Rediscovering a new old song...

 February 22, 2023

Most evenings, as my day reaches that point where I’m thinking about going to bed, I surf the world wide web one more time and arrive at my usual final destination of the day: YouTube.

Now, don’t fear, dear reader, that I might be venturing forth along strange turns of exploration. Or that I might veer off onto heretofore unheard-of paths of darkness and mystery. The algorithms, whatever they are, ensure that when I return to that site, I’m greeted with more of the same, day after day, that’s only perhaps a little different than the day before.

And some of what that same has been lately as been of a musical bent. There are actual sites that dedicate themselves to top ten and top twenty presentations. The videos are anywhere from ten to thirty minutes each, and can be on all sorts of different themes, some of which, obviously for me, are appealing.

Earlier this week, I found one video that was called the “20 Greatest Broadway Singers of All Time.” Now, there are basically two kinds of compilations, that I have found so far; those that give you only about eight to ten bars of a song—and those are usually called “the best 100 hits” of… whatever year they’re the hits of. Those are fun, and I find I have to really be on my toes as I listen. If, for example, I hear a song that I kind of remember, I have to pause that video and write the title down, and then, after watching the compilation video, I might go and search for the original song itself.

Then there is the kind of compilation where they give you a bit more of the song, along with some facts to go with it. But since the focus of this sort of video was on the singer, you may get other bits of other songs they have sung, too. I will tell you honestly, this particular video, the 20 Greatest Broadway Singers of All Time, was very interesting to watch. Why? Because it reaffirmed for me, once more, how little I know about any given subject. There were several artists highlighted on this nearly thirty minute long video that I had never heard of. There were also, of course, a few glaring omissions. How could they not have included Barbra Streisand? I will concede that she’s only been in a couple of Broadway shows. But still—she’s Streisand!

Back to my point. I wasn’t surprised that the list included Angela Lansbury. I was aware that she’s had a fulsome Broadway career. She’s one of the few artists I can think of who’s managed to excel in three mediums—stage, movie screen, and television. Each of which by itself would have been considered a good lifetime’s career for anyone.

Then came the moment that I experienced on Monday, a moment where I perked up, and said, “oh, oh!” and then I began to sing along! Of course, I had to pause the video so I could keep singing when they switched to her in another song…and then I had to search out the lyrics to the song, so I could do a proper job of it. And, yes, to do a proper job, I realized I needed to hear that particular song in its full glory because there is a bit of a melody switch or whatever you call it in the middle (I think they call it the bridge. But I can’t say for sure because while I love music, I am not at all skilled in it.)

And while I was singing along on the heels of the discovery that here was a song I knew, a song I hadn’t heard for a long, long time….I was back there. In my mind, and in my mood, I was back to being a young girl, sitting with my mother on the living room sofa, watching The Judy Garland Show, or Dinah Shore, or Ed Sullivan, or Dean Martin….my mother watched those, along with dramas, and of course, whatever program Lucille Ball was in at the time. And in those days if Mom watched it, I watched it, too.

I can’t recall which program I first heard this song on, but I do recall being drawn in as Ms. Lansbury, in her wonderful vibrant voice, invited me to open a new window, open a new door, travel a new highway that’s never been tried before….

For those few moments, as I rediscovered this new old song, I began to understand why it is we use music as therapy for so many ailments. And why so many of us will use music as our own personal escape valves.

That’s what music has always done for me. It’s always taken me out of the moment I’m in, and put me someplace other, someplace safe and wonderful, just on the edge of heaven.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

Mother Nature, you little tease...

 February 15, 2023

We’ve been teased by Mother Nature with a wonderful taste of spring this past week. It’s been mild enough these last few days that David has sat out on his beloved porch a few times—with, of course, all the dogs in tail-wagging attendance. Seriously, it would be difficult for me to decide who was more enraptured with the basking in the sun—human, or canines. Then yesterday, he treated himself to a scooter ride to the great and historic commercial center of our small town. Stated goal, he wanted to get me some flowers and a card for me for Valentine’s Day. Major side benefit? A takeout order of his favorite fries and gravy from the restaurant just across the street from the pharmacy.

In the aftermath, when the tummy bliss was but a memory, he was a very happy camper. And, since he brought me (as well as the flowers and the card) a gyro from that same take-out eatery, I was a happy camper, too.

Already our front flower beds are showing lovely little green shoots. Of course, this warming trend and glorious sunshine is truly just a tease; we’re not done with the cold and the snow quite yet. But since those same plants have come up early the last couple of years, I won’t worry about them. They’ve already proven themselves to be pretty hardy and adept at handling nature’s false starts. They don’t seem to let another snowfall or two stop them.

It’s a good thought to remember and hold close; even under the snow and during the worst blizzards, plants are working to get ready to bloom. They never once show in any way that they believe they will never bloom again—and neither should we.

For all the predictions we heard last autumn to the contrary, this hasn’t been a horrible winter, not in any way. Oh, we’ve had a few visits to the sub-zero zone on the thermometer, but those were only days at a time, and not weeks. And yes, here we’ve had a few good dumps of snow, but each time, after a couple of weeks, that snow has melted.

At this point in time all we have to show for all the active winter weather we’ve endured is a ridge of ice just a few inches from the sidewalk – underneath where the cars are usually parked.

I’ve been doing my best recently to disengage from the crazies and the reality-challenged who seem to be filling the air waves lately. For my own mental well-being, as well as my blood pressure, I believe this is a prudent course of action for me to take. I’ve come to the conclusion that the cause of most of the strife and division and bare naked stupidity in this world can be summed up in one word: politics.

There was a song released way back in 1970 by an artist named Edwin Star. It’s opening lines are: War…huh….yeah/ What is it good for? Absolutely nothing…  I’m thinking a 2023 update might be in order, substituting the word “politics” for “war”. Yes, my friends, that is harsh. I know there are some folks of every belief system, from all sides of the aisle as it were, who do good work, and are true public servants. But from where I’m sitting, those good hearted folks appear to be heartbreakingly outnumbered.

Meanwhile, we’re beginning to think of the planting season about to come. We aren’t just going to talk about the veggies we would like to start and then grow in our table gardens; no, we’re actually going to do that little thing. Now there’s a good bumper sticker: Don’t just talk; do!

But first, my daughter and I need to see what we can do about replacing all the soil currently in those boxes….my dear husband hates what he perceives as waste. But there are areas in our yard that could use the current several-years used soil to good purpose.

And now, I will focus with anticipation on the season of new beginnings and regrowth to come.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

A sure sign of spring....

 February 8, 2023

I’m sure we’re all very grateful that the polar vortex that vexed us all over the last couple of weeks is finally a thing of the past. There comes a point that, when the temperature drops low enough, the cold begins to seep in, regardless of your efforts to keep it out.

That’s how it would be if a new ice age ever came. The temperatures would finally drop so low, that everything would simply stop working, and no number of blankets would help. A deep cave with a supply of water and a safe area to burn wood for heat might increase one’s chances of survival. But it kind of begs the question: why bother to survive in so desolate a world?

I hope knowing the fact that the picture I just painted of dystopia is not in our foreseeable futures, will give us all the lift we need at this point in the year. And by “this point”, of course, I’m referring to those of us in North America that are north of the Mason-Dixon line. We, who by virtue of having been either born here or chosen to relocate here, are subjected to the four seasons of the planet, in all their extreme glory. We, who by now are thoroughly sick of snow and ice and the frigid temperatures that accompany them.

Don’t worry, all you who hunger for spring. It truly is on its way. Every year as January closes, there are two benchmarks we must hit before spring may arrive. First, of course, we must have Groundhog Day. That is now done. Next, comes the Super Bowl. That game must be a sign of spring, because once it’s done the spring season of television shows begin. And then, just a few episodes into your favorite entertainment programming should find you wearing a lighter coat as the temperatures outside begin the rise that comes with the vernal equinox.

Meanwhile, here in my hermit cave, I am attempting to get my paperwork in order in preparation for tax season. Our deadline here in Canada is the end of April, as opposed to the middle of it. Sometimes things get away from me. I think this is a flaw that is somehow etched right into my DNA. Or at the very least, a bad habit that I cannot overcome on my own. That this is so, absolutely confounds me. I can be so anal about so many things—and so completely sanguine about others.

It's not a mix that has necessarily served me well over the years, either. One would think that after several mad scrambles on the part of yours truly, I would learn. Alas, I am smart, but sometimes one would be hard-pressed to know it.

Having spent time last week opining on the subject of rodent prognostication, I feel I must also give due consideration to the Super Bowl as an harbinger of spring. Never let it be said that I jinxed the springtime rituals by not giving due consideration to the game.

When our younger son was in his early teens, he played league football. We spent a lot of time at his games, and of course, we were not silent spectators. We kept it clean but kept it lively. My beloved and I even volunteered to wield the yard markers. Anthony used to be kind of embarrassed about all the cheering coming from our cheap seats on the sidelines. Well, until that time when a couple of his teammates told him how lucky he was to have his parents there and cheering for him.

We have occasionally enjoyed football in this house, but never watched it overmuch. In our early years together, there was always a Grey Cup party in the late fall. The Grey Cup is the name of the Canadian Football Championship game and its trophy. We attended the Grey Cup parade in Hamilton on December 2, 1972. We had seats in the bleachers! Then the next day we watched the game from our small Hamilton apartment. We would have gone to my in-laws for the occasion but were smart enough to know that driving home post-game would have meant dealing with traffic of epic proportions. And, this was just a little more than a week before we had our first child.

We no longer make it a point to watch any football, though we are aware of how the various teams in the Canadian Football league do through each season. Apparently, however, these days there is as much excitement for the Super Bowl up here in the great frozen north, as there is down south below the 49^th parallel.

Having watched a few minutes of various Super Bowl games over the years, I have a question. How can you keep the game in your focus, when it seems like there’s a commercial break after every single play?

I tell you truly, that’s a skill-set I simply do not have—nor do I have any hope of being able to acquire it.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

As this special day approaches...

 February 1, 2023

There were many times, in years past, when this family treated the event that occurs tomorrow—Groundhog Day—as a quasi-religious holiday. Of course, that’s to be expected when two of the five of us worked out of doors year-round.

Our first-born son got his first full time job at the same quarry where his father worked. As one might expect, going from school boy to working man wrought several changes in our son. The most notable of which was his attitude toward appropriate clothing for the winter months.

Prior to joining the work-a-day world, he’d leave the house headed to high school looking good but definitely not as protected against the elements as one might wish. His response to my concern at the time? “Fashion is discomfort.” And that’s a direct quote.

Of course, the first winter of his working life saw him leaving the same house wearing enough clothes to dress two or three men in warmer climes. I didn’t even have to say a word. He noticed me noticing him and he said, “Screw fashion. I need to be warm.”

So Groundhog Day became important because by the time February arrived, those here working outside year-round were thoroughly sick and tired of the cold. And to be honest, the rest of us were pretty well done with it, too.

The lead up to this particular “holiday”, over the years, developed its own specific rituals. The most notable of these, of course was what I like to think of as threat-fest. This ritual began at some point in the last week of January, when full realization hit that the day most anticipated was fast approaching. To participate in this tradition, one had merely to voice a threat of dire consequence to the rodent at the center of this entire business should he not predict an “early spring”.

While I didn’t particularly participate in this unique version of “talking smack”, I did once write a poem as a gift to my oldest son about this most cherished of days and possible dire rodent consequences. My only regret is that somehow, I didn’t save a copy of it.

We always got a few chuckles, every Groundhog Day, as we searched to decide…um, that is, discover what the true prognostication would be. This meant that I had to go online to several sites to read what each of the area-specific groundhogs had come up with—something that, by the way, I still do.

I once asked our oldest if he would like to designate a Day-specific meal to round out his celebration. For Christmas, we had turkey. For Easter, we had ham. What, I wondered, would he like to designate for the great day of February 2?

His answer shouldn’t surprise anyone as he rivals me in the smart-ass department. He said, “groundhog, if the damn critter doesn’t give us an early spring.”

Ah, those were the days. I do sometimes miss the years when we were a household of five. While our means were spare, financially speaking, we did have fun. I especially miss those times with my first-born when we’d trade quips back and forth and he would treat me his own particular brand of smart-ass-isms.   

One day long ago, sometime in summer, we drove past a field where a group of people were fighting a fledgling grass fire. They were using jackets and brooms to beat at the flames. In the distance the scream of the sirens of the approaching fire trucks had me accelerating to get us out of the way. My son, then about fourteen, had been studiously looking at the activity and then turned to me. He said, “Clearly, they have no sense of humus.”

Another time, when he was a bit older, he walked into a conversation his father and I were having about someone I had dubbed a moron. As Chris listened to our back and forth, I said something about this person to David, who’d clearly not been paying complete attention to our discussion. I said something like, “That moron just gets on my nerves.” David looked up and asked, “which moron?” I, of course, replied, “well, how many morons are there?” Meaning, of course, under discussion in this conversation. Chris chimed in with his opinion. “Thousands. Mother, there are literally thousands of morons out there—and they’re everywhere!”

The good old days, indeed. I do my part, of course, to keep in touch with that spirit of smart-ass-ness past. As I have every February 2^nd since he moved out, I will tomorrow wish him a Happy Groundhog Day. He’s still in the same industry as his father was, but he’s in management now, and not so much out in the cold as once he was. Still, some things never change.

And it truly, is the little things in life that matter the most.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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