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.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
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