Christmas Eve...

 December 24, 2025

It’s Christmas Eve, and the world around me is a bit white here and there, but the cold is just about everywhere.

Our short tree is up, with lights and bulbs and a few little figurines as well. The older we get the more we conclude that less really is more.

We had our days of running around, doing all we could to make sure our children always had the best Christmas we could give them. We felt compelled because other than their birthdays, we were rarely ever able to treat them. We did of course surprise them, on a couple of occasions, and I think that we got a bigger kick out of those times than our kids did.

I once asked each of them, separately, if the Christmases of their memories were always good, and I got three enthusiastically positive responses. That was at the time and is still now, all these years later, important to me.

I hope it’s important to you, too.

I remember Christmas mornings when we needed time, just a bit of time, to make that first pot of coffee, to get comfortably seated where we could have them all three in our sites as they entered the room. We’d usually finally get to sleep sometime after three a.m. the night before and they’d be awake usually somewhere between five and six, so we needed that minute. Then sip, sigh, and give the “ok” for them to come downstairs to see what Santa brought to them.

Man, that Santa always brought just the perfect gifts for them.

Our best gift every Christmas was witnessing their joy. David always caught a nap later in the day, but I had to produce a huge breakfast and a large Christmas dinner, so there was no napping for me. Except for those times when we would go to my in-laws for Christmas dinner. On those occasions, Mom caught a nap. It was wonderful.

The traditions I grew up with—that big Christmas breakfast, and the big fat orange in the toe of the stocking were two of the traditions I grew up with, and the ones I provided for my own children.

And tonight, for the second time, a new tradition—the lighting of my father’s—our family Christmas candle during dinner—a soft light flickering from the past, a flame of hope for the future. A moment to pause, to remember, and to dream.

We wish you all peace, love, and joy during this season, and in all seasons to come.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

Lessons...

 December 17, 2025

We’re fully into the last month of this year. Thousands of people are already celebrating Hanukkah, and Christmas Eve is a week from today. The past weekend was one filled with heartbreaking news from across this world of ours. News that made you stop while you tried to breathe and tried to make sense of it all.

One can easily become jaded. One can wonder, well, hell, what’s the point, anyway?

The point could very well be that from the dawn of time when we humans first walked the surface of this earth, life has proved, time and again, to be short and uncertain for us all. Over centuries we have learned through trial and error how to grow, how to change, and how to survive, thanks to the varied devastating and sundry twists life can throw at us.

Survival is a multi-faceted concept. It doesn’t just mean physical survival. There are emotional, spiritual and intellectual aspects of surviving. But we’ve discovered, over time, that we also need to do more than just survive. We yearn to do more than just survive.

We need to thrive.

Life doesn’t give us very many hall-passes. It doesn’t often make it easy for us. Life is doing its job, fulfilling its purpose to try us, to teach us, to shape us. Life is the road we must travel in order to become the best people—the best us—that we can be.

Nothing in this life is a given, not even the next moment. Life will make you or it will break you.  If you learn the lessons given, that will help. Generally, you won’t have to repeat the exact lessons. And while life may not become a whole lot easier with each lesson mastered, it will become a bit more manageable.

Just don’t give up. Don’t quit.

I am pleased to report that we have a drop curb installed now, so that when, in the spring, they return to do the landscaping to restore my original walkway (or a reasonable facsimile thereof), I will have a nice, unfettered way to get from my house to the street.

I understand how hard it is for those who are not personally affected by mobility disability to wrap their heads around just how profound can be the challenges of those who are. Sometimes fate offers up a helping hand in this regard.

This past week, the machines and the road crew returned to “finish off for now” that gap between the end of the pavement and the curb. There was at the beginning of the week a deep, though somewhat narrow chasm between the two. When they arrived to do the work, it was this past Monday which is my daughter’s day off. A crew chief knocked on our door and David went out on the porch to see what he wanted—which was for our daughter to move her car so they could do that bit of work. As the gentleman left our porch, he walked down our temporary walkway (leading to the neighbour’s driveway), and thanks to a bit of ice, darn near ended up on his butt on the ground.

When he regained is balance, he looked at my husband who proved eloquent in the moment. David said, “Just imagine how difficult it is for a disabled woman to walk that path.”

It seemed, David said, to impress upon him the state that they had left us in. I absolutely don’t doubt my husband’s assessment.

I’m not sure what all they’re going to do beyond filling those two abysses on either side of the curb. But by the end of day yesterday, there was a gravel path taking shape between my house and the road, and it was aligned with the drop curb.

Looking ahead at my social calendar, the only day I’m going out in the next few days is on Saturday, and with my daughter. She can “spot me” on our makeshift path and get me safely down to her car.

And to prove that I am not always as logical as I would like to be, I can tell you where we are going on the 20^th, just five days before Christmas. As we did last year, we’re going to a very large mall in a city about a half hour away. Why, you may ask? Well, because it’s nearly Christmas.

And they have a Cinnabon store.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

Choices...

 December 10, 2025

Forgiveness isn’t a gift that you give to others. Inasmuch as someone you forgive to their face may be surprised, or moved, or perhaps even eventually changed by the grace you display during the course of offering that forgiveness? Well, then that might turn out to have been a gift to them.

But in fact, even then, that gift isn’t given to them by you.

No, as in all other cases with forgiveness, that gift is given to them by themselves.

Forgiving others who have wronged us is a gift we give to ourselves. This kind of gift doesn’t come under the heading of “luxury item”. No, it’s a necessity of life, one vital to the maintenance of a healthy psyche, spirit and soul.

When you forgive someone for something they have done, for some hurt or injury that you suffered, that forgiveness is a blessing to yourself.

You lift the burden of that hurt from your soul. The negativity of that past injury no longer weighs you down. Your forgiveness of another mends your heart and restores your spirit. It even makes room for more love!

Unforgiveness, on the other hand, has nothing whatsoever to commend it.

All this I know from my own personal experience. I have lived a life of bitterness where I held closest to my heart all the horrible, bad things that had ever happened to me. And I have also (and am now) living a life of forgiveness and self-care.

Please believe me when I tell you the latter feels so very much better and lighter and happier than the former.

Christmas time is approaching. And while we call it the festive season it, like many occasions that are important to us, is far more complex than that.  We human beings are more complex than that.

Many people find Christmas very difficult. It’s difficult for the homeless, and for those who are alone in the world. It’s difficult for those whose means are spare. And it’s difficult for those who have lost loved ones—parents, children, grandchildren, life mates. Christmas is one of those occasions when the sorrow of lost loved ones seems to be the heaviest to bear.

Scripture tells us to be kind to one another. That simple message is one that doesn’t contravene any “ism” you may believe in. It should be the easiest of all concepts for humans to embrace. Despite recent examples to the contrary humans have a strong bent toward being kind, doing good, and lending a helping hand.

I truly believe there are more people in the world who would rather do good than there are those of ill will. It would be a lot easier for more people to know that as fact if the “rotters” out there weren’t so loud all the time. But it is what it is.

Being kind isn’t hard once you get the hang of it. It doesn’t have to cost money, though it can. It mostly, however, costs a thought to be so, and a moment to do so. But those two things are easily afforded by most everyone.

And here’s the best thing of all. In fact, it’s great news!

Being kind is a choice that anyone and everyone can make. It’s not hard. The only raw ingredient needed is the deliberate thought to choose to be kind. Period.

This is a busy time of year for so many people. But if we take a moment to simply open ourselves up to the desire to be kind, we’ll find something almost magical. Before we know it, there will be an actual opportunity to do so—by holding a door, or letting someone precede you in a check-out line, or even something as simple as offering a smile to let someone know it’s all going to be ok. Because it will, you know.

And that nice, warm, inner-peace-happy feeling that comes in the wake of that simple act of random kindness?

Well, that’s just one of the many cherries on top of life’s cake.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

December....

 December 3, 2025

Congratulations, you made it through to December! There was a time when my making such an announcement might qualify as pure silliness.

These days, not so much.

Many of us here in North America are about to experience the coldest temperatures of the year, to date. Yes, we’re entering into a period of what I call “the sub-zeros”. And before you ask if I mean Fahrenheit or Celsius, don’t. Because when it gets this cold, it doesn’t really matter the scale we use to measure. Teeth-chattering is teeth-chattering, in both of them.

Our latest grocery run saw us stocking up on a few “oven ready” freezer meals, some family sized and some individual. We don’t eat a lot of processed foods in this house. We just never have, really. When we do purchase some, we are careful to pick ones with the fewest unpronounceable additives.

In recent years, both David and I have found that on any given day, and at any given time, one of us might feel a bit chilly and in need of a hot meal. Now sometimes, I can whip that up without difficulty. But then, there are the other days when I simply can’t.

Before daughter and I headed out to get our groceries, David asked me to add one more item to the list: Red River Cereal.

For those who don’t know, it’s hot cereal—cracked wheat and rye and flax—mixed together that you then measure out, add water to along with the proverbial pinch of salt, and simmer until it reaches a state of “doneness”. It’s served usually with milk and a bit of sweetener, the same as those more common hot breakfast cereals: oatmeal, oat bran, cream of wheat, and cornmeal.

As a child I’d never been offered this particular porridge. It never graced my mother’s kitchen shelves. Once married, of course, we had it then because it was my husband’s favorite. I recall the first time I bought it and was getting ready to make it. I opened the box and poured out a cup of it. I stared down at the raw cereal for a long moment. Then I looked up at David and said, “I now understand the name.”

He asked me how so. And I told him that what I was looking at looked like what one might dredge from the bottom of the Red River.

Yes, friends, I have always been a smart ass. It truly is in my genes.

In fact, the cereal is named for The Red River of the North, that flows through Winnipeg Manitoba, which is where this cereal was first created in 1924.

I told David, of course, that I would be happy to add it to the list, but with a caveat. I didn’t know if I would find it as I hadn’t seen it in some time. However, while it wasn’t at the store where we get most of our groceries, it was at one of our alterative stores.

And now I’m shortly going to make a pot of this porridge up, as we are entering into those damned sub-zeroes—and because my husband asked me to.

And after that first pot, I will set about experimenting on how David can easily cook it for himself in the microwave. Yes, there are microwave directions on the package, but they didn’t look convenient.

By that I mean, and for example, experimentation with oatmeal showed me that three tablespoons of regular three-minute oatmeal (we don’t get the instant stuff because, well, processed) and a half cup of water, stirred together in a microwave safe cup requires one minute and four seconds on high in our microwave to render a cup of oatmeal ready for milk and sweetener.

It will likely take a few tries before I find just the right formula to produce a satisfactory cup of hot Red River cereal that David can make on his own.

But that is the very definition of time well spent.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

Freight trains and what ifs....

 November 26, 2025

Time, that erstwhile lazy creature of hot summer days, often seems like a freight train rushing to the station come the end of November, doesn’t it? That rush begins with Thanksgiving to be celebrated tomorrow by my American friends (ours was in October).

And what with the Macy’s parade earlier in the day Thursday and Black Friday beginning at the crack of dawn the day following it, the race is on toward Christmas.

Like I said, a freight train rushing to the station.

Different areas of North America are already reporting the end of autumn storms and the beginning of winter ones. On any given day watching the weather forecasts, one might encounter thunder, lightning and tornados, and then just a hundred or so miles away, heavy snow with whiteout conditions.

Last night, the outside temperature rose a few degrees to almost 50 Fahrenheit, and that’s always a blessing. This old house of ours has basically no insulation in the outside walls. There is some upstairs, because that was all renovated a few years ago. But downstairs, and in my office that has two outside walls, moving into winter means keeping a good blanket close and occasionally using my electric heater.

The cold seems colder these days, but I know that’s just a trick of my age and less than stellar circulation. I don’t personally see it being of any use for me to subject myself to the outside without a darn good reason. Therefore, I don’t. I’m happy to go out if I have an appointment, or if there are errands to be run. But come this time of year, I begin to layer when I dress for going outside. And if necessary, I simply accept the help of others to fetch what’s needed.

Our street has been absent of construction vehicles for the last week or more. And that’s good, I suppose, when one doesn’t consider that my curb has still not been set to rights. Neither has my walkway been restored.

They did dig it up some in the process of having to install a new water shut-off valve near to where my walkway was. I have been promised that all will be seen to. There was, however, no promise given as to when, exactly that would happen.

Now, my walkway extended from the bottom of my porch steps straight out to the sidewalk. There is, of course, no longer a sidewalk on this side of the street. However, we have a bit of lawn right next to the place where I stand once I am off the little staircase. And that lawn stretches to my next-door neighbour’s driveway. My neighbour who, fortunately has a drop curb and a bit of asphalt connecting her driveway to that drop curb.

While I couldn’t see a way for us to easily fix my own walkway (which really is for the landscapers contracted by the town to do as they tore it up), I could get someone to build a small safe path between my porch steps and the neighbour’s driveway.

This past weekend, one of my grandsons arrived to do just that.

My worry was that once the snow begins to fall, I can no longer keep my car in the small driveway off the cross street. That is a very steep hill, and the first road to be plowed in every snowfall, which means if my car is in the driveway when the plow passes—well, good luck digging it out. None of the three of us living in this house are truly capable of that. Plus, one needs to keep in mind the “what ifs” of life. What if one of us needs to have an emergency evacuation from the house, in the form of an ambulance? If I who am disabled cannot make it from house to our street, no one with a stretcher can make it from the street to our house to help us.

But I am pleased to report that my grandson was able to install the patio stones from our original walkway, on a bed that will work and is solid, so I am no longer feeling trapped. Nor do I have to worry about when the promised work will be completed.

I’m free to move and free from worry. I will, therefore, just set the entire unresolved situation on the back burner and get on with things. And if anyone reading this essay has just had one of those pesky little “what ifs” pop up into their thoughts, well, just let it go.

Because the answer is I still have all those emails between the town and myself—and I know where they work.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

Tough times...

 November 19, 2025

My mother was born between the Two Great Wars, in May of 1919. She was a girl of ten in 1929. Being a child of a that era, by the age of ten she knew how to work around the house, how to do some of the day-to-day jobs of living. Cooking and cleaning, and the mending and making of clothing would have been her afterschool lessons and activities. As a Canadian-born child of European born immigrant parents, and a child of the last century, she would have been expected to do “women’s work” and then eventually marry and become a wife.

But my mother also, with the full blessing of her parents, as a young woman of eighteen went away to the next city to attend nursing school. She became a registered nurse, and in fact met her future husband (my father) at the hospital where she trained at. He was a doorman there.

The lessons of living through a world-wide depression, which was then followed by the austerity years of the Second World War, ensured that her ways when it came to cooking and shopping were frugal indeed.

You can imagine that such a woman would raise her daughter to be frugal as well. She had three absolute rules when it came to grocery shopping and cooking. First, make a meal plan for the period of time for which you’re shopping, and based on the available funds. Second, make a list of the items you need to purchase, based on the available funds. And third, never shop on an empty stomach.

As an aside: that last is the most important rule of all. You need only break it once to find out just how important a rule it is.

I lived by those rules too, and for the most part, I still do. They have served me well. We weren’t raising our children during a depression or a global war, but we had three of them, and somewhat spare means. We got through it all, and I have always believed that if one can successfully navigate tough economic times, one will never truly be frantic during such times again.

Our dollars have shrunk, our expenses have grown, and we here in the Ashbury household have tightened our belts accordingly.

I still know how to stretch a grocery dollar. I have no qualms dropping “luxuries” from our shopping list. Chips, desserts, and other little extras are nice, but not necessary. It is important to treat oneself, but this can be done simply and frugally when necessary. The secret is to plan for it all.

There are three adults to feed in this house, and we manage to keep sufficient stock on hand, because I never really strayed from my core practices. If I see a cut of meat on sale, i.e., 25% off, I buy it and freeze it as soon as I get home. We now have a vacuum sealer, and what a money saving device that is!

Sale items are only sale items if they are items that you would normally buy.

Reducing portions in recipes that call for meat is another trick easily done. Instead of spaghetti and meatballs, one can have spaghetti and meat sauce. To make enough meatballs for three, for example, one might need a pound of hamburger. Spaghetti with meat added to your sauce, instead? A third of a pound of meat is plenty. Making beef stew? Use a half pound instead of a pound and add extra veggies. Not only money saving, but healthier!

When making scrambled eggs for yourself, instead of two eggs, use one with a bit of milk mixed in. Growing up, we used evaporated milk in our coffee as it was far less dear than using real cream for that, and the evap did well in the eggs, too.

If you have access to the internet there are a lot of places there to find hints and tips and hacks that will save you money. You need only to look and then apply.

There is one more thing that my parents had to their credit that helped them weather the tough and sometimes uncertain financial times, and it is probably the most important asset of all.

They had a can-do attitude. They believed that if they worked hard enough and smart enough, that there was nothing at all on God’s green earth they could not accomplish. And that, my friends, is my most important tip to you as well.

Too many people these days seem to be allergic to hard work. Just because something is hard to accomplish is no reason to quit. Nothing good comes easy, and not much in this life is free, or guaranteed.

Make a plan. Learn to adapt when necessary. And expect to have to try and try again until success is yours. There are benefits to accomplishing something against all odds, and those benefits cannot be purchased for any amount of money.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

Snow and asphalt...

 November 12, 2025

Was I at all surprised to awaken this past Sunday morning to find a lot of white stuff in the back yard and clinging to the cedar trees? No, I most certainly was not. Was I happy about it?

No, I most certainly was not.

Two days before, on Friday, the road construction crew had begun to lay the asphalt. Having lived in this town for many years now, I can tell you that they appear to have what one might call an asphalt protocol. They lay a coat of asphalt on the newly prepared roadway, and it’s definitely an improvement over the dirt and gravel soup that had been there for the last few months.

And then, come the next spring, they will lay a new layer of asphalt over the one that weathered through winter, and that coat will be pretty and smooth, and maybe even all painted with lines and such. Now the more curious among you might ask, “Morgan, are you sure that’s a protocol and not just perennial poor timing?”

No, I am not sure, not one bit. But I don’t waste time thinking about it overmuch. I just figure that there are some questions one encounters in life to which the answer is simply unknowable by us mere humans.

 While I wasn’t unhappy with the arrival of the cold weather a couple weeks back, seeing nearly six inches of snow on the ground by the end of Sunday was another matter entirely. The asphalt is down, as I said, and the road is drivable. However, the road crew had a small “oops” and so the project manager informed us, just last Thursday, that they would fix that “oops” before the snow flies.

He seemed a fairly smart fellow and I don’t think I will bother to point out to him that the snow did indeed fly before that “minor” fix could be accomplished.

The problem? The project manager had informed the crew to install a drop curb in front of my walkway (as they do for driveways), so that I would have access to the street, and this they did not do.

I can’t decide if it’s just unfortunate or if it’s punishment for that crew, that when the new curb was examined they discovered that it had been laid more than little off, and so they are now going to have to not just cut out the curb in front of my walkway, but from the walkway to the corner—where that curb curls around the corner all wrong and crooked-like.

My husband is very unhappy about the situation. He’s become a bit more of a crabby Appleton these last several months. I completely understand. There’s something about making the change from being an able-bodied member of society to one who can’t do much of anything at all that is certain to sour anyone’s disposition.

Maybe my attitude toward this minor hiccup is different because of my having had to live with adjusting beyond the “able bodied” category for a few decades, now. I look at the situation, and I understand that the curb must be fixed, period.

I also know I’ve done my part. I attended the public meeting back in March and I met the project manager at that time. I was concerned when I learned that when the road was done, there would only be one sidewalk – and it wouldn’t be on our side of the street. I explained to him that I was disabled and concerned that I wouldn’t be able to safely step over the curb to the street. The gentleman was very kind and said that if I would send him photos of my walkway as it was at the time, then he would ensure that I would have access. In May we learned that the project would begin mid-to-end of July. Mid July, I sent the gentleman an email, with the pictures I had taken as an attachment.

He responded to my email, thanking me for sending what he had requested, and told me that once the work was underway, he would meet with me and show me what they had in mind.

When I saw the curb had been laid, and there was no “drop curb”, I contacted his office. The manager was unavailable, but I spoke with the department’s engineer. She acknowledged that they were aware that there had been a failure of communication, and the situation would be resolved.

Then last week, I saw the manager and the engineer outside my office window, looking at that failure in real time, and I made my way outside. He then told me that as well as putting in my drop curb, an entire chunk of the curb had to be replaced as it was off spec. He said that it would be done at the soonest possible moment. And yes, he said “before the snow flies”, and now we have snow.

As far as I am concerned, I’ve done almost all of my part. It only remains for me to be patient and let them do theirs.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

The state of the noodle...

 November 5, 2025

I play Wordle every day—the one that is offered by the New York Times. I began to play it a few years ago. I can’t tell you how many years ago that was, but let’s just say I came in a little late to the game. I had put off playing when I first heard about it because, although I am a published author, I really didn’t feel that my vocabulary was good enough. It is, of course, better than some. But not nearly what I would consider top tier.

That said, I am a thinking woman. And as a thinking woman, and after playing for some time, I thought, well, let’s just see what we’re actually doing, here. I wondered if Wordle would repeat words. I asked, and the answer was (and is) not as yet. Eventually they will because there are only so many five letter words in American English. The current estimate is that repetition will begin around 2027. I had, by the way, begun keeping track on one of my spreadsheets of each day’s Wordle word – but I began that practice about a year after I began to play.

I also noticed that while there are some plurals acceptable, after inquiring, I discovered that currently, they will not use obvious plurals for three- and four-letter words. Which is to say, no five letter words that end in “s” or “es.”

Then I thought about my perceptions as to the state of my vocabulary. And I asked myself what do I do when I’m writing and I need a word I can’t think of? Where do I go to look? Pre-internet the answer was either a thesaurus or a dictionary. These days? I simply ask an online search engine.

But this time, rather than searching for a single word, I instead searched for how to find a word. I discovered several sites that are designed to find specific words for you: and your search parameters include the length of the word (Wordle has 5) and letters it must have, and letters that are “forbidden”.

And that, my friends, is how I Wordle. I’m also anal, so that means I begin with the same two words every single day…unless my first word renders me at least 3 letters in the right spot—or if, say, more than three of my letters were signified as eligible but not in the right spot. And I don’t mind sharing; my first two words are “adieu” and “storm”.

Now, I have had some glitches in that when I first began to play, I just played. I didn’t have an account, didn’t have to sign in, but guess what? I could only play on my PC! So if I was away but had my laptop, I couldn’t play. And then I got a new computer, and all of my stats went away. That happened twice, and after the second time, which was when I got this computer I now have, I smartened up and got an actual account. It doesn’t cost much, and I consider it money well spent, because however I come to the Wordle word of the day, I must use my noodle to do so.

At this point in my life more than ever, I put great stock in having a working noodle.

To me, that’s the whole point of the game. You don’t necessarily have to have a vast vocabulary to play Wordle, you just need a working brain. As with any challenge we humans face, we need to be able to adapt our thinking and figure out ways to accomplish the goal at hand.

My goal is doing what I can to keep this brain of mine working. I’m not interested in beating anyone in Wordle. In fact, when I get the word in three or fewer tries, I consider it P.S.L. (hint: the first word is pure, and the last word is luck).

The other thing I do daily is I play an acrostic puzzle or two. An acrostic is a combination of a crossword puzzle and a cryptogram. It has two parts, the crossword grid, in which each square has a number and a letter, and when complete will be filled, not with intersecting words, but with a quote. The second part is the list of “clues” in which each letter of the clue’s answer has a number beneath it. And rather than the clues being numbered or listed as “across” and “down” they are assigned a letter of the alphabet. So, you have clues A, B, C, etc. and the grid above them within which, as you proceed, words will begin to form. Your progress accelerates when you work back and forth, filling in words in the grid, and seeing letters appear in the clues. I like the online versions of these games I used to play in puzzle books, because when you place a letter in a clue, it appears in the grid—and vice versa. And as an added “clue” beneath the grid there often will be a “key” to the quote– either the author’s name, title of the work, or both.

There are free acrostic puzzles online that you can use. You can also choose the “premium” edition of a game site and have no ads on your screen. But I’m frugal, and I consider the ability to “not see” ads on my computer screen as I work to be a great skill to hone.

There’s a popular saying, that you’re only as old as you feel. Now, I could argue that in one way, I am very old, if the state of my body is to be the measure. However, there is nothing beyond what I already do from day to day that can mitigate my physical circumstances. Instead, I have chosen as my yardstick to measure how old I feel, my ability to use this noodle of mine.

Today I can report that while I will search for a word here or there, and forget a name, for the most part there is nothing wrong with my reasoning processes.

Change is going to happen because that is how life is. I can accept what comes next as long as I feel I’m doing my part to keep my mind active.

I hope y’all feel the same way, yourselves.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

A bit off the path...

 October 29, 2025

Halloween is just a couple of nights away. This will be the first time ever that we are not planning to distribute candy. Our street is still under construction, and the “walkway” we have from the street to the porch steps, at this point, just isn’t safe. We doubt that there will be many little ones out on this road this time, so we decided not to bother.

I don’t for one moment suppose the little ones in this town are going to miss our contribution to the surfeit of sweets they are about to amass.

It’s gotten quite chilly over the last week, and I’m not upset in the least. I don’t have to go outside unless I want to, and that is a blessing. My days of driving on icy, foggy, or icy and foggy roads are over. I no longer even consider that scraping off a snow- and ice-covered car is something that would be on my daily bingo card. Not to say none of those things will never happen again, because, well, never say never. But I think I am safe in saying that those things which I did aplenty in years past are very unlikely to ever come up again.

Not exactly crying about that.

One interesting thing happened to me over the last week. I’m fine, no broken bones or sprains or even any bruises, but I did take a tumble outside. I was on my way to the car and can tell you I am not exactly sure how it happened, but my foot encountered something, and I went down. Completely my fault, as I really wasn’t one hundred percent focused on the job of walking from my back yard gate to my car.

I can tell you that falling down is the easiest damn thing to do. Getting up again? Not so much. I tried a couple of times, but there was nothing for me to hold onto, and on one attempt I over balanced and scraped my forehead on the concrete path. Of course, I prayed for help, and within just a couple minutes of that scrape, my daughter arrived home. I hadn’t been expecting her until much later, but there she was, and trained as she is, she got me up.

So one fall, resulting in my forehead and my ego slightly scraped, but I can take it.

Fortunately, I don’t have brittle bones(yet), and I came down on somewhat wet, soggy, and therefore not unforgiving ground.

The incident was a good reminder that I need to focus at all times on the movements I am making. Of course, my family was a bit concerned, and I won’t lie to you. I was very stiff and sore the next couple of days, mostly from using my knees in my few attempts and final success in getting back up. And I was disappointed because I was going to attend a very special event on Sunday, but I really couldn’t.

So here I am, 5 days on and none the worse for wear. Some of the forehead scrape has healed, but not all of it.

There was a suggestion made by a dear loved one to the affect that I should not go anywhere at anytime alone ever again. But I chalked that up to the anxiety of the moment.

When those we love get hurt, even if it’s just a small hurt, our instinct is to wrap them up and set them on a shelf so that they will never get hurt again. That’s a fine instinct.

However, in reality life demands that we live in such a way that getting a little banged up is to some extent par for the course. I’ve had arthritis for more than thirty years, and it has changed a bit in that time, but there is no cure, and it will only, over time, get worse.

I used to tell the folks I’d meet at the different conventions and book signing events I attended that while eventually I might end up in a wheelchair, I wasn’t worried. I can already chair dance like nobody’s business; and if I can no longer use my legs and feet to get around, at least I would be able to finally get myself a pair of kick-ass shoes with those spiky heels—or a pair of shiny boots with laces up the yin-yang.

 Because if I’m unable to walk, well, at least I intend to be damned stylish while I ride.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

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