April 27, 2022

The grass is greening, and the birds are singing. I have no talent for knowing which birds sing which songs; I think I recognize the song of a pigeon and of course, whippoorwills, but beyond that, I’m at a real loss. I even spent some time last year using YouTube to play for me the sounds of common birds, but my capacity for recalling that is on a par with the rest of my abilities lately. Of course, to be completely honest, I wasn’t very patient with that process. Anyone who knows me well would not be shocked by that fact.

There’s this one avian lilt that I always associate with the arrival of spring, and that is the birdsong I’ve been listening to this week. While I can’t identify the species of the singer, I can identify the joy I feel listening to it. Therefore, I’ve decided that’s good enough.

This past weekend found us—self proclaimed hermits that we are—out and about among people. The first occasion was on Friday, where we joined our second daughter, along with her two now adult children (our grandchildren) and a very small handful of their friends for dinner. The occasion was the graduation of granddaughter, Emma, as a paralegal. She graduated with honors, and so it was a very happy occasion.

The restaurant they chose was the Red Lobster, and the evening was a lovely time. One of our great granddaughters, Emma’s baby who’s now a toddler, was there as well, of course. One of the funniest moments was one I only heard about. Renee was sitting beside me, and I got up to go to the Lady’s room while her attention was on the other end of the table.  Then she looked to her right, expecting to see me, and of course I wasn’t there. She said, “Oh no, we’ve lost GG!” That’s what I’m mostly called now, GG, for Great Grandmother. Best title ever!

Despite that everyone assured the little miss that I had just gone to the bathroom, she insisted on seeing for herself—which her mother obliged by bringing her into that room. We washed our hands together and then went back to the table.

The next day I attended a bridal shower for our soon-to-be-new granddaughter. Both gatherings were small, less than 12 people at each one, and I was mostly okay with attending them. I always knew that it would take me some time to venture out. David and our daughter have been slightly bolder in that regard. They’ve gone out to breakfast on a regular basis during the weekends, as well as hitting a couple of major big box stores in the last couple of months.

I’m not quite ready for that level of exposure. At the restaurant on Friday, I wore my mask except when seated at the table. The next day, at the shower, my daughter-in-law’s house was well ventilated, and all in attendance had been fully vaccinated—as had the guests at dinner the night before.

I am taking baby steps because I believe we’re going to be living with Covid a long time, if not forever. I imagine that down the road, people will just add a covid shot or two to their annual regimen. Just as most people get their flu shot every year and keep up on their other preventative measures.

I’m happy to report that I have daffodils blooming outside my bedroom window. That window has a southern exposure, and those bulbs are always the first to come up. I have yet to venture out to discover whether or not my roses have survived this past winter. I’ll likely do that in the next week or two. They’ve been hardy, but really, I likely shouldn’t be entrusted with the beautiful perennials in the first place. I really don’t do a very good job of caring for them. What had been given to me as brushes obtained from a greenhouse are—or I should say were, as of last summer—more like wild roses now. They’re still pretty but not quite as they should be.

We’ve had a couple of beautifully warm and sunny days in the last week, but Mother Nature this year seems determined to hang onto wintery weather with both claws, doesn’t she? She is truly testing our patience this year.

I’ve a history of being pretty good when it comes to tests. But in this particular case, when the test is one of patience, I think I’ll be lucky if I escape earning myself an F.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 April 20, 2022

Easter is in the rear-view mirror, we’ve passed the halfway mark of April, and new-growth shoots are popping up in my front flower beds. And on just this past Monday, two days ago, we were treated to an encore performance by Mother Nature of her winter pageantry.

I was determined that nothing M.N. could send my way was going to get me upset; I had seen the weather report and knew what might be headed our way. But I held firmly to the knowledge that, Monday being a day that was in the latter half of April, whatever pollen fell from the sky that day would not last long.

Of course, I couldn’t avoid getting glimpses of the outside world. I wasn’t at all surprised to look out and see a blizzard in progress. My joints had already alerted me to the fact that stuff was happening in the great out of doors. Enough of that.

Last week, I decided to try out a new recipe. One of the evenings I’d fallen down a rabbit hole on YouTube, and I discovered a recipe made with apples that was similar to an apple pie, but the translation of it included the word “invisible”. It didn’t take a lot of thinking on my part, since there was a video and you could see the dessert, to understand that what was invisible was the “pie crust.”

Long story short, the “dough” was more like a cake batter, but one that didn’t necessarily rise to the occasion. The apples weren’t in slices so much as they were in strips—rendered in the video via use of a vegetable peeler, and by me using one side of my grater. I followed the directions carefully, especially taking great care in the mixing of the dough and the apples, done very gently and slowly so as not to break the strips. Then adding it all, spoon by spoon, to the spring form pan, and patting it down after each spoonful so the apples would lay flat.

The recipe was European and contained a lot less sugar than what would have been called for in a regular North American dessert. It turned out well, presenting a “slice of pie” that showed many layers, and everyone here really enjoyed it.

I’ve gotten into the habit lately of trying out new recipes on a fairly regular basis. I believe that the part of my brain I use for cooking is a different part from what I use for writing, and I want to do whatever I can to keep my cooking brain working well.

I do have the need to feel useful. That feeling can be hard to come by when the body protests most movements and stamina is nothing but a fond memory. One of the things I can still do well most of the time is cook. Producing supper is not something that I do every day, however. I likely could, if I had to. But anymore, none of us eats a great deal, and if I do too much cooking in a short period of time, we end up with left-over food overload.

We had a roast of beef last Thursday, and then we enjoyed a bone-in ham for Easter Sunday. I tend to make more than one veggie with supper, because sometimes our daughter opts to have only those for her evening meal. She does that usually on a day when she’s had eggs for breakfast. Also, with one exception, the veggies I put on the table are either cooked from fresh or if not, then from frozen. The only exception? They both love creamed corn, and I haven’t tried to make that myself yet, so that comes from a can.

One thing that I make sure to do is to keep an eye on what all we have in our fridge. We own a plethora of containers and we’re not afraid to use zipper-type plastic bags to store food in, either. Many has been the occasion when we’ve been preparing several salads either to serve here or take elsewhere, when we’ve put them in those flexible, can fit in almost any available space bags.

There’s an inside joke in this family. Everyone knows there’s nothing I hate more than to throw out perfectly good food. In years past, when our food budget was small, I became a master at using left over ingredients to make something totally different and serve it for supper the next day.

That skill was honed because there was time when no one wanted to just reheat and eat the supper from the day before. So, left over roast beef became either hot roast beef sandwiches, or shepherd’s pie, or a meat, rice, and veggie casserole (and that works for all types of meat). Left over roast pork might become chow mien, or cold sliced pork, served with pan fried potatoes and gravy. Left over chicken—well, the kids liked chicken a la king, but David never has. There were very few times I made things he didn’t like and got away with it when I did so because there were four of us and one of him.

But now our daughter is vegetarian, and is a grandmother herself, so there are no kids to put first. I will digress long enough to say, I really miss chicken a la king.

Part of our left over ham from Easter has already been turned into a spread for sandwiches which we call ham and pickle. (put ham and a few sweet cucumber pickle pieces and a bit of onion through the food processor. Put into a bowl, add mayo and mix.) Some of the rest of the left over ham will be used in a breakfast in the next day or two.

And as for all the rest? Well, that’s where the family joke comes in. You see, they all know that I refuse to throw out perfectly good food.

However, food that’s been neatly stored in the fridge and not eaten and subsequently begins to go bad? Well, that, my friends, is a whole other matter.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 April 13, 2022

The happy memories of childhood are a wonderful place to visit, aren’t they? Though imperfect, the memories we’ve stored from years passed nonetheless give us touchstones, real moments we can look back on when the spirit moves us.

The older I become, the more I’m convinced that we humans need a sense of stability for our psyches as much as we need air to breathe and food to feed our bodies. By visiting our memories, we metaphorically tie a rope between then and now, giving us something to hold onto, something to guide us. Not unlike the ropes tied between house and barn in high elevation rural areas in the winter to keep the rancher from getting lost in a blizzard.

This is Holy Week, so called because we are approaching the day which is considered the most sacred in Christianity: Good Friday.

My memories of Easter as a child—specifically before the death of my father—are filled with odd bits and pieces, freeze-framed photographs taken by a small child whose world at that point was perfect. I can recall a new Easter outfit, including a pretty if scratchy dress, white socks (also scratchy) and shiny new Maryjane shoes. I remember a cute little white hat and a pink coat, which I doubt I wore any place other than to church each Sunday, and only until spring had heated into summer.

I remember getting a white bunny rabbit one year for Easter. A real, live rabbit! I remember seeing of picture of me taken with the critter. It filled my arms, and my grin, with one tooth missing, was wide and beaming. It was a black and white photo of course, and where that picture—or the rabbit for that matter—ended up, I can only guess.

I also recall my daddy surprising us in the car after Church on Easter Sunday, with a paper bag containing 5 colored hard boiled Easter eggs he’d brought, along with the requisite saltshaker. And there, parked across from the church along the curb, we each peeled our one egg and hungrily devoured them. Funny, I don’t recall if there had been anything to drink to wash the egg down. This was, of course, before the days of the drive-through coffee shop. As well, in those days, most stores were closed on Sunday.

It seems likely to me that there might have been a thermos of water or milk, but I can’t recall if there actually was, or not.

Happy memories all of those—the memories of a child living in a sanitized world.

I don’t feel any kind of desperate need to return to those long-ago days. It’s enough for me to know they existed, and that thinking on them can give me a moment’s respite and put a smile on my face. For the most part, I don’t feel a need to escape from the reality we’re all living in today. There are moments when we all wonder, with not a little bit of consternation, what next? And we all struggle to keep our balance. My mother’s favorite assessment of life comes to mind: she used to say that life is just one damned thing after another.

These last couple of years it has been all of that. I would submit that the difference between fifty or sixty years ago and now is that mostly, those “damn things” back then weren’t as big as a global pandemic or burgeoning European war—mostly.

There’s a comfort in knowing we have those memories as a quiet place to visit, don’t you think? And a definite solace in knowing we’re not alone when it comes to feeling off-balance and overwhelmed. To understand that so many people are in the same space, emotionally, allows us to take a step back and say, “okay, the problem is real, it’s not just me. We’re all in the same boat.”

Yes, we really are all in the same boat—but we’re not all necessary rowing in the same direction.

And while that little fact might discourage you, remember the laws of science. As long as more folks are rowing in the right direction than not, then we are moving in the right direction—just not as quickly as we’d all like. That’s something, at least.

To those who celebrate, David and I wish you a Happy Easter, and/or a Happy Passover.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

 April 6, 2022

We have catch phrases for practically everything these days, don’t we? In the beginning was the catch phrase, “hashtag” which I am certain y’all know is represented by the symbol, “#”, aka number sign, aka pound sign. And then – it just took off. Your first challenge is to find where there should be a space between the words, because hashtags, by their natures, contain no spaces. So, with the spaces put it for our mutual understanding, here are just a couple of the ones I noticed. Hashtag “nothing burger”; hashtag “kabuki theater”; hashtag “there there” which, contrary to what one might think on first sight/hearing is not a reference to comforting anyone for anything. It’s a confirmation that what the speaker suspects the subject has done is true—or, conversely, what others think is true, simply isn’t. The difference is represented by the qualifying introductory words: there is a(there, there), or there is no(there, there).

In fact, the trend is to hashtag just about any damn thing you can think of! And it doesn’t have to be something short, either. Go ahead and ask Ms. Google about the longest hashtags. The one that came up when I did just that left me shaking my head at its length and blushing.

But the one catch phrase that I’ve taken the longest time to think about is this one: hashtag cancel culture.

My first question when I began hearing that phrase, “cancel culture” all over cable news was what the heck is that about? So I began my particular kind of research—a combination of looking to see what folks are saying and, of course, asking Ms. Google about cancel culture—like, is it a culture in the sense that the Roman Empire or Ancient Greece were cultures? Was it a protest directed at that 1980s rock band whose lead singer was Boy George? I seriously didn’t know. But I looked and I learned, and I am now ready to discuss this topic with a modicum of authority.

To answer my own question—and to strip it down to its most fundamental meaning—cancel culture is a form of ostracism. Did you know that the word, ostracism goes all the way back to ancient Athens—to the days of Athenian democracy? It was their form of social shunning. A citizen could be ostracised which meant they were expelled from the city-state for ten years.

We still use that word, ostracism, when we describe times when people are tossed from their particular little nook of society. Amazing, isn’t it? That what in essence was a form of bullying initiated in a culture that was thriving before the birth of Jesus would still be in such popular use today. I guess we haven’t progressed as much as some of us would like to believe we have.

Or putting it another way: this is just one more piece of evidence that, at the base of everything, human nature does not change.

My question then is this: if our natures do not change, does that mean that the onus for breaking some of these toxic behavior patterns we’ve succumbed to lies with society (aka legislation)—or does it remain with each of us, individually?

There is a half of me that wants to stomp my foot, curse and swear, and then shout from the rooftops that “we ought to make a law against all forms of discrimination!”

And there is a half of me that fervently believes that we are each of us, at the end of the day, responsible for our own selves, in every respect. You see, when at last I, to quote Shakespeare, shuffle off this mortal coil, I know that I, alone, will stand to answer for how I’ve lived my life.

It was at this moment in all my ruminations and ponderings, that I heard the voice of my mother from some long-ago moments of conflict between us. One of the things she would say to me often—beyond that old chestnut, “why should I keep a dog and bark myself”—was “you can think what you like but don’t you dare say it.”

I suppose there is no perfect answer as to how to extricate ourselves from this impossible conundrum—organized bullying via cancel culture—in which we find ourselves living.

I referred to ostracism as an act of bullying and I believe that it is. “Cancel culture” is also a act of bullying. And lest anyone you know insists that the practice of cancel culture is righteous, let me point out that one cannot believe in the freedom of speech and the freedom of expression and then turn around and persecute those who speak and express themselves in ways that one doesn’t like.

Therefore, I will state my belief that a person may feel in their hearts however they wish to feel and may believe in their hearts whatever they wish to believe. But, and this is a big but thank you Mom, there should be legislation when it comes to our actions.

What you think about me isn’t my business. You are free to think whatever you want. You should not be free to do anything that would interfere with my ability to indulge in life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. You may not like me, but you have no right to exert your influence over me based on your fickle feelings.

I find it once more worth mentioning (almost as an addendum to my last week’s essay), that those I see who most like to use cancel culture as a tool/weapon are once more those who like to proclaim themselves as believing in a certain sacred book.

And to them all I can say is this: aren’t you grateful and relieved that God doesn’t believe in cancel culture?

Just something to think about in this Lenten season.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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