August 25, 2021

This past week has been another hot one. I continue to stay inside most of the time, and I make no apologies for that. As it is, the humidity still gets to me—or maybe, as my daughter suggests, it’s the barometric pressure. Whatever it is that does it, my arthritis continues to ache relentlessly. That’s just situation normal for me. Those who know me are used to my saying, “it’s only pain”, and that isn’t me making light of it. That’s me being grateful that it is, after all, only pain.

I did indulge myself and had one of the two lobsters that my second daughter brought back for me from Nova Scotia. I made a salad with lettuce, lobster, tomatoes, and avocado, and with feta cheese crumbled on top. I posted a picture of it on my FB wall and noted that there was no dressing in the recipe for the salad, nor any mention of one. I truly didn’t miss one because that bowl contained some interesting flavors, all of which I enjoyed.

Of course, having bought the feta specifically for that salad, I had to then have large “Greek” salad a couple of days later. That, too, was very good.

One of my great-grandchildren had expressed an interest in trying the lobster and the avocado, and it was just good timing that the day I prepared that salad was a day he’d be here for a bit. He liked the lobster, but not the avocado. I told him I was proud of him for being willing to try something new. He’s going to be seven next month, so that was something I believed deserved to be praised.

My daughter claims lobster has no flavor, but I find it very tasty. The meat that didn’t make it into the salad and that wasn’t set aside for brave great-grandchildren, did make it into a pan of melted butter with garlic, and that was yummy, too. I plan to wait a couple of weeks and then try my hand at making a lobster bisque. That is a soup I will almost always order if I see it on a menu, but one that I’ve never tried to make.

Like my oldest great-grandson, I, too, like to try new things—at least the making of them, and I figure at my age that has to count for something, too.

I checked the weather forecast for the upcoming week last night, because I was hoping to see cooler and dryer days approaching. Instead, that chart claims that today is the first of five wet days that we’ll be gifted out of the next seven. Now, the last day of August, at the moment, is looking to be the first day that will “feel like” less than 90 degrees, Fahrenheit in quite some time. Looking ahead is all well and good, but I guess I really shouldn’t do that. The weather forecasts often change, based on updated information. It would be the height of either stupidity or arrogance not to change the forecast as the information it’s based on changes.  (However, a quick check this morning showed no change.)

That’s kind of like the science involved in understanding the novel coronavirus we’ve been living with for the last eighteen months. I don’t think it’s rocket science to understand that when more is learned about the nature of a brand new never before seen virus, then how we deal with said virus could very well need to change. The more the scientists learn, the more they know, and we all adapt accordingly. Like I said, not rocket science at all, but that’s just my opinion.

A lot of people have been making this situation a lot more complicated than it needs to be.

Our “freedom” day was July 6 – the day when we reached the two week point after our second vaccination. And while I thought that I might have no problem going out to a restaurant, that still hasn’t happened. I’ve gone to the grocery story, and to the community lab for my blood work, all things that I have done throughout.

But I did one other thing I haven’t done for a very long time, and likely wouldn’t have, except my husband gave me a present for my birthday. He gave me a gift certificate for a pedicure at my happy place, the spa here in town. I knew that the young woman who would give me the pedi had been vaccinated, and we did keep our masks on the entire time. But first, we had a nice, very satisfying hug. Before the pandemic, I was a regular, you see, and I have used the same esthetician for several years. We were both very close to tears. It touched my heart, to have been missed.

This was my first “normal” outing, and I wasn’t at all nervous. There were a few differences, besides keeping the masks on. But those small differences didn’t diminish my pleasure with the experience. A part of the procedure I usually get includes having my feet soaking in very warm paraffin wax for about fifteen minutes. There are those who claim the practice has many good benefits, and those who say that’s all just nonsense.

I say, the very warm wax feels wonderful on my poor arthritic ankles, and that, my friends, is good enough for me.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

 August 18, 2021

We used to call the middle of August the “dog days of summer”. I never knew what that meant, growing up. Being a somewhat linear thinker at times, I made simple connections. I figured this time of the year was called the dog days of summer because this was the time of year you would sweat like a dog, it was so hot.

But while I claim to have been a linear thinker as a teenager/young woman, I wasn’t very good at it. Because dogs sweat through their tongues. It was hot enough some Augusts to have your tongue hanging out and to want to pant. But I can’t say with any real assurance that was something that I did, necessarily.

Now I know they’re called “dog days” because this is the time of year that the sun is in the same region of the sky as is Sirius, the brightest star and a part of the constellation of Canis Major, the Greater Dog.

Huh, who knew, right?

Well, it has been hot a lot of days, and I am being a bit of a stubborn old woman, but I don’t see any real reason why I have to subject myself to that. The heat of outside, that is. I have gone out and sat on my front porch for a few minutes most days. I have stepped into my back yard and looked over the produce growing like gangbusters in our table gardens.

And the coleus! Holy cow, I have never seen that plant grow the way it’s growing in our back yard this year. My daughter planted a line of it in the very back of the lower yard, in a narrow garden we put in against the retaining wall comprised of old railroad ties. In front and sort of between the coleus, she planted some impatiens. She’s reported to me that they are now gone, completely edged out by the taller, broader, leafier plants.

It's hard to mind, because they are beautiful, and this year so lush. But because she said that I did wonder, so I went out to the back yard and took a picture. I could see three surviving impatiens, and all things considered, that’s pretty good.

Lately, I’ve been quipping to both my husband and my daughter that I never, ever intended to live in a rain forest. This year, with the heat and the near constant rain, it feels to me as I imagine it would feel to be in a rain forest. And yes, perhaps I am overstating things a shade (and pardon the pun). But seriously, I can only report how it feels to me, and this year, the out-of-doors at this point in time does not feel like a place that appeals to me at all. It does not feel like a place I want to be.

So here I am, in the house, laughing at myself because I am cool, and sometimes a bit too cool. I go into my living room to spend some time each day in my recliner with my legs up, because it helps my arthritis (allegedly). And because we have the a/c on, and it causes a draft as it blows out the ducts, I have a blanket over my legs to protect them. And because along with that, I have a sweater on to protect my arms and shoulders from that same draft, I now present the portrait of the quintessential old woman, in summer: huddling under a blanket, looking old and cold.

Sometimes, friends, I just crack myself right up.

I know I’m not really entitled to call myself an old woman. I am, after all, only 67. And while yes, it really is the mileage and not the years, lately I’ve slowed my pace so as not to accumulate much in the way of mileage. I spend my days, for the most part, doing what I want to do. Lucky for me I don’t tend to want to do anything out in left field, or off the charts.

Arthritis doesn’t tend to do well in either of those locations or situations.

I will take a moment here to acknowledge that I don’t for the most part much care for the fact that this affliction seems to more and more and with each passing day define me. I am in a great deal of pain for a lot of the time, most days, but I keep my mind focused on other things. Sometimes I do difficult puzzles on this computer of mine because that helps get my mind off the pain. I refuse to take any more medication than is absolutely necessary and I use a topical balm that has CBD oil in it, as that helps to take the edge off, too. But it is what it is, and while I still push myself, the zenith of my arc of accomplishment is shrinking.

Getting older is not for the faint of heart.

I worked outside of the home for about thirty years of my life, earned a living and raised my family. I’ve given to others when I could, volunteered when I felt compelled, and have tried, in all circumstances, to be kind to other people. I’m no saint, far from it. I’ve always had a temper but have not always necessarily known how to use it to best advantage. To those who have known me for a time and will dispute that last point, I should in all fairness point out that my fuse is rather long. But long, in my case most certainly does not equal infinite.

When I was younger and would hear others complain about those who were older, doing this or that or even, heaven help us all, the other thing, I would be consistent in my response. I would declare that senior citizens had paid their dues, built this country we are blessed to live in, and should therefore damn well be able to do whatever the hell they choose to do.

In all the years since first uttering that opinion to this moment, that is one of the few things in my life upon which I have never changed my mind.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

 

 

 August 11, 2021

Despite the fact that I have ridden in my daughter’s 2013 Ford Escape more than a few times—especially since she moved in with us in 2019—I can’t say that I had any real understanding of how the car worked.

Well, yes, I knew how to drive it, but beyond that—I didn’t know where anything was. In other words, I was completely clueless. And the only reason that this matters, is that as of last Thursday, that vehicle is now mine to drive.

This car was made by a different car company from my last three cars—they were all Buicks, and therefore made by G.M.—but it is also four years newer than my recently departed Buick, and those four years from 2009 to 2013 encompass an amazing amount of change in technology.

Yet the most challenging thing for me, so far, has nothing to do with the technology. It’s that I can’t easily see the hood. The first thing I did was to monkey around with the seat controls. Surprise! I had already positioned the seat as high as it would go. I think this is going to be a matter of simply driving it and parking it, until I can get a sense of where the car’s front end…ends. It’s not a matter that’s important for driving, because you get a sense of perspective when you’re in traffic—and I’ve never been a tailgater. But parking is a whole other matter. The Escape is a bit longer than my previous car, but the hood appears to be a bit shorter. I have to be very careful so as not to bump into any parking barriers.

I have no doubt at all that I’ll eventually master this challenge. But I also understand that it’s going to take me a bit longer to do so than it did back in 2012 when I got my last new-to-me car. Whether or not I want to accept the truth has nothing at all to do with the fact that the truth is still the truth: my ability to roll with the punches, to go with the flow, and to adapt to changes has all slowed a bit over the last decade. Seriously, for me at least, it seems like the difference between 58 and 67 is functionally more than just nine years.

I’ve never seen the sense in getting upset over what can’t be changed. At least, not over the long haul. There may be an initial little hissy fit when I understand that I have to make adjustments in the form of either the allocation of my time or the amount of effort required to perform a task. Worse, of course, are the moments when I understand that sometimes, I simply can not physically do whatever it is I want to do.

I’ve often noted in these essays that it’s not the purpose of life to show us a good time or to make the going easy on us. The purpose of life is to try us and test us and to help us to grow. Growing is what we humans do, it is our main purpose from birth to death; growing is the business of being.

We’re called upon to make adjustments in our perceptions of reality all along the path we travel in this life. Some are as the result of natural forces, and some are brought about by external occurrences.

When one becomes older, practically everything begins to slow down. I’ve often told friends that I can live with the Good Lord making my mobility less than it was. I just pray he won’t befuddle my mind.

I am not, at this time, one-hundred percent certain He’s granting my petition.

I do know that the more patience I can embody, the easier these life-adjustments will become. As with everything else in life, how I deal with any given situation is my choice. That is something I have long believed and that I accept without conditions.

The only teeny-tiny little problem with that stance is that apparently, the older I get, the less patience I seem to have to draw upon. Who knew it was a finite supply? I didn’t, and it’s been a bit of a shock to learn it’s so. I think that the real issue is that somewhere along the line I’ve developed a leak in my patience reservoir. And I don’t know if there’s enough duct tape in all creation to fix it.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

 

 

 August 4, 2021

Way back in October of 2012, just before my husband and our daughter left for their planned one-week vacation in the Caribbean, a deer jumped out in front of my daughter while she was driving our 2005 Buick, on her way home from taking her dad to work. I don’t recall if the deer survived, but I do recall the insurance company declared the Buick as a casualty of war. Yes, they wrote it off.

So, while the vacationers were away, I had a dilemma. I needed to find another car, because David had to get to work just a couple of days after returning from his vacay, and at that time, although our daughter was driving him there on a semi-regular basis, she was using our car to do so. So I went to the dealership, and they had this very nice 2009 Buick Allure. It had low mileage, and the price was right.

I gave them a down payment but didn’t, however, commit to it one hundred percent, which they of course understood. I told them my husband needed to “approve” the deal. David came home and seemed surprised I’d found a car. He was willing to look at my choice but decided that he wanted us to test drive a couple of other models, both Chevys, which he preferred.  I have never totally understood why this was, or why he seemed so miffed that I had done what he’d asked me to do while he vacationed—to find another car while he was gone. I’ve never understood why it is that he’s tended not to like the Buicks we’ve had until we’ve had them for a time. He hasn’t actually driven himself or had a license in more than thirty-five years.

In hindsight I think he just wanted to feel as if he had some say in the decision. I was okay with that of course, even as I did all I could to ensure we had a vehicle in the wings, ready, in time for him to return to work. And after test driving two cars of the make and model he claimed to want, he did acknowledge that the Buick was the best riding car, and the best choice. And at under nineteen thousand, it really was the best deal.

We purchased that car with one payment—courtesy of my royalties, which means that we would have no car payments to worry about for a long time—and that in itself was a darn good deal.

A week ago this past Sunday, we drove to the grocery store. Along the way, I heard a sound I recognized as a power steering issue. By the time we arrived back at our house, the steering was beginning to seize up.

I called the dealership and arranged to get the car towed to them and did so free of charge thanks to my auto club membership. They of course agreed to have a look at it, but I had a sense of impending…ending. They had told me in November of 2019 that although the body was in near mint condition on the outside, the degree of rust to the frame and the undercarriage was getting bad, and that it was just a matter of time. And although it lasted longer than expected and I even had the muffler fixed in May, I knew my car was just about done.

My daughter and I had a plan, which we formed shortly after we first received the prognosis that my Buick had limited time left. At the time, we actually believed it would be gone before January of 2020. The plan was that I would use the car until it died, and then I would wait, and use her car when I needed to. And then in the spring she intended to buy a new car, and at that time I could consider her current vehicle “mine”. As it turned out, that purchase was put off that spring indefinitely thanks to the pandemic. And the Buick was still, almost unbelievably, running at the time, so that was fine. Of course, we weren’t driving it very much, so that likely contributed to the Buick’s extended vehicle life.

Despite the pandemic, our daughter was still intending to buy a new car and had been planning to wait until the spring of next year, 2022, to do so. Now, she’s moved that up, and hoped to have the deal done before the cold weather hits.

My Buick was still running, engine wise, when it was towed to the dealership but was no longer safe to drive. To fix the power steering would cost more than two thousand, and that would be a poor use of dollars, because the car’s rear end could drop out on the way home from the repair shop. The car had served us well, but I knew it was time to say goodbye. My consultant at the dealership asked around, and one of the techs offered to buy it from us for scrap. I accepted the offer, but it wasn’t about the money. It was about knowing someone with an interest in cars would get some use from it still. There are parts that can be harvested, so that’s something.

The truth is that for the most part these days, David and I don’t need to own a car. That is to say, we don’t need to go out and buy one right away. We tend to stay home, except for weekly groceries. I have a doctor’s visit once every three months, and a visit to the local lab for blood work just as often.

There was no reason not to take our daughter up on her offer of sharing the use of her vehicle if we need one, until she got her new car. And our keeping her old one gives her one huge advantage, that she told me was the main reason she made the offer to us in the first place.

She’s a PSW who has clients in the community. So for her, a working vehicle is an absolute must. This way, she will have two available to her. If her new car breaks down, or has to have scheduled maintenance, there will be another one here she can use. That’s been the case these past two years that she’s lived with us, anyway. There have been numerous times when she needed to use our Buick and she did. So, David and I made the decision that we would not go car shopping ourselves. We would gladly wait until she has her new vehicle and then use her “old” one as our own. This felt like another life change for us—and one that was a bit harder to process than it appears to be on the surface. Like we’ve entered a new stage of life.

But the good news—and I love it when there’s good news—is that we don’t have to wait long. She takes delivery of her brand-new Ford Edge tomorrow.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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