July 9, 2014

It doesn’t seem that many years ago, that I would plan my weekends, during the growing season, according to what local crops would be available at the market.

Weekends were for canning in the spring and summer, and for freezing produce in the fall.

 I worked outside the home, except for when my two youngest were babies—I went back to work after my daughter started school. All through those early years, we did whatever we could do to outside of earning pay checks, to help feed ourselves. We had a massive veggie garden that the neighboring farmer would plow and disc for us every spring.

When the kids were small, my poor husband had a stretch of time when every job he got ended just before the three month mark. In those days, with so many people looking for work, it was common for companies to hire people for the short term—without telling them that, of course. This meant anything we could do to stretch those pay checks, dollars, we did.

 I don’t know if the practice of using newly hired employees as unsuspecting temp staff is still in vogue, or not. But if you hear me grumbling about “big companies” at least now you know where that’s coming from.

Each year while my family was growing, I would make jams—strawberry from end of June to first of July, and from berries we’d pick ourselves because they were always a lot cheaper that way; blueberry from mid July to August; and then finally, also in August, peach.

Also in August would be a good time to go to the farmers market to get small cucumbers to make baby dill pickles, and bread and butter pickles. The larger cucumbers were good for making green pickle relish. Then in late August, early September the preserve and pickle making would give way to produce processing. We’d buy bushels of broccoli, carrots, cauliflower, and, of course, sweet corn. I copied my mother’s method, and instead of putting those first four veggies into “meal sized bags” I would spread the pieces out on cookie sheets, set them in the freezer and then as soon as they were frozen, we’d put them in larger storage bags. I would do that with my pork chops, too. It was a savings to buy the very large pack of pork chops. Freezing things that way meant if you needed a couple more or a couple less for any given meal, you were able to take what you needed out of the freezer without wasting anything.

My husband helped me a fair bit for most of these activities, except when it came to the jam. He loved nothing better than fresh warm jam on fresh warm bread. I’ve never made my own bread from scratch nor have I ever had a bread-making machine. But I used to buy the frozen unbaked loaves. That was easy enough. Let them thaw, and rise, and then bake them.

So when it came to the jams, he used to help by eating them.

 Of course, that was a few years ago when I was in my 20s and 30s. In slightly under 2 weeks I’m going to be 60, and let me tell you, I don’t have nearly the stamina I used to have. In those younger years, I would make all my own because it was cheaper. These days, when I make my own, it’s for the love of doing it, of remembering those days when it was a way of life, and so that I have fresh jam to give to my loved ones, friends in Texas and family alike.

Last weekend my beloved and our daughter went to the St. Jacobs Farmer’s Market. I’d given them a list. I knew the strawberries were ready, and I’d heard it was going to be a short season this year so I wanted some of those. And I wondered about the blueberries. I never can keep it straight in my head when they’re ready. So I asked them to let me know what the status of the blueberry season was.

Apparently we are in blueberry season now, because husband and daughter came back with more than six quarts of them.

Yes, I spent a good deal of Saturday afternoon and Sunday morning making jam. I still get a sense of pride when I look at all those finished jars—10 one cup jars of strawberry jam and 14 one cup and 2 two cup jars of the blueberry.

But like I said, I’m nearly 60 and that shows. I am almost, but not quite, recovered from the experience.

Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

July 2, 2014

I don’t actually spend a whole lot of time on social media sites—well, not unless I am having one of those days when my self-discipline fails to show up.

But I do spend some time there each day, because next to writing there is nothing I enjoy more than interacting with my readers. Many of them I count as friends, and aside from posting things that might be of interest to them, I like to see what all they’re interested in themsevles. But it’s not only my regular readers whose postings I see. For better or worse I have more than 2500 “friends” on face book, so, as you can imagine, I end up getting all kinds of different stories in my news feed.

I love laughing at the funny things—cute animal videos, clever “signs”—some so clever I “share” them on my own time line. I enjoy sarcasm as much as the next person, and I do have a bit of a warped sense of humor.

But there’s been a trend lately that makes me uncomfortable. And I guess in a way—if you read my last week’s essay—you could call what I’m about to write here “Karma, part 2”.

In the last few weeks especially, I have been seeing way too many signs, sayings, pictures with captions, that I would class as hate-speak. And I have to ask the question, why are we letting ourselves take up that destructive emotion? Why are we letting hateful words and thoughts have time in our lives?

Yes, there is such a thing as freedom of speech and it is a precious, precious right. I would never consider curtailing someone’s right to express their opinion. I’m not suggesting that people don’t express opposition or dissension. We can be against something, we can disagree with someone, but do we have to hate?

Hate is the king of negative emotions. It is a seductress, but a false one. When we begin to indulge in it, it floods us with a sense of righteousness. When we post hateful things, striking out at those people or ideas we don’t like, we are rewarded with a sense of accomplishment: Boy, I really let them have it. We get a sense of well being: Glad I got that off my chest. That’ll teach them. And we get a sense of importance: I bet everyone wishes they had said that.

The only trouble is, these “rewards” are false. What you really get, for feeling hate and spreading hate, is more hate building up inside of you! It’s true. Love and hate are polar opposites, but the rules for each are the same. If you show love and feel love, you get more love within; and if you show and feel hate—yep, it gets multiplied, too. Hate will build up inside a person, filling them with darkness, and obscuring any light that was there—preventing any new light from entering in.

Have you ever been filled with hate, and it’s near cousin, anger? I have. Years ago, that was me. I was filled with hate, anger, envy...and quite frankly, I was miserable all the time. What a hellish, horrible feeling that was. I cannot now, all these years later, even imagine being a person devoted to hating, the way I used to be—the way some people seem to be, today. The most dangerous thing about hate is that it is a progressive disease—a kind of cancer of the spirit.

You yourself know this is true. I think most of us have one person in our news feed who begins with the odd hate-filled message, and then escalates. They can’t help it because, yeah, hate breeds hate.

Is there anyone reading this who truly believes that their hate-filled message to an organization or a leader will affect change? I’m not saying one person can’t make a difference. What I am saying is allowing hate and anger to grow inside of you and spewing it out for everyone to read is not the way to affect change.

You affect changed by getting involved and working for change. You don’t like the way your school is being run? Get involved with the PTA, or run for the school board, and help to create a better reality.

You don’t like the way your government is run? Join one of the political parties, and have a say in their platform, and work to get them elected.

Spoiled brats playing in the park kick dirt and throw stones when they don’t like how things are going, when they don’t get their way. If it can’t be their way, then they leave.

But we’re not spoiled brats. We’re adults, living, here in North America, in countries where there is rule of law, and where we have democracy—blessed democracy. Everybody of legal voting age who qualifies through citizenship gets the same thing everyone else gets: one vote. Implicit in that vote, is the acceptance of the outcome of the election, regardless what it may be.

That is what democracy is all about.

Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

June 25, 2014

Do you believe in Karma?

One doesn’t need to be a Buddhist in order to put credence to this principle. Basically and simply stated, Karma, as it is defined in that ancient Indian religion says that we are the heirs of our own actions.

You see that word written and hear it spoken a great deal these days. As it’s used today, you wouldn’t be remiss if you assumed that Karma equals payback. Whether for good or ill—and it’s used for both results—as Karma is defined by popular culture today, it’s widely held that people inherit either the rewards or punishments for their own actions, in the due course of their current lives.

One of the best things about being nearly 60 is that I have a lot of years that I can look back on, and enough experience that I can expound on certain things, and one of those things is the existence of Karma as it is popularly used.

I can tell you with a fair bit of certainty that Karma is a force to be reckoned with. Over the course of my life, I have encountered people who, for one reason or another, have set out to purposely harm others. Some of these people—not all, but certainly some—have directed their efforts against me.

I can completely understand that because, despite all appearances to the contrary, I am not an easy person to like, or even to get along with. We all have personal, emotional baggage and mine, quite frankly, gets the best of me sometimes.

I’ve been spending a few good afternoons in hindsight lately, and I can definitely say that there were times when I was the recipient of ill will and actions, that I had it coming. But there were also times when I didn’t earn whatever it was someone did or said against me. In response to many of those times, not surprisingly, the perpetrator later—sometimes within a year or two, and sometimes a fair bit longer—received a big slab of bad Karma to choke down.

If you can wrap your head around this concept, it could quite handily alleviate a great deal of stress from your life. You don’t need to worry about how you’re going to pay so-and-so back when they’ve done you wrong. After all, revenge really is a double-edged sword. Why risk even more crap raining down on your personal parade? You can get caught up in getting even, and before you know it, you have your own engraved, silver-plated fork for your regular consumption of Karma cake.

No, friends, it’s far better to take a few moments after these instances and bind your wounds. And then adopt that well known expression of Mr. T from the past century. Yes, after the binding of the wounds, take time to look upon the one who wounded you, and pity the fool—resting confident that Karma will come to visit them sooner or later.

Spend what time you can turning away from what has hurt you and instead focus on doing something for someone else. Make a difference, using whatever gifts you’ve been given, and give no more thought to “getting even” or paying someone back. Not only will you feel better, you’ll be earning yourself good Karma, which can end up being a very valuable commodity for you indeed.

Karma is real, and it will take care of things for you. However, if you’re someone who eschews the trends of pop culture, preferring to cling to traditional mores and concepts, take heart. You too can trust in the inevitability of Karma.

Or, as it is also known, the Biblical principle of sowing and reaping.

Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

June 18, 2014

I hope the dads among us all had a happy Father’s Day on Sunday. Too often in our society, fathers, just as much as mothers, are under appreciated.

We expect a lot from fathers. Some of these expectations hark back to the days when a woman married a man based on his ability to provide basic needs and protection for her and the children she would bear him. In those days the man was the undisputed king of his home, not just by tradition, but by law. As much as we woman chafe at that concept in today’s modern times, historically speaking, it really was the way society was organized to provide for the survival of the species.

In today’s world, we haven’t lost all of those old expectations, no matter what we would like to believe. In fact, not only have we kept several of those prerequisites as a society, we’ve added new ones, too, because what is “expected” has changed over time. The combination of the two, in my opinion, make the job of being a father a lot more difficult than it ever used to be.

Even in this enlightened age, we still mostly expect fathers to be the main breadwinners of the family. Women work outside the home, of course they do. They are equal home-owners and decision makers by today’s standards. Yet still, women consider the question, when they become mothers, of whether to go back to work after the maternity leave has ended, or to give up the job and be a stay at home mom, at least until the children go to school. There’s no right answer to that question, as women are individuals with individual aspirations. But we women all do think over which option is best for us.

By and large, the fathers aren’t given that choice at all. They are expected to continue to work, no matter what.

We expect fathers to protect our children from harm, even though that expectation, in today’s world, isn’t always realistic. Neither are fathers allowed the same tools they once had to ensure the safety of their families. There are no more castles, or moats; fathers may no longer lock their children in their rooms to keep the dangerous elements of society away from them. In an age when children are seeking and being granted rights that quite frankly they are sometimes far too young to truly understand, we have made the father’s job of protecting his family very difficult.

 And yet despite all these things, today’s father has adapted. You don’t see fathers with picket signs bemoaning how hard it is to do what we ask of them. You see them, instead, coaching baseball and soccer for their sons and their daughters. You see them driving kids to games and lessons, playing at the park with their children, sitting at the kitchen table helping their kids with math, or science projects. You see today’s fathers being an integral part of their children’s lives.

Fathers take an active interest in their children’s educations, teach them how to drive, fix broken toys and sometimes, do their best to patch up broken dreams. Fathers are there in the night when the bogey man is near, and they lend a solid shoulder to cry on when the tough stuff of life hits.

They never stop being fathers, either. When their children are grown and have children of their own, they are still there, with advice and a hug, stalwart in their role.

Mothers are good at nurturing in a gentle way. Fathers are good at setting the limits, and loving you even when you overstep those bounds.

So fathers, here’s to you, and the countless selfless acts you perform for you families, doing what you do because it’s the right thing to do—and not ever once considering doing it any other way.

You’ll say that’s nothing special. But the rest if us know, that’s what being a hero is all about.

Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

June 11, 2014

Some people suffer a loss, and that loss changes them irrevocably. And for them, the answer—the only answer—is to make that loss count for something.

The death of a child is a terrible thing—the greatest tragedy a parent can suffer. Like other horrendous life traumas, that loss is often far-reaching and life altering. Many find solace and closure by dedicating themselves to doing good work in the name of the one they’ve lost.

For some people, that dedication leads them to prominence. In their efforts to do what they can to see to it no other parent has to walk their path, they make a positive difference, a difference that touches many.

On May 3rd, 1980, a 13 year old girl, Cari Lightner, was killed in a hit and run accident in Fair Oaks, California. The driver of the vehicle was a repeat offender of driving under the influence. Cari’s mother, Candy Lightner’s response to the death of her daughter and the light sentence given her killer, prompted her to begin an organization, Mothers Against Drunk Drivers—later changed to Mothers Against Drunk Driving—MADD. This organization, in my opinion, is why today, in our society, driving drunk is such a taboo. When I was a teen, the crime wasn’t taken all that seriously, either by society, or through it, by the courts. Now, for the most part, those who drink and drive become pariahs.

In July of 1981, on the other side of the country, in Hollywood Florida, 6 year old Adam Walsh was abducted from a department store. He was never seen alive again.

The murder of this young child drove his father, John Walsh, to become an advocate for the victims of violent crimes. He rose to national prominence as the host of America’s Most Wanted. As a result of this case, and others, the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children was formed, and the U. S. Congress passed the Adam Walsh Child Protection and Safety Act.

These are two well known examples of bereaved parents taking positive action so that the pain they endured, and the lives of their young children were not meaningless.

But not everyone is given to this kind of service; not everyone is blessed with the same gifts. We’re all different, and how we process our life events can be as varied as our personalities. There is no “should” here, no expectations as to how one ought to deal with devastating personal loss.

Some folks never get over the loss itself. Some can never leave the grieving behind. Actually, the truth for all of us is that the death of a child leaves a hole in the parents’ hearts that will never—can never—be filled. There is no “getting over” it. There are ways of coping, and while we continue on living our lives, getting up each day, going to bed each night, going through the motions—life is never the same for us.

But then, life never stays the same for anyone, even those who’ve never endured such a heavy tragedy. We’re not, any of us, exactly the same people we were twenty years ago, or even ten years ago. Sometimes the changes in us are subtle. Sometimes we mellow, and sometimes our inner curmudgeon becomes more of a visible part of our personalities.

Life itself changes us, and really, that is the purpose of it. We are not born to party. We are not born to be miserable. We are born, period. What we do as we travel this individual path we’re each of us on is the formula for the alchemy of our own existence. If we’re lucky, then along the way, we learn, we love, and we laugh. We know sorrow, of course, everyone does, but hopefully we know joy, too. We help others, and learn to accept help in return. We come to appreciate small victories and large ones alike, and maybe we understand that each is valuable, each has its place in the grand scheme of things.

Hopefully, we evolve and use our talents, and the seeds of greatness within us and create a beautiful, abundant garden with them.

Our gardens won’t be the same—but that’s what makes them so breathtaking and so very worthwhile.

Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

June 4, 2014

I’ve always been more than just a bit of an odd duck. I was told—though I don’t really recall—that when the “Lassie” theme song would come on, [the theme known as “The Whistler”], I would cry. I couldn’t have been more than four or five at the time.

Then, fast forward pre-teen and teen years, and watching episodes of I Love Lucy. They weren’t first run episodes but reruns, and it wasn’t so much that I wanted to watch them as Mom watched them, and if I wanted to enjoy television, then so did I. I distinctly remember watching this show, everyone laughing at the antics of the zany redhead, and me left feeling...embarrassed.

Seriously, I was embarrassed on behalf of that ditzy woman. Sometimes I would even cover my face with my hands. Yes, that embarrassed, as if those moments were happening to me.

That was probably taking empathy to the extreme, but I didn’t know that at the time. I was just a kid, after all. And that’s just how I was.

And it wasn’t just these television shows, either, where I experienced this sort of a reaction. It happened more times than I could count—music would move me to tears, and comedy programs would make me feel uncomfortable. And horror movies? Or movies where the characters were threatened/tortured/killed? Not happening. As far as I was concerned, those genres didn’t even exist. As an adult I still refuse to watch horror, or movies where the lead characters are killed.

Strangely, that aversion to what I considered stupid comedy stayed with me a long time. I had to become an adult before I lost the tendency to think, “oh my goodness I am just going to slither down in my chair while that actor/actress makes an total ass of themselves.” We’re talking, probably, twenty years ago when I finally broke that habit.

And yet traces of that strange reaction live on, coming awake again in this second career of mine, as I contemplated plots and plot twists for my characters.

In the beginning, I had a real hard time putting my characters in peril—or having them involved in really bad arguments. The romance genre is rife with stories where the heroes and heroines have terrible fights, and then walk away from each other and the love that the reader knows is so right for them. It doesn’t matter that they then, a chapter or two later, come together again. I could not let my characters have those kinds of fights.

You might be thinking, well, how silly, and yet, in a way, that I would feel this way makes sense.

 I’d begun to explore my creative side as an author when I was still a kid—a kid who never quite really dealt with the loss of her father. My reality at the time was so sad, that I turned to writing to create my on world. Of course, that world had to be vastly different from the world I knew. Conflict, in those early stories, was a definite no-no, because in my world nothing bad was allowed to happen.

Sometimes the habits we form as children stay with us beyond our need for them. The first few times we consciously choose to break those old patterns, it’s uncomfortable. But that discomfort is not a sign that what we’re doing by changing our behavior is wrong.

It is merely a sign that we are doing something different and stepping into the unknown.

These days I do have my characters in peril, sometimes hurt, wounded, possibly near death. They can have rip roaring fights but never quite manage that moment of turning away—even to turn back a chapter later.

Oh, and there is one thing you will never find in my books: a stupid heroine. That’s right, I still haven’t broken that habit. And when I’m reading a book, and I encounter one?

Well, let’s just say I don’t quite want to slink down in my seat in total, empathic mortification for the silly woman’s extreme stupidity.

But it’s close.

Love, 
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

May 28, 2014

This past Monday was a special day of commemoration for my American friends, and it was good to see the out-pouring of emotion and gratitude for those who wear their country’s uniform.

In Canada, we don’t celebrate “Memorial Day” in May. That doesn’t mean that we don’t have a day set aside to salute our veterans, because we do. It’s November 11th, “Remembrance Day”. The concept is the same, except we tend to have organized services and a lot of ritual. These take place at 11 a. m., and signify “the eleventh hour of the eleventh day, of the eleventh month”, the moment when the armistice took effect, a silencing of the guns before the actual end of the First World War.

Although there are differences between our two days of commemoration, the heart of them is the same. As a child in school, I, with my fellow students sported a “poppy” on my lapel, another bit of symbolism for Canadians. During the First World War, Canadian Army physician Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae penned a poem, “In Flanders Fields”. This is traditionally read during our Remembrance Day ceremonies, after the two minutes of silence—which we again observe at precisely 11 a.m., immediately following the bugling of “The Last Post.”

We Canadians, being members of the British Commonwealth, really do love our pomp and ceremonies and traditions.

And yet, while we follow all these prescribed rites and rituals, supposedly outward signs of an inward grace, I wonder if we’re not, all of us, really just deluding ourselves.

Because, while it’s good to remember, and to pay homage, and to say “thank you” to our veterans and current service members, I think we both—my country and our neighbors to the south—fall down on the very spirit of it all.

We need to treat our veterans, and our military service members, better. There should be no question about their rights to health care, housing, employment, or any other benefit one might hope for in a civilized society. There should be no such thing as a homeless veteran. Ever.

These men and women served us all, and put their lives on the line to protect our rights and our freedoms and yes, our very lives. It wasn’t you and I on the front lines getting our asses shot at. It was them, these brave and selfless heroes and heroines. Some of our soldiers gave the ultimate sacrifice, and some came home irrevocably changed—grievously mentally or physically wounded.

We have a sacred obligation to these men and women: and that obligation ought to be the first priority of our governments.

Governments declare war, institute drafts, and call for volunteers to fight those wars—that really, at the heart of it all, benefit those governments. When we promise those who serve that we will take care of them and then fail to do so it is as black a mark upon all our souls as there can ever be.

For while it is governments that declare war, they are our governments, democratically elected by us to represent we, the people. They do our will, and so in the end, it is we who bear the burden of responsibility.

Most people assume that the “foe” that Lt. Col. McCrae referred to in his poem only meant the enemy against whom we waged war at the time. But I wonder if perhaps that small word doesn’t have a much larger definition:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow 
Between the crosses, row on row, 
That mark our place; and in the sky 
The larks, still bravely singing, fly 
Scarce heard amid the guns below. 

We are the Dead. Short days ago 
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, 
Loved and were loved, and now we lie, 
In Flanders fields. 

Take up our quarrel with the foe: 
To you from failing hands we throw 
The torch; be yours to hold it high. 
If ye break faith with us who die 
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow 
In Flanders fields. 

Let’s stop negating our responsibility to our veterans and the members of our military and their families. Let’s choose to honor them every day, and not just one day of the year. Put pressure on your elected officials—and take action yourself:

http://www.woundedwarriorproject.org/
http://www.woundedwarriors.ca/

Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com

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