought about getting a new washer (we’d had our old one for more than 15 years) I purchased a baby monitor set from Amazon. One part was down in the basement near the washer. The other was up stairs in her apartment—so that when she was doing laundry early in the morning before I got out of bed, she would hear when the thing began to “dance”.

The new washer arrived Sunday, as promised. I even managed to get myself down into the basement to see this marvel of modern technology—one that I will likely never operate. I was impressed by all the flashing lights, and options. It’s a top loader, (no one here wants a front loader). The lid is smoked glass, so you can see inside it. Apparently, once it begins its cycle, the lid locks. I wondered if you could open it in case of an emergency, but of course, I didn’t ask. I simply complemented our daughter on her purchase and left her and her daddy to play with it.

I intend, all things being equal, not to learn how to use the washer. I also don’t know how to use the vacuum we currently have. Seriously. You see, vacuuming and laundry and household garbage are the three things that David has as his household responsibilities. He vacuums once a week—or, he’s supposed to. It stretches out to once every two weeks, and the job consists of the small area rug and narrow short runner in the living room, and the small area rug in my office. When he vacuums, he does a good job and it takes him all of ten minutes.

Laundry? It’s laundry for just the two of us, and he does that once every three weeks. The garbage is the most intensive job he has, because the kitchen can needs to be emptied sometimes every day and sometimes once every two days, and the collection by the town is weekly. Oh, and he washes and rinses and sets the supper dishes into the drainboard, too, on the nights that I cook supper.

No, I don’t want him to then put the dishes away. I do that myself the following morning, so that I can set the dishes that need rewashing into a stack to await the next load of sudsy hot water in the sink. I also see no reason to point out these small lapses to the man, either. He does what he can, and we each only know what we know.

So we’ll just keep that little thing between us.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

 

 March 24, 2021

Whenever I hear of some one having a problem, or facing a hurdle of some kind, my first instinct is always to reach out and try to help. I’m not telling you that as a form of bragging. It just is part of who I am. As far as I can recall, I’ve had that trait from the time I was a child in bed at night, listening to my mother crying because of her arthritis.

She had osteoarthritis—the same kind that I have. Her ability to walk was so impaired by the time I was a new bride that she had orthopedic surgery on both knees in the last five years of her life. I don’t know all the medical details, but it did help her pain levels considerably. She needed a walker for a time and then graduated to the use of a cane. But the prospect of having the surgery—being a nurse she knew all that could possibly go wrong—resulted in a huge weight loss for her.

To this day I remain convinced that the sudden change in her weight (from a size 26 to a size 12 in less than three months) was the cause of the fatal heart-attack she had in her 57^th year.

As I would listen to my mother at night, I asked God to please give me her pain, so she wouldn’t suffer so much. It was the only thing that I could think to do. I believe that need to help her was born out of my sensitive nature. I have been accused on various occasions over my lifetime of being overly sensitive. The accusation had merit because I was and still am exactly that. I consider this a flaw with a positive side, because if I didn’t have that sort of personality, I likely wouldn’t be an author—or at least not one that I’d care to be.

I believe with all my heart that the reason we are here on this earth is to help one another. I’ve been told by some that I have a servant’s heart. That pleases me and would make, when all is said and done, a darn good epitaph.

Having said all that, one of the hardest things I’ve had to learn in life is that sometimes I can’t help. Or more to the point, sometimes I shouldn’t. It’s hard for me to recognize when those moments arise. I’ve helped people in the past in one way when perhaps it would have been better for them in I hadn’t. There’s an old saying: give a man a fish and he eats for a day; teach him how to fish, and he eats for a lifetime.

It's a saying that I sometimes need to remember.

There are days when I wonder if I will ever get that balance right. But I have to be honest with you. I don’t let myself stew over it. When I think about it, I’d rather err on the side of generosity than to find myself becoming less generous of spirit, and more of a curmudgeon. If I’m to be found guilty of anything I would rather be convicted of giving too much to others than not enough. Of saying yes to requests too often, than not enough. In other words, I’d rather have it said I was too open a person as opposed to being too closed up and self-centered.

I rebelled against my nature when I was in my late twenties and into my thirties. I spent several years being bitter and resentful with a chip on my shoulder I didn’t think could ever be removed. It wasn’t life that did that to me, as I had sometimes proclaimed then; it had been my reaction to life that did that. That chip and the resentfulness matched the cynicism in my soul, and I didn’t even understand where I had gone until someone commented that I was a very bitter woman and that was an unattractive trait.

I didn’t like that honest assessment, but more, I didn’t like the way I felt inside, as if there was only blackness, a stinking mass of blackness created by a choice I had somehow made, and an attitude I had somehow allowed to grow.

Once I realized all that, I made the conscious decision to let it all go. I prayed like I had never prayed before, and I forgave everyone who had ever, if only even in my own mind, “done me wrong”, and I asked for the same forgiveness for myself.

Many years later I can attest to the fact that life is not perfect as I play around in my September years. There’s a bit more pain than I’d like, I forget words here and there, but I do have times when the pain eases and the words flow. People can still annoy me, and under the right circumstances I can deliver a zinger that hits its mark with astonishing precision. But that blackness is gone, and sitting here now, I can barely remember it. The chip is gone too, and overall, I am content.

Life is an interesting experience. And I know when I get messages from folks who tell me my words helped them, that everything I’ve gone through to get me to this point, it all played a part in that help I was able to give with my words. And getting those words to give to others is one of the best rewards in life there is.

Getting them, giving them, touching others—that’s what I’d call a prize more precious than gold.  

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 March 17, 2021

A long time ago when I was the mother of one, I had a habit late at night, when David and my son were upstairs and in bed. I would be downstairs in the “den” and I would release all my tension and stress with music. I would play my records very loud indeed, and I would sing along. Maybe “sing’ is too tepid a word. Perhaps “belt” would be better. I knew the words and the timing, and my voice was pretty good back then, to my own ears.

My singing voice is pretty a thing of the past, now but man, I could belt out Don’t Rain on My Parade and give Ms. Streisand a run for her money. At least in my mind, I could. And the most miraculous thing of all was that neither husband nor son ever woke up during these jam sessions of mine. I didn’t preform this personal concert every night, but when I did, when it was over, I was able to go to bed feeling much more peaceful and could happily join the chorus of those slumbering on the second floor.

This past coping tool, one of several I will confess, was something I just remembered recently. The memory was triggered when I listened to a song I hadn’t heard in a long time. Strange, the way memory works. This wasn’t a song I would have belted out in those days, this blast from the past that I heard recently; the song hadn’t yet been written then.

Music on its own is a powerful medium for memory and emotions. I’ve seen videos showing the way that some people who have suffered brain injuries receive music therapy. I personally know one person who suffers from Parkinson’s Disease and dementia and can’t speak well. Yet turn on the music and he doesn’t miss a beat.

For my own part, while I sometimes have trouble finding a word, or recalling a name, I, too, can come up with words I haven’t sung in years when I hear a song play. I love music and have, over my lifetime, probably had a few hundred songs that I have named as my “favorite song of all time”.

I no longer need any of my old coping tools as I get used to being a senior citizen. Well, beyond the most basic for me of course, and that’s my writing. But for the most part, and all things being equal, at this point in my life I’m able to roll with the punches that life is famous for. For the last couple of decades, I’ve done my best to appreciate each day, and to give thanks for every blessing. I’m keenly aware that I’m lucky to have a level of comfort in which to live. We’re not rich by any means, but generally speaking, we have what we need and even some of what we want and really, that is a huge blessing. One I do not for one single minute take for granted.

In this life we can do our best to plan for the future. And that can be a challenge because of course, mostly the future is an unknown quantity. As many wise folks have observed, we really only ever have the moment in which we find ourselves. We only have now, today, this instant. We make our plans and fill our calendars where we can with places to go and people to see, and things to do but at any given moment, everything can change.

And after the last year and a bit, don’t we all know that fact really, really well?

If anyone was wondering if there was ever going to be an end to this pandemic-living-paradigm, fear not. Provided most of the population gets vaccinated, and folks keep up the safety protocols until they do, we will put this behind us. We still don’t know how long the vaccines will last. Six months? A year? Maybe more? No one can yet say. Lately I’ve been hearing speculation that an annual booster shot might be in the cards for at least a decade. Really, the answer to this question at the moment is that we have to wait and see.

Once we have that information, we’ll fashion our new normal. And if you’re having any doubts on your ability to do just that, think on this. Everyone wants life to return to normal. Some are getting really antsy for that to happen. But there are a lot of people who are becoming a little nervous as the prospect of post-pandemic life approaches. Psychologists are preparing for the next phase of anxiety they see coming. Soon, people will be able to go out and have dinner, or go to the movies, or go bowling, or do any number of things they used to do. And some of them are maybe even more than nervous about this prospect, they’re scared.

Because isolation and masks and handwashing has become normal for them already. And once more, change is approaching.

And change means we’ll have one more normal to get used to. Again.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

 

 March 10, 2021

I do believe that spring, more or less, has arrived. Patches of matted, bludgeoned grass are appearing here and there after what feels like a very long time. Patches only, at this point, because the snow has been melting very slowly, and there is more ice visible than can possibly be healthy for the lawn overall.

At just after ten-thirty yesterday morning, the weather network indicated that our outside temperature was 41 but felt like 37. Not so bad, because it was above freezing. It was headed for a balmy 52. Today’s prediction is for the thermometer to reach 59.  And if it does, this will be the first two-day warm stretch this year.

We were officially off our long “stay-at-home” order here in Ontario on February 16^th.  It began last year, on December 26^th. Though the order has been lifted, we’re expected to continue to act responsibly. One can’t go running all over the place. It’s still suggested that we restrict our movements—or more precisely, our “associating”. And, of course, we must wear masks when out, and maintain social distancing.

On the whole, this lockdown was not a problem for David or me because, as I am sure no one who knows us will be surprised to read, we kind of enjoy the hermit life. And that really applies to me just a bit more than to my husband. Because, you see, with yesterday being a day that promised to be warmer, David announced early that he could no longer deny the urge to “associate” with a large order of fries with gravy.

There’s a small restaurant in town that features take-out. Burgers and fries and subs and salads and, because the original owners were Greek, gyros and souvlaki are on the menu, too. In the past, David has ridden his scooter down to the heart of our small town, purchased those fries with gravy, and then scooted straight home again.

At the kitchen table, those fries are still hot when he sits down to devour them. The experience gives him a happy tummy and therefore, a happy mood. Such was the case for him yesterday. He did remark that their “large” fries were a bit less large than the last time he bought them. Likely, they’ve made changes with the goal of saving money. It’s good, in fact, that they’re still in business. He made those happy tummy sounds, so that’s what’s important.

He then capped off his adventure by taking his coffee out onto the front porch. He took the pups with him, and the three of them spent a good half hour there.

David’s activities yesterday aligned with something I’ve been thinking about a lot, lately. In life, for most of us, it’s not the big things that get us, it’s the little things. And because that is so, it’s also the little things, I believe, that most people seem to be missing most keenly after a year of pandemic-altered existence.

I think there’s an argument to be made that it is the generally the small things in life that make life special. I might have a horrific job that I hate and co-workers I wouldn’t have in my house, but if I have my Friday night favorite television show and a bowl of popcorn—or chips and salsa, or whatever it is I define as a treat—then I’m good.

The drudge of week-to-week balancing of the bills might be a long, slow chokehold on me as I juggle everything, and do my best to stay cheerful, but if I can have that one weekly two-dollar lottery ticket, then I have something that gives me a bit of hope and sees me through.

It's long been my belief that if I think things will never ever get better, then life loses that little bit of sparkle that I need. I believe that and I think a lot of other people do, too.

Yes, the big things that have happened to us—losing a job because of the pandemic and still being out of work for months on end—can cause deep anxiety and worry. Yes, not being able to hold our grandchildren close for so long is an awful, gut-wrenching wound to the heart. But most of us do understand, deep down, that we will get those big things back, eventually. At some point we’ll get a new job, and then a better job. And with the vaccinations happening, we know we’ll once more be able to hug our loved ones close like we used to.

I believe that with this pandemic, we are in the home stretch.

Sometimes, for whatever reason, we may lose some of our little things and it is in those moments we feel the heavy weight of all that we’ve lived through the last twelve months. But the good news is that if some of our little things disappear, we can replace them. If the days and weeks of isolation squash those little pleasures we once held dear, that we counted on to cheer us, to fuel us to face one more day, we can find other little things.  

Because those things or routines, or whatever they might be, are choices we have made. We endow those routines and small treats with the power to lift us, and that’s a decision, too. We are ultimately the source of our own inspiration.

There is light at the end of the tunnel. The vaccines are rolling out. It will be a few months more, yet until most of the population of our countries and the rest of the world will be vaccinated.

Until that day arrives, we need those little things to see us through.  Don’t brush them off as unimportant. Cherish them, because they’ve proven their worth.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

 

 

 March 3, 2021

Winter is nearly over. But as I look out my office window (as best I can around my large computer screen) the sun is shining, and I see flashes of a deeper blue than I could see just a month ago. But as much as I relish the sunshine and slightly deeper hue of azure in the sky between the clouds, I remind myself that while March is the first month of spring, it is also the last month of winter. And winter, while being nearly over, can still bring us to our knees in March. And sometimes we’re gifted with an unanticipated and unappreciated encore performance in April or even early May.

I remind myself there’s a reason my mother never planted her veggie or flower gardens until after the 24^th of May. That was the date she calculated when “all danger of frost was past”. When it came to gardening, my mother really did know best.

Despite all the technology we embrace in this day and age, and regardless of all the amazing modern amenities at our disposal, we humans are still inexorably tied to the natural world, aren’t we? Like the animals, we hunker down during the winter months, and tend to react viscerally to the pending arrival of spring.

Usually, once March arrives and gives us a sunny day or two, our sap begins to flow and our buds shiver in eagerness to emerge from our long winter’s dormancy. And it’s the same for the trees and the flowers, too.

One thing with getting older that I’ve found to be true is that it’s difficult to compare current circumstances with times in years past. Is this the worst winter we’ve ever had? Well, I don’t think I can say that it is, exactly. It was a solid winter, with a lot of very cold days, and snow that stayed around for weeks on end. But I can’t tell you more than that. I don’t tend to keep the years straight in my mind. Once it’s done, it’s gone, and that’s that. Unless, of course, there is something exceptional that happened in a year. Then I might remember it.

I can tell you this winter we’re still in was worst than last year’s, in that this winter we had a couple of days when the furnace couldn’t quite keep up with the cold. It was only for a few hours each time, but to me it was a sign that the cold this year was deeper and more biting. Canada did set some new record cold days, so science apparently agrees with me.

Either that or my furnace needs servicing. That could be, too, and I’ll get it done before we have to turn the air conditioner on. I had planned to get the servicing done in January, but then we were in a midst of a stay-at-home order. Had there been an emergency, I would have contacted the company and had one of their repair persons in.

Spring is my favorite season, and in my mind, I have always considered it to be the season of renewal, but more, a season of hope. Makes sense in a way, because by the end of February a person can feel a little hope-depleted. Nothing replenishes that sweet resource more than the sight of flower shoots breaking ground, or the verdant green aura that envelops trees just as their buds appear. There’s a morning so pure, so blue-skied and bursting with fresh air, you can almost get intoxicated standing on your porch and breathing in deeply. On such a day, it can feel as if the possibilities are endless

I imagine that in the next week or so, we’ll begin to turn our minds to what we’ll need for this year’s veggie gardens, and whether or not we’ll go to the nursery to get some flowers to plant. Last year we learned a lot, so this year, hopefully, we’ll be happier with our results. But there is joy and purpose just in the doing, completely independent of whether you get good results or not.

I think that is true for a lot of activities in life. Or at least it should be. I look forward to getting my hands in the dirt, to cupping the fragile roots of young plants, and setting them firmly to grow. I look forward to appreciating the sense of life a garden engenders.

Because this winter has been a bit colder, David was more attentive in ensuring the critter feeders, front yard and back, were filled. He got bird seed for the birds, and sunflower seeds and peanuts in the shell for the squirrels and chipmunks. So when we settle in to figure out our gardening supplies, I’m going to suggest he jerry rig one additional item for each garden table.

I think we might need some chicken wire “hats” for the tables to wear—hats that will let the sun and rain in, and hopefully keep the critters out.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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