Porches and gratitude....

 May 29, 2024

Today represents a notable day in my family history, as it’s a double wedding anniversary: The eighty-first for my parents who were married May 29, 1943, and the fifty-ninth for my brother and his wife who were married on May 29, 1965.

This past weekend, despite the intermittent rain, I spent some time sitting on my front porch. That’s only notable because it’s not something I do on a regular basis anymore. Don’t get me wrong, I truly enjoy being outside and just taking in the fresh air and, because our porch is a covered one, indirect sunlight. In times past I would spend an enormous amount of time out there—reading, usually, and talking to our walnut tree.

From the time we moved into this house, and beginning mid-spring, on days when I didn’t have to work, the first cup of coffee of the day was enjoyed slowly, reverently, while surrounded by empty streets, fresh air, and birdsong on that porch. When that tradition began it was my much cherished “me” time, time to get my thoughts organized and to simply be until it was time to do.

Times have changed, and so did I. The times spent on the porch are rarer, which makes them even more special to me. Now, of course, I need to bring my lap blanket, and pay attention to the amount of breeze. But my porch remains a special, and especially comfortable place to be.

I spent some time over this past weekend thinking about my parents and my brother. That’s in my nature. My thoughts were more fond than they were sad. One never truly gets over the loss of loved ones. There may still be a teary moment here and there. But one can learn to be at peace with the loss and to prize the memories.

The weekend certainly had more than its share of rain. But rainy days can be conducive to thought. I found it incredibly poignant and comforting that while I was just sitting quietly this past Friday and Saturday, I was treated to the mingled scent of lilacs and lily-of-the-valley. For two days in a row, that much-loved olfactory memory transported me, taking me back to a time of peace and joy, to a time past. To a time when adulting wasn’t yet a part of my vocabulary.

I was, however, a little miffed at the timing of the rain. You see, just the day before, our walnut tree went into full leaf, dropping its debris all over the sidewalk, the walkway, the vehicles…in short, everywhere. I did ask David to take a minute and blow off the affected areas. He countered that he thought he’d get our little worker bees in it on Tuesday. He told me he wanted to teach them both how to use the leaf-blower.

Of course, it was also raining yesterday (Tuesday) which means that the great-grandchildren did not do yard work, and that detritus is still over the sidewalk and the walkway, but now is a truly soggy and surely rotting mess instead of just a fluffy, dusty one.

Monday was so wet and chilly that I made some potato and leek soup. Since the suggestion that I could do that was so well received, it didn’t surprise me that the ravening mouths slurped away in a very avid fashion. I also saw to it that our second daughter was given a good portion.

All of my work on my latest novel has now been completed. Love Under Two Dreamers, which will be my 70^th title for Siren-Bookstrand, is set for release on June 5. It’s time for me to knuckle down and try to figure out what comes next. I generally plan 3 or 4 books ahead. This used to be something I did in January, each year. Now, my planning sessions still produce a few titles, but the sessions themselves no longer happen annually, or even in January.

I’ve decided to be kinder to myself, and not angst over the fact that my pace of writing has slowed post-pandemic. Instead, I am focusing on being grateful that I am still writing, period.

I’ve decided that gratitude is the answer to ever question, and every quandary. And the more of it I have, the richer my life becomes.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

Spring musings...

May 22, 2024

Well, we were having a traditional spring – until this week happened. To progress, over the course of a single day, from nicely mild temperatures to soul-sucking breath-stealing heat and humidity has been quite a shock.

There is a mystery I cannot solve with regard to the weather and my arthritis, and it is this: when faced with weather that I know will exacerbate my condition, I do all I can to avoid exposing myself to same. I stay indoors, protect my legs, and yet, the weather eats through all my protective measures anyway. I do know that the discomfort would be much, much worse if I went out into the chill, damp air—or the hot, sticky damp air. So I continue to hope that I’ll be able to avoid the weather-affect, despite all the evidence I have amassed to the contrary.

I’m coming to be of the opinion that it’s not exposure to the elements, per se, that sets off my pain alarms. Perhaps it’s those invisible-to-the-eyes factors like barometric pressure that’s the culprit.

Ah, well, just one more question to ask the Lord when I get there.

We made the decision this year, heading from spring into summer, that we needed to get some help with the yard work. After discussions and negotiations, it has been settled that two of our great-grandchildren—our daughter’s grandkids—will be earning some spending money. The soon to be 11-year-old will cut the grass; and the soon to be 10-year-old will attend the gardens. The kids are eager to earn money, and we are interested in teaching them that earning your way is the way to go in life. We’ll see how that works out. But they had their first work shift this past Saturday—and from all accounts it went well.

This past weekend was the Victoria Day weekend here in Canada. Yes, we still celebrate the birthday of that particular queen. The celebrations here in our area aren’t as prominent as they used to be. There used to be massive fireworks displays in many communities along with the usual carnival-like atmosphere one might expect with rides and games and junk food. But I’ve noticed that over the last few years, those fireworks displays have lifted their dusty, eighteen-hundreds styled skirts and trotted some forty-odd days further along the calendar year, landing on July 1, which is Canada Day.

I’m fine with that. I no longer head outside to actually witness huge displays of the shiny and the pretty and the loud. We did that very thing every year we had small children at home. They loved those occasions, and we never would have dreamed of not going. But those days are gone, and I don’t miss them all that much.

As it is now, with two days that have fireworks in the spring-summer, that’s two days we here in the Ashbury household need to coddle our two youngest dogs. Each year, in May and at the first of July, there are folks in our neighborhood who light off fireworks. We can’t see them, but we can hear them. And yes, like their father, Mr. Tuffy before them, Bear-Bear and Missy abhor the sound and the scent of fireworks. They shiver and quiver uncontrollably. It’s tragic to witness.

We have a thunder shirt for Bear-Bear, but we don’t have one yet for Missy. Primarily because this year is the first time that Missy has shown pyrotechnic anxiety. We may have to get one, though. We’ll see. And for those who wonder, a thunder shirt is a garment that can be made to fit nice and snug, to give the dog a sense of security. It does work, and when wearing it Bear-Bear is noticeably less stressed.

Ahead of the traditional planting weekend of Victoria Day, daddy and daughter headed out to get soil to top up the beds, as well as a few other necessities for planting. I can therefore announce, that our veggie gardens are planted! We have tomatoes, green beans, and a couple of squash. Jennifer bought some watermelon plants to go in the kid’s gardens which will be on the south side of our house. That is the only place we have that gets full sun for most of the day. In the past, they’ve had flowers and a couple of cherry tomatoes there. But they don’t really like cherry tomatoes. Daughter thought they might tend the plants more diligently if they produced something they really liked to eat.

I’ll take some photos of those wonderful box gardens of ours, by and by. At the moment, I am letting the ongoing drama of farmer versus critters play out. Long story short, my beloved second-guessed his decisions, worrying that he may have given those green beans too long in the cow pots indoors before planting them, and has been poking some seeds into various places in the box gardens, hedging his bet as it were against the later-than-last-year’s February start.

And those critters are so delighted the man of the house is playing hide-and-seek the seeds again. I just can’t tell you what a delight this all is.

I really can’t.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

Magical...

 May 15, 2024

Like the solar eclipse that we knew for more than a year was coming, this past weekend’s geomagnetic storm also produced something totally worth looking at, skyward: fabulous displays of the aurora borealis. Unlike the eclipse, the knowledge that such a show might be possible was more of a lastminute sort of event.

I have enjoyed, very much, seeing all the fabulous displays that folks have photographed and made available both online and to the news outlets. Our girls went not too far outside of town, to a more rural area, and were able to see the northern lights for themselves—the first time for both of them.

I can’t tell you how happy I am that they’ve had that experience.

I’ve seen the northern lights two times in my life. The second time was with David after we were not long married. They weren’t really colorful that time as I recall, but they were beautiful just the same.

But the first time is the reason why I didn’t rush out to see the displays available over the last several days. The thing is, I didn’t at first understand the inner hesitation I felt to go and see this phenomenon. Who wouldn’t want to see the northern lights? It was only after I sat quietly and thought about it that I understood. I know that my decision to not go and see is overly emotional, but I’m okay with that.

You see, the first time I ever saw the aurora borealis was when I was somewhere between the ages of six and seven. I was sound asleep in our little house out in a rural area, and then I wasn’t. My daddy had come and lifted me from my bed. He told me he had a surprise for me—something magical! As he carried me, I awakened more, and then we were outside, in our front yard.

Daddy carried me across the lawn to the driveway, and then walked toward the road. When we’d just passed the border of the tall cedar trees that formed a visual barrier between our front windows and the world at large, he stopped, then turned us to face down the road.

“Look up,” he said.

I did and…. wow! At the time, I didn’t know the science behind what I was seeing. I didn’t know that, in those days, more than 50 years ago, this was a sight that could be seen where we lived in Canada a couple of times a year. I only new that I had never seen anything like this before. I only knew that what I was seeing must have been magic! Waves of light, dancing for the stars like a curtain caught in a gentle summer breeze. The colors weren’t of a vibrant hue, but more ethereal…the sort of colors befitting whatever magical beings created them. It was special. I was special because my daddy had woken me up and carried me outside to see it. I became aware that my mom, my brother and my sister, were guests at this magical dance, too. But I had my daddy holding me, and that had to make it, and me extra special.

“Pretty,” I remember saying. “So pretty.”

“Yes,” my daddy said. “Very pretty.”

I didn’t know, either, at that time, that this would become a core memory for me. Only later, much later, as I grew up without this amazing man who had been kind enough to share with his youngest child the secrets of the universe, did such a thing occur to me.

Come forward now to this past week. I am getting closer to my seventieth birthday, and it is now more than sixty years after my father’s passing. I contemplated joining our daughter on her quest to see those same amazing lights. But she was going with our “second daughter”, who is the mother of my late son’s children, and is to her a closer sister than one born so could ever have been.

This was her time, this was their time, and they shared this first experience—the wonder and the beauty of it—together, which was as it should be. One more bond of sisterhood between them.

I’m grateful for the little bits of understanding I gain as I travel this path that I’m on. I still want to learn, and I still want to grow. I’m nowhere near done living yet.

And I still want to hang onto that long-ago child’s sense of beauty and wonder and love.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

So far, so good...

 May 8, 2024

So far, May is showing herself to be a springtime month in what my memory swears is the “traditional way”. Warming, not too hot, pleasant days and coolish nights. Not too hot, not too cold. Just right. There was a reason back in the day and in this neck of the woods that we didn’t plant our gardens until after the Victoria Day weekend – which is the weekend just ahead of the third Monday in May. By then, hopefully, all threat of frost was truly past.

For the last few years, May has seemed to have had delusions of summer. Some of her days were way too hot for me to be outside. I know that today is only the 8^th, but I remain hopeful that we get to do without any heat waves here in southern Ontario at least until we actually are in summer.

I’ve been watching the havoc that Mother Nature has been wreaking south of the border. Seriously, y’all don’t seem to be catching any breaks at all down there in the lower forty-eight. This saddens me, because while I have never lost a home to a tornado, I have lost two to fire. That sense of supreme violation, that sense of being left with nothing, is not a feeling I would wish on anyone, anywhere, anytime.

I was sitting around yesterday and just thinking about how life has changed as I’ve aged. I know that if I’m experiencing revelations and transformations, then others must be as well. We humans have a habit of always “looking forward” to what might be our futures. I’ve done that through the years. Mostly I’ve done that when the burden of working and doing in the now seemed a bit heavy. I used to look forward to the “golden years”. And because I have a bit of a whimsical sense of humor, I mentally drew myself a little comic strip about my life, comparing my anticipation for those coveted golden years, to the reality of living in them.

Me at 49: My golden years are going to be so great! I’ll have a slower pace in life. I can hardly wait! Me at 69: It takes me all day to do now what I used to do in two hours. This is not the definition of a slower pace that I had in mind.

Me at 49: In my golden years, I’m going to never again set an alarm. I’ll just sleep until I’m good and done. Me at 69: Thank you, bladder, for at least waking me up every few hours instead of letting me sleep until I’m good and done.

Me at 49: In my golden years, I’m gonna go where and when I want and do whatever strikes my fancy. Me at 69: Thank God I don’t have to go anywhere or do anything today. Recliner and blanket, here I come.

We’re such a perverse species, aren’t we? Never happy, never satisfied, always looking with hopeful eyes to that which comes next while at the same time being really worried about…. that which comes next.

For me, the truth is that I’ve learned to just take things as they come. I’ve somehow learned to not take myself too seriously. To keep a good attitude and to hold on to my sense of humor with both hands. That, right there, is a lifeline. I pity anyone who can’t laugh at themselves.

I also have been given a faith that anchors me. That, right there, is the best gift I’ve ever received.

Finally, I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t acknowledge that today is World Donkey Day. Not kidding, go check Mr. Google. And in light of this auspicious occasion, I wish to pass on some appropriately themed words of wisdom.

Those who do not understand the difference between burro and burrow, don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

The calendar has turned a page....

 May 1, 2024

We made it through the month of April, and now here we are, finally and at last, in May. But not only is it May first, today. It’s May Day! And while that “holiday” that harkens back to ancient times and is based in astronomy is no longer celebrated on a grand scale, I’m certain there are still those who give more than a nod to the occasion.

Somewhere, I’m sure, young women are weaving flowers into their hair, or clutching a colorful ribbon as they dance around the maypole.

Traditionally, this day celebrates the midway point between the spring equinox and the summer solstice. It only makes sense to me that some sort of “nod” should be given to the point where we can say, with conviction, that spring is finally here.

I have faith that this is so. I’ve demonstrated said faith by having the ice-claw removed from the bottom of my cane. At this point in the year, if we awaken to snow and ice on the ground, I’m not only not going to leave the house. I might just climb back into bed and cover my head with my duvet for extra measure. The jury is out as to whether or not there would be thumb-sucking involved.

We do have some substantive signs of spring, here at the Ashbury estate. There are now narcissi and daffodils a plenty in bloom. Hyacinths have also shown their blossoms. The peonies are gaining height and growing up into the rings that have been left in place from last growing season. The straight, stalwart spears of our lilies-of-the valley are providing a unique carpet around the lilacs, which are also close to budding.

As usual, my fingers are crossed for that rarest of moments—a time when both lilacs and lilies-of-the-valley bloom at the same time. The combination of their fragrances is for me a supremely blissful blend. It evokes earlier times and happy echoes of my childhood.

The tulips also have arisen from their winter slumber, their broad leaves growing in girth, preparing to support stem and bloom on some not-too-distant day. And the grass is wildly awaiting its first cutting.

Our youngest grandson, who lives in town, will be by on Saturday to do that for us. He’ll also put our brand-new barbecue together. Purchase just a few days ago, it sits in its box, awaiting its “opening day.”

Today, the calendar has been flipped to a new month, and it’s a page already filled with a handful of appointments scheduled. It’s a definite sign of our age that most of them are of a medical nature for both my husband and me. Ah, yes, as can be expected, the maintenance checks come more often, the higher the mileage.

The only vacations that might be noted on any of our calendars won’t be ours. We have no plans to travel this year. Home is a much more accommodating place than any hotel or resort could ever be. Simply living can be adventure enough, sometimes. Who needs to go afield to find it? It really is true that to everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven.

Career-wise, I have completed the first draft of my seventieth novel. I’m awaiting my edit, which should arrive within the next week or so. In the meantime, new ideas have been given free rein in my brain. My process is in flux, lately, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. It only seems right to me that if I am going to grow and evolve with the changing of the calendar pages, my process when it comes to my craft should feel free to do so, too.

That process, very much like my characters, appears at times to have a will of its own.

One particular author friend once gave me a hard time when I told him that sometimes, my characters surprise me. They do and say things I never knew they had in them! He insisted that such could not possibly be the case, as I was the author, and therefore completely in charge of my writing.

Thinking of that moment that happened well over a dozen years ago, always makes me smile. Even then I knew the truth. There is control being exercised when it comes to my life and my writing. The evidence of that is all around me.

It’s just not always me with the reins in hand.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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