August 27, 2025
As of today, there are four more days left in the
month of August. I think this may be our new normal, sliding into what one
would consider to be traditional late September temperatures for the last week
of what used to be thought of as the hottest month of the year.
I’m not complaining, exactly. I can cope, especially first
thing in the morning as I get out of bed and begin to shiver. I can run hot
water into my coffee mug to take the chill off it before brewing that first
cup. I can drape a blanket over my legs, and struggle into a sweater. I can
even turn on my office’s “electric fireplace” to get the chill off the air.
There most definitely was chill in the air first thing this morning.
However, it’s a solid line I draw against turning on
the house’s furnace in August. And yes, when the idea crosses my mind that there
is no way in hell that I am turning the furnace on in August, it is my
mother’s voice I hear.
The last few days have featured rain, and that’s okay
too. My arthritis will act up regardless, but the lawns and the gardens need
rain. The crops in the fields need rain as this is the crucial build up-time to
harvest. I’ve never been the sort of person who believed, or wished, that the
weather should be just so to suit my individual needs or desires.
Chilly and damp? I have heating pad, blanket, topical
balms and if need be strong medication to counteract the effects thereof.
This past weekend we attended a baby shower for our
soon to be born fifth great-grandchild. The baby, a girl, is due mid-September.
The event was held outdoors, at a beautiful, large, city-run park. Bathroom facilities
were just across a small narrow road from the location of the party, which was held
under and around a nice and spacious pavilion.
I don’t generally attend outdoor events, because, again,
the arthritis. But I do when the event is one that I truly want to join. And I
accept as fair enough the consequences of my decision to do so.
That has always been how I have managed the
inconvenience of osteoarthritis. This condition has, of course, become
progressively worse through the years. I began using a cane more than 30 years
ago, to help me walk, and because there were times my ankles would threaten to
give out.
These days, if I can’t walk it with my cane, I use my
walker. If the walker won’t cut it, why, I have a three-wheeled motorized
scooter at the ready. That scooter is sturdy enough to support me and small
enough to fit inside most stores, shops and malls.
I don’t let my condition prevent me from doing what I
truly want to do. If the next day I’m sore, well then, so be it.
Life is 5 percent what happens to me and 95 percent
how I deal with it. I won’t tell you I never break down and cry, because that
would be a lie. I will tell you I do my best to do that in private. I’ve always
advised in these essays that it’s ok, once in a while, to get on the pity pot.
Just as long as you clean up, and then flush when you get off.
I don’t break rules, especially my own.
Getting older is no picnic, even if you do occasionally
attend one. It’s not a journey for the weak of spirit. But it is a part of the
lessons I believe we are meant to receive and hopefully master as we travel
this path of life that we’re on.
The difference between learning to cope, and giving in
to the negatives is this, and only this: when you learn to cope you find a
peace and contentment within yourself. You’re happier, and if you hang on with
both hands and your teeth to your sense of humor, you’re a joy to be around,
too.
However, if you prefer to wallow in self-pity like a
hog will wallow in the mud and manure of its own pigsty, you’ll find yourself
miserable and for the most part, alone.
That decision, and the inherent consequences of it, dear
reader, is yours and yours alone, to make.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
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