You just have to remember two things....

 June 18, 2025

We’re already past the mid-point of June, and so far, I can say that the sweltering heat so prevalent last summer has not yet arrived. That’s the good news. The not-so-good news is that today, and for the next week or more, it’ll be here and we’re going to hit our first triple digit humidex days of 2025.

I am not a person who enjoys the extremes in life—not in any area. I am truly one of those boring, middle-of-the road kind of people, and quite happy being so.

Up until I checked the forecast first thing this morning, I was quite content with our spring/summer weather.

Of course, never far from my mind was the sure and certain knowledge that can and likely would change. Now it seems that today is the day. I will be venturing out later to have lunch with a friend. I’m made of tuff stuff. I can do it.

Yesterday afternoon—a day known here in the Ashbury household as Nanny Tuesday—our great-grandchildren who are the grandchildren of our daughter came for supper and brought their stepdad with them. Stepdad cut the grass while the kids did a few chores here and there around the yard. After the yard work, we feasted on grilled burgers and hotdogs, a favorite of almost everyone.

This past weekend, David re-planted one of the green bean gardens.  While one is already showing healthy-looking plants a couple of inches high, the other had only three plants up. He suspects the seeds weren’t good to begin with and so has replanted, using a different package.

There’s a wonderful upside in that. We should have some space between peak first-harvests in each garden of beans. And, of course, staggering the planting allows you to really keep up the picking, so that you get them before they’re “old”. That’s just one of the many qualities to admire about green beans. As long as you keep picking them (provided you do so carefully, without damage to the plants) you’ll get fresh beans well into the fall.

Our tomato plants look healthy, too. With some hot days and rain in the forecast, my fingers are crossed for a good yield. It’s one of our pleasures in life—for all three of us living in this house—to be able to step outside, pick a tomato, and have a satisfying lunch fresh off the vine.

The coleus plants my daughter put in the back yard are thriving, as well. They are lush and beautiful and will last into the fall provided we nip the little flowering stems that emerge from the center of the plants.

This getting old thing continues to challenge me. And it is a challenge to keep one’s attitude positive. It calls for a shift in focus, in emphasis. There is still joy to be found, but one must look for it. There are still accomplishments to be had, but again, one must redefine that word, make it more subjective, and then claim it.

Of course, all this is helped along enormously if one keeps one’s sense of humor.

I also try very hard to keep my sense of perspective. Life changes for us on a regular basis from the moment we’re born. In fact, birth was our first “oh, shit” moment in life when forces beyond our control forced change upon us.

Just think about it. There we were, safe, warm, and comfy, every need met, just floating around in the Zen of it all.

Then the next thing we know, we’re squeezed and squeezed and squeezed until, bloop, there we are, out of the warm and wonderful womb and into the cold and cruel world.

And while some may say that many of us spend the rest of our lives looking for a way to get back in, I say it was the first and the greatest change we’re likely to face in life. And if you strip it all down to the absolute basics, and if you’re determined enough, you can convince yourself that everything else that has followed that first big change is just a matter of remembering two essential principles in life.

Relax, and keep breathing.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

Sowing....and reaping.

 June 11, 2025

I very much fear that we are on the verge of another if not a global pandemic, at least a very pervasive epidemic. I see the signs of the growth of a disease that has in fact been present throughout the ages. One that, while harmful to the unfortunate individual who has contracted it, has always failed to spread easily to others.  It has appeared locally, here and there throughout history, but has remained for the most part a malady that, if it turned virulent, was easily isolated.

But now I am very much worried that this disease, as the worst of them will inevitably do, is metastasizing. It is more contagious now than ever, and it has begun to dig in, and to spread from its location of origin through the rest of the body—even to parts not prone to it.

Friends, the body is our society and the disease is hate.

Slowly, stealthily, over the last decade or so, hate has taken hold of a greater number of our brothers and sisters. I think it’s because of all the bullshit that has been thrown about in the media, in small gatherings, in our political arenas, hell, into the very air itself.

Now, as we all know, not all bullshit is bad. While it all does stink, some of it makes an excellent manure. Bullshit can work wonders on rose bushes. You can spread some on your bare garden plot just as spring is taking hold, and whatever you plant thereafter has a good chance of thriving.

Sadly, that’s also true if what you plant thereafter is not something good and beneficial. It’s true if what you plant is hatred.

Sowing hatred is a lazy habit. It’s like sowing weeds. Weeds choke out good plants and steal all the nutrients for themselves. It’s what you can plant and walk away from, knowing you don’t really have to tend to it if you sow enough of it. You’ll end up with a bumper crop with practically no work at all. As I said, lazy.

I’m seeing so much hatred in the course of my everyday life. There are some videos on YouTube. Maybe you’ve seen a few of them. They feature some “great injustice” done to an innocent person, and then the “great take that you cur!” that is ostensibly the moral of the piece. But what the piece does—whether wittingly or unwittingly—is to fertilize the seeds of hatred within you, the viewer. When you’ve finished watching the video, you’re not left with a feeling of having been uplifted. What you’re left with is a desire to see more.

Those videos aim to convince you that they have obliterated the injustice. But they haven’t done that at all. And that is because they use the same sort of injustice against the first hater, followed by an implied, “how do you like them apples?” And so they fail. They fail because the creators of those videos have forgotten one true fact about hate.

Hate cannot conquer hate. Only love can do that.  Darkness cannot vanquish darkness; only light can do that.

I’m ashamed to admit it, but I bit at the worm on the hook. It took my watching about three videos to understand why I felt the way I did after viewing them. Because the answer to the damage done by hate is never to throw hate back at the source. It can’t be.

One of the hardest things we learn as reasoning, thoughtful and loving human beings is that haters will hate, and the only weapon to fight it is love, and forgiveness.

Fact is, whatever you toss out into the cosmos comes back to you, often multiplied.

I understand the allure of spewing hate on those who have hated you. I really do. When we image “getting back”, at someone who has wronged us, we get a bit of a warm fuzzy and a sense that it would feel really good to do that. But that sense, that little voice that wants us to do just that is a lie. Because all we can ever reap from sowing hate is more hate.

There may be some who are saying, “I’m not going to forgive so-and-so. They don’t deserve it.”

Friends, no, perhaps they don’t. But you do.

You see, when you forgive someone for any real or perceived wrong done to you, you’re not giving them a gift. Frankly they could care less.

You’re giving yourself a gift.

You are giving yourself a gift by taking the weight of that hate off your soul—and filling your heart with love.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

Reflections...

 June 4, 2025

Welcome to June!

Not only is it fully springtime, but the few television shows that I do watch have aired their last episodes for the season. This means that my life is once again unscheduled every day after 7 p.m. Being of an age, and no longer working outside the home, one would think it safe to assume that I have nothing but time.

And yet I’m busy every day and wonder where I can find even more of that time thing in which to do more stuff.

As one gets older, one tends to reflect on the past a great deal—sometimes if only for assurance that the memories so carefully stored are, indeed, still accessible. I can recall times that, when I was child, my sister would accuse me of being lazy. I probably was, as a child. After all, it’s our nature to start out life as tiny, self-centered creatures. What seems completely odd to me now is understanding how much that accusation stung, and how long it stayed with me, as if it had been an eternal judgement pronounced upon me.

Looking back, I can see that as an adult I was never lazy. In the years when we were raising our children, and before my husband stopped drinking, there were times when I would, once the children were in bed, retreat to a quiet corner and read, sometimes long into the night. Hours of self indulgence.

I understand now that those hours were necessary “me” time. That habit of withdrawing and decompressing began as late nights of loud music blasting while I belted out familiar songs, an exercise possible only because of a closed den door and a soundly sleeping son and husband upstairs. I switched to the quieter diversion of reading when there were three children, and a fervent desire not to wake them.

These days I have my office where I can hole up, relatively assured of solitude. Relatively because I still live with people and this office has two doors and olds the mini fridge packed with water and diet soda.

I also have a new chair in my bedroom. Not the old wooden kitchen one that was there so I could have a place to sit for a few minutes before climbing into bed. When I got my tax return this year, I treated myself to a new, small rocker with a matching ottoman.

The chair was a bit too close to the floor for my purposes, so David built a platform for it to sit upon. It’s much more comfortable than its wooden predecessor, and once more gives me a private little place, behind a closed door, where I can sit to read or just be.

Life is good

Our tomatoes and green beans have now been planted. The plants are alive and look healthy. The bean seeds should be popping up any day now. Our daughter purchased and then planted some large coleus, and they are now thriving. And the rhubarb we planted last summer is also doing well. We’ll harvest a bit more in a day or so and freeze it. And in a couple of weeks there will be a fresh rhubarb pie on the table.

I’ve been parking my car in my newly restored driveway. There is enough room for the car, so it fits without impeding access to David’s new, smaller storage tent. There is a bit of a slope for me to navigate from the car to the back walkway that ends at our yard’s gate. But it is a very small slope, and I can manage it well. Now the only step up or down in order to leave my house and return again is going out the back door (a step up from the kitchen floor to the back patio) and then coming back in again. But one step up or down is better than six or seven.

The winter will return. And when there is snow and ice making life a challenge, the car will be parked on the street once more. I’ll need to use those front porch steps again, and so I will. Slowly, and carefully, but not often. I tend not to venture out when the weather is filthy. That is a right I proudly and adamantly claim.

A right that I know I have more than earned.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

Our King was here...

 May 28, 2025

For those of you who are regular readers of my essays, what I am about to announce to you won’t be news. But if you’re new to this blog, this might make you blink.

Almost everyone is aware that in England, they have a King—Charles III—who ascended to the throne upon the death of his mother, Queen Elizabeth II.

The proper way of “introducing” or “stylizing” the monarch is as follows: Charles III, By the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of his other Realms and Territories King, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith.

I italicised the word Realms for a reason. Because, you see, Canada is one of his realms, which means that Charles III is King of Canada.

Yes, Canada does indeed have a king, who is our head of state. One of whom we are rather fond. And yesterday, our king was here, right here in Canada. And for what purpose, you may ask?

Well you see, after an election of a new Prime Minister, we have a day when Parliament is officially “opened”, and the business of governing begins. Usually what happens is that the Governor General of Canada (currently Mary Simon, a former public servant, diplomat, and broadcaster, a woman of Inuk heritage, making her the first Indigenous person  to serve in this role) also known as the Vice-Regal,  reads the “Speech from the Throne”, on behalf of the monarch, a speech that outlines the government’s priorities for the coming session of Parliament. Yes, she is the head of state in Canada but one standing in for the monarch. The Governor General is appointed by the Monarch on the advice of the Prime Minister, and usually serves a term of 5 years, though that can be extended.

And yesterday, she didn’t have to perform the role of reading the throne speech because our King was here, in person, and he read the Speech from the Throne himself, and opened Canada’s Parliament.

The rituals and ceremonies of this occasion date back to the 1700s and are quite interesting to watch.

The King was accompanied by his wife, Queen Camilla, and was received before the Canadian Senate by a full honour guard, a twenty-one-gun salute, and of course, the playing of “God Save The King”. And many spontaneous cheers of the same. He inspected the troops, chatted with some of them, and then returned to the place of honour and was treated to a rendition of his second national anthem—O, Canada.

The last time a monarch opened Parliament in person by Queen Elizabeth in 1977, which was her silver jubilee year. Prior to that, she opened it during her first visit here as Sovereign in 1957. So yesterday was a big deal, because it marked only the third time in our history that our monarch performed that duty.

Their Majesties arrived here on Monday, and left Tuesday afternoon. It was the King’s 20^th visit to Canada but his first as Sovereign—and he came at the invitation of our Prime Minister.

By and large it’s fair to say that Canadians have mixed views about the monarchy. There were signs in the crowd reading “God Save the King”, and signs that read “Not my King”. But that’s Canada for you.

Once when the CBC challenged Canadians to finish the sentence, “As Canadian as…”, the consensus answer was, “as Canadian as possible under the circumstances.”

That said, many Canadians of late have been on edge and unsettled what with all the flotsam and jetsam and hot air being heaved our way over the last several months. The arrival of our king on our shores, the words he read—some his own, and some crafted for him by the head of government as is the norm—were designed to let Canadians know that they are not alone, and we don’t have to worry.

We are a sovereign nation, but not a nation alone. We are the true north strong and free. We are a member of the Commonwealth of Nations, and therefore we have allies. And we have a king.

And our King has our backs.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

Some adjustments are always needed

 May 21, 2025

Work has begun on our family’s annual garden project. We consider it a project, because we have 4 table gardens for veggies, as well as various smaller gardens for flowers and pretty leafy foliage.

I believe I mentioned in a previous essay that this year, our daughter bought her father a portable greenhouse, sufficient in size for his use. He was thrilled, truly. Until that day he had a rack of shelves set up in front of an upstairs window, the one with southern exposure that assured maximum sunlight. However, going up and down those stairs to the second level, carrying a watering can, is something he dreads doing anymore.

I certainly don’t blame him. Stair climbing is an activity I only undertake under the most urgent of circumstances. It takes a lot of effort and it can be dangerous.

The fact that here we are, in the middle of May, near the traditional “time to plant day” and the only thing growing inside that greenhouse is a tray of cat grass? Well, I suppose one can’t rush into these new-fangled ways and means all willy-nilly like. Adjustment to new ideas takes time. One must work oneself up to the point that the desire for change is larger than the apprehension of same.

Rather than starting his green beans ahead of time this year, my husband decided that instead, he would fully prep the two gardens slated to hold the beans, first. And by fully prep, I mean he decided to build two top-of-garden frames that would support screen material, that he could place on top of the table gardens.

The plan is: plant the green-bean seeds and then place the frame on top of the garden, to protect the seeds from our resident squirrels and chipmunks. The planted seeds will receive sun and rain but not claws and nibbles.

It’s a good, solid plan and the frames are solid as well. They will come off while he waters and tends to the future sprouts. And they will come off for good once the plants are sufficiently grown.

We’re in a stretch of very cool weather at the moment. Looking ahead, the forecast calls for rain from tomorrow until Saturday. Saturday is supposed to be a bit warmer, and sunny, and that is the day that the planting will begin.

This year, as well as not planting green-bean seeds ahead of time, my husband has decided not to plant any tomato seeds, either. Instead, he will be purchasing all the tomato plants, and that, too, will happen this coming weekend.

One never knows at the time of planting what kind of a harvest one will reap. There’s a metaphor for life itself in that sentence.

We don’t any of us know what the future may hold. The best that we can do is the best that we can do, and the best that we can do should be enough. Just as long as we are truly giving it our best effort.

With gardening and with life what is required more than any other element is faith. We must step out on faith.  We must trust that if we plant those seeds, protect those seeds, and nurture those seeds, that something good will grow from those seeds.

My husband has successfully made an adjustment in one other area of his life. As you may recall, we have two small dogs, progeny of our beloved Mr. Tuffy. From the time they were little, David leash-trained them and found great pleasure in walking them every day. First the girl dog(Missy), then the boy(Bear-Bear). Every day. And, as I am sure I have shared with you, every day when that door closes behind the daddy and the girl dog, the little boy dog (he really is little, just over 2 pounds at age 5) begins to howl like a wolf who has been abandoned on the great ice floe of life. I call the daily performance, “the lament of the left-behind puppy.”

Now the girl dog doesn’t give a distinctive one-minute-long performance. She just whines and cries and carries on constantly until the daddy and that brother dog who stole him return.

The walking part of the exercise had become increasingly difficult for David over these last few years, but he wanted to give the dogs their time, which was his time, too. His first innovation was the purchase of a cane that has a plastic seat as part of its structure. That worked for a time, and the dogs didn’t seem to mind having to stop and wait while their daddy sat and caught his breath. But he knew that wasn’t the permanent solution.  And so, after careful consideration and sufficient thinking time about it, he made another adjustment.

David has now successfully trained the two dogs to walk on leash while he rides his three-wheeled battery-operated scooter beside/behind them.

They start off from here, one at a time, and the dog rides until they are further into our area where there are fewer cars. Then he sets them down and off they go together. The dogs love this because they get to run.

The doggy-daddy loves this because he can spend time with his pets and make them very happy without being the worse for wear.

Yes, adjustment to new ideas does take time. But when done right, it is certainly worth the effort and the apprehension.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

The verdict is in...

 May 14, 2025

There are flowers. There is grass. There are trees with actual leaves! There were, at one point this week, a tiny but threatening line of itty-bitty marching ants on my kitchen counter that I eradicated on sight. The verdict is in: spring has indeed arrived!

Our daughter, a few weeks ago, purchased a small “greenhouse” kit for her father. She wanted to give him something he could use to begin his plants that did not involve his going upstairs. Assembled, the little shed stands about five and a half feet high, and has four shelves. Surrounded by a durable plastic, this new acquisition is currently on our front porch.

I believe it will have to be moved. Because while when originally assembled it did indeed catch the morning sun, this will only last for as long as it takes our walnut tree to come into full leaf. I estimate another week, tops.

No seeds have as yet been started in this greenhouse, but I am assured that something will be, shortly. If I am asked, then I will offer an opinion. Until then, my job is to smile and nod and to keep my mouth shut.

And this I can do most happily, because I have my driveway back.

It all began a few years ago, when the town was rebuilding the cross-street on the south side of our house. At that point in time, David had a vision of something he wanted, so he told the workers—without informing me at the time—that “No, no, there’s no driveway here.” And thus, they did not make an accommodation at the road’s edge for a gentle dip down to the driveway that no, was not paved and yes, was principally grass with a bit of gravel. But it was most definitely a driveway, nonetheless.

I can freely admit that during the winter months that using this driveway to go from a steep hill to our short driveway is a near impossible feat. The hill is the first to be plowed, and the plowing would result in the dumping of copious amounts of snow at the end of our driveway. Not to mention the possibility of ice making such a sharp and delicate turn (even without a snowbank) a true challenge.

None of us living here is capable of handing the task of shoveling, nor necessarily getting out to scatter salt on a bare and icy road.

However, in the good weather my using this driveway will enable me to go from car to house without climbing any stairs! I can right now navigate the six stairs from walkway to porch. It is difficult, and painful, and takes a couple of minutes. But I can and do manage.

The day is not far off, however, when I won’t necessarily be able to manage. What then? Well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

As for the immediate term? We’ve been notified that the street upon which we live is about to be dug up, new water mains laid, and then the street itself repaved. I would not be able to park in front of my house for God knows how long because this is construction we’re talking about. And when it comes to Canada, we have two seasons: winter and road construction.

We lost our driveway because David wanted to purchase and install a large outdoor storage tent that fit just right in the area previously known as driveway.

But today I am pleased to announce, that after several years of faithful service, that large outdoor storage unit had reached the end of its term of service. And it now has been replaced by a much, much smaller unit. And that means there is room for my car in my driveway once more.

I don’t have to appeal for a by-law exemption to park my car on the lawn beside my house (on the grass that is next to the hill street that has already been replaced by new). I can just pull into the driveway and walk easily to my back door.

Therefore, I am happy enough to just let the others who live here, then, make their decisions as they will about greenhouses and gardens and such. A happy ending for all!

Yes, this story has one dangling thread—something that, if you’ve read any of my 70 published novels to date you will know is not something that I ever do.  I acknowledge that here and now. I will even present it to you here, in so many words.

What if by the time winter comes the construction work on our street isn’t done?

Well friends, I happen to know this town. They won’t leave it closed off and  undrivable during winter. They may not actually finish the work and pave it all nice and right. But it will be drivable, and I will be able to park in front of my house while the snow and the ice and the wind prevail once more.

Either way, I win.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

Nature or nurture?

 May 7, 2025

None of us can definitively describe, explain, or detail exactly what has made us the people that we are at this moment in time, at whatever age we each happen to be. Oh, we can look back over our lifetimes and maybe see a moment here or there that happened and that has stayed with us and influenced us along our path of life.

I have one of those. The death of my father when I was eight and a half years old was a trauma that I never fully dealt with at the time. It was a trauma that scarred me and eventually needed attention if I ever hoped to truly become as evolved/content as I could possibly be.

But that sort of thing is only a part of why we are who we are. How is it that I am the way that I am in this regard or that? How exactly did I come to be the me that I am right here and now?

Seriously, I have no clue if there is any way to determine that. Nor do I know if trying to do so is a worthwhile endeavor.

I am convinced that certain factors bear varying degrees of influence on our personal development. There are our own innate qualities, and environmental factors. Then we have who we meet, what happens to us and what we cause to happen to others. In other words, our own specific lived experiences. You are likely familiar with the question that is posed in discussing this topic: are we the product of nature or of nurture?

But the answer really is more complex than that. Because there are qualities or traits, but there are also quantities, or degrees.

I’ll use this metaphor: there are twenty-six letters in our alphabet. And if one plays scrabble, and uses an online scrabble helper, one might know that there are 34,721 seven-letter words in the English language. Because I’m anal, and because you can have 6 or 5 or 4 or even three letter words in that game, your total combinations are 77,123 words. Not to mention the add-on words that can be formed on the board.

Perhaps that’s not a proper metaphor to show you that truly, the possibilities of combinations of qualities and quantities are truly endless.

There really are few hard and fast rules when it comes to the how’s and why’s of human psychological development. If that were not true, then the children of the same two parents growing up in the same financial circumstances would not all be so different, one from the other(s).

For this reason, it’s difficult to qualify someone’s current transgressions in light of that person’s past real or imagined suffered injustices. To explain a person’s behaviour by saying, “well, he/she had a difficult childhood”, is to give a superficial pronouncement without coming anywhere near to the meat of explaining the behaviour in question.

Let me take a moment to say what should be understood by most adult human beings: most people have had difficult childhoods. The very process of growing from baby to young adult is not at all an easy row to hoe. That’s not to say there aren’t good times along the path, because just as there are trials and tribulations in life, there are also joys and laughter. But the truth is that very little in life is easy.

I believe that’s by design, and yes, that’s just my opinion.

The truth is that while we all struggle with varying degrees of challenges needing to be overcome, eventually we become adults. The very definition of becoming an adult is reaching that point in life where we ourselves take the reins of our journey into our own hands and begin to steer the course.

It is my opinion that the moment we become adults, it is up to us how we react to the trials and tribulations that befall us. The time for bemoaning poor-little-me, not-my-fault is over.

We all—every single one of us—have choices in this life, and at every turn. I believe that, too, is by design. And the truth of the matter is this: either we assume responsibility when we take those reins into our hands, or we do not. Most do, but some do not.

Or to put it another way, either we become the adults we were intended to be. Or we allow ourselves to forever after wallow and wither in the world of pubescent victimhood.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

That aura...

 April 30, 2025

Just in the past few days, I finally saw that one unmistakeable sign of spring: the faint and shimmering aura of green that envelops the deciduous trees. Not actual leaves, not quite yet, but buds. Buds are on most of the trees hereabouts, except of course for the walnut trees.

In our area, those hardwoods are the last to bud and the first to drop their leaves, often before autumn arrives on the calendar. They’re a no-nonsense kind of tree. Their purpose is to grow walnuts, and as soon as that task is done, well, there’s no more need for the leaves, is there?

I’ve already been blessed with the first daffodils of the season—right under my side bedroom window. The earth there is not the best, but it is deep enough for the bulbs, and they have taken. There will be a tulip or two in the next day or so there as well. Because the area hasn’t been well tended, this year our daughter plans to make it into a real garden. She’ll ring it with some rocks and then remove the sod as well as take the time to see if my roses can be rescued.

As for our front gardens, the lilies-of-the-valley spears are up. I never have to wonder if they’ll bloom as they are quite dedicated to make their annual appearance. The other bulbs I have planted there—narcissi (of which daffodils are but one variety), hyacinths and tulips—are all in solid growth mode. The gardens that border our walkway have as their outer border a row of bricks. The choice is currently being considered whether to thin the bulbs or move the bricks outward to encompass the new growth.

I’m leaving that decision up to my daughter, as she will have to do the work of it either way.

Spring truly is my favorite season of the year. It’s the fresh awakening of nature following the months of hibernation. There are days that are blessedly warm and sunny, days when you want to breathe deeply of all that freshness over and over again. There is always the hope, however fanciful that the air of spring will rejuvenate the body as it surely does the spirit.

Spring, however, is not always a sure thing. One can’t count on its nature, from year to year. There have been years when we’ve only had a week of what I consider spring weather before we find ourselves in the swelter of summer. And some years, the spring bears more wet and cold than sun and warmth.

The last couple of years especially, I’ve felt that the springtime has more closely resembled those I recall from my childhood. A gradual warming, with days of clean air, and nights that find one reaching for a blanket in the evening.

This spring seems to be following that trend. Yesterday, while reclining and reading, I noticed the room was quite warm. Not warm enough to turn on our a/c, but certainly warm enough to turn off the furnace. And so I did.

Now, I did consult with my beloved as I headed to bed around midnight, as to whether or not I should turn the furnace back on. It would operate according to its schedule and shut off again about 1:30. Then it would come on again about five a.m.

He thought there was no need, and I agreed. Clearly that decision wasn’t well thought out.  When I awoke at seven a.m., it was to shivers and a need to check that thermostat. Now, here’s where I am reminded that much in life truly is subjective.

Fifty-eight degrees Fahrenheit would seem balmy after a week of minus thirty temperatures. If we stepped out our door on that day, why, we’d eschew the use of a jacket! However, fifty-eight degrees Fahrenheit is simply too cold after a toasty night under our duvet. Turning the furnace back on only requires a couple seconds to work the thermostat’s keypad.

Friends, it was done before that first sip of my morning coffee.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

Rhythms....

 April 23, 2025

I’m happy to report that for the most part, our back yard and front yard are now (somewhat) presentable. The front yard has been raked and the small gardens weeded. The back one has been cleaned and raked, the outdoor furniture cleaned as needed, and our garden boxes ready to be sown and the “lawn” ready for grass seed.

Did it surprise me that after the frantic activity to get it all done in time for the “Easter egg hunt” this past Monday, that when the day came, it was a rainy one? No, not particularly. That sort of thing happens a lot around here. And that’s not a problem if one is simply able to just go with the flow. By eleven in the morning on Monday, an hour before our guests were due to arrive, our daughter hid the eggs in plain sight inside four rooms of the house.

The “Easter eggs” in question were plastic, and hollow, and therefore fillable. My girls decided some time ago that these would be more fun and less work, and I can attest that there was a lot of scoping and then seeking and excitement for the children when the day came.

The girls spent a good part of Sunday preparing those eggs. At one point I looked at all the candy, small toys, and coins they had arrayed on the kitchen table as they filled those eggs and just shook my head. In all there were 100 eggs of various colors, but only one was the “golden egg” and that one held a ten dollar bill!

I should tell you that our family Easter celebration was held on Easter Monday because not only did that mesh with the girls’ work schedules, but that day is a school holiday here in Ontario. There were 10 of us in all, including 3 of my greatgrandchildren. After the fun of the baskets, and the hunt, we had a late lunch/early dinner of ham, sweet potatoes, salads, and various other veggies. For dessert there was a large bowl of “Gramma Berries”, and ice cream.

For the number of beings held under this roof (10 human, 6 dogs, 1 cat) it all turned out quite well. They were dispersed to their own homes by 4:30 in the afternoon, at which point yours truly took rest in my recliner.

While I will confess that the noise of this sort of gathering can be a bit much, it’s still one of my most cherished pleasures. I may not play with my greatgrandchildren as much as their grandmothers do, but I do enjoy them. My daughter might be surprised to read that. She tells me I don’t have much patience anymore, and in a way that is so. But I would also point out I must have enough patience, as no child has ever come to harm under my roof, and certainly none of them hesitate to hug me, something they wouldn’t do if they were afraid of me. I don’t know if she’d appreciate that sentiment but it’s true. It’s true because it’s ok if I scowl or look annoyed when the kids are yelling and running and getting out of hand. And it’s ok if I do the same when they sass, which they all do from time to time. And its ok if I raise my voice to be heard when no one else is stepping in to restore a semblance of order to the insanity.

Each generation raises its young a little differently, don’t you think? When I was a child, my mother never apologized, not even when she had made a mistake or was wrong. If I was punished for something I didn't do, and she later learned that I really had been innocent of the charge? She never said, “I’m sorry”. Instead, she always said, “you probably did something I don’t know about.”

No, that was not my parenting style. I rode the pendulum of behavior toward the other end. I did apologize, and I did let them say their piece. However, I didn’t tolerate back-talk, especially if it was rude. Stealing and lying, something most children do at least once in their young lives was unacceptable, always. I would give a time out, and on very rare occasions, for very bad behavior, a spanking.

Times change, but core values don’t. At least, they shouldn’t.

I gave a helping hand when there was a need with some of my grandchildren. But when it comes to the greats? Well, they have grandmothers younger and more energetic than I am. And I certainly wouldn’t want to deprive them of their own special moments with their grandchildren. After all, I had a few of those with my own.

I’m content to sit and listen when the greats are here, to guide and join in card games, and to give hugs as needed. And, of course, I feed them. I can still cook, and I can say with great gratitude, that my greatgrandchildren and yes, the others too, do appreciate my culinary offerings.

Isn’t the rhythm of life, and living, a wonderful thing?

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

Spring thoughts...

 April 16, 2025

April has proven to us all that it is indeed a month of uncertainty. Is it spring? Is it winter? No one knows for sure this year. A few weather reports that I caught bits of on television featured the word snow, followed by the words, “in April!” said with a sufficient amount of indignation to let us all know that even according to the meteorologists, this was beyond the norm.

I would submit that it’s beyond the norm these days. I mean, think about it. Here in my neck of the woods, when I was a child, there was a hard and fast custom against planting one’s garden before the third week of May. That was a custom for a reason. For those who’ve never gardened, the directions on the back of seed packages caution to only plant when all danger of frost is past. And in my youth it was the general consensus that by mid-May it was reasonably safe to assume that all danger of frost was, indeed, past.

Reasonably.

Folks, we are in a massive period of uncertainty, and on more than one level. I now understand that the first sixty-plus years of my life have spoiled me. I do believe it’s now a possibility that I shall forever after remain in some way, here and there, out of my comfort zone. If anyone has a blanky and a pacifier they’re not using, I’d be grateful for the donations.

This past weekend saw the clean up of our back yard begin. It was a bit bigger of a task than it recently has been, since our yard furniture didn’t get put away last fall. This meant that the clean up process included a lot of moving around of stuff to get to the ground. Daughter did most of the work, with her dad helping as much as he could. She is waiting for it to get a bit milder with the promise of some of those April showers, so she can execute her annual grass-seeding of the back yard.

David, for his part, focused on cleaning out his “shed” which is in fact a storage tent whose best days are done. We’ve purchased a new, smaller version of the easy to build outside storage unit. Smaller, because the one he cleaned out didn’t really have a lot of the space used up—even accounting for the lawn furniture that never made it inside. In the next week or so, one of our grandsons will be by to assist in the tearing down of the old and erecting of the new.

One of the things our daughter also did was to pull all the dead vegetation from our table gardens. This year, rumor has it, a new strategy will be employed by the head gardener. He’s going to dedicate two of the tables to green beans, and at least one to tomatoes. There shall no other variety of plant grown per table except for the designated sort in each garden.

Finally.

One can never tell what the growing season will be like. The summer before last was an absolutely banner one for tomatoes. This past summer, our tomato crop was, quite frankly, dismal.

Farming—whether large scale or small—is one endeavor that depends for its success on so many variables. It’s the original risky business. So, while we understand that we can’t be promised a bumper crop, or even an adequate one, we will go forward with the project, regardless.

There is purpose and joy and yes, therapy to be found in the planning, the planting, and the tending.

Really, one can say that planting a garden is a good analogy for living a life. One does what one can with what one has on hand. One takes the time to cherish the steps and the small pleasures that are there, just for the enjoying, if one looks.

As to the outcome? Well that, my friends, is pretty much up to God.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

An attitude of gratitude...

 April 9, 2025

Of all the things I hope for myself, going forward along this path I’m on, one thing stands out above all the rest: I hope I never stop being grateful.

I want to keep being grateful not just for the big things in life, but for the little things. Actually, I want to remain grateful mostly for the little things. Because you see, I have discovered that if I am grateful for the small blessings in life, then I will never cease to be grateful for the big ones.

Blessings can indeed be defined, but that definition is subjective. Each of us has our own preferences, our own lived experiences, and our own definitions of what a blessing is.

Among my most cherished blessings: time spent with my loved ones, family and friends; climbing into my well-made bed each night (and oh how I am regretful on those few days when I don’t make that bed in the morning); a dinner I prepared that turns out really well; quiet time spent in a comfy chair with a good book when there is nothing more pressing to be done than to just relax and read.

Any turn of good luck qualifies as a blessing, as does any pleasant surprise that comes along. That’s a bit subjective, I know. Just as I also know that y’all can take that to mean whatever you think fits for yourself.

I’m grateful for those rare days when I open my front door and inhale wonderful, clean smelling, uplifting fresh air. I’m grateful for well written books, well crafted movies, and songs that fill the heart to overflowing. I’m grateful every time I go to the grocery store and find their electric cart available for me to use.

I’m grateful, equally, for a beautiful sunny day or a dark, dramatic storm. I’m grateful when there is an orange left in the basket for me to enjoy, and for a left-over roast beef sandwich made on wonderfully fresh bread. Yum, yum.

And I’m very grateful for gratitude itself.

Living my life with that quality means that there are few times when I am disappointed or consumed with anxiety.  There are very few times when I don’t step forward in the morning anticipating a small blessing of one sort or another.

Do I get sad? Oh yes, sometimes. I still have days where I grieve for my late son, as well as others who are no longer here. But you see, I consider grief a blessing. Because if I hadn’t loved someone in the first place, I could not grieve them when they’re gone. I’m sad when I hear of others suffering, especially if those others are children.

When I was much younger, a twenty-something mother with a difficult marriage, three children and very spare means—I used to hold close my disappointments in life, the times others had wronged me, or when I had perceived them to have done so. I readily saw all those people who were better off than I was, people who appeared to be so much more deserving of everything. People who seemed to  be thriving when I felt as if I couldn’t catch a break.

Thankfully, my faith in God helped me to leave that mindset behind. But I remember it and how it felt (the memory is a blessing) and I can tell you that to be the way I used to be feels horrible. There’s no happiness, no joy, that cannot be blotted out by that kind of negative, self-defeating, self-sabotaging misery.

To feel that way feels worse inside than any genuine difficult challenge I will face in life could ever inspire on its own.

So, one of my constant prayers for myself each night before I drift off to sleep, is to pray that I remain grateful, and never turn into a cynical, grouchy and unhappy person.

And I remain steadfast in my faith that this prayer will be granted.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

April...

 April 2, 2025

It’s already April! Seriously, I have no idea how it is that time seems to go faster and faster the older I get. But while we are now officially out of that six month stretch of time known as winter (per the Ashbury family’s lore a full six months, October to March inclusive), it’s not yet at all anything like what I would call spring.

In my neck of the woods, we’re in a kind of weather purgatory of cold and damp, and I am not a fan.

But I am very fortunate, and aware of that fact. At my age I don’t have to go anywhere I don’t want to go, and I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do and…. yeah, who am I kidding?

While my life is truly my own, I’m too used to adulting, to doing what needs done, day by day, to really boast any true sense of freedom. Or maybe that’s not stated quite correctly. I can choose the other, but so far, I haven’t. And I really do hope that I won’t.

I could miss appointments made, if I wanted to. But I’m too much my mother’s daughter to do that. I could just walk past the tiny messes that seem to be everywhere in this house. But I’m too well trained in responsibility to do that.

I could just sit in my recliner each day and scroll through a gazillion television shows and other options (there’s got to be something good in there somewhere) except my mind is too used to being busy. And let’s face it, too much of what is available on television or on streaming platforms these days is just mind numbing.

The way I see it, time is taking the edge off my thinking processes enough as it is; I don’t want to help that along, period. I already feel as if I’m on a slippery mental slope that’s about to get steeper.

I’m currently attempting to balance the two concepts of staying informed and staying sane, and friends, let me tell you here and now, that’s not easy.  Too much of what is happening in the world these days can certainly induce ire. Too much ire is not good for my heart and health, or anyone else’s for that matter.

I’m not certain when it became okay for folks to talk trash, to threaten others, to play fast and loose with the concepts of respect and decency. I don’t know when it became okay to profess that there is no truth, and that the loudest and the most obnoxious is also the most trustworthy. I don’t know how or why that all has happened, but I wish it would stop.

I’m reduced to that old saying, “back in my day”. Because back in my day if I had said some of the things that are being said by so-called leaders these days, I could have expected to receive a cuff on my ear followed by a “don’t be so damn stupid.”.

As I let my attention drift to the window behind my monitor, I open myself to what is and look beyond what I can see. Icy rain is falling, and the sky is a moody gray. It looks cold, and I shiver in advance of having to go out into that weather before too long.

And I remind myself that way up there, above the cloud cover and the rain, the sky is blue and the sun shines. It’s a beautiful April day that just happens to be hampered at the moment by clouds and cold and wet.

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

Not going to worry overmuch....

 March 26, 2025

Every week, sometimes on Tuesday but more and more lately on Wednesday, I settle myself down at my keyboard to write my weekly essay. I ensure I have water, and a blanket for my legs, and that I’m positioned just right in my chair. But what I never have, as I set out to write Wednesday’s Words, is any idea of what it is I’m going to give you.

You could ask one hundred writers where they find the inspiration for their words, and you will likely get one hundred different answers. Mine isn’t perhaps the most unique, but it’s true: I don’t know where it comes from, I just know when its arrived.

This morning, as I was getting ready to get to it, I took a rare not-end-of day trip to the land of YouTube. Fortunately, there were no rabbit holes in my path, but my mind did wander, which is S.O.P. (standard operating procedure) for me.

And I was thinking how odd our world is. It’s like we’re living in a two-story mega building, in a way. One floor is given to those who have agendas with varying twists and turns and machinations thrown in for good measure. They have plans, intricate plans, based mostly on their own egos—their own sense of self.  And the other floor is just regular folks living their everyday lives. They get up, go to work, come home, and do whatever. They have plans, too, but not ones that are egocentric. They plan to just be. They plan to get together with friends, go clubbing, catch a game on the television, or just sit quietly and listen to music.

On the one floor there are poseurs who don’t realize that they are; bullies who believe they’re in charge and rightfully so; and scavengers who only want to get as much as they can as fast as they can because they can.

On the other floor there are people who have dreams, and aspirations, and goals—and not all just for themselves. They look for ways to share their time, and when someone needs a hand, they give it without consideration or expectation of gain in return for themselves.

Each floor has its own way of doing things, and each floor operates completely independent of the other.

The one floor—the one with the movers and the shakers and the wanna-be king makers—isn’t overly crowded, but it’s crowded enough. And they understand, you see, that there are folks living presumably beneath them, but because they are, in their minds “beneath them”, and they don’t think much beyond that somewhat subjective fact. After all, they can’t be much of anything, they say, because if they were they’d be “up here” instead of “down there”.

The other floor, folks just want to live their lives day to day, just want to be and to see and yes, to love. They are content for the most part to let that other floor do what they want to do where they are. They don’t let that floor get to them, because why would they?

After that image had fully taken root in my mind, I begin to think, as I often do, “what if”?

What if life really is 95% perception?

Facts are facts, but if folks don’t accept the facts, what happens then?

Do you see the trouble I get myself into when I spend too much time thinking?

It all comes down to a choice. What’s more important in life—the fact that you’re not rich, or your ability to find contentment regardless of that fact?

Perception is important because it acknowledges fact and then chooses how to interpret that fact.

This is important. Because another fact is there are more people on the one floor than there are on the other; and those others—the movers and the shakers and the wanna-be king makers—hold a second serious disadvantage aside from being outnumbered.

Their inability either to trust or to be trustworthy works directly against every other single advantage that they think they have.

So, I’m not going to worry overmuch. I figure that things will change for the better when enough people get to the point where they’ve simply had enough.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

Ah, spring...

 March 19, 2025

Over the course of the last week, the snow has melted away. I don’t know if I can tell you just how happy I am about this fact. On top of that, today has dawned sunny and warm. I’ve already checked the forecast. It promises the temperature will rise above 65 by this afternoon. And while Spring will not officially arrive until 5:01am tomorrow morning, as noted on the calendar, I feel it’s safe to announce that Spring has indeed sprung.

Now, we still may get snow between today and the end of May. It’s happened more times in the past than I can recall. But that, of course will be a spring snow and not a winter one. And yes, also of course, it’s all a matter of one’s perspective—or one’s attitude. A great deal of how we interpret things in life really is.

The weather will, according to this same forecast, begin to turn chilly after today—who couldn’t have guessed that? But I will celebrate the moments while they are here and take time to appreciate the warmth of sun and air while it lasts.

I’ve mentioned in the past that ours is a corner property. We have a back door, accessed by the cross street, which is in fact on a hill that rises from east to west, and on the south side of our house. We have an enclosed back yard, and therefore a gate via which to enter and exit the yard. In the good weather (read: weather without mounds of snow or frozen gates) we use that back gate to cart our trash to the street for our weekly trash pick-up. It’s a straight, no-stairs, not very long trek.

A side note: we also use this gate to bring in our groceries in “good” weather. We have a garden cart that David fetches to the road. I pull the car over on that hill—emergency flashers blinking—and he can easily put the groceries from car to cart, then pull that cart to the back door. Yes, there’s one step down into the kitchen, but otherwise this is a much easier way to cart our shopping in.

However, during the times when the gate is frozen shut, we have to keep our garbage cans and recycle containers on our front porch (and lug groceries by hand up the steps to the porch). The good news is the porch is covered, and the bins are generally free from having to be dug out at any given time.

The bad news is that they are on my front porch for all the world to see. I truly hate that, as I hate little else in this life.

But as of last night, when I kind of insisted, the porch is now clear of such blight. I will tell you that my porch is nothing much to look at. But there are chairs there for folks to sit on and watch the street. Further into spring, there will be plenty of plants as well. I generally have two “window boxes” of plants that hang from the railing; and four potted, profusely flowering plants that hang along the top of the porch. We also have nice, serviceable cushions to pad the three metal-framed chairs as well as a small table in between two of them to allow for a place for coffee mugs to rest.

My front porch is certainly not fancy, but it is my front porch and a lovely place to sit and think when the mood strikes.

David gets the most use of the porch, as he loves being outside. He spent the last forty years of his working life in a job that was outside year-round. I will sit out on the porch from time to time, but because of my arthritis I have to be aware of the breeze. David doesn’t have that problem. He’ll be sitting out even when I think it’s far too chilly to do so.

He’s been out there quite a bit since the snow left, and I can tell you that his ability to do so has brightened his mood considerably.

Soon, the grass and the plants will awaken to this new spring and its new possibilities. We anticipate the green that will become a part of the view out our windows and from our porches. But in this moment, the sense that everything is fresh and new and waiting is the essence of the promise of spring.

And in this moment, we can sigh that the worst of the winter of 2024-2025 is behind us. The best really is yet to come.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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