I don’t know if the problem is with us, or with them.
Every day, I’m at my computer writing. And every day, I need to go on-line. There’s mail to check, and readers to contact. I try to work in a methodical way, so as to make the most of the time that I have. I try to limit my time on line because the Internet is many things to many people but to us all it is a huge time-suck.
I’m wondering if the problem is that it’s so big, and so vast with so many users that the people who create those “home pages” need so much stuff to fill them with, that they’ll grab anything.
Anything at all.
Here is one recent headline from AOL. I have changed the name of the person in the headline, to prevent “hits” to increase their popularity: Jane Doe Eats French Fries In A Bikini.
At first, I thought, whoa, french fries in bikinis? What’s that all about? (Yes I am a total and unrepentant smart ass). I’ll confess. I clicked. I wanted to know about this new fast food trend.
Of course, it was Jane Doe who was in the bikini and she was eating fries. And, not only was there a photo that depicted this earth-shattering event; there was a little write-up about it, too, as if this truly was a newsworthy item—or we were too dumb to get the gist of things from the picture. Allow me to regurgitate the first paragraph of that write up: “Jane Doe is taking a much needed break in the Bahamas. Clad in a strapless black bikini, the former (blank blank) model was spotted with her kids on the beach Sunday, March 23, munching on some golden fries.”
I’m wondering about something and would be delighted if any of you could help me with it. In what plane of existence is this news? Are there actually people out there who care about this? Really? If the answer is yes, my only reaction is: those poor, poor, people. Imagine being so bereft of purpose and activities in life, that stories like this are important.
My broader question is, are these ridiculous stories there because there are so many people to whom this is news and they want to read them? Or are they there to appeal to the basest parts of our personalities, so that we click on these items...so that the publishers of these pages can report “views” to their advertisers?
Yeah, that’s what I thought. Am I the only one sick of all the blatant, byte-consuming advertising on the Internet these days? AOL seems to be the worst for this. One time their advertising on their “sign in” page was so bad and took up so much space that my stored sign-in details wouldn’t come up, and I had to key them in. No, I’m not lazy but my memory isn’t always what it once was. After that incident, I had to make a file that contains all of my passwords—just in case.
I’m not naive. I understand that in these modern times, advertising dollars pay for many of the entertainment and informational resources available to us. I’m nearly 60 and I grew up in the age of black and white television that was “free” – all you needed was the TV, an antenna, and electricity. There were commercials, yes, but most of them weren’t stupid—and there were no commercials whatsoever during the evening news. Networks were expected to provide that public service without commercial interruption—and thereby without using that time to garner ratings.
So I understand the need for some ads. But does there have to be so many of them? On home pages and chat groups and even on Face Book itself. They are everywhere, clogging up cyber-space, and adding not only to our frustration, but providing more senseless drivel for minds that are already overloaded with completely useless information.
And actually, I’m afraid that isn’t the worst of it.
If ET is out there, and he’s receiving a chunk of our cyber space, what in the name of all that’s Holy does he think about us?
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
March 26, 2014
Well, I’ve gone and done it again. I’ve begun to do something that at one time I promised myself I would never, ever do. I’ve turned into one of those older folks who will frequently preface their comments with, “you know, back in my day...”
Friends, this isn’t the first time I’ve broken a promise to myself, either. I have to confess, because the burden is weighing heavy on my heart. My mother was not what you’d call a touchy-feely kind of woman. No, she was more the kind who believed that one had children because indentured servitude was so passé. She would forever be assigning tasks for me to do. Now, on this side of age the equation I can truthfully say that’s definitely not a bad thing at all. But back then when I would ask (and when I was a kid I almost always asked), “why do I have to do that?” her answer inevitably would be, “why should I keep a dog and bark myself?”
At the time, I thought that was a horrible thing to say to your child. I promised myself many times that I would never, ever say such a thing to my children. Yeah, I know, please don’t laugh. It’s truly sad, that the first time I felt totally frustrated by a recalcitrant child who mouthed that very same well-known question? You guessed it, my mother’s words came right out of my mouth without even asking my permission first!
I think it’s a part of living that’s universal. Certain words and phrases and habits become ingrained in us early in life, and we can’t help but repeat those patterns over again as we get older.
Some, however, I have broken. And maybe it’s a clue for me the ones I did break, were really the worst of the lot.
My father died when I was eight and a half years old. He was the love of my mother’s life. She followed him just thirteen years later. And in the time she was a widow, she never once even looked at another man. In 1963, the year my father passed, we hadn’t arrived at the welfare state yet. People still did for themselves or did without. We hadn’t reached a stage, either, where we insured ourselves out the wazoo for every conceivable eventuality. Mortgages weren’t life insured in those days as a matter of course, and my parents’ mortgage certainly wasn’t. There was enough money in my father’s estate from his modest life insurance to pay for his funeral, and that was about it.
Because I know the kind of person my mother was, the weight of responsibility she felt at suddenly being the sole provider for the three of us was a heavy burden for her. Her job had to come first, in her mind, because that was the means to take care of us all. As a nearly 60 year old woman, I can certainly understand that. But as the youngest in the family at the time, a little girl who was bereft of her daddy, I didn’t understand it at all. She rarely told me she loved me, and even more rare were the outward signs of affection that I would receive from her, like hugs.
As a teenager going through the inevitable season of angst, I once wailed out my deepest sorrow: “I just feel that you don’t even love me!” My mother’s response? “If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t put a roof over your head.”
Like I said, some patterns were not repeated by me as a parent. Not a day went by, when my children were in my care, that I didn’t hug them and tell them that I loved them.
Also, I grew up more than a little afraid of my mother. I can tell you that while that fear kept me in line, it also kept me insecure and frightened. Again, that pattern ended with me as a child. I might have been a little too lenient with my own kids—but to me that was a far preferable reality to the alternative.
You know, back in my day, they used to say “spare the rod and spoil the child”. And while I can relate to that tenet, especially in this day of permissiveness into which this current generation seems to have fallen, there is a negative result to that creed as well.
And I’m not sure at all that the positive affects justify the negative. That pendulum keeps swinging between leniency and discipline, but what we really need is to try to find the balance that my day, and this day, both seem to lack.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Friends, this isn’t the first time I’ve broken a promise to myself, either. I have to confess, because the burden is weighing heavy on my heart. My mother was not what you’d call a touchy-feely kind of woman. No, she was more the kind who believed that one had children because indentured servitude was so passé. She would forever be assigning tasks for me to do. Now, on this side of age the equation I can truthfully say that’s definitely not a bad thing at all. But back then when I would ask (and when I was a kid I almost always asked), “why do I have to do that?” her answer inevitably would be, “why should I keep a dog and bark myself?”
At the time, I thought that was a horrible thing to say to your child. I promised myself many times that I would never, ever say such a thing to my children. Yeah, I know, please don’t laugh. It’s truly sad, that the first time I felt totally frustrated by a recalcitrant child who mouthed that very same well-known question? You guessed it, my mother’s words came right out of my mouth without even asking my permission first!
I think it’s a part of living that’s universal. Certain words and phrases and habits become ingrained in us early in life, and we can’t help but repeat those patterns over again as we get older.
Some, however, I have broken. And maybe it’s a clue for me the ones I did break, were really the worst of the lot.
My father died when I was eight and a half years old. He was the love of my mother’s life. She followed him just thirteen years later. And in the time she was a widow, she never once even looked at another man. In 1963, the year my father passed, we hadn’t arrived at the welfare state yet. People still did for themselves or did without. We hadn’t reached a stage, either, where we insured ourselves out the wazoo for every conceivable eventuality. Mortgages weren’t life insured in those days as a matter of course, and my parents’ mortgage certainly wasn’t. There was enough money in my father’s estate from his modest life insurance to pay for his funeral, and that was about it.
Because I know the kind of person my mother was, the weight of responsibility she felt at suddenly being the sole provider for the three of us was a heavy burden for her. Her job had to come first, in her mind, because that was the means to take care of us all. As a nearly 60 year old woman, I can certainly understand that. But as the youngest in the family at the time, a little girl who was bereft of her daddy, I didn’t understand it at all. She rarely told me she loved me, and even more rare were the outward signs of affection that I would receive from her, like hugs.
As a teenager going through the inevitable season of angst, I once wailed out my deepest sorrow: “I just feel that you don’t even love me!” My mother’s response? “If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t put a roof over your head.”
Like I said, some patterns were not repeated by me as a parent. Not a day went by, when my children were in my care, that I didn’t hug them and tell them that I loved them.
Also, I grew up more than a little afraid of my mother. I can tell you that while that fear kept me in line, it also kept me insecure and frightened. Again, that pattern ended with me as a child. I might have been a little too lenient with my own kids—but to me that was a far preferable reality to the alternative.
You know, back in my day, they used to say “spare the rod and spoil the child”. And while I can relate to that tenet, especially in this day of permissiveness into which this current generation seems to have fallen, there is a negative result to that creed as well.
And I’m not sure at all that the positive affects justify the negative. That pendulum keeps swinging between leniency and discipline, but what we really need is to try to find the balance that my day, and this day, both seem to lack.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
March 19, 2014
I admit it. I could very well be addicted to this computer, and not all of it is about writing stories. I use Face Book, and I play games. I’m probably on FB more often than I should be, but I can justify the pastime, for the most part. Primarily, I use that particular social media tool to keep in touch with my readers, and for promotion. Beyond promotional purposes, I read other people’s comments far more often than I post comments of my own. I’m a lurker, a silent witness to the trials and tribulations that others are willing for me to know about (I figure they must be if they make those comments in the first place). I don’t mean for that to sound cynical. In truth, the openness of others is a particular blessing. Reading what people are willing to share is a means of understanding what people are thinking about, what they’re experiencing, and what’s important to them.
When I first became a published author, I joined the social media site of the day, My Space. I tried to use My Space, but I found it confusing. I consider myself a reasonably smart woman, but there is this invisible shield between myself and certain technological applications, and unfortunately, My Space is one of them. As is Photo Shop, and my most recent attempt (and fail) to be savvy, Tumblr.
Despite my being challenged by them, by and large, I think all of these innovations—not just Face Book and other social media sites, but the very heart of it all—the Internet itself—as being a tremendous advantage to people who are curious about other people, and most especially, to those who are mobility challenged.
When I first went “online” I mostly did what a lot of people in the beginning did with their computers. I played games. There’re several “game” sites on the web that are free. My daughter showed me one, and it had bingo! It didn’t take me long to form this new habit.
This particular site that I frequent had “chat rooms”. At the time, I was still recovering from my triple by-pass surgery. I was practically a shut-in in those days. This was a long, slow recovery for me. Moving around was painful and it took me a good three years post-op before I was feeling anywhere approaching normal.
In that time, I turned to the computer for company, and I’ve pretty much not changed that habit in more than a decade. In the beginning of my computer addiction, I played those games—bingo mostly, but some different forms of solitaire too, and Mah-jong. And I chatted with other people, many of whom were also physically challenged. Friendships were formed, and a few of those friendships are still vibrant today.
Several of the people I chatted with were elderly. Women and men, to a one they were delighted with their computers and the new world of socialization that it opened up for them. A few of these people even confessed to having been so lonely before their families got them online, they cried often.
Now, of course, while I spend a lot of time at the keyboard, much of it is in support of this wonderful career I have. This computer, this means of communication, has provided me with my second chance at being a contributing member of society.
I hear people who use a computer at their day jobs say that once they get home, they don’t want to go near a keyboard. Quite frankly I thought I would be that way, too. I spend anywhere from eight to twelve hours most days, writing. But unless there is something on television that I particularly want to watch, or some chore I need to get done, here I sit. I wear a step-counter to help me to remember to get up and move around, but otherwise, this is my “station”.
I know of some people my age and older who don’t want to be bothered with this medium. They believe it is a fad that will go away. Others—far in the majority—want to pursue every new innovation they can.
A friend of my brother’s said it best. We were all having a discussion about cell phones and texting, and he asked her why she wanted to even bother. He’d tried, he said, but never found the need for all these modern devices.
She raised one eyebrow and told him, “I don’t want to be left behind!”
Wise words. I think I’ll frame them.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
When I first became a published author, I joined the social media site of the day, My Space. I tried to use My Space, but I found it confusing. I consider myself a reasonably smart woman, but there is this invisible shield between myself and certain technological applications, and unfortunately, My Space is one of them. As is Photo Shop, and my most recent attempt (and fail) to be savvy, Tumblr.
Despite my being challenged by them, by and large, I think all of these innovations—not just Face Book and other social media sites, but the very heart of it all—the Internet itself—as being a tremendous advantage to people who are curious about other people, and most especially, to those who are mobility challenged.
When I first went “online” I mostly did what a lot of people in the beginning did with their computers. I played games. There’re several “game” sites on the web that are free. My daughter showed me one, and it had bingo! It didn’t take me long to form this new habit.
This particular site that I frequent had “chat rooms”. At the time, I was still recovering from my triple by-pass surgery. I was practically a shut-in in those days. This was a long, slow recovery for me. Moving around was painful and it took me a good three years post-op before I was feeling anywhere approaching normal.
In that time, I turned to the computer for company, and I’ve pretty much not changed that habit in more than a decade. In the beginning of my computer addiction, I played those games—bingo mostly, but some different forms of solitaire too, and Mah-jong. And I chatted with other people, many of whom were also physically challenged. Friendships were formed, and a few of those friendships are still vibrant today.
Several of the people I chatted with were elderly. Women and men, to a one they were delighted with their computers and the new world of socialization that it opened up for them. A few of these people even confessed to having been so lonely before their families got them online, they cried often.
Now, of course, while I spend a lot of time at the keyboard, much of it is in support of this wonderful career I have. This computer, this means of communication, has provided me with my second chance at being a contributing member of society.
I hear people who use a computer at their day jobs say that once they get home, they don’t want to go near a keyboard. Quite frankly I thought I would be that way, too. I spend anywhere from eight to twelve hours most days, writing. But unless there is something on television that I particularly want to watch, or some chore I need to get done, here I sit. I wear a step-counter to help me to remember to get up and move around, but otherwise, this is my “station”.
I know of some people my age and older who don’t want to be bothered with this medium. They believe it is a fad that will go away. Others—far in the majority—want to pursue every new innovation they can.
A friend of my brother’s said it best. We were all having a discussion about cell phones and texting, and he asked her why she wanted to even bother. He’d tried, he said, but never found the need for all these modern devices.
She raised one eyebrow and told him, “I don’t want to be left behind!”
Wise words. I think I’ll frame them.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
March 12, 2014
I can still recall the weeks leading up to our wedding. It was 1972 and I was pregnant, just a couple weeks away from my 18th birthday. Way too young, yes. But it was what it was. My mother, of course, was not happy about the entire situation. Not happy in a “you’re pregnant so you don’t get to wear white” kind of way. Again, it was what it was.
About a week before the day, I was having a disagreement with my mom over—well, over what, I don’t recall. But what she said to end the discussion I do remember. “Right now, you live under my roof and you will do what I say. Next week, you will be living under David’s roof, and then you’ll do what he says.”
I also recall my unspoken reaction to that: I don’t be thinking so.
Generally speaking, though, because of the times, and how I was raised, I have always thought of my husband as the head of the house. Now we’ve been married a while—our 42nd anniversary is coming up in July. David is still the head of the house. But he isn’t the one who’s the star of the show around here. And neither am I.
The animals are.
I was thinking about this earlier as I was cooking our dinner—pork schnitzel with potato casserole and green beans. Missing from the pan in which I cooked the meat were garlic and mushrooms. We love garlic and mushrooms—but both are bad for the dog.
What’s that you say? We shouldn’t be feeding our Morkie too many table scraps? Well, I agree, but Mr. Ashbury just loves to feed his little boy at the table. And of course, the little boy just loves to eat whatever his daddy gives him. “Gives him” is the key wording here, because if Mr. Ashbury puts that same food on a saucer on the floor for him? He’s not interested in it.
Tuffy doesn’t get people food every night. If we have sausage, for example, he has to make do with his Cesars, because sausage makes him sick. We do generally only give him the basic meats—pork, beef, and chicken. He does have his preferred flavors of the dog food, too, of course. Primarily he loves the “smoked bacon and eggs” and anything with the word ‘steak’ in it.
A small digression, here. Something I have never understood. How do we know that the dog food in the plastic container, or the can, is smoked bacon and egg flavor? Who tests it to determine this? Just wondering.
Tuffy has a wardrobe. Currently it consists of three coats and six or seven sweaters. There were a few times this winter when he actually came and asked for a sweater because he was cold. No lie. He also has toys. Oh, a ball you may ask? A Frisbee? Well yes to the former—four, at last count, all capable of making a squeaking sound. He also has two small squeaky pigs, 2 medium and one very large squeaky chicken, and various other and assorted toys including the big strong tied rope thingy that he loves to play tug of war with, and a couple of “critters” that used to have pull-out strings that would make them skitter on the ground. Oh, and the “squeaky toy” must be of a sufficient quality so that he can make it squeak all by himself.
Tuffy has so many toys that we have a medium sized box in our living room, where the toys are kept. Sometimes. When they are not scattered everywhere around the house.
Lest you think only the dog gets catered to, I will have you know that when HRH (her royal highness) the cat comes to my chair and bats at me, I have to get up and give her kitty treats (the dog likes these, too). And when she makes a particular “meow” sound, it means I must go into the bathroom and turn on the cold water tap for her. Just enough, mind you, that there’s a trickle. Then I must leave the bathroom so she may drink in private.
Bedtime has gotten particularly interesting of late. The dog has been sleeping in our bed since last May when my daughter stayed here and broke him of that icky “play pen” habit. The cat has recently decided she deserves to sleep in the bed, too. The cat sheds a lot, and the dog not at all. So I have a bath towel on my bed, between my pillow and the headboard. This is so when kitty jumps up (about 4 nights out of 7), she has a place to sleep and I, for the most part, keep her hair off the sheet.
The dog sleeps between mommy and daddy, about waist level. And while the animals often are nose to nose, and about to play a game of doggie pounce in front of cat and cat swat dog, the bed seems to be an agreed upon piece of neutral territory.
Yes, they do communicate and co-operate; how else could they so perfectly schedule taking turns having their servants fetch, carry, or shake a paw?
It’s a dog’s life, and in this household, a damn fine one at that.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
About a week before the day, I was having a disagreement with my mom over—well, over what, I don’t recall. But what she said to end the discussion I do remember. “Right now, you live under my roof and you will do what I say. Next week, you will be living under David’s roof, and then you’ll do what he says.”
I also recall my unspoken reaction to that: I don’t be thinking so.
Generally speaking, though, because of the times, and how I was raised, I have always thought of my husband as the head of the house. Now we’ve been married a while—our 42nd anniversary is coming up in July. David is still the head of the house. But he isn’t the one who’s the star of the show around here. And neither am I.
The animals are.
I was thinking about this earlier as I was cooking our dinner—pork schnitzel with potato casserole and green beans. Missing from the pan in which I cooked the meat were garlic and mushrooms. We love garlic and mushrooms—but both are bad for the dog.
What’s that you say? We shouldn’t be feeding our Morkie too many table scraps? Well, I agree, but Mr. Ashbury just loves to feed his little boy at the table. And of course, the little boy just loves to eat whatever his daddy gives him. “Gives him” is the key wording here, because if Mr. Ashbury puts that same food on a saucer on the floor for him? He’s not interested in it.
Tuffy doesn’t get people food every night. If we have sausage, for example, he has to make do with his Cesars, because sausage makes him sick. We do generally only give him the basic meats—pork, beef, and chicken. He does have his preferred flavors of the dog food, too, of course. Primarily he loves the “smoked bacon and eggs” and anything with the word ‘steak’ in it.
A small digression, here. Something I have never understood. How do we know that the dog food in the plastic container, or the can, is smoked bacon and egg flavor? Who tests it to determine this? Just wondering.
Tuffy has a wardrobe. Currently it consists of three coats and six or seven sweaters. There were a few times this winter when he actually came and asked for a sweater because he was cold. No lie. He also has toys. Oh, a ball you may ask? A Frisbee? Well yes to the former—four, at last count, all capable of making a squeaking sound. He also has two small squeaky pigs, 2 medium and one very large squeaky chicken, and various other and assorted toys including the big strong tied rope thingy that he loves to play tug of war with, and a couple of “critters” that used to have pull-out strings that would make them skitter on the ground. Oh, and the “squeaky toy” must be of a sufficient quality so that he can make it squeak all by himself.
Tuffy has so many toys that we have a medium sized box in our living room, where the toys are kept. Sometimes. When they are not scattered everywhere around the house.
Lest you think only the dog gets catered to, I will have you know that when HRH (her royal highness) the cat comes to my chair and bats at me, I have to get up and give her kitty treats (the dog likes these, too). And when she makes a particular “meow” sound, it means I must go into the bathroom and turn on the cold water tap for her. Just enough, mind you, that there’s a trickle. Then I must leave the bathroom so she may drink in private.
Bedtime has gotten particularly interesting of late. The dog has been sleeping in our bed since last May when my daughter stayed here and broke him of that icky “play pen” habit. The cat has recently decided she deserves to sleep in the bed, too. The cat sheds a lot, and the dog not at all. So I have a bath towel on my bed, between my pillow and the headboard. This is so when kitty jumps up (about 4 nights out of 7), she has a place to sleep and I, for the most part, keep her hair off the sheet.
The dog sleeps between mommy and daddy, about waist level. And while the animals often are nose to nose, and about to play a game of doggie pounce in front of cat and cat swat dog, the bed seems to be an agreed upon piece of neutral territory.
Yes, they do communicate and co-operate; how else could they so perfectly schedule taking turns having their servants fetch, carry, or shake a paw?
It’s a dog’s life, and in this household, a damn fine one at that.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
March 5, 2014
I have been remiss with regard to a very important issue. Today, I hope to correct that.
You may recall that back in the fall, we had a problem with our furnace. It was the first problem we’d had in ten years of ownership, which, I suppose, is pretty good. In the course of dealing with that breakdown, we discovered the problem was causing a carbon monoxide leak into our house. Fortunately, we had the problem seen to immediately, and it was also lucky for us that this breakdown happened in the daytime, when I was awake.
Following that episode, and my essay about it, I was contacted by a faithful reader, Janet, who urged me to get a carbon monoxide detector and install it in my home. It could be, she said, a real life saver.
She further and subsequently challenged me to write an essay about the importance of everyone having a carbon monoxide detector in their home.
Thank you, Janet, for the excellent suggestion.
Y’all should know that actually, we did go out and buy a carbon monoxide detector just a few days after that furnace malfunction. The device cost us around twenty-five dollars and was very easy to install.
The day before we had that furnace breakdown and leak, there was a bill passed into law, here in the province of Ontario. Called the Hawkins-Gignac Act, it made mandatory the installation of carbon monoxide (CO) detectors in all homes, be they new construction, or old.
This law came into being thanks to the five year long advocacy and tireless efforts of one family, led by a man named John Gignac. Mr. Gignac had a very personal reason for taking up this cause.
On December 1, 2008, his niece, Laurie Gignac Hawkins, who was a constable with the Ontario Provincial Police, was found barely alive in her central Ontario home. Her husband, Richard, and their two children—Cassandra, 14 and Jordan, 12 had already died. Their deaths came as the result of carbon monoxide poisoning, caused by a blocked vent in the home’s gas fireplace.
Carbon monoxide is an odorless, colorless and tasteless gas that can kill. The only way it can be detected is with an approved CO alarm.
Laurie herself passed away eight days later. By all accounts she had been an officer who was a credit to the force and a woman who made a difference not only to the family who loved her, but in her community at large as well.
This tragic loss of life was preventable. The purchase and installation of an inexpensive device could have saved this family from perishing.
This is not, by the way, a Canadian phenomenon. According to the U. S. Center for Disease Control’s website, from 1999 to 2010, there were a total of 5,149 deaths from unintentional carbon monoxide poisoning in the United States. These are unintentional deaths—and thus, deaths that could have been prevented.
Most of us have smoke detectors in our homes, and some of us think that means that we’re protected. But an ordinary smoke detector will not detect carbon monoxide.
Carbon monoxide is a “four season” killer, as a lot of us have homes that are fuelled by combustible fuels—not just our furnaces in the cold weather, but our hot water heaters, and our kitchen stoves as well. In truth, it’s not just natural gas that can create CO, but all other fossil fuels as well.
If you don’t already have a carbon monoxide detector in your home, get one. They’re available at Wal-Mart, Lowes, Home Depot, Ace Hardware, and even Amazon!
As Janet very rightly pointed out to me, a CO detector can be life saving—and the life it could save might be your own, your spouse’s, you children’s.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
You may recall that back in the fall, we had a problem with our furnace. It was the first problem we’d had in ten years of ownership, which, I suppose, is pretty good. In the course of dealing with that breakdown, we discovered the problem was causing a carbon monoxide leak into our house. Fortunately, we had the problem seen to immediately, and it was also lucky for us that this breakdown happened in the daytime, when I was awake.
Following that episode, and my essay about it, I was contacted by a faithful reader, Janet, who urged me to get a carbon monoxide detector and install it in my home. It could be, she said, a real life saver.
She further and subsequently challenged me to write an essay about the importance of everyone having a carbon monoxide detector in their home.
Thank you, Janet, for the excellent suggestion.
Y’all should know that actually, we did go out and buy a carbon monoxide detector just a few days after that furnace malfunction. The device cost us around twenty-five dollars and was very easy to install.
The day before we had that furnace breakdown and leak, there was a bill passed into law, here in the province of Ontario. Called the Hawkins-Gignac Act, it made mandatory the installation of carbon monoxide (CO) detectors in all homes, be they new construction, or old.
This law came into being thanks to the five year long advocacy and tireless efforts of one family, led by a man named John Gignac. Mr. Gignac had a very personal reason for taking up this cause.
On December 1, 2008, his niece, Laurie Gignac Hawkins, who was a constable with the Ontario Provincial Police, was found barely alive in her central Ontario home. Her husband, Richard, and their two children—Cassandra, 14 and Jordan, 12 had already died. Their deaths came as the result of carbon monoxide poisoning, caused by a blocked vent in the home’s gas fireplace.
Carbon monoxide is an odorless, colorless and tasteless gas that can kill. The only way it can be detected is with an approved CO alarm.
Laurie herself passed away eight days later. By all accounts she had been an officer who was a credit to the force and a woman who made a difference not only to the family who loved her, but in her community at large as well.
This tragic loss of life was preventable. The purchase and installation of an inexpensive device could have saved this family from perishing.
This is not, by the way, a Canadian phenomenon. According to the U. S. Center for Disease Control’s website, from 1999 to 2010, there were a total of 5,149 deaths from unintentional carbon monoxide poisoning in the United States. These are unintentional deaths—and thus, deaths that could have been prevented.
Most of us have smoke detectors in our homes, and some of us think that means that we’re protected. But an ordinary smoke detector will not detect carbon monoxide.
Carbon monoxide is a “four season” killer, as a lot of us have homes that are fuelled by combustible fuels—not just our furnaces in the cold weather, but our hot water heaters, and our kitchen stoves as well. In truth, it’s not just natural gas that can create CO, but all other fossil fuels as well.
If you don’t already have a carbon monoxide detector in your home, get one. They’re available at Wal-Mart, Lowes, Home Depot, Ace Hardware, and even Amazon!
As Janet very rightly pointed out to me, a CO detector can be life saving—and the life it could save might be your own, your spouse’s, you children’s.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
February 26, 2014
I know that you’re all counting down the days until spring. I have to admit that I am doing that, too, even though I try very hard not to rush my days. I know it sounds sappy for me to say that each and every day is a precious gift—but that is exactly what I believe, and how I feel.
I don’t proselytize, and I certainly haven’t thumped a Bible in years. That’s not my job. My job is to live my life the best way I can, share whatever insights I glean along the way, and create stories that are full of hope and love, and make people feel good.
But my faith is rock solid—and it, too, is a precious gift.
Time moves so quickly now for me, and I think that is universal to us, as human beings, the older we get. Yeah, I’m sick of the cold and the snow and the ice. But I do know that before very long at all, we’ll turn the corner, and warmer weather will be here.
And I know, too, that some of you who’ve had unseasonably cold weather this winter will, also before too long, be right back into the triple digit heat of summer. I’m sure there will be days in July or August when we will all be thinking a little more fondly of the last few months.
I’ve been listening to the hype from all of the news networks as they’ve reported on the storms we’ve had this winter. Their hyperbole just makes me shake my head. News anchors have employed phrases like “snowmageddon”, polar vortex, and of course, the oft used “storm of the decade” and then, “storm of the century”.
The truth is, what we have had these past few months in the northern half of this continent is a good, old fashioned winter. Now, it’s true that those of you in the southern half of the United States did get hit a lot more severely than usual. I know that some of you saw snow and ice in your yards for the first time in years—or maybe, for some of you, for the first time, ever. That was most certainly noteworthy and perhaps deserving of a little bit of hype. I really felt bad for you, because you’re not used to any snow or ice at all, and you had a lot to contend with. Driving on icy roads is a very special skill, one that requires either snow tires, or winter chains. It’s not for the faint of heart, and certainly not for the impatient. My advice to any of you contemplating trying to drive in icy conditions is just one word: don’t.
Let’s hope you’re done with the ice storms. For that matter, let’s hope we all are.
There’re only two more days left of February and then we’ll be in March—hopefully the beginning of the end of winter. All of my life, the rule of thumb for planting the gardens has been to wait until the Victoria Day weekend. That’s in May—this year, May 17 to 19. Usually by then, all danger of frost is past. I’m not counting on anything this year. We have (way back in my younger days when this kind of winter was normal) even seen snow in April and early May. I hope not this year. I want my gardens.
Last fall, we planted a whole bunch of new bulbs. We’re eager to see them bloom, and hopeful that they will. I love flowers, I love their smiling, optimistic faces, and the way they scent the air. I grew up knowing the joy of lily of the valley, narcissus, daffodils, and lilacs blooming sometimes together. There was a special perfume when several of them blossomed at the same time, and the breeze was just right.
Meanwhile, and until then, I’m going to do my best to make the most of each day, and remember that all things come, not to stay, but to pass.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
I don’t proselytize, and I certainly haven’t thumped a Bible in years. That’s not my job. My job is to live my life the best way I can, share whatever insights I glean along the way, and create stories that are full of hope and love, and make people feel good.
But my faith is rock solid—and it, too, is a precious gift.
Time moves so quickly now for me, and I think that is universal to us, as human beings, the older we get. Yeah, I’m sick of the cold and the snow and the ice. But I do know that before very long at all, we’ll turn the corner, and warmer weather will be here.
And I know, too, that some of you who’ve had unseasonably cold weather this winter will, also before too long, be right back into the triple digit heat of summer. I’m sure there will be days in July or August when we will all be thinking a little more fondly of the last few months.
I’ve been listening to the hype from all of the news networks as they’ve reported on the storms we’ve had this winter. Their hyperbole just makes me shake my head. News anchors have employed phrases like “snowmageddon”, polar vortex, and of course, the oft used “storm of the decade” and then, “storm of the century”.
The truth is, what we have had these past few months in the northern half of this continent is a good, old fashioned winter. Now, it’s true that those of you in the southern half of the United States did get hit a lot more severely than usual. I know that some of you saw snow and ice in your yards for the first time in years—or maybe, for some of you, for the first time, ever. That was most certainly noteworthy and perhaps deserving of a little bit of hype. I really felt bad for you, because you’re not used to any snow or ice at all, and you had a lot to contend with. Driving on icy roads is a very special skill, one that requires either snow tires, or winter chains. It’s not for the faint of heart, and certainly not for the impatient. My advice to any of you contemplating trying to drive in icy conditions is just one word: don’t.
Let’s hope you’re done with the ice storms. For that matter, let’s hope we all are.
There’re only two more days left of February and then we’ll be in March—hopefully the beginning of the end of winter. All of my life, the rule of thumb for planting the gardens has been to wait until the Victoria Day weekend. That’s in May—this year, May 17 to 19. Usually by then, all danger of frost is past. I’m not counting on anything this year. We have (way back in my younger days when this kind of winter was normal) even seen snow in April and early May. I hope not this year. I want my gardens.
Last fall, we planted a whole bunch of new bulbs. We’re eager to see them bloom, and hopeful that they will. I love flowers, I love their smiling, optimistic faces, and the way they scent the air. I grew up knowing the joy of lily of the valley, narcissus, daffodils, and lilacs blooming sometimes together. There was a special perfume when several of them blossomed at the same time, and the breeze was just right.
Meanwhile, and until then, I’m going to do my best to make the most of each day, and remember that all things come, not to stay, but to pass.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
February 19, 2014
This past Monday, here in Ontario, saw us observing a relatively new holiday, begun in 2008: Family Day. Before this holiday was officially named, there was, for the employees of a lot of companies, a “floating holiday” in February—because this one, everyone knew, was coming, thanks to the long, drawn out, government debates.
I don’t think one should read into this day any great reverence, on the part of the provincial government, for the Canadian Family. I think it was more a question of everyone complaining that we had to go from New Years Day all the way to Good Friday without a paid “holiday”.
Some communities hold special family-oriented events on the third Monday in February. We never bothered to attend any, of course, because by 2008 all of our children were grown and gone. This year, actually, was the first time we did anything in honor of the day, and it came about in a backwards sort of way.
It’s rather fascinating how a lot of the things we Ashbury’s end up doing happen that way.
Our second daughter has a great love of “family dinners”. I don’t believe she ever enjoyed one until she became a part of our family. In fact, I remember with a lot of fondness her first one here, and so does she.
The dinner was for our middle child, Anthony’s birthday, the first year the two of them were together as a couple. Now, his birthday was July 5th. This particular July 5th was a hot one. Regardless, the birthday boy (well, birthday man as he was over 21) had expressed his dinner preferences: prime rib, baked potatoes, and cauliflower and broccoli. And cake, of course, as it was his birthday.
My house didn’t have any air conditioning.
So there we were, 7 of us, around the dinner table, perspiring, as you can imagine. I cooked the roast in the oven, so the entire kitchen was sweltering, and the kitchen is the only place here to eat. And then Anthony asked where the cheese sauce was. I told him I just couldn’t manage to make a cheese sauce that day. That comment was followed by my daughter’s then boyfriend, whom she’d been with a couple of years, asking where the gravy was. I explained that with cooking prime rib, one doesn’t have gravy, one has “au jus”. Of course, all the jokesters in the family had fun razzing me about “no cheese sauce” and not even a real gravy, just “au jus”, saying I was falling down on the job, that I should get a demerit put into my folder, and so on and so forth.
Our second daughter was sitting beside me and getting angrier and angrier—until I took pity on her and told her that they were all just teasing me—and that it was something that happened a lot around here.
This past Family Day family dinner was on the other end of the spectrum, so to speak. My second daughter wanted us to have a family dinner, since we hadn’t had one since Christmas. I told her, and my daughter, that if they wanted a family dinner, I would be happy to provide the venue and the food, but they would have to help. I’m not up to the big productions I used to do, and that’s just the way it is. They agreed. Then I asked (foolish question because I knew the answer) what they would like to eat for this meal. The answer? T-Bone steaks. There would be 8 of us eating steak, as my youngest grandson doesn’t care for it and prefers a couple of hamburgers instead.
When I pointed out that the only way to cook these steaks would be to do so on the outdoor grill, my daughter said she would be happy to do that. And she did, wonderfully, after her son cleared the mountain of snow leading up to and around the grill.
The girls were true to their word about taking on the lion’s share of the work. My contribution to the meal was minimal—I prepared the veggies, including that heart-shaped potato for my beloved.
This year, at least, the Ashbury’s lived up to the hype of the holiday. We had supper on Sunday with the girls and their crew and then went to our son’s house Monday mid-morning to have brunch with him and his.
These days, I cherish every opportunity I get to spend time with my loved ones. It is, in my mind, the most fulfilling time I spend.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
I don’t think one should read into this day any great reverence, on the part of the provincial government, for the Canadian Family. I think it was more a question of everyone complaining that we had to go from New Years Day all the way to Good Friday without a paid “holiday”.
Some communities hold special family-oriented events on the third Monday in February. We never bothered to attend any, of course, because by 2008 all of our children were grown and gone. This year, actually, was the first time we did anything in honor of the day, and it came about in a backwards sort of way.
It’s rather fascinating how a lot of the things we Ashbury’s end up doing happen that way.
Our second daughter has a great love of “family dinners”. I don’t believe she ever enjoyed one until she became a part of our family. In fact, I remember with a lot of fondness her first one here, and so does she.
The dinner was for our middle child, Anthony’s birthday, the first year the two of them were together as a couple. Now, his birthday was July 5th. This particular July 5th was a hot one. Regardless, the birthday boy (well, birthday man as he was over 21) had expressed his dinner preferences: prime rib, baked potatoes, and cauliflower and broccoli. And cake, of course, as it was his birthday.
My house didn’t have any air conditioning.
So there we were, 7 of us, around the dinner table, perspiring, as you can imagine. I cooked the roast in the oven, so the entire kitchen was sweltering, and the kitchen is the only place here to eat. And then Anthony asked where the cheese sauce was. I told him I just couldn’t manage to make a cheese sauce that day. That comment was followed by my daughter’s then boyfriend, whom she’d been with a couple of years, asking where the gravy was. I explained that with cooking prime rib, one doesn’t have gravy, one has “au jus”. Of course, all the jokesters in the family had fun razzing me about “no cheese sauce” and not even a real gravy, just “au jus”, saying I was falling down on the job, that I should get a demerit put into my folder, and so on and so forth.
Our second daughter was sitting beside me and getting angrier and angrier—until I took pity on her and told her that they were all just teasing me—and that it was something that happened a lot around here.
This past Family Day family dinner was on the other end of the spectrum, so to speak. My second daughter wanted us to have a family dinner, since we hadn’t had one since Christmas. I told her, and my daughter, that if they wanted a family dinner, I would be happy to provide the venue and the food, but they would have to help. I’m not up to the big productions I used to do, and that’s just the way it is. They agreed. Then I asked (foolish question because I knew the answer) what they would like to eat for this meal. The answer? T-Bone steaks. There would be 8 of us eating steak, as my youngest grandson doesn’t care for it and prefers a couple of hamburgers instead.
When I pointed out that the only way to cook these steaks would be to do so on the outdoor grill, my daughter said she would be happy to do that. And she did, wonderfully, after her son cleared the mountain of snow leading up to and around the grill.
The girls were true to their word about taking on the lion’s share of the work. My contribution to the meal was minimal—I prepared the veggies, including that heart-shaped potato for my beloved.
This year, at least, the Ashbury’s lived up to the hype of the holiday. We had supper on Sunday with the girls and their crew and then went to our son’s house Monday mid-morning to have brunch with him and his.
These days, I cherish every opportunity I get to spend time with my loved ones. It is, in my mind, the most fulfilling time I spend.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
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