Keep going...

 October 22, 2025

Time marches on, even if the elderly among us can’t quite manage a march anymore. Everything is relative. Therefore, I consider myself lucky if I can simply make my way around the house and out to the car.

I used to ask for patience in my prayers every day. I don’t so much anymore because I have finally learned a bit more patience from life itself. Patience is the natural outcome when you’re a turtle in a pack of hares.

The important part, in my estimation, is that I do manage to get around and out to the car. I use my walker a bit more than I used to, and that’s okay, too. Most places I need to go, either my cane or the walker are good enough. Some stores, of course, have electric carts for their customers and that’s a blessing.

If I’m heading out with my daughter, she happily assembles my own three-wheeled scooter for me. I don’t have the strength to do that myself, and never really have. But regardless, I still consider myself independent. I am capable of, and often do head out to our local grocery store on my own to pick up a few things when needed. I can go for a drive, put gas in my car, and walk into any restaurant if I choose to do so.

I’m not as fast as I used to be in anything. My mind is still reasonably sharp, but I do sometimes have to hunt for a word or a name. My reasoning is sound even if my memory isn’t what it was. I don’t think I ever had any idea of all the ways that getting older could affect a person. I’m finding out now, and I can honestly say that getting old truly isn’t for the faint of heart.

But it is natural, so it really is just another case of mind over matter. I’ve decided my best course is to accept reality and then get on with it.

The hardest part of aging, of course, is coming to terms with the changes in our physical abilities. It’s hard to accept that one is no longer able to do as many or as much as one used to. Physical tasks become a challenge because body strength and endurance do decrease with age. Not that many years ago I was able to clean my house—every room—over the course of a few hours in the morning. Ah, the good old days.

Now, I content myself with being able to do a few chores around the house each day. There’s a lot of sitting involved in this process. Therefore, I incorporated sitting into the program. I stand to do the dishes but sit to put most of them away. And when it comes time to sweep the floor? With broom in hand and sitting on my office chair-turned kitchen chair (for the wheels) I move around the kitchen and sweep. And do a damn fine job of it.

I wanted wheeled chairs for the kitchen. We had large and fairly heavy chairs around the table, and it was hard for me to “scoot” my chair closer to the table. That said, I was not willing to pay three or four hundred dollars a piece for the privilege of new wheeled kitchen chairs. Then I saw some inexpensive “office chairs” online and thought: perfect! After all, the defining feature I wanted in a kitchen chair other than a seat was wheels. Who cares about fancy décor? Our first set of chairs cost only thirty-five dollars each (on sale) and lasted three years before they needed to be replaced.

But I digress.

The important thing is that regardless of age and stamina, I need to keep moving.

I do make my bed most days. My reason for this is selfish. I love climbing into a well-made bed each night. Since it is one of my pleasures in life, I see no reason not to enjoy the experience as often as possible.

Accepting reality means that I acknowledge that there are days when not much gets done by yours truly. But I always content my self by vowing that I will do better the next day. I will keep moving. I will not quit.

For us humans, getting through and getting by has always been a matter, primarily, of our attitude. All through my life there have been times when I’ve needed to improvise, adapt, and overcome. That oft-quoted principle came in handy when I was a young mother raising three children. It is no less germane now that I’m over seventy. It worked then and it works now.

Take another step when you think you can’t. Move another few inches when you think you may be done.

Whether you believe you’ve got this, or you believe you’re beat, you’re right! Because it’s really always been a matter of choice. Your choice.

Choose to keep going.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

Being grateful...

 October 15, 2025

Now that we’ve entered the third week of October, it’s safe to say we are fully entrenched in autumn. The sights and sounds and scents of the season have changed little over my lifetime.

There’s the panorama of the changing leaves, and the scent of outdoor fires. On weekends, as folks work to prepare their property for the onslaught of winter, the sounds of lawnmowers, leaf blowers and woodchippers combine into a symphony of household industry.

It’s a lovely symphony, best enjoyed after enough time spent outside to pinken the cheeks from the autumn chill, and with one’s hands firmly wrapped around a mug of something warmly soothing.

I never quite cottoned to the pumpkin-spice-everything craze that has been prevalent over the last few years. I’m a bit of a purist when it comes to pumpkins. I believe that pumpkin spice belongs only in pumpkin pie.

The traditions related to early October have shifted only superficially over the years. Here in Canada our Thanksgiving Day is the second Monday in October. We celebrated the feast this past Monday at our second daughter’s home, which we have been doing for the past few years. My, but she has an excellent and patient hand with her turkey! She does such an excellent job of it that I cannot recall the last time I roasted one in my own oven. The rest of the meal is a group effort, so that the load is not only on one person. What an amazing feast we had!

I grew up in a rural community about a half hour’s drive from where we live now. In fact, my home as a child which became David’s and my first house as a young married couple, was basically next-door to the quarry where my husband ended up working for thirty-nine years.

In that community, each Thanksgiving weekend saw the arrival of a local fall fair. And until we moved to the town where we live now, our family’s—both ours as children and then as parents—Thanksgiving tradition always included a visit to that fair. And on Thanksgiving Monday itself, no less. Yes, indeed, the race to stuff the bird and set it to roasting, before heading out for a few hours…. Thanksgiving Day was a very busy time indeed!

Then we moved to the community where we currently reside in the early 1990s. The annual county fair here is held in this very town and on the Labour Day weekend. After our first couple of years here, our younger two children were old enough to go to the fair on their own, which they did on “bracelet day”. That was a wonderful innovation where the kids could purchase a bracelet and enjoy the midway for several hours for one low price. David and I did enjoy those quiet times back then, right at the end of the busy, back-to-school rigamarole.

Despite the odd variations, the heart of all of our Thanksgiving traditions over the years has never changed, and that’s the gathering of family and friends. This year, as we formed our own little community around the dinner table, we each took a few moments to pronounce what we were thankful for. There were nine adults, two tweens and two children gathered for that wonderful meal. And while the gratitude lists differed in some details the one item that was constant was family and friends. We were grateful, each one of us, for the gathering of loved ones and the bounty before us.

In these challenging times in which we live, we’re all experiencing the sense that things are not stable around us. Things are changing and we humans don’t like that. But if we can be grateful for the basics—our loved ones, and our homes however humble they may be—then I think we’re well equipped to handle whatever comes our way.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

Surfer beware...

 October 8, 2025

I can’t recall which program I was watching on television a week or so ago, when I heard something that made me literally sit up and take notice.

Now, usually over the course of my week, I tend to take an hour or so in my living room each day about midday, to put my feet up and rest. Feet up because, having arthritis it serves me well to elevate my legs after having had them down for several hours. Rest, because despite the fact that I am indeed seventy-one, I can’t seem to fall asleep if I go to bed and try to have a structured afternoon nap.

However, if I put my television on and assume the position in my recliner, I have no trouble dozing off, here and there, for a few minutes at a time over the length of the program.

And it was at this point one day during the past week when, drifting in my chair, I heard these words: “social media sites have figured out there is one thing better than sex for click bait, and that is rage.”

For me, hearing that statement was an epiphanous moment.

I had noticed lately, as I scrolled each evening through YouTube a number of videos which are similar in composition to short stories. I realize these stories are works of fiction, and because I do, I don’t for one minute consider that they represent reality or real-life events. And sometimes if the scenario that the title presents hooks me, I’ll click on the videos, provided they’re not too long.

Friends, I will confess here and now that while I thought I knew what I was getting into, I was wrong. These weren’t just a way for an aspiring writer to become “published” (which was my first thought). These stories generally present a situation where injustice occurs; and in the course of the story, on the surface at least, justice is redeemed. A happy ending in a few short minutes, and the romance writer in me couldn’t resist that.

It did take me a few clicks, and a few reads to understand that perhaps the author of these “short stories” might have another purpose beyond creating a simple short story. I began to get a clue when I realized something. As appealing as a short story about injustice being redeemed might be, the method of that redemption read, just a little, like hate.

It took that statement that defined that notion of stirring up rage as click bait and realized it made the puzzle pieces of my emotions fall into place. One thing I had noticed was that while the story did represent an injustice redeemed, it also, mildly, invoked anger in me. And that was closer to the point of the whole exercise than any of my other impressions of the story.

These videos all had the same “moral”. The solutions to the injustices tended to have a very real sense of “how do you like them apples, asshole?” about them.

That pseudo-revenge answer to a wrong—at least in my belief—is not healthy. Not emotionally (in the long run), and not morally.

Oh yes, reading those stories can give you a moment of “feeling good”, especially if the injustice you read about did stir your ire; but the “feel good” is only a temporary fix, and when it wears off, you want more—because while the feel-good was fleeting, the “anger/rage” elements of the story lingered. In other words, you want a bigger and badder piece of revenge.

Soon, the anger one feels can turn to rage, and friends? Rage is a the very least as addictive as any narcotic or alcohol or other substance or experience you can name.

Rage, constantly fed, can lead to violence. Oh, no, they won’t actually urge you to commit violence yourself, not at first. But they will, over time, serve you more and more examples of others using violence to stomp those bastards into the dust, and man, does that ever feel good when they do!

Other than bringing an end to social media (one could almost term that an act of violence), the only solution to the problem presented by these algorithms that seem to be in service of folks whom we do not know, that I can think of. And that solution is discernment.

I’m usually very discerning in my “surfing” habits, but this caught me off guard. So let me tell you what I told myself: what I see such as these videos, and all the things that show up in my “feed”, are informed by my viewing habits. I must therefore be very careful, not only what I am watching, but what sites I am going to.

Whenever I see something that raises a flag, I first look to see who or what the provider/poster/contributor is. A little research will show you, soon enough, if you’re looking at a good actor, or some sort of automated bot. And here’s a clue: bots are woefully unskilled in grammar.

And now if you’ll excuse me, I’m about to google a copious number of laughing babies, funny memes, and baby goats.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

Ah, autumn!

 October 1, 2025

There are just so many things I enjoy about autumn!

Despite the fact that the arrival of autumn leaves means winter is on its way, I love the colours. There are times, especially if I’m facing east with a west hanging sun behind me, that those trees simply shimmer.

I’ve only recently seen the first trees in our neck of the world beginning to show their fall colours. My daughter thought that the calendar was not as it used to be. She said that these days, at least with regard to the seasons, the calendar was at least two weeks behind.

Her first example was when I pointed out that a few of the trees we passed which had some yellow and red leaves mixed in with the green they were the first I’d seen. She told me her theory and pointed out that we were just now seeing those colours, and it was already the end of September.

The second example came when she recalled her school days. Local farm kids would be excused from high school for the first two weeks of September, because it was harvesting time.

There were a lot of ginseng and tobacco farms in this area, market-garden ones as well, and they were, almost all of them private family endeavors. This of course required an “all hands on deck” approach. As we were driving about last Sunday, we passed farms that were just now getting to the business of harvesting their crops.

This past weekend was one for the record books, at least it seemed so for me. On Saturday, daughter and I went to St. Jacob’s Farm Market, a first for just the two of us. We’ve tried to go once a year, in September, but somehow missed last year. David usually comes too, but his scooter was on the fritz, so he stayed home.

We had a list as we left the house just before eight-thirty in the morning. Despite a good beginning to our own gardening season, the green beans faltered. So top of the list was a basket of those, to freeze for the months ahead. On the fruit side of things, we wanted some peaches—I like to make a pie or two with fresh local fruit. And we wanted to make a good amount of apple sauce. I though a half bushel of apples should do it.

David wanted me to get so pears so I could do with those what I was planning to do with the apples. I agreed and brought home a basket of those.

They have a good selection of meats there—some from herds raised without antibiotics and growth hormones. We purchased three enormous “smoked pork chops”. They would be our supper that night.

Jennifer wanted some good black forest bacon, but the only bacon she saw was smoked, so we passed. We did, however, bring back two pounds of mixed deli cold-cuts—much to David’s delight.

Of course we bought some home-made jam, some local maple syrup, and the one thing we never leave that place without—freshly made-before-our-eyes apple fritters.  Jenny and I stopped for breakfast upon leaving the market and were home before one p.m.

While she napped, I set about making a potato salad to go with the chops we were having for supper.

I did worry some, once I got home, that I might not be able to process everything in a timely fashion. But I managed, over the next couple of days, to do just that. And that was even with doing our regular grocery shopping on Sunday.

I believe with all my heart that my heightened energy level from Saturday to Tuesday inclusive was divinely inspired—thank you, Lord. Only the apples remain to be “sauced” but they do keep well and are scheduled for processing this coming weekend.

And now, if you’ll all excuse me, I think I am taking the rest of this day, Wednesday, off.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

Keep trying...

 September 24, 2025

The first supper that I ever made in my life was bacon and eggs. Yes, “breakfast for supper” was a popular option at our house when I was a child and has continued to be so forever after. And while bacon was an acceptable supper option back in the day, it was only used for breakfast for very special occasions. For breakfast, if one was allowed to make an egg and some meat for that meal back then, it was eggs and bologna.

The secret to using bologna as a fried breakfast meat was that since the meat was round, one needed 4 small slices every quarter-circle, so that when it was fried it would stay flat.

I was 10 when I attempted cooking my first breakfast-for-supper supper, bacon and eggs—and I cooked the eggs first!

Boy, were those eggs chewy, and did I feel like a failure by the time my mother got through giving me her honest opinion of my efforts. But that chewing out (pardon the pun) didn’t defeat me. It made me get better at cooking that meal, until I was the only one of the four of us living in that old house on the Brock Road (except for Mother herself) considered to be an adequate bacon chef.

In time, she would even brag to my uncle and aunt (her brother and sister-in-law) about how melt-in-the-mouth crispy my bacon was. And it was, every time.

I have always loved cooking. Like my mother before me, I discovered a talent for looking at the selection of raw materials (food) available and putting a meal together. David has always enjoyed the meals I made us. Next to writing, cooking has been my greatest talent.

Don’t ask me to knit something—though I have in the past, provided it was something truly basic like a scarf or a blanket. And don’t ask me to crochet, because I really have never had any success there. Graphic arts? A wonderful talent to have, though never one of mine.

But I can cook. Not fancy fare but good, comfort food, and my prime rib roast has reduced the members of my family to drooling fans.

That established, it takes a lot more energy and focus these days for me to put a meal together than it did even just five years ago. And it may sound strange, but that’s something that I worry about. That somehow, I might get to the point that I won’t be able to turn out a proper meal. Oh, not so much physically. It’s the evolution of that unknown and immeasurable quality called talent—when it comes to cooking, yes, but writing as well.

Other than to keep pushing forward while accepting my slower rate of progress when it comes to the latter, there is only one thing I can think to do guard against losing my ability with the former.

I’m always looking for new recipes when online, with a view to selecting ones I’d like to try.

My family rarely dislikes anything I make, and they have their favorites, one of which is my meatloaf.

Making meatloaf for supper was a challenge when our daughter, shortly after moving in with us, became vegan. But I was able to make her a meatloaf using her “meatless” hamburger. She’s no longer vegan, so I’m back to my making only one meatloaf instead of two when it’s on the menu.

Recently, I saw a meat loaf recipe by Ina Garten, whom I’m sure many of you know of, and have likely followed online. The recipe was different in several ways from my own, and I told my family to get ready, because I was going to make it. For their part, while they couldn’t understand why I would want to try another kind of meatloaf, they agreed to welcome the new version.

I made it last Wednesday for supper, and I liked it! It was quite different from my own, but very good. I followed her recipe exactly and was met with success. More importantly, my husband and my daughter both liked it, although daughter thought she preferred my version of the classic comfort food.

Pleased with my success, I have my eyes open for my next “new” recipe. I don’t understand the science of it all, but I do know I use different parts of my brain for cooking than I do for writing and than I do for other manual household tasks. To my own mind, those two activities—cooking and writing—define me. Which means I’ll continue to keep practicing both for as long as I am able to do so.

If you would like Ms. Garten’s recipe, you can find it here: https://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/ina-garten/meat-loaf-recipe-1921718

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

Miracles....

 September 17, 2025

If ever there was a time for someone to ask me that once almost-hip question, “how’s it shakin’?” that time is now.

As I bear down to find my focus and compose these words to you, my friends, my house is “shakin’” a bit too much and a bit too well, thank you.

Yesterday, the temporary dirt road in front of my house had an enormous and deep hole in it. The work crew was laying the new water pipe, which is the entire reason behind this particular part of the town’s infrastructure project for 2025.

The first time I felt this kind of shaking was a few years ago, when they replaced the narrow road on the south side of our house. It’s a compactor machine, and it rolls slowly over the newly refilled holes in the road base, to pack that soil in good and tight.

Back then, the vibrations that traveled not only through the earth between the machine’s position and where I was sitting, but through my house as well, made my stomach feel nauseous. That isn’t the case this time. But I still don’t like the sensations. Worse, I do worry about the effect of the vibrations on the house itself.

Don’t believe in miracles? I surely do. My house is still standing. And I have faith that it will continue to stand. I truly do. But I wouldn’t say no—in fact would be very grateful for—whatever prayers y’all would like to send our way.

Speaking of miracles, we have an addition to our family. David and I have a beautiful new great-granddaughter, Sophia, born last Wednesday afternoon to our wonderful grandson and his wife, who became our beloved granddaughter a couple of years ago when they wed. We’re overjoyed for them, and hope to go visit, but only after the new family has time to enjoy each other first.

It’s mid-September and I think that after all the rain we had not so long ago, it’s odd that we appear to be in a bit of a drought right now. And thanks to our current mid-construction environment, the state of the weather, while it is great for the construction crew and their timetable, creates a minor problem for me.

Pre-construction, we had a garden hose connected and at the ready, and if I wanted to go outside and water our garden, well, that was doable for me. Go outside, bring the hose off it’s reel, go over to the garden, depress the button on the nozzle to turn on the hose and apply the water.

Well, to ensure we have water during this time of water-main replacement, the construction crew laid a temporary watermain. This main which is on top of the ground allows for a hose to run from it to each house. That hose is then connected to where our watering hose was connected. Where possible, the crew uses the homeowner’s own hose. They connected, they turned it on at the source, and we have water. It’s ingenious! If the water can run out of the house via that spigot for the hose, it can run it that way, too.

Ah, you see the issue. When I realized this was going to be the case, that our garden hose would be unavailable for watering the garden, I ordered and received a new garden hose. One of those flex hoses that apparently will contract and be easy to store. It can be connected to our kitchen tap and can be run out the window which is only a foot and a half from the back door. And once connected, and out the window, that hose may be used to water the garden which is also only a couple of feet from the door.

It needs but one person capable of doing the work of removing the nozzle end on the faucet, connecting and then running the hose out the window.

It pains me more than I can say that that person is not me.

Friends, I am sure you are thinking right about now, “Morgan it’s a good thing that you’re not an elderly woman living all alone, isn’t it?” I will never disagree with that sentiment. In fact, I give thanks every single day that I am not an elderly woman living all alone.

Now if only someone would be kind enough to do more than agree in theory with me that the tomatoes need to be watered and see to it.

Then, I would be even more grateful.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

Attitude is everything...

 September 10, 2025

If there is one thing that I wish I’d truly known, understood, and taken to heart earlier in my life it is this: attitude is everything.

How we, as humans, react to the things that happen around us and to us is inexorably tied to how we fare, emotionally and spiritually on our life’s journey.

One of my favorite sayings is that “life is 5 per cent what happens to me and 95 percent how I deal with it.” Friends, truer words were never penned. I say that in full awareness that they were not my words, first. They belong to that amazingly prolific writer, Anonymous.

Who among us can precisely judge the value of holding fast to gratitude, a positive outlook, and a great sense of humor? This is not to say that there will not be days when we’re sad, or grieving, when we’re in pain, or depressed. From time to time, we will experience all those emotions. I would even argue that you need to taste of the bitter fruits that life can hand us in order to truly appreciate the sweet.

Please, friends, notice that I used the word “taste”. I’m careful of the words I choose, because words are very powerful. Taste is a world away from gorge. Taste implies, at least to my mind, a subtle extension of the tongue, the gastronomic equivalent of sticking one’s toes in the water.

I have been a person who knew bitterness and my reality as a young married woman was really very harsh. I know what it is to be in want, and I know what it is to feel abandoned of all hope. It feels ugly inside. Ugly and dark and utterly scary and alone.

I am no longer that woman. And when I see others who are trudging through their lives, exuding the dark clouds that used to live deep inside my soul, I feel such sadness, and such ache for them. It doesn’t have to be that way. In every book I’ve written, and at the base of almost all of my essays, is the message that how one feels is a choice. How one reacts to the inevitable hard times, is a choice. And one is where one is as a direct result of all the choices one has made to that point in their life.

As I always have said, your choice basically is between saying “Good morning, God!” or “Good God, it’s morning!” It’s all up to you.

Of course, being transformed from one who is miserable and bitter to one who can embrace the good and receive the joy just waiting to be had isn’t something you can do alone. But it will come if you make the choice and ask for help. I can tell you that when I made that choice and asked for help, it was a holy and humbling experience. It took me a bit time to understand that the absence of darkness within me was real.

In 1776, Thomas Payne began his famous pamphlet series with the sentence: “These are the times that try men’s souls.”  That sentiment is one that seems to be in vogue once more. As we look back over the years between then and now, we understand that there have been many occasions when that sentiment has been felt.

There are times when it takes determination and not a little audacity to find the positive in life. But if you can, you will find, that the colors are brighter and the air is sweeter than you knew it could ever be. If you can hold onto the positive, and a good sense of humor, there will be peace within you, and you will find the ability to take the next breath, and then the next one after that.

No, not alone. Never alone. But it does start with a decision, and that decision is all yours.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

September...

September 3, 2025 

I’ve reached that point in my life where I close my eyes and take a deep breath every time I’m confronted with new technology. Okay, well, maybe I reached that point a few years ago. Truth to tell, the only time I did well with “new modern tech” was at one of my jobs (in the 1990’s) when my department manager said to me, "here's a computer. Tomorrow, I'm going to show you how to use it. Today, just play around with it and see what it and you can do."

I worked in payroll at the time, and my manager wasn't too happy with what our boss did, but it more or less worked out well in the end.

The first word program I ever used was Word Perfect, and while I don’t recall the details of it, I do remember that it was easy enough for me to navigate. I really liked the part about not having to retype an entire manuscript from beginning to end in order to produce a second draft. And the keying required less strength of finger compared to using a typewriter.

In this day and age, the boogey man for me, technology-wise, is AI. I have never gone to Chat-whatever the hell it is. Nor do I intend to. The first thing I do when I open a new word document is to close “Copilot”. I’m an author for goodness’ sake! My words must all be my own, or they are worthless. Hard line. Full stop.

I do however kind of like the application of AI in the search engines. I can ask a question, and I get a better result than I did before AI. As long as the AI applications are happy to shut the hell up and stay in the background unless I speak to them, I’ll be content.

Writing continues to be a slow process for me. A combination of the changes that getting older have brought to my mental as well as physical capabilities, and believe it or not, a second round of Carpal Tunnel on my right hand. I will eventually undergo surgery for this, but until then the funny sensations in my fingers impede my ability to type as quickly as I’m used to. I can’t necessarily feel when a finger is on two keys instead of one. But it is what it is, and I shall carry on.

September is upon us, and as I mentioned in my last essay, the last couple of weeks have been chilly ones, comparatively speaking. I keep reminding myself that sixty degrees Fahrenheit on a day in mid-February would be considered incredibly warm. However, the one good thing about September officially arriving this past Monday was that it was no longer August, and I could therefore, in good conscience, turn on the furnace for an hour in the morning.

I know it wasn’t my imagination that my husband cheered when I did so on September 1st.

These last two coolish weeks have slowed down the ripening of our tomatoes. The last couple of days, however, turned a bit warmer so I am hoping that those many green tomatoes on our plants have had the opportunity to grow some in size, before ripening. We’ve already had more tomatoes this year than last but are nowhere near the bounty of the summer of 2023.

I have a countdown happening in the background of my mind, ticking down the days until some of our favorite television shows return. One of our favorites returned mid-summer. We have really been enjoying Star Trek: Strange New Worlds, this season. Considering that it’s been a couple of years between season 2 and 3, once we watched the first episode, we were caught. I still feel cheated that a television season is only ten episodes instead of the fondly remembered twenty-plus. But that’s life for you.

I look forward to the new major-network fall television season so that I can fill up my viewing hours with entertaining programming instead of news. It’s getting bad out there, folks. I’m content being vaguely aware of events. I do not want to obsess. That’s life for you, too.

At least, it should be.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

It's your decision...

 August 27, 2025

As of today, there are four more days left in the month of August. I think this may be our new normal, sliding into what one would consider to be traditional late September temperatures for the last week of what used to be thought of as the hottest month of the year.

I’m not complaining, exactly. I can cope, especially first thing in the morning as I get out of bed and begin to shiver. I can run hot water into my coffee mug to take the chill off it before brewing that first cup. I can drape a blanket over my legs, and struggle into a sweater. I can even turn on my office’s “electric fireplace” to get the chill off the air. There most definitely was chill in the air first thing this morning.

However, it’s a solid line I draw against turning on the house’s furnace in August. And yes, when the idea crosses my mind that there is no way in hell that I am turning the furnace on in August, it is my mother’s voice I hear.

The last few days have featured rain, and that’s okay too. My arthritis will act up regardless, but the lawns and the gardens need rain. The crops in the fields need rain as this is the crucial build up-time to harvest. I’ve never been the sort of person who believed, or wished, that the weather should be just so to suit my individual needs or desires.

Chilly and damp? I have heating pad, blanket, topical balms and if need be strong medication to counteract the effects thereof.

This past weekend we attended a baby shower for our soon to be born fifth great-grandchild. The baby, a girl, is due mid-September. The event was held outdoors, at a beautiful, large, city-run park. Bathroom facilities were just across a small narrow road from the location of the party, which was held under and around a nice and spacious pavilion.

I don’t generally attend outdoor events, because, again, the arthritis. But I do when the event is one that I truly want to join. And I accept as fair enough the consequences of my decision to do so.

That has always been how I have managed the inconvenience of osteoarthritis. This condition has, of course, become progressively worse through the years. I began using a cane more than 30 years ago, to help me walk, and because there were times my ankles would threaten to give out.

These days, if I can’t walk it with my cane, I use my walker. If the walker won’t cut it, why, I have a three-wheeled motorized scooter at the ready. That scooter is sturdy enough to support me and small enough to fit inside most stores, shops and malls.

I don’t let my condition prevent me from doing what I truly want to do. If the next day I’m sore, well then, so be it.

Life is 5 percent what happens to me and 95 percent how I deal with it. I won’t tell you I never break down and cry, because that would be a lie. I will tell you I do my best to do that in private. I’ve always advised in these essays that it’s ok, once in a while, to get on the pity pot. Just as long as you clean up, and then flush when you get off.

I don’t break rules, especially my own.

Getting older is no picnic, even if you do occasionally attend one. It’s not a journey for the weak of spirit. But it is a part of the lessons I believe we are meant to receive and hopefully master as we travel this path of life that we’re on.

The difference between learning to cope, and giving in to the negatives is this, and only this: when you learn to cope you find a peace and contentment within yourself. You’re happier, and if you hang on with both hands and your teeth to your sense of humor, you’re a joy to be around, too.

However, if you prefer to wallow in self-pity like a hog will wallow in the mud and manure of its own pigsty, you’ll find yourself miserable and for the most part, alone.

That decision, and the inherent consequences of it, dear reader, is yours and yours alone, to make.

 

Love,
Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

Sweet memories

 August 20, 2025

The last few days have been much cooler than the blazing heat of just a few days before, and it’s been a bit rainy, as well. I’m glad to see the rain, as the grass has turned that parched shade of brown it gets this time of year but will now soon be green again. Of course, the rain is appreciated for gardens, and in our case for the tomatoes and the green beans. Yesterday, I had my second lettuce, tomato and sweet onion sandwich of the season. The first step, of course, is going out to the garden and choosing a tomato.  Ah, the sweet memories from my youth. Strolling out to the garden to pluck a ripe tomato for lunch was forever permissible and actively encouraged.

When I was a child, my mother always had a thriving veggie garden. One that was big enough to warrant paying the farmer down the road each year to come by with his tractor to first plow and then disc the empty patch. My garden memories are all from after my father’s death, when there were four of us in the “big house”, a four-bedroom story-and-a-half farmhouse on a country road. We had three-quarters of an acre, which even now I consider huge.

In those days, the vegetable garden wasn’t just trendy. It fed us. We grew some corn. Of all the veggies we grew the corn was perhaps the most whimsical. One couldn’t grow enough in a couple of rows in our garden to garner more than a few meals into the freezer. The corn was just for us to enjoy in the moment. I know my mother froze some, but she also supplemented what we grew with a few dozen ears from another farmer, farther down the same road so that there could be several side dishes of the veggie to grace our fall, winter and spring table. 

We grew carrots and radishes, green and yellow beans, and plenty of cucumbers. We had tomatoes, squash, potatoes, zucchini a few times, and sweet green peppers. We grew cabbage and Brussels Sprouts. But not cauliflower, as Mother said it was too fussy. We also had dill planted, so that in the fall, when it was time to harvest and process, we had all we needed, grown on our own land to make dill pickles.

All of us worked that garden, weeding, hoeing, and watering. Picking here and there to supplement our supper through the summer. When it was time for a full harvest, that time Mother would deem to be the day when it was clear that the colder weather was on its way? It was a matter of all hands on deck, to pluck everything or risk good food being spoiled by the frost.

My mother never could abide wasting food, and neither can I.

On “harvest weekend” it was my job as the youngest was to wash all that came out of the garden (except the cabbages). Not that we used chemicals because we didn’t. But just to have the veggies clean, and dried and ready to use. We had a set of laundry tubs that we would pull out of the house and into the back yard. One tub was filled with water from the garden hose.

My most vivid memory is of ice-cold water and red, painful hands. I was about ten at the time.

After the harvest, there was the freezing and the canning. Potatoes which had been washed and then dried in the autumn sun and fresh air would be gently stored in paper bags and put into what we called the cellarway. This was a small, darkish room that resembled a cellar in that the walls were made of huge stones cemented together. This room had a five-foot-two ceiling, and contained our freezer, our water pump, and our hot water heater. The back of the narrow room held wooden shelves that we used for storage—a pantry, if you will—of goods both bought and made. On the bottom shelf went our potatoes, where it was the darkest and the coolest.

My mother always made sweet green relish, chili sauce (not spicy like chili. Not sure where the name came from), dill pickles and sweet bread-and-butter style pickles, too. She tired her had a time or two at making sauerkraut, but she found that to be a long, drawn out and frankly too smelly an endeavour. And she would also always make jam, but for that confection, she turned to other area farms for their pick-your-own strawberries and blueberries.

I do recall she made crab apple jelly once, from our own two trees—trees we gifted her for Mother’s Day one year and that she had planted, one each in two round flower beds she dug in our front lawn.

And I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the large rhubarb patch that thrived close to the garden. Each year we looked forward to that stewed rhubarb which, of course, we made in our large aluminum saucepan.

One always knew when the sweet green relish was being made. I recall the way our eyes would run a bit as mother added the “bouquet garni” to the huge pot that contained ground up cucumbers, onions, vinegar, and sugar. Her process was to bring the mixture to a slow simmer and keep it cooking for a few hours, and over the course of a couple of days, before declaring it ready to be put in jars and sealed.

I swear that smell even worked its way into the woodwork.

In my career as wife, mother, and chief procurement officer of all things edible, I tried my hand at all my mother had made, save the sauerkraut. My canning days are over now, but I did what I could while I could and in that, I have no regrets.

My oldest son is the one who took up the mantle of sowing and reaping. And he’s added to his repertoire by learning how to “smoke” meats as well.

Traditions may be adjusted and modified. But the thread of them connects us, generation to generation. It’s a kernel of who we were and what we did instilled into the hearts and minds of those who come next. A very basic and lovely form of immortality.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

Neither snow nor rain...

 August 13, 2025

By the end of last week, we’d all gotten used to living in an area under construction. Even the dogs had become used to the noise of the machines, and the people wearing hard hats, in our vicinity. And then this week we have been living in relative silence.

The crew had mentioned that they wouldn’t be here on our street this week, that they had to be in another area of the town, completing their previous project.

It’s hard to believe that our small town has work crews in more than one place at a time, but it’s true. With all the new housing that has gone up in the last couple of years, the town is in the enviable position of having relatively full coffers. And you know what that means, right? For reasons that I will never fully grasp, if the town doesn’t spend the money that it has budgeted for various projects each year, funds received from collecting fees and fines and taxes and such, then the following year provincial and federal grant money will be less than the year before.

Those of us who are parents find this a hard concept to wrap our heads around. In the lexicon of my teen years, “way to teach the local government how to manage their money!”

In the lead up to this work project, we had believed that we were as prepared for what would be happening as it was possible for us to be. And that was true except for two minor exceptions.

The first was we missed the small paragraph on the back of the newsletter that advised that our regular garbage collection trucks would not be allowed in the area at all during the project period. But not to fear, our garbage would be collected on our regular day—by the construction crew. Monday night was a bit of a last-minute scramble as we had to use black marker to put our address on the recycle boxes, so they could be returned to us. But we got it done.

The second exception was discovered when we realized that we have not received our mail since the pavement came up. Now, we double checked all the paperwork we had, and there was no mention of an alternate place to collect our snail mail from. Not at all. And since both Amazon and UPS have been making deliveries hereabouts as the crews got to work, we didn’t expect our post office to be any different.

Normally this wouldn’t be a problem for us, but I had ordered some balm from the west coast, and it was being sent via the post office to us. It was due to arrive last week, and it didn’t. I did receive an email from Canada Post telling me that the parcel has not been delivered, that it was still enroute, and that they would let me know when it might be coming. But there hadn’t been a word from them in nearly a week.

I've learned something in the last couple of days, and as all of you know I’m always looking for new things to learn. This week’s “new thing” is that if you want to get in touch with someone to tell you what’s going on with your mail delivery…. good luck.

I got no real human on the phone, yesterday, except when I called our local post office branch. You might have thought that is where I should start, but I knew the mail was collected from the depot in the next town by those whose job it is to deliver it, and that our local post office had not part in that process. We’re lucky here in these streets as we still get home delivery.

Our local postmaster gave me a number to call which was (of course) different from all the other numbers I had found online and subsequently been calling. And I suppose the deed was done faster than one might expect. It only took two and a half hours to know that my package was indeed somewhere—unless it had been sent back. But by last night I had received word of its precise location.

With any luck at all, by the end of the day today I will have my package in hand. The only unknown portion of this equation is whether or not I will chide the postal people for being “wary” of the dangers on our street, when three other delivery services were not.

There is a famous quote that goes back to ancient Greece, about the nobility of those who work delivering mail. It goes, “Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.” I think that’s true, for the most part.

But no one every said anything about road construction.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

Roadwork...

 August 6, 2025

You may recall that our house is on a corner lot. And it seems like only yesterday that the powers that be here in our town, in their infinite wisdom, decided to reconstruct the cross-street at the south side of our house. That was a small project as these things go, and when it was done, we were left with a newly paved side street, but one without a paved dip into our driveway, as the workers were told there wasn’t a driveway there.

Yesterday, two weeks after the original projected start date, began the work on the street that our house is addressed upon.

My husband, utilizing his extensive knowledge of these matters informed us several days ago that likely the work would begin at the southern-most end of our street which, at two and a half blocks away, is the end furthest from our house. No need for any rush to take up the large pavement stones that form our walkway between our house and the sidewalk. No need to hurry to move our mailbox sitting on the edge of the sidewalk out of harm’s way.

As I said, they began yesterday morning just before eight a.m., and by 10:00am, there was no longer any pavement in front of my house. By the end of the work day, the crew had removed all the pavement for the entire length of our street which is the first phase of this infrastructure project.

And this morning they began to pull up the sidewalks.

At least the last time, my office being two rooms away from the action, I was able to focus well enough to get some work done. This time? Quite frankly, your guess is as good as mine as to whether or not creation is going to happen at my keyboard. Lately, focus and discipline don’t seem to be my strong suits.

I can tell you it’s a very odd sensation, having my entire house trembling as the compacter makes certain that the base layer of the road—mostly brown earth of an indeterminate sort—is well and truly tromped down.

In other news, the oppressive heat has broken, and I credit my daughter entirely with that fact. Why, you ask? Because a couple of days before the heat broke, she finally gave in and ordered a new air conditioner for her area upstairs.

The day the unit arrived was the first coolish day in ages. Before I could chide her, she came in, looked at the heavy box at the base of the stairs, looked at us, and said, “you’re welcome”.

A good sense of humor has always been strong in this family.

We have been happily nibbling on cherry tomatoes from our garden and have now enjoyed our second fist-sized tomato. There are several green ones growing, and we’ve all got our fingers crossed that some of them will gain impressive size before ripening. We all enjoy a light supper of toasted tomato sandwiches, and we are all eager to make it so.

We already had our first veggie-only supper of the season a few short weeks ago, and that was quite delicious. Green beans, new potatoes and corn all picked fresh that day.

David had an interesting experience on his dog walks yesterday morning. For some time now, he has transitioned this routine by using his scooter. He has trained the dogs to walk while he rides. But because we live on a busy street (when it’s not under construction) he lets them ride for a few blocks, as he takes them to a quieter neighborhood.

The dogs love this. Rather than having to walk at David’s pace, which is not what once it was, they are able to run to their heart’s content. They always come home with big doggie grins. There’s not much that can brighten one’s spirit in quite the same way that a doggie grin can.

But yesterday, the work crew kept such a good pace that when he returned from walking the one dog—about a half hour—he drove his scooter from the north corner a half block before he realized he wouldn’t be able to cross the street on his scooter to get to our porch. And on his return from walking the second dog? He realized he would have to go up the hill on our north cross street, across a small street that runs parallel to our own, and then down the hill of the street right beside our house.

But he now knows it’s doable. Later today he will discover whether or not he can do all that twice, all on one (new)battery charge.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

Nothing is all bad...

 July 30, 2025

As July burns itself out—I had to use a heat metaphor because this month has been brutal—I find myself thinking about the passage of time. And also, the fickleness of humanity.

On the one hand time seems to be speeding by at the speed of light. And on the other hand, we’re obsessed with the slowness of it all.  An example?

“My gosh, I can’t believe it’s almost August already! Oh, and will these long stiflingly hot days never end?”

We can’t blame God for any of this. We change our moods and our minds so darn fast, I’m certain He’s come to the conclusion that no matter what He does, we will never be happy.

The heat is slightly less oppressive today, and according to the weather network, cooler temperatures are on their way. The highs here will be in the mid-seventies tomorrow, and it will likely be raining as well. For those of you who claim they would be happy with mid-seventies year-round, tomorrow should be a banner day.  

Personally, I’ve ventured out very little over these last couple of previews-of-hot-as-hell weeks. I don’t do well in the high heat and humidity, and so I try to structure my days in such a way that I don’t have to. I am eternally grateful, each and every day, that we have central A/C. I would like to point out that this is not a brag; it’s gratitude. We went the first sixty plus years of our lives without any A/C at all. Well, unless you count the bowl of ice in front of the box fan.

We had a window air conditioner for a couple of years, in our late fifties, and that was miraculous. In the days before our daughter moved in with us, in the deep winter and high summer, we closed off our upstairs. In the winter, our heating costs were not outrageous, and in the few of summers that we had that window a/c unit, a couple of well-placed fans—in the living room and my office—gave us a nicely cooled house all day long. Then we’d shut the bedroom door at night, and sleep very well.

I am very aware that a lot of people don’t have air conditioners at home. I am grateful on their behalf that many cities have places where folks can go to cool down. For me, in my younger days, that was always in my bathtub. You can get nicely cooled, wearing your bathing suit and not using the “hot” tap to fill the tub.

For a while we had small swimming pools in our back yard. Over our years in this house, we had a couple of them. They were inexpensive, and about three feet deep. Every day, after work, David and I would put on our suits as soon as we got home and head out to the pool. We both agreed that once you got your body temperature down in that pool, you didn’t get quite so hot again.

Sometimes bedtime would be preceded by another dip in that pool. A final cooling off and bit of relaxation before sleep.

I can and do miss those days and at the same time acknowledge that I would be hard-pressed to get into either of those pools now. My mobility isn’t what it was even five years ago which is not a surprise to me, or anyone who really knows me.

We’ve had two meals of beans from our garden, as well as having frozen two meals worth. We purchased a vacuum-seal appliance a few months ago, an inexpensive one just to see how well we liked it. Don’t like it, love it. When our inexpensive model died (likely from overuse) we bought a slightly better one, on sale, during prime days.

And as a side note, our farmer from down the road is back again for one more season, and we are so happy. We plan on buying lots of corn.

We have a lot of tomatoes on those plants of ours, many growing and some beginning to ripen. We’re hoping for a bumper crop this year. We may get one, too, thanks to that darn heat and so much rain.

Fellow fickle folks, I present to you yet one more fact of life: the heat and the rain can both be a pain, but not even they are all bad.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

Just because you can do something...

 July 23, 2025

Last week there was a video that, like so many other videos before it, has gone viral online. Moreover, it actually showed up as an item on the evening news. The video-captured moment took place at a concert—the band that was in concert was Cold Play. The venue was using the so-called “kiss-cam”, a camera that will focus in on a couple (generally), or sometimes a cute child or some famous person in the audience, and that image goes up on the same very big video screen where the entire audience can also see sports replays, or in this case, the concert itself.

I guess this camera got its nick name because so often the camera operator found and focused on a couple kissing. More than one time, in Atlanta Georgia and at different sporting events, the camera operator found former President Jimmy Carter and his wife Rosalynn, sitting side by side, their focus on the game…and then on the image of themselves on the screen. Now the tradition is, apparently, that if you’re not kissing when you see your image up on the video screen, you’re expected to do so, in the interest of being a good sport.

The Carters, as I recall, usually obliged with just the sweetest kisses—as they were the ultimate good sports.

Now the incident I’m writing about that happened last week, well, that was the moment we found out that being a good sport only goes so far—the couple being spotlighted is expected to perform for any and all who are watching.

You know, I understand that cameras are everywhere, these days. And I understand that it’s like a game. Sitting in an arena or auditorium and eagerly hoping, fearing, wondering will that camera show me? I get it.

I also have a very strong moral thread that does not condone cheating, in any way, shape, or form. Neither do I agree with lying, or any number of acts people commit that are considered sins, crimes, or simply acts of poor taste or lackluster upbringing.

But honestly, when I first saw that video that has gone viral, the video of a man and a woman enjoying a concert, together, in the moment…his arms around her from behind, her arms over his….and then their reaction to seeing themselves on the screen? Their shock, their mortification, the way they immediately tried to hide themselves…..I felt ashamed—of myself and the rest of us that for even a moment experienced some sort of vicarious–or maybe that should be vicious—thrill.

Now, to be fair and lest anyone think I’m blaming the camera operator, one can wonder if there would have been a viral moment at all had the couple not so publicly shown their guilt. On the other hand, it could also be argued that the fact that they felt guilt and reacted in the way they did might speak to their not being used to doing that which they shouldn’t do.

Strictly speaking and in the eyes of God, that couple never should have been together in a romantic way at all as at least one of them was married to someone else.

But in the wake of the bruhaha and the fallout for the man (he lost his job) I need to ask a few simple but basic questions: Have we become a society of no quarter given? Have we become a people who seek pleasure through the embarrassment of others? Is this a case of mass schadenfreude? Are our lives so bereft of meaning and substance that we grab at any chance to lift up others who’ve misstepped, and gleefully hold them up to public ridicule?

Yes, there are cameras everywhere and yes, I also get the urge we all experience to snap a pic with our ever-present camera (cell phone) when something catches our eye. And really, knowing all this, we each of us do bear responsibility not to offer ourselves up that way.

I guess the principle I would put forth with this essay, and it applies to all of us, is this:

Just because you can do something doesn’t mean that you should.

Over these past several months I have been watching as those in whose hands power has been placed by the electorate have, rather than dedicating themselves as public servants to make life better for everyone have instead worked tirelessly as public overlords to render as much pain as they can to as many as they can, and as quickly as they can. And the only people they are trying to benefit are those who have less need for any kind of “ministering unto” than all the rest of us combined.

We want them—those in charge—to change, to stop the hurting, to stop the persecution. But maybe we’re looking at this all wrong.

Maybe, if we want things to change, then we must begin to make changes within ourselves.

In the private sector and at public venues in this, our capitalistic society, commerce is plied, and the law of supply and demand reigns supreme.

Maybe it’s time for us to stop supplying careless opportunities and to start demanding less cheap hits and more responsible behavior, all the way around. It’s up to us to begin with ourselves, because in this reality we live in, there are some true facts, and this is one:

If we don’t buy the candy, my friends, they will stop making it.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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