Autumnal thoughts...

 September 28, 2022

In the olden days, when our mornings consisted of getting up to a 5:00 a.m. alarm, rushed coffee and showers and then long drives to work, there were always those two times a year. At some point in the autumn and then again in early spring, we would have the car’s heater on, full blast, in the morning, and then the air conditioner on, full blast, at the end of the workday for the drive home.

Now of course, we no longer go to work outside our home. Some days, we don’t do much work inside of it, either. But that cycle of living that I noted above really hasn’t changed so much as it has adapted. We still have those two times a year, you see.

On Friday when we awoke, I immediately felt chilly. I checked, and the temperature showed as 61 degrees, Fahrenheit. Yes, I know we’re Canadian but David and I both prefer to see the Fahrenheit scale, as we relate to that much easier, no thinking involved.  And although I knew it was chilly and felt it was chilly, I didn’t do anything about it…for about two hours. The reason for this is quite simple.

I have found in my later years not to think that room is cold or hot, but that I am cold or hot. Just because I feel cold doesn’t necessarily mean the room is cold. It could mean my own senses are experiencing yet another elderly moment. It was likely, I thought on Friday, that the temperature would begin to rise.

However, after nearly two hours, I went into the living room where our “Star Trek Control Center”, aka the thermostat, is located. It still read a chilly 61 degrees. That’s not anyone’s idea of “freezing”, but I had taken all I could. To the sound of the sigh of relief from my husband, who was sitting but two feet from me in his own office area, I put the heat on, with the convenient touching of a few “buttons”.

I have offered to show David how to perform this miracle himself. He is perfectly free to decide to turn on the furnace if he’s uncomfortable. However, he has declined. The matter is not so much that he wants to be waited upon as that he doubts that he will remember, if shown, how to do it. Also, the device is quite advanced and after looking at it, and watching me, he announced that he’d likely end up breaking it.

Now, there is one good thing about being a bit chilly through the day: it’s not difficult to know what to make for supper. I pulled a frozen piece of beef from the freezer, and we had beef with gravy on Friday night. Since the cold spell continued on, more or less, I made a hearty cream of potato soup on Sunday.

I do like the crispness of autumn mornings. I used to look forward to nice days in late September, days that were sunny but still had that bite in the air. Those were the perfect days to go outside and get my gardens ready for winter—or just go for a nice walk. I miss those days because I always felt so invigorated when I came in from exercising outside.

These days, I content myself with sitting in that crisp clean air when it arrives, even though it usually means I’m a bit sorer in the evenings. I also enjoy having the doors and windows opened for a while, inviting the outside inside to freshen the environment in my house.

I’ll be hitting the local farm markets in the next few days, searching for some fresh picked crops to process and freeze. It’s what I can do to support and care for my family. And actually, I think that principle is key.

I can’t do the sort of things I used to do, but that doesn’t mean I’m giving up on doing anything. It means being open to doing what I can, and even if some of the ways I spend my time these days seem to amount to not much from the outside, there is one thing that holds true. I have not handed in my notice and then curled up into the fetal position, either actually or metaphorically, waiting for the end to come. I keep my mind active; I keep myself active, and I continue to be grateful for every blessing, every day.

I plan to wring out every bit of living from my days given to me that I can, even if my hands are no longer capable of a good, strong twist on the rag.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

Gathering nuts, more or less...

 September 21, 2022

The headline yesterday on the weather network’s online site read that this week, we are into the coolest stretch of weather we’ve experienced since May. As long as these oncoming cool days are not too wet, I will be content. Cool weather plus sun and even soft breezes encourages me to open my windows and perhaps even the doors to bring that nice fresh air inside. Sadly, adding rain to the mix only exacerbates my arthritis. So I hope for the best, and if it’s the worst, I will find a good, challenging acrostic puzzle to help me take my mind of the discomfort.

Our gardens continue to provide some beans and tomatoes, and that’s good. Autumn officially begins tomorrow, according to the calendar. The sky above has already morphed to that just slightly paler blue of fall, as compared to the deep, rich blue of summer. It’s the changing of the seasons, a part of the cycle of life. There’s comfort to be found in traditions and in a certain degree of predictability.

We humans on average prefer to have our routines, and guardrails—or so I have always believed.

I went to a local farm market this past week and bought eight very good-sized acorn squash, intending to freeze them for the coming winter.

I baked them, four at a time. Some people will cut them in half, scoop out the seeds, and then add butter and (gasp) brown sugar to bake these beauties. My method is a bit more basic than that. I use a sharp knife and cut a “square” in the squash; I remove that square and set it aside. I do stuff butter into it—not a lot, but perhaps a teaspoon full.

Then I set that plug back in gently (allowing steam to escape), set the squash on a tray and then bake for about an hour for smaller ones, and longer for larger ones. Generally speaking, when one can pierce the skin of the squash with a fork, the squash is done.

My eight squash are now 17 meals of squash, each in a medium freezer bag in the freezer. We also have 5 meals of mixed green and yellow beans as well as 22 meals of corn, also in bags, frozen for the oncoming season of nature’s dormancy.

It’s my intention to get some green veggies down, as well. If I can pick up a six-quart basket of green beans and perhaps again as much broccoli, I will feel that I’ve done well to provide us with veggies for the next half year, if not longer.

As usual practice, if we are in the grocery store and meat on sale – beef, pork, chicken or even lamb, we will purchase one or two and freeze them. We’ve also begun to pick up a few extras when we shop. Rice and pasta have a long shelf life if kept dry. Canned goods can have a long shelf life, too. I have some that are stamped with a use by date of 2026. In reality, can goods do last longer than the stamps proclaim. But one needs to be careful opening a can that is beyond the stated “expiry” date.

With the news lately warning about global food shortages due to droughts, fires, and floods, I believe we all have a responsibility to do what we can to stock up, preserve, just generally make ready for such a potentially difficult time ahead.

As I said, a changing of the seasons. The cycle of life. The need to nest, to procure sustenance, these deeply instinctive behaviors have ruled humans since we emerged from the caves and dared to live out in the open on the land, and in societies. It’s only been in the last couple of centuries—hardly any time at all, really—that we’ve dared to separate ourselves from what is instinctive and innate and thought instead to replace that with the modern so-called convenience of commerce to get what we need, when we need it. Trusting that as the sun rises and sets, and the world orbits the sun, that commerce, too, will always be there, functioning at peak capacity.

We’ve had a warning, these past two years, that we should heed. Supply chains get entangled; human industry can fail. There wasn’t enough baby formula to go around, and if that doesn’t shock to the bones, I don’t know what will.

So we have been warned. It would be wise to take some time to evaluate one’s own level of preparedness.

In my own humble opinion, at any rate.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

Sorrow and gratitude...

 September 14, 2022

In the sad days after my mother’s death and funeral, I and my siblings had the daunting task of going through her possessions. There was her bedroom, of course, a place where we had rarely trod, and we all shared a bit of a nervous laugh as we crossed the threshold to do so then. As if we expected her to appear and tell us to get the hell out of her room.

There were discoveries made. An Irish Sweepstakes ticket with a future date, and I think that was the one and only time in my life I prayed for a lottery ticket to not be a winner; the irony of that would be just too cruel. There was also a notebook which we discovered in one of her drawers that listed most of her possessions of sentimental value—and to which of us that item should go.

She left me her mother’s engagement ring and my father’s mother’s as well. Adding a fifth diamond, I had these rings made into one; and it shall go to my daughter when I die.

The notebook, the forethought, surprised us. Mother died of a sudden heart attack, and that was unexpected and a shock to all three of us. But about two years before she died, she’d had surgery on her knees thanks to the ravages of osteoarthritis. In advance of that, she apparently got her affairs in order to an incredible degree. Being a nurse, she expected the worst.

None of us quibbled over what the others had been assigned; except that neither my brother nor my sister wanted any of the silver cutlery sets, so I ended up with all three.

One thing we came across as we cleared the house was a metal box that was in the back of the closet under the stairs. We imagined this box, about 24 inches square and twelve inches deep, had been there since we’d moved into that house, when my father was still alive. And inside that box was a plethora of magazines and newspapers, all on the Royal Family. Our newly discovered treasure included a souvenir magazine in honor of the ascension of Albert Frederick Arthur George—King George VI. I haven’t thought of those heirlooms in a long time, as we lost them in our first house fire.

Canada is a member of the Commonwealth; and the British Monarch is our Head of State. My parents were staunch supporters, of course, of the monarchy and considered themselves British subjects, which they were in fact, for all of their lifetimes, even having been born in Canada. The Canadian Citizenship Act, 1976, (after the passing of both my parents) replaced the term used to describe Canadian citizens up till that point, “British subject”, with the term “Commonwealth citizen”.

My siblings and I were all raised to respect the Queen, and over the years of my life, I held her in high regard and affection.

Of course, I knew she was getting on in age. I think I became really cognizant of that fact when she hit the eighty-year mark. And I watched the Jubilee in June of this year, secretly praying she lived to see it, so in the back of my mind I knew she wouldn’t live a whole lot longer. Her mother, Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother, managed to make it to her one hundred and second year, four months shy of her 102^nd birthday. I thought it reasonable to think our Queen would become a centenarian.

Knowing all that, I was shocked, and I was devastated with the news of her death. I felt as if I’d lost a dear member of my own family, truly. Yes, I’m in mourning, and no, please don’t tell me not to be, or that I should instead focus on being grateful for her life and reign.

I’m an emotionally sophisticated woman and can experience both grief and gratitude at the same time.

Hearing so many others—ordinary people and news commentators alike—reporting the same emotional response gives me a sense of justification, for lack of a better word. I am not alone in my emotional state.

Because we are human, we do internalize things that happen in the wider world. I realize part of the grief I feel comes from losing one more connection to my own past. On the last day of February 2020, I became the sole surviving member of my birth family. That’s a burden of emotion I didn’t know existed until it happened. A sharp grief that, and as grief will do to everyone, it still attacks at the oddest moments.

In the days since our Gracious Majesty was called home, I’ve spent a lot of time quietly, thinking and reflecting, and wondering about the future. I am grateful for the example of duty and decency and dedication which are but a part of Her Majesty’s legacy. She wasn’t perfect, for that trait belongs only to a higher being. But she left her world a richer place than when she came into it. The anecdotes surfacing from those who met her, some from folks who were not famous, all share similar qualities. She made the people she met feel important and worthy in their own right. She looked them in the eyes and whatever few words she gave, they each felt those words came from her heart.

During the Coronation, there is a ritual called the Anointing. This more than one-thousand-year-old holy ritual is the private part of the larger ceremony unseen during the telecast of Her Majesty’s coronation in 1953.  In it, the Monarch is anointed by the archbishop with holy oil, a representation of her sanctification by God to be His special servant here on earth.

At about the same time that news of Her Majesty’s death was announced—or shortly thereafter—a double rainbow appeared over Buckingham Palace.

Tradition holds that rainbows are a sign from God. And I believe with all my heart, this double rainbow was our Lord saying to Elizabeth Alexandra Mary, “well done, my true and faithful servant.”

I will grieve until I am done grieving and will make no apologies for it. But I can end this essay with words that I’ve never written but that, because I so respected my late Queen, I can write and truly mean.

God Save the King!

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

 

 

When beans are not just beans....

 September 7, 2022

I’m not sure why it is, but today’s date, September 7, is the date I always associate with the day of returning to school. Hereabouts in my neck of the woods, elementary and high schools commence their fall terms after their summer breaks the day after Labour Day. This year, the kids went back yesterday, and for the first time, our dogs didn’t cause a ruckus when the bus arrived. Which means either that I did a good job of repositioning that chair last night—or they’ve moved the bus stop.

There will be a day this week when I will know if it’s the latter.

Despite that fact that fall commences this year on Thursday, September 22^nd, for all intents and purposes summer is over. And while this week we’re in for some heat, next week, according to the weather network, we’ll have more moderate temps with the actual and “feels like” all in the seventies.

Our veggie garden has begun to fade slightly. Our beans weren’t nearly as good this year as they were last; I did get three packages into the freezer so far, and we did enjoy a couple of meals of them, besides. I maintain that the major difference this year over last was David’s inclusion of yellow beans in the mix. Actually, the yellow beans harvested outnumbered the green two to one.

I knew my opinion confused him because he couldn’t hide that look. Anyone who’s been with someone for a long time knows that look. As if suddenly, they’re faced with a complete stranger who also speaks a foreign language. His response was to state what he believed to be the truth: that I loved yellow beans.

Funny, though, how when I asked, he couldn’t recall a single time when I had served them as a veggie at the table, at least not in recent years. I did once serve them—the canned variety—in our younger days because he’d asked for them from time to time. But if he didn’t ask, I didn’t get. And I suppose that was remiss of me, because the truth is he loves them, and I can’t stand them.

When I reminded him of all this, he seemed relieved. Then he told me that they really hadn’t been that good the few times we had them this summer, and he was happy that he wouldn’t have to plant them next year.

And yes, he’s already making plans for next year. Jenny has convinced him that his gardens need to be a bit deeper. And she’s told him we need to replace all the soil. The soil in them has lasted several years, but boxed gardens aren’t like the real thing in the ground. When you plant your garden in the ground, after the harvest, you don’t need to pull our all of your dead plants, like you do with the boxed gardens. During winter, you can strew all sorts of things like coffee grounds, pulverized eggshell, or simple compost on your garden. Then, in the spring, you turn the soil with a tiller, and plant anew. Thus, every few years it seems wise to replace the soil in the boxed gardens.

There is one more thing they’re planning to do next year: there is an area in our upper yard that is fairly flat, where we had a garden, back before we lost our Anthony. It worked out quite well that year. These days, of course, that’s a part of the yard I can’t easily visit because it’s a steep climb. I was trying to recall why we didn’t use that area for a second year. I don’t think it was because of poor produce. It likely was a combination of things, not the least of which was the climb and the difficulty getting down to the ground and back up again.

The one thing David has been frustrated with in regard to his boxed gardens has been his lack of success growing any kind of squash. Our daughter thinks the problem was simple lack of depth, so they’re planning, next year, to turn some sod at the top of the yard to make a squash garden.

I’ll just need to remind them that if they are planting just one small garden for squash it ought to be just one variety from that plant family.

I still recall the time my mother planted watermelon for the first time. She put them too close to the cucumbers. Now, those cucumbers turned out pretty good, but those watermelons were the worst I’d ever tasted.

I think the term for what happened in that case is cross-pollination. And that’s something one should avoid.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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