The rabbit hole turnpike....

 July 26, 2023

So, there I was last Thursday, enjoying my day, happily immersed in my regular Thursday routine. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, my writing time includes spending some of it in a virtual sprinting group. Connected via the internet, five of us encourage one another to achieve heights of writing (or editing or formatting) greatness.

While I have often celebrated the reality that writing is a solitary pastime, there is great value in being accountable to someone else. There are days, you see, when I would rather do anything but put my butt in the chair with my fingers on the keyboard (aka BICFOK).

Because that is so, two days a week I get to see the faces of my colleagues as we pursue our individual goals—and fess up at regular intervals whether we’ve achieved said goals, or not.

The morning had gone relatively well, but I thought that I might perhaps come back to work after the break I needed to take, which features having my legs elevated. I felt no urgency, and I really didn’t intend to spend any thought to the next day, which would be my 69^th birthday.

No, I didn’t mean to think about it, but there was something whispering at me, trying to tell me…I don’t know. My mind started to wander. I thought about our son and his wife who at that very moment were in Ireland, enjoying a trip they’d looked forward to for some time. I recalled the days when David and I would travel, and I thought about progression. My mom and dad went a couple of times to the U.S. because my dad’s favorite aunt lived in the Buffalo area. And for their time, that was pretty good traveling for working folk.

David and I took it up a notch, as we have been to several of the U. S. states—33 of them to be precise—and we did get off the continent a couple of times, via cruise ships to Bermuda, the Bahamas, and Cuba.

Our son and his wife have traveled further afield. They’ve been to the U. S. and they spent a couple of weeks in Alberta, one of Canada’s western provinces. Then they took a two-week vacay to Nova Scotia, which they loved. They’ve been to Greece, and now Ireland. I know they really want to go to Italy, and they likely will, in time. For this trip they hadn’t thought Italy was ready for them, so Ireland it was.

Thinking these thoughts, settling myself on the rabbit hole turnpike as it were, I realized that our time for traveling—David’s and mine—had likely ended, because we both now have mobility issues, and neither of us is interested in attempting to do what we would need extreme assistance to accomplish.

And then I thought, well, our passports have probably expired, anyway.

Hmm. Really? Do you think they really have? It’s really over, officially?

Unsure, I reached for my purse and pulled out my passport and checked. No, not expired. Not for three more years. And then, seeing a vague yet compelling offramp on this turnpike of mine, I decided to take it. Reaching back into my purse, I pulled out my wallet and opened it. A tug of the small folder that held my driver’s license revealed….it expires the next day, on my 69^th birthday.

Suspicious now, I also retrieve my health card and realize, yes, that too, damn it.

If immediate action was not taken, the next day it would be illegal for me to drive. And to get sick, too, but that was a silly thought.

One thing taking the rabbit hole turnpike practically guarantees is a wealth of silly thoughts.

There was only one thing to do, and that was to avoid the possibility of my operating, however briefly, in the realm of illegality. Fortunately, there is a place right here in town where I could go and renew what needed renewing, and after mentally saying goodbye to my rest time, that is what I did.

Thanks to the presence of my walker in the back of my car, I was also able to do this on my own, while my husband enjoyed his daily nap. And, since the office I needed to visit was halfway to the farmer where we get our fresh produce, I thought I could just go there and see if he might possibly be open. The last time I’d been past, there was no sign up; and shortly after we’d heard something which we hoped was a vile rumor—that he was, in fact, retired and would not open this year.

About 40 minutes later I was home again, all documents renewed, and with a big bag of fresh corn and one of baby potatoes in the back of my car. I was an hour or so late in getting to my recliner for the legs-up portion of my day, but that was fine. And, it was a good supper that night—our annual corn-and-potato feast. They both are so tasty, one really doesn’t need anything else. Except of course butter and salt.

And during that feast, I shared the news I’d heard straight from the farmer’s mouth—that this would in fact be his last season. He’d sold his property and would be moving in the fall. The purchaser had no plans to farm, as it was a corporation involved in another industry—one that was similar to the one my husband had been involved in for most of his working life.

I related that I had expressed my sadness that we would no longer have such a good, dependable source for our veggies. But knowing how difficult that decision had been for him, and with his own father right there (this had been a three-generation family farm), I also expressed my gratitude and my best wishes.

His response, that things do change, and it was time, accompanied me throughout the rest of the day and into the night.

I believe that one of the secrets to contentment in this life is being open to and aware of those two salient facts and then responding accordingly.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

Baby, hot, hot, hot....

 July 19, 2023

Taking note of the weather around the world over the last few weeks—at least that part of the world that is in the Northern Hemisphere—how can anyone not understand that climate change is real, and that damage has been done by the most populous breed of rat ever to live on the planet—human beings?

I’m getting tired of hearing all sorts of lame and lamebrain excuses and conspiracy theories for what’s happening outside around us. Some folks are afraid to face reality, and I get that. When I was younger, I excelled in denial. That’s an attitude born of fear, I think, and no one can deny that the uncertainty of the path ahead for humanity over the next few decades can be a definite source of fear.

But there comes a point when we have to accept what we are looking at with our eyes and experiencing with our bodies. We have to stop listening to those who may have a different agenda and take in what is. We have to accept reality and then figure out what comes next and how we can best cope with it all.

I really do sense that there are more people being realistic and working on the problem than ever before. Progress is being made, albeit it slowly. And in the interim, as folks endure days-on-end triple digit temperatures, it becomes a matter of coping in the moment, and reiterating the steps one can take to be as safe as possible in these sweltering conditions.

Stay out of the sun and stay hydrated. We haven’t had as many overheated days up here in the “true north” as a lot of you have had, but we’ve had a few of them. We’ve also been stymied by rotten air quality because those darn wildfires are still burning. I’m grateful that my husband has been willingly to listen to our daughter over the last few weeks. Mindful of his COPD, she’s been keeping an eye on the outdoor conditions and telling him when he needs to stay inside. He was reluctant at first to listen, and even left the front door open on a really smoky day—bless his heart—but he is listening, and he’s also putting off the chores around the house that he would have done otherwise.

People are dying in this heatwave, and some are hospitalized due to poor air quality. And not just here in North America, but, as I said, almost everywhere in the northern hemisphere.

Watching the news each day, it is gratifying to see people helping each other. We really are all in this together. I’ve always believed that most people will help others if given the opportunity.

One can’t watch the news and not be moved by the number of folks having a hard time during these taxing conditions. There are so many people in need, and so many who have so little.

I’ve spent a lot of time lately being grateful for a comfy bed and a relatively cool house. I don’t take either of those things for granted. I don’t believe that attitude will prevent me from also being in want in the future. But it will prevent me from having any serious regrets over not appreciating what I had while I had it. That right there, to me, would be the epitome of adding insult to injury.

Tough times will inevitably come, but they won’t come to stay. They’ll come to pass.

Friday will be my last birthday that begins with a 6! Some of my loved ones have asked what I want for my birthday, and really, it’s the same thing every year. I long for nothing more than to be with my kids, my grand kids, and my great-grand kids. Family means a great deal to me, and so do the friendships I’ve made. Not that there aren’t things I’d like to receive, or obtain. It’s just that things don’t matter to me nearly as much as people do.

And I know that’s not the way I started out. When I first got married it was not uncommon for me to be in a bad place, mentally and emotionally, because of the struggles we endured. But I’m older now, and I know that those struggling times were also the best growing times. Now, I don’t much focus on possessions, but people and I am grateful that is where I am now.

That, all in itself, is a great source of happiness for me.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

Growing...

 July 12, 2023

Thunderstorms and lots of rain. I know we’ve had lots of rain because David hasn’t actually watered the veggie gardens for weeks. He’s happy about that—who wouldn’t be? The garden continues to grow. Daughter read up on tomato plants because they keep getting taller and taller, and that could be a disaster for them. She believes she has ended that problem, however, as she has now “topped” them. There remain a lot of flowers, and a few little green tomatoes starting to grow, so that’s good. And my, that Swiss chard seems to be doing well. The beans are, too, so we have a lovely harvest shaping up.

The wet, be it from rain or humidity continues to be the bane of my existence, or at least of my arthritis. I’ve been working on keeping my mind occupied with complex puzzles—well, complex for me. I have long ago discovered that the less one focuses on one’s pain, the less pain there is.

Acrostics continue to be my favorite form of entertainment under the category of mind preoccupation. For those who may not know, an acrostic is made up of two parts. There are standard crossword puzzle-type questions, with numbered spaces provided for the answers to the questions to be entered upon; then the letters of those answers appear in the crossword grid above the questions. The key to solving this combo-puzzle is working back and forth, because eventually you can discern words in the grid, fill in the missing letters, which then appear in the spaces for whichever question those letters belong to.

And while I have a few times scored “above average” in completion time for these puzzles, mostly I’m below average. I do my best to complete the puzzles, because I would rather be rated very slow, than to qualify myself as a quitter.

There have been a few puzzles that have stymied me. My current completion rate is 91.5 percent. The only hope I have to improve that, going forward is of course, not to leave any puzzle I start incomplete.

The writing seems to be going a bit better lately, and that is something to celebrate. I still enjoy writing as much as I ever have. My frustration came from my inability to focus, which in turn was influenced by several outside factors. And while I understood that I was in the same place that many were in, that didn’t mean I was content to wallow. Though perhaps I did, just a little.

I have my car back from the shop. It was awaiting repair for a couple of weeks, because the parts had to be ordered from the U. S. But they came and the car is fixed and so we are mobile for the foreseeable future, at any rate. We don’t go out every day. Usually, we’re out and about once a week, but sometimes not. We neither of us feel the need to get out and do things. We view outings as what we do when we need to either get groceries or attend a medical appointment.

We really are turning into proper hermits. We are older than we were, and quite probably more boring as well.

Friday is wedding anniversary #51 for us. We have nothing planned, as we had that lovely luncheon that our girls hosted for us last year, and that was quite wonderful.

It was on a Friday evening, all those years ago, that we exchanged our vows in that little church that had been my family’s church when I was a child. David and I had been dating for about a year, and we were expecting our first child when we said “I do.”

We’ll likely mark the day quietly and privately, and really, that’s just perfect.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

It's a jungle out there....

 July 5, 2023

This is always a very difficult day for me. On this day, way back in 1919, my mother was born. And on this same day, one year and three months after her passing, I gave birth to my second child, my son, Anthony.

He’s been gone for nearly 17 years now. I can tell you that the sharpness of the pain is less than it was; but there’s still pain. Most of the time, I am able to think fondly about him. I recall something funny, or cute, or sweet—or, because I am talking about Anthony—something embarrassingly narcissistic or just downright deluded.

I have never been one of those parents who would ever take the stance, “why, my child would never do that.” I was more likely to say, “yeah, that sounds like something the little bugger would try to do.” My children were none of them perfect, but they were mine and they knew every day growing up that I loved them, warts and all. They were—they are—a part of me, and sometimes I will tell you, the best part.

So yes, the good memories come more often than the bad ones; and I smile or laugh more than I cry. That said, and because I have always been completely transparent in these essays, there are still days, here and there—not a lot but some—when I shatter.

The emotional storm never lasts long, but while it rages, I am leveled. And I can tell you that I firmly believe, contrary to that ubiquitous saying, that time does not heal all wounds. But it does take the worst of the sting away. And sometimes in life, for some things, having the worst of the sting dulled, however subtly, really is the best we can hope for.

I’ve never been one to post birthday messages online to my lost loved ones. But I know now that I can, because I did exactly that on Saturday, which was the anniversary of my brother’s birth. He would have been 79; we lost him in 2020, which isn’t all that long ago.

I don’t regret doing that, because I was emotional, and my emotions are ok. A weepy day was Saturday, because I miss my brother; he and I were the last ones standing from our birth family.

I have found over the last three years that it’s very hard to be the last one remaining from your birth family.

I was once told by a medical professional that I should be “all over” grieving for those no longer here, because time passes, and life goes on. I do believe the person who said that to me had never lost anyone close to him.

I say that I will likely grieve, here and there, now and then, for the rest of my life. One never gets over losing a loved one. And there is nothing wrong with that. Grief really is a byproduct of love.

Moving on, I would like to report a jungle. Yes, a jungle, and it is growing in my lower back yard. In the table gardens, to be more precise. I’m not complaining, necessarily—and likely won’t unless those very tall tomato plants begin to steal all the sun from the less tall Swiss chard and green beans, causing them to whither and die. I have a further garden report to make. Apparently, we were mistaken in claiming that all of the green beans planted in the garden are “bush” plants. Some are not. Some are vines and are trying to initiate an improper relationship with the tomatoes. Some are dangling down off the table, reaching for the ground and will no doubt eventually draw the attention of the small dogs who otherwise pay little attention to those table gardens at the moment.

They don’t necessarily even know they are gardens. The dogs believe (I am certain) that they are elaborate umbrellas set up for them so that they have a place to go under when it’s raining.

I am pleased to report that there are a lot of little yellow flowers on those tomato plants, and that is great news. Everything is very green and very lush in our gardens, and David is pleased.

It is the summer, hot and humid, with, so far, enough rain to help all this garden growth. He is already anticipating those toasted tomato sandwiches—and the crop of beans that will soon be on his dinnerplate.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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