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
69th 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 69th 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.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
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