October 21, 2015
It’s time for my seasonal lapse into denial. You may (or may not) be surprised to learn that there are some things I like to pretend don’t exist. This is why, on this past Sunday, I told my beloved—and my street team—that I had awakened to discover a fine dusting of pollen on my car.
For the record, I know it was snow. I was just determined not to make that admission. Winter. Ugh, we all know it’s coming. For some, the knowledge that another winter will soon be here must be news they don’t want to hear, either. There are parts of the United States that have been hit almost constantly since last winter with devastating weather conditions. Some of you haven’t been able to catch a break.
No doubt about it, Mother Nature is definitely menopausal.
I know there are some things we can prepare for in life. We can have little survival “kits” stashed in the pantry with candles and the like, in case the power goes out. We can live frugally and prepare financially for life’s inevitable emergencies like sickness, unemployment, and car repairs.
But I don’t really know how one prepares for the horrific circumstance of losing everything.
I can tell you that my beloved and I didn’t prepare for it or expect it. We lost our home—twice, two different homes—to fire. And while in the end we recovered, in the midst of the situation, I remember thinking the same thing, both times: that at least none of us was hurt, or worst, killed. And I think that is how most people handle this sort of devastation. When horrific circumstances hit we look for that ray of sunshine, for something to focus on that’s good. It’s human nature, I believe, tied to the survival instinct. After all, it’s not just our bodies that need to survive, but our spirits as well.
Lives have been lost during the recent spate of flooding in the south. That’s hard, very hard to deal with for the families and the friends of the dead. For those whose loved ones were safe but who lost all they had, that they had survived was a blessing to cling to. They could at least rejoice in the safety of their family.
We’re in a period of climatic upheaval. Who can deny it? Whether you believe that we’re on a path to previously unknown perils due to climate change brought about by human hubris, or you’re a hold out, believing that this is just a cycle like many others in our planet’s history, the truth is right now, our weather is unpredictable and nasty.
I’m thinking back to what life must have been like in ages past, when people began to explore and settle this continent, when they pushed westward into the unknown, seeking only the opportunity to carve out a life for themselves and their families. Uncertainty would have been a constant companion. There were no guarantees in life at all in those times.
We, in this age, have gotten “soft”. It is only in the last century that we’ve begun to expect fairness and prosperity; that we’ve begun to expect guarantees in life.
But the truth is we are human beings, and while we have learned to manipulate much of our immediate environment—not just the natural kind, but our circumstances in a socio-economic sense—we must remember one thing.
In the end, none of us can live forever—and none of us can control Mother Nature.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, October 21, 2015
Wednesday, October 14, 2015
October 14, 2015
With this issue, Wednesday’s Words turns 9 years old. I know what you’re thinking: does this woman not know when to shut up? No. No, I don’t. That said, here’s this week’s essay.
This past weekend here in Canada, was our Thanksgiving weekend. In the U.S. Thanksgiving is always celebrated on the fourth Thursday in November; here in Canada it’s the second Monday in October.
In years past, the family gathered here at our house. I’ve always loved to cook—I still do—and it was never a chore for me to prepare a feast for anywhere from five to fifteen people. But those days are no more. It takes almost more stamina than I can manage to pull off a huge production like that. So for the last two years, we’ve had our Thanksgiving at my daughter’s house.
It was a big enough gathering—10 of us including our two great-grandchildren. I must say Jenny did a wonderful job. The turkey was moist, the stuffing had just the right about of spice. There were veggies—squash, a broccoli/cauliflower combo with cheese sauce, and candied yams. She even had coleslaw and a tossed salad. Dessert was pie—apple and pumpkin—with ice cream.
My daughter is a woman I truly admire. She was a single mom, who raised her son mostly on her own—she never went on welfare. She always worked and did the best she could.
Her son, his fiancée and their two babies live with her. She works full time as a PSW—personal support worker (the equivalent of a Nurse’s Aid). While she does see some clients in the long term care facility here in town, most of her clients are in the community. Some are young, dealing with disability or disease. Some are elderly. Some are short term clients—assigned a worker because they’ve had recent surgery or are recovering from an accident and aren’t yet able to care for themselves when it comes to meals or bathing, or even getting dressed.
Some of her clients are hers until the end of their lives. I hear her speak of these people, always in a kindly way. She forms relationships with them, and I know she often does more for them than is required.
One time, when she was coming for supper on a night when we were having a special dinner, she asked for a plate of food for one of her clients she knew didn’t have family coming by. She said, “Mrs. X doesn’t eat as much as she should, she just picks. But if I take her a plate and tell her you made it and sent it along, she will eat every bite.” Of course, she got the plate of food.
Another time, a client she had for several years was complaining of a cramp in one foot. She’d tried using a heating pad, but she couldn’t get it wrapped around properly—and she likely shouldn’t have been trying that, anyway. This woman was reasonably active, still driving, and not that old. Jenny came and asked me if I had one of those bean-bag hot packs for feet. I laughed and told her I didn’t think they made them for feet, but I had one for hands and she was welcome to take them to the woman.
She came to me one time, and asked me if I had any nightgowns in good condition that I would like to give away. There was a woman in the facility with only one, and her family never came by to see her, or cared to see to her needs. I had a couple, and was happy to help—and proud that she’d thought to help the lady.
She buys Christmas presents for her long term clients, and I know that for some of them, those presents mean much more than the few dollars she’s spent on them.
There are times, inevitably, when her clients pass on. One was a young woman who’d had Cystic Fibrosis and Diabetes. Jenny had been seeing her nearly every day, several times a day, for several years.
I’ve asked her if it doesn’t just tear her up when that happens. I know myself, and I can tell you, I wouldn’t be able to handle that gracefully.
But my daughter said no. She said she wouldn’t know them, except that they were clients. While they were hers, she did the best she could to take care of them, to be someone they could talk to and feel comfortable with. When she can, she attends their funerals.
Yesterday she got word that one of her clients of five years went into hospice. The woman actually left her a voicemail, thanking her for all she’d done, and saying goodbye.
I consider myself a capable woman, but I tell you truly, I would not be able to do my daughter’s job—and certainly not with the degree of compassion and professionalism she does.
I’m very proud of her.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
With this issue, Wednesday’s Words turns 9 years old. I know what you’re thinking: does this woman not know when to shut up? No. No, I don’t. That said, here’s this week’s essay.
This past weekend here in Canada, was our Thanksgiving weekend. In the U.S. Thanksgiving is always celebrated on the fourth Thursday in November; here in Canada it’s the second Monday in October.
In years past, the family gathered here at our house. I’ve always loved to cook—I still do—and it was never a chore for me to prepare a feast for anywhere from five to fifteen people. But those days are no more. It takes almost more stamina than I can manage to pull off a huge production like that. So for the last two years, we’ve had our Thanksgiving at my daughter’s house.
It was a big enough gathering—10 of us including our two great-grandchildren. I must say Jenny did a wonderful job. The turkey was moist, the stuffing had just the right about of spice. There were veggies—squash, a broccoli/cauliflower combo with cheese sauce, and candied yams. She even had coleslaw and a tossed salad. Dessert was pie—apple and pumpkin—with ice cream.
My daughter is a woman I truly admire. She was a single mom, who raised her son mostly on her own—she never went on welfare. She always worked and did the best she could.
Her son, his fiancée and their two babies live with her. She works full time as a PSW—personal support worker (the equivalent of a Nurse’s Aid). While she does see some clients in the long term care facility here in town, most of her clients are in the community. Some are young, dealing with disability or disease. Some are elderly. Some are short term clients—assigned a worker because they’ve had recent surgery or are recovering from an accident and aren’t yet able to care for themselves when it comes to meals or bathing, or even getting dressed.
Some of her clients are hers until the end of their lives. I hear her speak of these people, always in a kindly way. She forms relationships with them, and I know she often does more for them than is required.
One time, when she was coming for supper on a night when we were having a special dinner, she asked for a plate of food for one of her clients she knew didn’t have family coming by. She said, “Mrs. X doesn’t eat as much as she should, she just picks. But if I take her a plate and tell her you made it and sent it along, she will eat every bite.” Of course, she got the plate of food.
Another time, a client she had for several years was complaining of a cramp in one foot. She’d tried using a heating pad, but she couldn’t get it wrapped around properly—and she likely shouldn’t have been trying that, anyway. This woman was reasonably active, still driving, and not that old. Jenny came and asked me if I had one of those bean-bag hot packs for feet. I laughed and told her I didn’t think they made them for feet, but I had one for hands and she was welcome to take them to the woman.
She came to me one time, and asked me if I had any nightgowns in good condition that I would like to give away. There was a woman in the facility with only one, and her family never came by to see her, or cared to see to her needs. I had a couple, and was happy to help—and proud that she’d thought to help the lady.
She buys Christmas presents for her long term clients, and I know that for some of them, those presents mean much more than the few dollars she’s spent on them.
There are times, inevitably, when her clients pass on. One was a young woman who’d had Cystic Fibrosis and Diabetes. Jenny had been seeing her nearly every day, several times a day, for several years.
I’ve asked her if it doesn’t just tear her up when that happens. I know myself, and I can tell you, I wouldn’t be able to handle that gracefully.
But my daughter said no. She said she wouldn’t know them, except that they were clients. While they were hers, she did the best she could to take care of them, to be someone they could talk to and feel comfortable with. When she can, she attends their funerals.
Yesterday she got word that one of her clients of five years went into hospice. The woman actually left her a voicemail, thanking her for all she’d done, and saying goodbye.
I consider myself a capable woman, but I tell you truly, I would not be able to do my daughter’s job—and certainly not with the degree of compassion and professionalism she does.
I’m very proud of her.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, October 7, 2015
October 7, 2015
As I get older, I hear words come out of my mouth that I used to hear come out of the mouths of my mother, and later, my father-in-law.
I remember how I felt hearing those words too, words that began with the phrase spoken or intuited, “back in my day”. This would appear to be the same way those around me feel when I utter that same concept—if their eye rolls are any indication. There’s a tendency, I suppose, to dismiss out of hand some of the grumblings of the senior generation. I understand that, actually, because I do fully recognize and accept that the older I get the crankier I can be.
That said, I do believe, unrelated to the emergence of my inner curmudgeon, that it can generally be said that in this day and age, two very important—dare I say sacred?—qualities seem to be lacking in our society: common sense, and the art of compromise.
Lack of common sense, when I was a kid, used to get me a swat on the back of the head—or a more severe punishment, like being grounded. Lack of common sense used to be something most people avoided like the plague. To be accused of having no common sense was a stinging indictment, a horrible insult, or in other words, a really bad thing.
When, and why, did that change? Why did we kill common sense? I don’t have the answer for that, but I sure as hell see the results of it in the news nearly every single day. I’ve read stories of a kindergarten boy being suspended from school because he placed a kiss on the cheek of a female classmate. Georgie Porgie anyone? Actually, school administrators are the most bereft of common sense, if you ask me. The latest asinine school admin decision I’ve read about? A boy brought a clock he made to school to impress his teacher and ends up suspended and being considered for charges—hoaxing a bomb, wasn’t it? If you want to charge anyone with that, charge the dumbass teacher or principal who panicked and called the police.
Yes, I know. Perilous times and blah blah blah. People, do I have to say this? Yes, hold the line. Be vigilant. But if y’all are going to run around like chicken little, divorcing your common sense and, apparently, your intelligence, guess what? You’ve handed those terrorists a huge victory—a bigger one, in fact, than the one you’re trying to prevent.
I can just hear them over there now at terrorist central. “Ha! Over in North America they used to have freedom, they used to be caring and kind to one another, they used to have rational discourse between political factions. But we fixed all that!”
Just think about it for a few minutes. It might sink in.
Thinking of those political factions brings me back to the second virtue that’s been murdered: the art of compromise.
Didn’t our parents tell us that we could not have our own way all the time? Mine did and I am positive yours did too (you know, in the days of common sense).
Here’s how I will explain the art of compromise it in terms relevant to my husband’s and my life for those younger folk who don’t know what it is. We married young, and went from our parents’ homes to our own. We had but a weekend honeymoon. David grew up in a family with both parents, but more, a father who was the Commander In Chief. He’d say “jump” and everyone would ask, “how high, sir?”
I grew up in a house where my dad was the head of the family until he died when I was seven and a half. After that, my mom was in charge, and did everything from earning the money to cooking the meals, to fixing the toaster when it broke. She built window valances, and planed one of the plank floors upstairs to make it level.
David and I got home from our honeymoon and my dear new husband tried his hand at edict-issuing a la his dad. He said, “I’ll tell you right now, I eat roast beef, roast pork, mashed potatoes, cream corn and canned peas.” I looked at him and said, “I’m sorry. We don’t earn enough money to eat roast beef and roast pork every night. So you’ll have to eat what I put in front of you.”
We very quickly compromised: he would try everything once. What he didn’t like, I would not make again. In those days the only thing he didn’t like was liver. Now he’s older, and he even likes that too.
I hope we can all get back to common sense and the art of compromise. In my opinion, they can make the difference between living a good and meaningful life, and merely being alive.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
As I get older, I hear words come out of my mouth that I used to hear come out of the mouths of my mother, and later, my father-in-law.
I remember how I felt hearing those words too, words that began with the phrase spoken or intuited, “back in my day”. This would appear to be the same way those around me feel when I utter that same concept—if their eye rolls are any indication. There’s a tendency, I suppose, to dismiss out of hand some of the grumblings of the senior generation. I understand that, actually, because I do fully recognize and accept that the older I get the crankier I can be.
That said, I do believe, unrelated to the emergence of my inner curmudgeon, that it can generally be said that in this day and age, two very important—dare I say sacred?—qualities seem to be lacking in our society: common sense, and the art of compromise.
Lack of common sense, when I was a kid, used to get me a swat on the back of the head—or a more severe punishment, like being grounded. Lack of common sense used to be something most people avoided like the plague. To be accused of having no common sense was a stinging indictment, a horrible insult, or in other words, a really bad thing.
When, and why, did that change? Why did we kill common sense? I don’t have the answer for that, but I sure as hell see the results of it in the news nearly every single day. I’ve read stories of a kindergarten boy being suspended from school because he placed a kiss on the cheek of a female classmate. Georgie Porgie anyone? Actually, school administrators are the most bereft of common sense, if you ask me. The latest asinine school admin decision I’ve read about? A boy brought a clock he made to school to impress his teacher and ends up suspended and being considered for charges—hoaxing a bomb, wasn’t it? If you want to charge anyone with that, charge the dumbass teacher or principal who panicked and called the police.
Yes, I know. Perilous times and blah blah blah. People, do I have to say this? Yes, hold the line. Be vigilant. But if y’all are going to run around like chicken little, divorcing your common sense and, apparently, your intelligence, guess what? You’ve handed those terrorists a huge victory—a bigger one, in fact, than the one you’re trying to prevent.
I can just hear them over there now at terrorist central. “Ha! Over in North America they used to have freedom, they used to be caring and kind to one another, they used to have rational discourse between political factions. But we fixed all that!”
Just think about it for a few minutes. It might sink in.
Thinking of those political factions brings me back to the second virtue that’s been murdered: the art of compromise.
Didn’t our parents tell us that we could not have our own way all the time? Mine did and I am positive yours did too (you know, in the days of common sense).
Here’s how I will explain the art of compromise it in terms relevant to my husband’s and my life for those younger folk who don’t know what it is. We married young, and went from our parents’ homes to our own. We had but a weekend honeymoon. David grew up in a family with both parents, but more, a father who was the Commander In Chief. He’d say “jump” and everyone would ask, “how high, sir?”
I grew up in a house where my dad was the head of the family until he died when I was seven and a half. After that, my mom was in charge, and did everything from earning the money to cooking the meals, to fixing the toaster when it broke. She built window valances, and planed one of the plank floors upstairs to make it level.
David and I got home from our honeymoon and my dear new husband tried his hand at edict-issuing a la his dad. He said, “I’ll tell you right now, I eat roast beef, roast pork, mashed potatoes, cream corn and canned peas.” I looked at him and said, “I’m sorry. We don’t earn enough money to eat roast beef and roast pork every night. So you’ll have to eat what I put in front of you.”
We very quickly compromised: he would try everything once. What he didn’t like, I would not make again. In those days the only thing he didn’t like was liver. Now he’s older, and he even likes that too.
I hope we can all get back to common sense and the art of compromise. In my opinion, they can make the difference between living a good and meaningful life, and merely being alive.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, September 30, 2015
September 30, 2015
I have a confession to make. I’m a bit of a pack rat. I don’t know why throwing anything away is so hard for me, but there it is. Every once in a while, I need help. This past week end, I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth, and since it was her weekend off work, asked my daughter to please come and clean/clear out my office.
She decided she’d do the deed on Sunday. There was a reason for that. She knew I had to go into the city to the nursing office. Then my beloved and I planned to have lunch out before we went grocery shopping. Those chores on the agenda guaranteed that we would be gone while she got a good start on the job.
Two days before the appointed day, when she was here, I started to tell her about how I wanted a few things to be arranged...and she told me to hush. “You’ve asked for my help. Now you must let go and let me help.” My response to that—aside from calling her a cheeky wench—was to wait until she left. Then I sorted through what was in my immediate work area, and took care of everything in that small space. I could live with her arranging the bookshelves, and completely replacing the one small bookshelf that I used for sundry items (our unopened boxes of coffee pods for the Keurig and my entire liquor supply—a small collection of bottles, most of which are several years old).
I wasn’t the only one being ordered about. Our daughter told my husband he must put together the unopened wooden shelf kit so that she could install it in place of the somewhat bowing one that had been there for a couple of years and that she intended to replace.
I let my daughter see that I was somewhat concerned when she arrived Sunday morning, and the first thing she did was to open the contractor-sized garbage bag she brought with her and grin like a maniac. I was going to ask her to use the recycling bin when possible, but I knew what that request would net me. She’d do what she liked, regardless. I wasn’t really worried that she would throw out anything important. She has a pretty good sense of what I want/need and what I don’t.
My daughter and I pretty much see eye to eye on most things. There is, however, one area in which we do not agree, and I would say the fact this is so, was inevitable.
I know my daughter believes that she and I are making “the transition”. Those of you who are in your thirties or forties with elderly parents know what I’m talking about. There comes a point, if you’re fortunate enough to have your parents still alive as you move into your middle years, when you begin to assume some responsibility for them. As they age and their faculties begin to wane, you begin to do little things to help them. You check on them and see to it that they’re well. Maybe you make sure of their medical appointment schedule, get them there, or make sure their medications are up to date. You check the fridge to see that they have the food necessary to eat healthy meals.
And as you perform these services it almost seems as if you become the parent to your parent who’s now like your child. That’s what I call the transition.
That’s where my daughter’s mind set is heading and all I can say to that is a good, old-fashioned Southern “bless her heart”.
Yes, I’m 61. Do I have trouble walking? Oh, you bet I do. Every step is a challenge especially right now, as I begin to work at regaining my stamina after three weeks of being less mobile than usual because of my surgery. But do my physical limitations translate into metal or intellectual feebleness?
Hell, no.
My daughter does have a good heart. She works as a nurse’s aide. She gives to her clients in the community—most of them elderly—and often to a degree that is above and beyond expectations. There have been a few in the local nursing home who don’t have family visiting them, and she makes sure they have a gift at Christmas—and yes, it comes out of her own pocket.
I am sure that when the time eventually comes for me to have someone “supervise” me, she’ll do a really good job. But that day is far from now.
In the meantime, I am happy to have her work for a day cleaning, clearing, and feeling superior as long as at the end of the day, things are easier for me to manage.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
I have a confession to make. I’m a bit of a pack rat. I don’t know why throwing anything away is so hard for me, but there it is. Every once in a while, I need help. This past week end, I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth, and since it was her weekend off work, asked my daughter to please come and clean/clear out my office.
She decided she’d do the deed on Sunday. There was a reason for that. She knew I had to go into the city to the nursing office. Then my beloved and I planned to have lunch out before we went grocery shopping. Those chores on the agenda guaranteed that we would be gone while she got a good start on the job.
Two days before the appointed day, when she was here, I started to tell her about how I wanted a few things to be arranged...and she told me to hush. “You’ve asked for my help. Now you must let go and let me help.” My response to that—aside from calling her a cheeky wench—was to wait until she left. Then I sorted through what was in my immediate work area, and took care of everything in that small space. I could live with her arranging the bookshelves, and completely replacing the one small bookshelf that I used for sundry items (our unopened boxes of coffee pods for the Keurig and my entire liquor supply—a small collection of bottles, most of which are several years old).
I wasn’t the only one being ordered about. Our daughter told my husband he must put together the unopened wooden shelf kit so that she could install it in place of the somewhat bowing one that had been there for a couple of years and that she intended to replace.
I let my daughter see that I was somewhat concerned when she arrived Sunday morning, and the first thing she did was to open the contractor-sized garbage bag she brought with her and grin like a maniac. I was going to ask her to use the recycling bin when possible, but I knew what that request would net me. She’d do what she liked, regardless. I wasn’t really worried that she would throw out anything important. She has a pretty good sense of what I want/need and what I don’t.
My daughter and I pretty much see eye to eye on most things. There is, however, one area in which we do not agree, and I would say the fact this is so, was inevitable.
I know my daughter believes that she and I are making “the transition”. Those of you who are in your thirties or forties with elderly parents know what I’m talking about. There comes a point, if you’re fortunate enough to have your parents still alive as you move into your middle years, when you begin to assume some responsibility for them. As they age and their faculties begin to wane, you begin to do little things to help them. You check on them and see to it that they’re well. Maybe you make sure of their medical appointment schedule, get them there, or make sure their medications are up to date. You check the fridge to see that they have the food necessary to eat healthy meals.
And as you perform these services it almost seems as if you become the parent to your parent who’s now like your child. That’s what I call the transition.
That’s where my daughter’s mind set is heading and all I can say to that is a good, old-fashioned Southern “bless her heart”.
Yes, I’m 61. Do I have trouble walking? Oh, you bet I do. Every step is a challenge especially right now, as I begin to work at regaining my stamina after three weeks of being less mobile than usual because of my surgery. But do my physical limitations translate into metal or intellectual feebleness?
Hell, no.
My daughter does have a good heart. She works as a nurse’s aide. She gives to her clients in the community—most of them elderly—and often to a degree that is above and beyond expectations. There have been a few in the local nursing home who don’t have family visiting them, and she makes sure they have a gift at Christmas—and yes, it comes out of her own pocket.
I am sure that when the time eventually comes for me to have someone “supervise” me, she’ll do a really good job. But that day is far from now.
In the meantime, I am happy to have her work for a day cleaning, clearing, and feeling superior as long as at the end of the day, things are easier for me to manage.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
Wednesday, September 23, 2015
September 23, 2015
It’s the first day of autumn. That seems later this year, as for some reason, my mind thinks the change of season day is always the twenty-first of the month. That’s because when my brain finally matured, whatever was “normal” at that time—be it the price of a loaf of bread, the proper way to wear jeans, i.e., cinched at the waist and not mid-way down the butt crack, or the day the season changed—became normal for me, forever.
We get set in our ways, but maybe we should take a lesson from Mother Nature. She doesn’t get set in her ways at all. She has no problem having hissy fit after hissy fit, and does whatever the hell she wants. I wish someone would give that lady a tranquilizer so she could mellow out.
My beloved and I always note the day when we think the season changed from summer to autumn, and it’s usually a week or more in advance of the actual, official, first day of fall. Summer seems to have a sky that is a rich, vibrant blue, a blue with depth to it. Then comes a day, usually lately near the end of August, when we notice the sky isn’t that rich blue anymore. The shade seems a bit lighter—and even if the sun burns hot on that day there’s a quality to the air and combined, those two signals, to us, scream “autumn”.
And usually within a couple of days of that, we see the first tiny sign in the leaves on some of the trees we pass as we drive—a few tiny little traitors who, tired of life, have let it go and allowed the yellow or red to infiltrate their tiny leafy bodies.
We have a walnut tree that stands at the corner of our porch. This tree is the last in the area to gain its leaves, and the first to lose them. As soon as the walnuts are formed—these nuts are only edible to the squirrels—then the tree has fulfilled its annual purpose, and its leaves turn and begin to drop. It is generally bare by the time the neighbors’ maple trees have turned color. There is constant leaf raking to be done here from mid September to late October.
This constant, seasonal reality for us is going to prove a boon this year for our youngest grandson. He’s 13 now, and eager to earn money. We’ve hired him to be our lawn boy, and we’re hoping he will want to work next year, too, cutting grass. He already cuts the small yard at his own home, with an old fashioned push mower. But he’ll be 14 in January, old enough to learn how to use our electric mower.
This has been a fast year for me, mostly because I tried to focus on not thinking about my health. We only took the one excursion in the summer, and that was to Pennsylvania. And as I’d already had my surgery booked by then, the time flew while my mind was otherwise occupied.
And while I am having, for the time being, to have my one incision re-bandaged every day—necessitating a trip into the city to see the nurse—I already feel better than I have in a long time. I’m hoping that by the time Christmas rolls around, these issues will be firmly in the past.
Bumps in the road are always unexpected, and quite often unpleasant. But they happen to everyone, and they’re the reason for my favorite axiom.
Challenging times don’t come to stay—they come to pass.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
It’s the first day of autumn. That seems later this year, as for some reason, my mind thinks the change of season day is always the twenty-first of the month. That’s because when my brain finally matured, whatever was “normal” at that time—be it the price of a loaf of bread, the proper way to wear jeans, i.e., cinched at the waist and not mid-way down the butt crack, or the day the season changed—became normal for me, forever.
We get set in our ways, but maybe we should take a lesson from Mother Nature. She doesn’t get set in her ways at all. She has no problem having hissy fit after hissy fit, and does whatever the hell she wants. I wish someone would give that lady a tranquilizer so she could mellow out.
My beloved and I always note the day when we think the season changed from summer to autumn, and it’s usually a week or more in advance of the actual, official, first day of fall. Summer seems to have a sky that is a rich, vibrant blue, a blue with depth to it. Then comes a day, usually lately near the end of August, when we notice the sky isn’t that rich blue anymore. The shade seems a bit lighter—and even if the sun burns hot on that day there’s a quality to the air and combined, those two signals, to us, scream “autumn”.
And usually within a couple of days of that, we see the first tiny sign in the leaves on some of the trees we pass as we drive—a few tiny little traitors who, tired of life, have let it go and allowed the yellow or red to infiltrate their tiny leafy bodies.
We have a walnut tree that stands at the corner of our porch. This tree is the last in the area to gain its leaves, and the first to lose them. As soon as the walnuts are formed—these nuts are only edible to the squirrels—then the tree has fulfilled its annual purpose, and its leaves turn and begin to drop. It is generally bare by the time the neighbors’ maple trees have turned color. There is constant leaf raking to be done here from mid September to late October.
This constant, seasonal reality for us is going to prove a boon this year for our youngest grandson. He’s 13 now, and eager to earn money. We’ve hired him to be our lawn boy, and we’re hoping he will want to work next year, too, cutting grass. He already cuts the small yard at his own home, with an old fashioned push mower. But he’ll be 14 in January, old enough to learn how to use our electric mower.
This has been a fast year for me, mostly because I tried to focus on not thinking about my health. We only took the one excursion in the summer, and that was to Pennsylvania. And as I’d already had my surgery booked by then, the time flew while my mind was otherwise occupied.
And while I am having, for the time being, to have my one incision re-bandaged every day—necessitating a trip into the city to see the nurse—I already feel better than I have in a long time. I’m hoping that by the time Christmas rolls around, these issues will be firmly in the past.
Bumps in the road are always unexpected, and quite often unpleasant. But they happen to everyone, and they’re the reason for my favorite axiom.
Challenging times don’t come to stay—they come to pass.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
September 16, 2015
I want to thank everyone who took the time to send me best wishes over the last two weeks. I was completely overwhelmed by so many prayers on my behalf. Thank you all very much.
As you know, I was scheduled for the removal of my gallbladder on Friday, September 4th. I was very hopeful that I would receive the laparoscopic procedure and not what they call the “full surgical” one.
I was very fortunate, because that is exactly what happened. It was 9:45am when I was wheeled into the operating room, and it was approaching 1 pm when I was wheeled out to the car.
My beloved had previously booked the week after my surgery as his September “staycation”. I know that the week he ended up with was not the one he’d hoped for. He had planned to just be home but had thought we might take a day trip or two. That of course didn’t happen. He managed to do a lot of reading, and he “binged watched” a couple of historical television dramas. He and his daughter attended a local annual village-wide yard sale. He stayed up late and slept in late—in other words, he rested. That’s what a staycation is for.
I had shopped before my surgery, loading up on various frozen entrees for the duration, as David doesn’t like to cook at all. Unfortunately the first few days the temperatures were way too high to have the oven on. So one night we had one of the entrees done in the microwave, and then we made do with sandwiches. And since I didn’t have much of an appetite that was fine by me.
Although I was lucky to end up receiving the laparoscopic procedure, this entire adventure has not been smooth sailing. One thing that went exactly as hoped, I received my edit just a few days after my surgery. I was able to get the work done, spending an hour and a half at a time behind the keyboard.
I was determined to meet my professional obligations—but I was also determined to do exactly what I was told to do in order to heal. I spent most of my time either in my lounger or in my bed. I rested. I napped. On day 6 post-op, my main incision site, the one called the umbilical site, hurt more than the day before, not less. I was afraid it might be infected—but no one else seemed to think so. Over the weekend, of course, it became clear that it was infected. I got antibiotics, and was told to contact my surgeon on Monday, which I did.
I won’t go into the gory details. Suffice it to say I now understand about having an incision reopened, drained, and then packed. I’ve also added a trip into the city next door to my agenda every day for the next while, at least, to a nursing office where my bandage is changed daily.
Though I have work I need to do, I am taking a few more days to rest. Monday night, after seeing the surgeon, was the first decent sleep I’d had since the Thursday before.
I realize that many people deal with far worse things than what I am going through, and I really try not to think about it too much. It’s only temporary, after all. In a month or two these last couple of weeks will all be just a memory.
I’ve even decided there’s value to still not having much of an appetite. Maybe when I go for my regular check up in November, I’ll have lost another 10 pounds.
It’ll be a hard-won loss, but I’ll take it.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
I want to thank everyone who took the time to send me best wishes over the last two weeks. I was completely overwhelmed by so many prayers on my behalf. Thank you all very much.
As you know, I was scheduled for the removal of my gallbladder on Friday, September 4th. I was very hopeful that I would receive the laparoscopic procedure and not what they call the “full surgical” one.
I was very fortunate, because that is exactly what happened. It was 9:45am when I was wheeled into the operating room, and it was approaching 1 pm when I was wheeled out to the car.
My beloved had previously booked the week after my surgery as his September “staycation”. I know that the week he ended up with was not the one he’d hoped for. He had planned to just be home but had thought we might take a day trip or two. That of course didn’t happen. He managed to do a lot of reading, and he “binged watched” a couple of historical television dramas. He and his daughter attended a local annual village-wide yard sale. He stayed up late and slept in late—in other words, he rested. That’s what a staycation is for.
I had shopped before my surgery, loading up on various frozen entrees for the duration, as David doesn’t like to cook at all. Unfortunately the first few days the temperatures were way too high to have the oven on. So one night we had one of the entrees done in the microwave, and then we made do with sandwiches. And since I didn’t have much of an appetite that was fine by me.
Although I was lucky to end up receiving the laparoscopic procedure, this entire adventure has not been smooth sailing. One thing that went exactly as hoped, I received my edit just a few days after my surgery. I was able to get the work done, spending an hour and a half at a time behind the keyboard.
I was determined to meet my professional obligations—but I was also determined to do exactly what I was told to do in order to heal. I spent most of my time either in my lounger or in my bed. I rested. I napped. On day 6 post-op, my main incision site, the one called the umbilical site, hurt more than the day before, not less. I was afraid it might be infected—but no one else seemed to think so. Over the weekend, of course, it became clear that it was infected. I got antibiotics, and was told to contact my surgeon on Monday, which I did.
I won’t go into the gory details. Suffice it to say I now understand about having an incision reopened, drained, and then packed. I’ve also added a trip into the city next door to my agenda every day for the next while, at least, to a nursing office where my bandage is changed daily.
Though I have work I need to do, I am taking a few more days to rest. Monday night, after seeing the surgeon, was the first decent sleep I’d had since the Thursday before.
I realize that many people deal with far worse things than what I am going through, and I really try not to think about it too much. It’s only temporary, after all. In a month or two these last couple of weeks will all be just a memory.
I’ve even decided there’s value to still not having much of an appetite. Maybe when I go for my regular check up in November, I’ll have lost another 10 pounds.
It’ll be a hard-won loss, but I’ll take it.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
September 2, 2015
September has arrived! In the Ashbury household this means that summer is over. After this next weekend, at least in these parts, the kids return to school. My beloved told me the other day that in his mind, this was always the “New Year” to him. In fact, he declared, it will likely always be so.
We no longer have kids in the house returning to the halls of academia, of course. That’s been in the past for more years now than it ever was our reality—and we don’t even want to mention how many years it’s been since my husband went back to school. Back to school time was always a mixed blessing—inward cheers that they were finally not going to be home getting into mischief all day long; and inward winces at the expense of it all.
I have to admit, though, that today’s parent is expected to put out a lot more money than we ever had to do. “School supplies” used only to consist of back packs, paper, binders, and pens and pencils. I was in our local Walmart a few days ago and saw families shopping—with long lists supplied to them by the Board of Education.
We had to pay for babysitting during the summer months over the course of a few years—there were no day-camps where we lived out in the country. A couple of years I was out of work during the summer, which was good for the pocketbook but hard on the nerves. I loved my children, but I’m only human. By the time September 1st came around, you could likely find me at the school, outside, caressing the bricks fondly, mumbling “soon, soon.”
There are many differences between the school experience here, and what a lot of y’all know. Up here, while there are High School sports, they aren’t community-supported the way they are down there in the United States. I went to one football game when my oldest son, Christopher, was on the team. Otherwise and for the most part, the games were held in the middle of the school day, and I often had to work. The stands tended to be filled by the student body of whichever school was playing host, with but a very small smattering of parents in attendance.
September has always been my beloved’s preferred vacation time. There was no coincidence to the reality that he planned to be off work a week or two when the kids weren’t around during the day. When the kids were school-aged, all of our vacations were stay-cations. Yes, it’s true! We’ve always been edgily avant garde.
And though we have traveled some this year, next week finds my husband home from work, planning to do nothing more than read, and rest...and as it turns out, play nurse maid to me.
This coming Friday brings with it a resolution to a situation I’ve been dealing with for the last several years. In the beginning we didn’t know what was causing my ‘plumbing’ problems. But a year and a half ago, when I had the first painful episode, we had a clue.
Tests revealed that I have several gallstones. The surgeon was leery to remove my gallbladder until the other problem was resolved. Finally, a gastroenterologist figured out the cause of the situation, and in fact, it was related to my gallbladder. So finally, in two days time, it comes out.
I’m really hoping for the laparoscopic procedure, and that is what they intend to do. But I was cautioned that sometimes, a more invasive surgery is required. If I end up having the former, I will be home the same day and likely out of it for the weekend. And while I plan to rest, for the most part, for as long as the doctor recommends, I am expecting an edit and fully intend to complete it when it arrives. But that will likely be the extent of my “working” for the first week post-op, at any rate.
If I end up having the full surgery, I will be in hospital for a few days; but I have a lap top and the hospital bed will take the place of my wonderful electric recliner, so the edit will still be done.
Looking back, I believe there have only been a handful of Wednesdays when I haven’t posted my essay. Next week will be another one.
But I look forward to getting back into the rhythm of this life I so love. God willing, I’ll be back with a new Wednesday’s Words on September 16th.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
September has arrived! In the Ashbury household this means that summer is over. After this next weekend, at least in these parts, the kids return to school. My beloved told me the other day that in his mind, this was always the “New Year” to him. In fact, he declared, it will likely always be so.
We no longer have kids in the house returning to the halls of academia, of course. That’s been in the past for more years now than it ever was our reality—and we don’t even want to mention how many years it’s been since my husband went back to school. Back to school time was always a mixed blessing—inward cheers that they were finally not going to be home getting into mischief all day long; and inward winces at the expense of it all.
I have to admit, though, that today’s parent is expected to put out a lot more money than we ever had to do. “School supplies” used only to consist of back packs, paper, binders, and pens and pencils. I was in our local Walmart a few days ago and saw families shopping—with long lists supplied to them by the Board of Education.
We had to pay for babysitting during the summer months over the course of a few years—there were no day-camps where we lived out in the country. A couple of years I was out of work during the summer, which was good for the pocketbook but hard on the nerves. I loved my children, but I’m only human. By the time September 1st came around, you could likely find me at the school, outside, caressing the bricks fondly, mumbling “soon, soon.”
There are many differences between the school experience here, and what a lot of y’all know. Up here, while there are High School sports, they aren’t community-supported the way they are down there in the United States. I went to one football game when my oldest son, Christopher, was on the team. Otherwise and for the most part, the games were held in the middle of the school day, and I often had to work. The stands tended to be filled by the student body of whichever school was playing host, with but a very small smattering of parents in attendance.
September has always been my beloved’s preferred vacation time. There was no coincidence to the reality that he planned to be off work a week or two when the kids weren’t around during the day. When the kids were school-aged, all of our vacations were stay-cations. Yes, it’s true! We’ve always been edgily avant garde.
And though we have traveled some this year, next week finds my husband home from work, planning to do nothing more than read, and rest...and as it turns out, play nurse maid to me.
This coming Friday brings with it a resolution to a situation I’ve been dealing with for the last several years. In the beginning we didn’t know what was causing my ‘plumbing’ problems. But a year and a half ago, when I had the first painful episode, we had a clue.
Tests revealed that I have several gallstones. The surgeon was leery to remove my gallbladder until the other problem was resolved. Finally, a gastroenterologist figured out the cause of the situation, and in fact, it was related to my gallbladder. So finally, in two days time, it comes out.
I’m really hoping for the laparoscopic procedure, and that is what they intend to do. But I was cautioned that sometimes, a more invasive surgery is required. If I end up having the former, I will be home the same day and likely out of it for the weekend. And while I plan to rest, for the most part, for as long as the doctor recommends, I am expecting an edit and fully intend to complete it when it arrives. But that will likely be the extent of my “working” for the first week post-op, at any rate.
If I end up having the full surgery, I will be in hospital for a few days; but I have a lap top and the hospital bed will take the place of my wonderful electric recliner, so the edit will still be done.
Looking back, I believe there have only been a handful of Wednesdays when I haven’t posted my essay. Next week will be another one.
But I look forward to getting back into the rhythm of this life I so love. God willing, I’ll be back with a new Wednesday’s Words on September 16th.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
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