November 24, 2021

This past weekend, my husband finally had the opportunity to travel a few hours from home, to visit a friend he hadn’t seen face to face in 46 years. It was a year ago yesterday, when out of the blue I received a message on FB from this gentleman, who I recognized immediately.

A long time ago, beginning before we got married, David and this man, along with a few other friends of like mind formed a “car club”, rented space, and got together to talk all things vehicles. They would work on each other’s cars, and between them there had been no car problem they couldn’t fix. Those were the days of the back yard mechanic, before computer chips took over, and they used to spend a lot of time together. Fixing cars by weekend days, heading to the local watering-hole at night. Sadly, two of that group no longer walk the earth.

This old friend, whose name is John had sent a hello message to me, because I am a friend of another friend of his, and he thought the name “Morgan” was interesting. Once he knew who I was, of course, he asked about David, so I put them in touch with each other, electronically-wise.

They’ve been chatting through that medium on a regular basis ever since. (John lives in an area with almost no Wi-Fi or cell phone reception, so he doesn’t have a cell phone. And his Internet is dial-up.) It turned out they had one important thing in the here and now that they share, and it’s a powerful thing to have in common: they are both recovering alcoholics, both of them sober now for more than three decades.

This was a trip David had originally hoped to take in August, but life happened, as it often does, and he had to postpone the adventure.

His original plan had been to take a bus up north, because an eight hour return drive, with me as the driver, is quite simply impossible. This worked out much better, anyway, even if it was only going there on Saturday and returning Sunday evening. John’s son, who lives about thirty minutes from here drove, and David paid for the gas, which was much less than bus fare would have been.

The day before he visited a butcher shop in our area and purchased three T-bone steaks, what David calls “plate” steaks. A plate steak is one that takes up the entirety of the plate.

Our two young dogs (they’ll be 2 years old on Sunday so we can’t really call them puppies anymore even if they are still small) knew that something was up on Friday. And then, of course, we were all up and out of bed before daybreak Saturday morning. David left the house at 4:30 a.m. I, foolishly, had thought that likely by 8 or 9 I’d return to bed because 4:30 is just too early for this old woman to be awake. My days of functioning well on three hours sleep are in the past.

The dogs had a different idea. It wasn’t difficult for me to figure out their reasoning. You see, if we were behind the closed door of the bedroom, why, they wouldn’t be able to keep watch for their daddy, who was sure to come back through that front door any minute now…

I spent the first daddyless-day coddling the two dogs, Missy and Bear-Bear, who didn’t know where their daddy had gone, or if he would ever return. Of course, judging by their behavior, this is their state of mind whenever he leaves their sight, be it to go out and work in the upper back yard, walk a dog sibling, go out with the human-sibling (our daughter), to go with me to get the groceries.

These small dogs do not like change, period. Nor do they like to be without either of their two main humans, though it is their daddy that matters the most, and that is fine with me.

Also, the two of them have whining, howling and shivering and, of course, the puppy-dog eyes down to a very fine art. Fortunately, by 11:30 Saturday night they willingly accompanied me back to the bedroom, where we all three were beyond tired and able to enjoy a solid night’s rest. Of course, I took David’s pillows and placed them further down on the mattress. Missy immediately climbed on one and actually sighed. Bear tends to like to sleep close to me, and that didn’t change.

The next day was much better with only occasional bouts of whining and looking sad. Of course, all was well, sunshine, lollipops and unicorn rainbows around six in the evening, when the door opened, and there, at long puppy-last was the daddy of the family.

I knew that David had been a little worried, as this reunion approached. Not about the virus, because his friend, who has several “comorbidities” had been fully vaccinated, and like us practiced extreme safety. No, it was wondering about the person he would find when he arrived that had made him a bit anxious. That’s only natural because a person can change completely over nearly five decades. Happily, David found that once he was there, and they started talking, his worries faded to nothing. Helping with that was learning that John had felt the same way. But they liked each other’s company, and David hopes to go back to visit him in the spring.

I had thought that the dogs might be on alert for a couple of days post-trip, seeing as how the daddy just up and left them the way he had. I thought they’d keep him within their sight for every moment for the next week, at least.

But apparently, they’ve opted for a path of denial. I think they’ve agreed, between the two of them, that “we just won’t speak of this unfortunate incident, not ever again”.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 November 17, 2021

During the overnight hours on Sunday, we were supposed to get somewhere between ten and fifteen centimeters of snow (which is about three to six inches). When we awoke on Monday, there was maybe a half inch of snow on the lawns and the cars, but the roads were only wet. Well, except for right at the curbs. Because more leaves had dropped from the maple trees on the street, there was a slight accumulation of them against the edge of the sidewalk, and this of course made a nice receptive bed for the snow.

Our walnut tree is now completely naked of leaves. It is happily in sleep mode, or whatever it is that trees do in the cold to survive until the next spring.

When I was getting my second coffee on Monday morning, I picked up the long-handled ice-scraper with the brush on the end (remember that I mentioned to all y’all last week that I was going to ask my husband again to take it to the car, and which I did). I then took that snow and ice removal tool and put it right on my husband’s desk. He diverted his attention from the video he was watching on his computer, headphones firmly in place. And he grinned at me, and then went right back to his video.

And no, there wasn’t even anything sheepish or chagrinned in that grin at all.

It occurred to me as I headed back to my own desk in order to begin my writing day, that I really would have been just as far ahead to only have asked him a handful of times to take that scraper out to the car and then made that the end of things, entirely. What do I really care if it got out to the car or not? It probably will not ever be me who will have to use it to clear the snow and ice off the vehicle, anyway.

I guess old habits die hard. Or, in my case, I am suspecting that they will not die at all.

The electric fireplace in my office has been getting a workout the last week or so. I have it on, spitting out its warmth, for at least the first couple of hours each day. Once I feel warm enough that I know sweat will soon follow, I turn it off, to save both electricity and my sweat glands. But I will turn it on again if necessary. Provided that my office doors remain closed for the morning, I don’t need to turn the heater on for a second round.

Also on Monday, (after the ice scraper appeared on his desk), my husband decided it was a good time to do something else I had asked him to do a couple of times in the last few weeks. You see, last spring, when it became clear that I would no longer need my winter boots, he took them upstairs and put them someplace. Do I know where? No. And neither, apparently, did he. He looked upstairs, and then he came down, having decided that since he didn’t see them up there, they must not have been up there at all. He searched the bedroom, both my closet, and his. He searched in the entrance hall, where we do have a few pieces of footwear, including my older, brown suede winter boots that I will wear if necessary. They have been my back-up boots for several years now and I have worn them a handful of times. They’re not in really bad shape, but they’re not in the best condition, either. But in the case that my new boots get wet and cannot be worn for a time, they’ll do.

My new black boots were nowhere to be found.

My husband then informed me that I must have done something with those new boots because he couldn’t find them. I told him he was right; I had done something with them. I’d given them to him in the spring to take upstairs. So up he went again to look again, and since we’ve been married more than 49 years, I knew that at that point, he thought he was on a fool’s errand.

I am striving to be kinder so I will not make the obvious observation, here.

I texted my daughter and asked her if she knew where those boots were. She was upstairs in her bed-sitting room at the time. She replied that no, she did not. And then, unbeknownst to me, she opened her bedroom door and looked out to where she could see the rest of the upstairs including her father, and his version of looking for the boots. (I later confirmed what I already knew. He was simply standing in one spot and slowly turning in a circle, looking for them.)

Shortly after, he came down, a big smile on his face, my boots in his hand. He told me that they had been on a shelf and had somehow fallen behind something else and he just hadn’t seen them the first time he looked.

Of course, I thanked him for finding them. And I am not going to tell him that my daughter came down later and shared with me what had really happened.

The moment she opened her door and saw her dad standing there, “looking around” and looking befuddled, she glanced at one of two shelving units we have up there, used for storing things and asked him what that was, on the top shelf—in plain sight, waiting all by themselves, behind nothing.

Daughter said he has gotten a lot more creative in his combinations of cuss words. I guess that’s something, at least, to celebrate. And because I am being kinder, I won’t ever tell him of her ratting him out to me.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 November 10, 2021

In the last week, there have been rumored sightings of little, tiny bits of…pollen…. white pollen, in fact, floating in the air, landing on the hoods and roofs of parked cars, just generally mucking up the view. Of course, since I maintain that winter in my neck of the woods lasts from October to March, inclusive, the appearance of this pollen…aka kaka…aka snow, is not unexpected.

There has indeed been frost on the pumpkin, among other places over the last several mornings. Our beautiful, lush coleus in the back yard has been stricken, and is now just a very fond memory. I’ve made a note to myself to make sure both cars have ice scrapers in them by the end of this week. We have the scrapers—they’re the long-handled sort with brushes on the other end. But just because we have them does not mean they will of course be placed in the vehicles, to be at hand when needed. No, this is the sort of chore that must be scripted beforehand and then carried out scrupulously.

Another lesson learned through past experience which was not a fun lesson at all.

Tomorrow is Veteran’s Day in the U.S., and Remembrance Day here in Canada. It’s a day when we take the time to pay homage to those thousands of people who took up arms and then laid down their lives for our freedom. Here in Canada, most small towns and larger cities have ceremonies at their cenotaphs. I often tune in to the CBC’s coverage of the ceremony in Ottawa, our nation’s capital. I have even, on one memorable occasion, when on a long drive, listened to the coverage on my car’s radio. I was on a provincial, two-laned highway at the time, and I recall pulling over, then getting out of my car to stand quietly during the minute of silence. And I also remember feeling proud because as I looked up there were a handful of other vehicles in sight whose drivers had done the same thing.

I believe that we should spend time contemplating the awful toll exacted for the freedoms we are fortunate enough to have on more than just the one day a year. And I believe, especially lately, that this is a matter that grows exponentially more urgent the more unhinged our society appears to become.

How often have we tried, while raising our children, to impress on them the need to appreciate what they have in their lives? The food they eat and the clothes they wear and the toys they love and play with are theirs because they have parents who work hard to provide those things for them. We need to teach our children and many adults more specifically that the ability to have and to do, to dream and to be, are ours because those who came before us were willing to pay the ultimate price, and many of them did just that.

Those who have died in defence of our freedoms had rich lives ahead of them, bright futures possible. They had families, they had children, they had the world. They had hopes and dreams that they had dreamed with all their hearts since they were children…. but they also had a sense of duty. Being free, they accepted that the other side of that coin is responsibility. That seems to be a fact that too many people today conveniently ignore. They pretend that freedom is free.

It is not.

And so, those heroes who came before us surrendered what they had, including their futures, because the higher cause was just that important.

Now here we are, in this world we’ve inherited, with the responsibility to guard our sacred freedom that those who died have passed on to us. We must assume that responsibility in whatever way—in every way—that we can.

Yes, my friends, let’s think on these matters often. But more, let us prove ourselves worthy of the sacrifice they gave, so that we might pass this precious freedom on to the next generation.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 November 3, 2021

Here we are again in November! Golly, it seems like only a couple of months since we were here last time.

This past weekend, we were pleased that the son of an old friend came by for lunch. He’s about the same age as our oldest grandson, and a pleasant young man. In the course of our conversation during lunch, he commented that time seemed to move so fast lately. I assured him that as he got older, it would speed up even more.

This young man will be driving up north to spend the weekend with his dad mid November, and David will be going, too. It’s been more than thirty years since the pair have seen each other, face to face, but they have been in communication for the last several months.

I’ve given the matter of time moving fast some thought and I’ve decided it’s nature’s way of addressing boredom. In my opinion, a lot of life is a case of wash, rinse, repeat. Really, isn’t that in essence what life is? Life is living. Living requires repetition. A week is seven days—seven days of getting out of bed, seven days of getting dressed, seven days of making meals, going to work, home chores….and sometimes, we have variations on those themes. But basically, life is built out of all those accumulated little moments, repeated moments, and every breath taken in between.

November is the birth month of Wednesday’s Words. The first essay I wrote I posted to all the romance author related Yahoo! Groups to which I belonged in November of 2006. Yes, WW is 15 years old this month. Now, I have missed a handful of Wednesdays. There was that time we went on a cruise and there was no way I was spending what the cruise line wanted to charge me for Internet service in those days. I was and remain too frugal for that. There were also a couple of other occasions when we were on trips to one conference or another, and I think I was likely in the hospital a time or two as well.

But for the most part, I have been brazen enough to offer my opinion on everything and nothing (equally), once a week, for a decade and a half.

I’m trying to decide, as I sit here and think back over these last 15 years, whether I’ve mellowed over time, or instead, if I’ve let my inner curmudgeon be a little less “inner”. I can’t decide, and maybe that’s as it should be. Maybe that’s not something for me to ponder, but a matter for all y’all to think on, if you’ve a mind to.

As I write this, my husband is once more using his leaf blower to gather up the debris from our now nearly nude walnut tree. We have the schedule of when the leaf bags will be collected next, and that day is on Tuesday of the third week of November. And that is the last time this year that the county will collect yard waste, so he wants to get it all done. We have a wooden shed which he built a few years back, and we also now have, well, as of just last year, a canvas “garage” that he put up where our driveway used to be. Despite it being a garage by design, it’s used the way Canadians tend to use their garages, regardless of whatever material they have been constructed—to store their “junk”. He keeps his scooter in this enclosure. It also holds the summer back yard furniture, the lawn mower, various and sundry outdoor tools like the leaf blower—and, it is also the temporary storage area for the full paper bags of leaves and twigs.

It didn’t take us long to understand that those sturdy looking tan bags don’t stay sturdy once they’ve been rained upon. In hindsight it’s funny how we learned that little fact of life. The bags looked sound. But when David picked one up by placing his hands oh, about middle of the bag and lifting, the bottom of the bag stayed on the ground, the middle of it lifted, and the leaves simply rained down. Fortunately, we did have enough dry bags on hand and some time to spare before they needed to be at the curb.

The most expedient method to fix the issue was to turn the fresh, newly unfolded and opened bags upside down and then slide them down over the innocent-looking full but previously rained upon bags, and then turn them right-way up, thus ensuring no more broken bags.

Today he didn’t tell me he was going to do the yard work. That job included his once more climbing the darn ladder so that he could get leaves off the porch roof and then clean out those small eave’s troughs. He does that twice. On the north side of the porch and the south side. The only good thing about that is when he climbs up to clear the north side, I can see him out of the window of my office, right in front of me.

So at least for half of the job, I know that if he has a mishap, and falls off the darn ladder and breaks his damn fool neck, someone is aware of the situation and can call for assistance.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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