May 19, 2021

Getting older sure is not for the faint of heart. The pains and the aches that attack me as I move about each day have been an ongoing thing since, well, I can’t actually recall when I wasn’t aching. Pain comes, pain goes, and I adapt. Some days I take only one dose of pain meds, and some days I take the maximum my doctor allows. I never take more than I absolutely need, so that’s something, at least.

The writing is much as it has ever been, if perhaps a bit slower. I have a new book coming out on the 28^th of this month, and it is my 66^th title for my publisher. I manage somehow to produce this essay each week. I will confess that there are times when I wonder if the words I write in this medium, when strung together to form the essay, make any sense. But mostly I think I’m able to get my message across.

The area where aging has been taking its toll on me is when it comes to that whole “juggling” thing that we humans tend to do—or in my case lately, try to do.

There was a time, not all that long ago, when I could handle two or three or more things happening concurrently. In other words, I could have several balls in the air at one time. I’d be in the middle of writing something, or doing something, and would get a phone call about something else. I’d make a note and then, in the midst of following that trail, one or two other things would arise. I’d smoothly and with no difficulty whatsoever add each item in turn to my mental to-do list, and then, with great aptitude, and not a little finesse, deal with everything on my overflowing plate. One after the other after the next. Boom, boom, boom boom, done.

Now? Not so much.

I find any more that if I get interrupted—if I am asked to handle something else, or something comes up, I don’t feel as if I can be as calm as I used to be with being side-tracked. It’s almost as if I have a little A.D.D. happening here. I get things done, but I suppose the great difference I’m referring to is that I don’t feel as if I am getting things done, or that I’m giving the original task in question my best effort, because I was sidetracked. At a time in my life when I suspect that getting the job done should bring me a greater sense of accomplishment than at any time previous in my life, it gives me less.

I was “zooming” with two author friends in the course of our Tuesday writing-sprint routine, and then I got a phone call. I’m currently “power-of-attorney” for a family member, and I knew by looking at the call display that this call was about that person. I had to mute my zoom, and also my sound. I didn’t care that my fellow authors could still see me on the phone, but maybe I should have cared? Anyway, I was distracted by the call, and it took me a little time to settle, once the call was concluded. I made a quick note about the call but it did take me a few minutes to get back into the mindset I needed to be able to focus on the zoom meeting.

I understand, of course, that it’s normal that some changes come with age. And most of the time, I’m fine with that. I can’t clean my entire house in two and a half hours anymore, the way I could twenty years ago. I sit more often than I used to when I’m busy doing things around the house. And while I understand everything that happens around me, I do find that some little things just don’t seem to matter so much anymore.

As I am composing this essay, an image inserts itself in my mind. I imagine myself like a hot-air balloon, once held in place by a dozen or more strong mooring lines, secure in my place and comfortable in my range of motion.  And then the older I get, I notice that with each passing year, some of those lines are, one by one, giving way.

As I said, getting older is not for the faint of heart. On the other hand it is, if we’re lucky enough to keep living, inevitable.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 May 12, 2021

I hope all the moms reading this had a good Mother’s Day on Sunday. I heard from most of my family, and that for me is the most important thing of all. Having a day when I’ve heard from so many of my loved ones always puts a smile on my face. I look forward to the day when I can hug them all close.

The girls corralled my two grandchildren who live in town, here—my late son’s two children—and since they’re members of the working world, secured their contribution to flowering my porch. It’s the Mother’s Day tradition my girls have chosen, and while they know that I would be just as happy having only some of their time, I nevertheless made sure they knew I appreciated the gifts.

My front porch now sports five hanging baskets of flowers (including one dropped off by my son and that, too, is his tradition), and David got me a window box to hang on the porch railing. We have two more of those flower boxes in storage, currently empty, that we will fill ourselves in the next month. The plan is for me to go to the local nursery and tour the place on my scooter and pick out what I’d like.

I do love pansies, but we weren’t able to get there in time this year for them. The local place only sells those for the first little while in March and April. They say that pansies are spring flowers, not well suited to the heat of summer, and while that is true, mine have usually lasted the entire growing season because they only get the morning sun and are in shade from about 11:30 on. I can’t very well blame the growers for doing what for them makes the most economic sense.

Leaves have replaced buds on most of the neighborhood trees and are growing more mature with each day. It well and truly is springtime here in Southern Ontario, and in a supreme act of faith that spring is here to stay until it melts into summer, I put away my “snuggie” on Sunday, though it isn’t an actual trademarked snuggie. We bought two wearable blankets from Amazon, one for each of us this past winter, and there were evenings I was very grateful to be able to put on this fuzzy, warm blanket and tuck my feet into the inside pocket. David felt the same way. It was the best money we spent on ourselves this year. Better, because they really were quite inexpensive.

Mine is currently neatly rolled up in the same way one would roll a sleeping bag, tied with ribbon, and sitting in my bedroom closet until the fall.

In our gardens, flowers are blooming. At the moment I have daffodils and tulips, narcissi and hyacinths. My two peonies are getting ready to make their annual appearance, and man are those lilies-of-the-valley popping up everywhere! I have a bud vase that I am longing to see filled with those fragrant little flowers. They, like the lilacs, once picked, don’t last long. I often think the reason they die quickly in a vase is they’re so full of scent that they’re the “flaming comets” of flowers. It takes all their essence to scent the air with their beauty, that they die off quickly. At least, that’s my take on the subject.

With the arrival of sunshine and slightly warmer temperatures, our front porch is getting more use. We have three padded chairs on it, and what a coincidence, there are three of us living here. I don’t go out that often, so the third chair is a point of competition between three dogs of  my daughter’s dogs. We have what looks like a wooden doll bed on the porch, too, but of course it’s not a doll bed, but a dog bed. My daughter’s other dog, the teacup chihuahua, likes that because like him, it’s low to the ground. Dogs who will not share a chair will share that little bed with Zeus, or even each other, which is odd. And not that our daughter’s four dogs are spoiled exactly, but they would rather be on a bed or chair than on the carpeted (this year with artificial grass) porch itself. As she often says, her dogs are not floor dogs.

Our two puppies who are now more than a year old don’t, as the others, insist on sitting on the chair, nor do they clamor of that little bed.

They’re much smarter than that.

They insist, instead, on sitting upon their daddy—Missy, the bigger of the two, on his lap and Bear-Bear, who weighs in at a whopping two pounds, a bit higher, on his chest. And they don’t even complain, overly much, if he brings out his kindle and insists on reading while they’re being held.

As long as he is also their faithful pet bed, they are content.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 May 5, 2021

There’s a relatively new expression that I’ve been hearing over the last several months. It is, “saying the quiet part out loud”. Now, normally, I don’t spend too much time thinking about these expressions that make the rounds. For example, I think that referring to silence on the part of officials as “crickets” is just a great big nothing burger.

And while it’s true that these expressions come and blessedly go—I mean does anyone ever refer to something they really like as “the bee’s knees” anymore? The individual expressions pass, but the habit of coining them doesn’t. I think that’s just human nature at work, our sometimes-desperate desire to ensure that we get everything lined up into neat little piles, with labels and directions. Sort of like the words in the song Alice’s Restaurant. We want to turn our lives into a series of “twenty-seven eight by ten color glossy photographs with circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one, explain what each one is about”.

And by the way, “crickets” = quiet doesn’t work for me because there have been summer nights in my life when there’s been a cricket in the bedroom. That, my friends, is the antithesis of quiet.

But I digress.

The reason for this convoluted opening is that I believe I have committed the sin of saying the quiet part out loud. Yes, although I wrote it instead of saying it…and it happened in my essay last week.

If you will be so kind as to recall, in last week’s essay I expressed my great joy and everlasting gratitude that the girls, instead of gifting David with the Fitbit he’d asked as his gift for Christmas gave him, instead, an Apple Watch. I was happy because, you see, I don’t know anything about that device, I didn’t want to know anything about that device, so my beloved would have to get his help for the use of that device from someone else.

Ah, well, it was a nice idea, a lovely concept, and I did enjoy a day or two of bliss because of it. A few very short day or two.

Apparently, I’m not the only senior citizen in this house who doesn’t want to learn anything about the Apple Watch. And if anyone from Apple is reading this, no, there is nothing wrong with that wonderful, dare I say miraculous device you’ve created. The problem lay with the person around whose wrist that device was positioned.

I don’t blame David for his reaction, not at all. The older we get the more difficult it is to adapt to advancing technology. And if we’re to be perfectly honest here, his use of the devices he has “mastered”—his laptop, his desktop, and his cell phone—well, that usage hasn’t actually been very masterful.

Our daughter and I have learned to agree with him whole-heartedly that the damn thing did something stupid all by itself, and just fix the “glitch” for him, rather than to try and convince him the only thing truly “the matter” with the device was the person using it. We know, we know. Whatever happens, he didn’t do it, the device did!

I think he tried, at least for a couple of minutes, to learn something about the watch but I totally understand the fact that for our senior minds there is a wall which can be impenetrable when it comes to technology or anything new. I can’t wrap my head around that which began as photoshop (and who the hell knows what it’s called now)? I am blessed to have a good friend who creates memes and banners for me that I use on Face Book to promote my new releases. David is thinking of publishing his books when he finishes the last one of his trilogy, and I am cheering him on. But we’ll have to hire someone to do it for us because, yeah, that formatting and all the other stuff that goes along with publishing a novel? Way above my pay grade.

Seriously.

And also seriously was the fantasy I had in my mind, thinking that I would be saved interruptions and pleas for help several times a day because I didn’t know anything about the watch. We did have one very predictable exchange not long after I posted that essay last week.

Him: (holding the watch across his palm much like one would hold a dead lizard) It did this, and then it did that, and now it won’t do the other thing! (Followed by his thrusting said palm as close to me as he could).

Me: (trying very hard to speak kindly) Why are you telling me? I don’t know anything about it. I can’t help you. Please, go and text our second daughter.

It was the look on his face that slew me. He clearly believed I can fix anything, and I was sorry that he had to learn the truth—I can’t.

But now, I don’t have to worry anymore, nope, no worries here.

Last night our daughter relieved him of the watch and gave him her three-month old Fitbit in place of it. The Fitbit app is on his phone, the watch app is off his phone, and he is a happy camper. When he got up this morning, he was able to check his sleep, and he can check his steps, and that was all he wanted the device for. Well, perhaps he is obsessing a bit about his heartrate (Why is my heart doing that? What’s wrong with it?). But that, I predict, will be another essay.

And I really don’t mind helping him out with the device itself. I do know a thing or two about the Fitbit, having worn one now for nearly five years.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

 April 28, 2021

I wasn’t at all surprised to awaken a week ago today to see “kaka” all over the ground. Disgusted, perhaps, but not surprised. Witnessing Mother Nature’s tenacious love of snow in action is something I’ve done all my life. Though perfectly understandable—she is, after all, a cold-hearted bitch—it does become tedious.

If the daffodils out my bedroom window could speak, they might have heaved a dramatic “le sigh” as they endured the weight of the white abomination landing on their delicate petals. But they endured, those pretty yellow flowers, and gave me a sense of what life is, at its very heart.

It's keeping our petals turned up toward the sun even if our only reward is not heat, but cold, wet snow.

Despite both David and I having received our first shots of the Moderna vaccine, we are still staying home (provincial order) and if we have to go out, there is no doubt whatsoever that we will be masked. Our infection numbers here yesterday reached the highest they have been since the beginning of the pandemic. This county had, as of yesterday at 11:00am, recorded 306 active coronavirus cases. Our area hospital currently has 16 cases, and that, too is a pandemic high. We’re not living in a major population center.

We’re both shaking our heads, dumbfounded that so many people can’t toe the line, can’t see beyond their own “I’m bored with staying home. I want to go out and have fun!” selfishness.

We don’t understand people anymore at all. We’re just grateful to remain home, and by extension, to remain safe.

By the time Saturday rolled around, we were back to our usual springtime temperatures and the snow was gone. In the afternoon, it reached 61, even if it did only feel like 59. And the next day I noticed buds on the neighborhood trees. I am looking forward to having a bit warmer weather, because I would like very much to spend some time out on the porch or in the back yard. I don’t even care if I look like a little old lady sitting in the 60 degrees plus heat, with a blanket over my knees. The truth, painful as it is at times for me to admit is that I am a little old lady and need to sit in that nice warm 60 degree plus heat with a blanket over my knees.

Our new cell phones arrived on Monday, and that was fortunate, because that is the one day of the week our daughter always has off. She’d been the one to choose our new phones, arrange for our plans, and she was the one to get them running—beginning with taking the sim cards out of our old phones and putting them in the new.

We’re currently getting used to them. One definite advantage is that the screens are much larger than on our last phones. I’m delighted that all my pertinent info is in place. Later today we’re to take delivery of protective cases for them. This phone is the slipperiest one I’ve ever had. I need to be careful that I don’t drop it. I’m getting a protective cover for it to sit in that comes with a wallet to carry it in.

We’ve given up on having our “family supper” for Christmas of 2020. With the girls’ schedules being what they are, we had originally planned to hold it on the one day in December when everything jived: December 26^th, aka “Boxing Day”. Sadly, that was the first day of our Province’s state of emergency declaration and stay at home order for this virus.

After much consideration, the next date chosen was April 19^th. And imagine, just before that day could arrive, we began another lockdown because we were, and still are in another surge.

So, on Saturday last, finally, we simply exchanged our gifts in a not at all fancy hand-off. The girls had asked us what we wanted. And we were told, “don’t tell us you don’t need anything”. Duly chastened, I asked for an iPad (I wanted an Apple product to read my e-books on, and they got me one) and David wanted a Fitbit. The girls, being generous souls, got David an Apple watch, instead.

I was so happy about that, I nearly cried. Not only because of all the wonderful features that device has; not only because I do believe the watch will help him stay moving, giving him reminders, and such. No, I was happy because I don’t know a single thing about it. I had never even seen one before. Therefore, when x, y, or z happens to that watch, I can’t help.

Our second daughter has an Apple watch herself and loves it. And that’s another reason I’m happy.

I just know we’re going to be seeing a whole lot more of her now in the days and weeks and months to come.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

 April 21, 2021

My husband got his first cell phone, which is his current cell phone, in 2014. He was still a member in good standing of the work-a-day world, and what prompted his finally giving in to our pleas to get a phone? There was an accident on the Burlington Skyway Bridge, which delayed our daughter’s getting to his workplace to pick him up on time. She had gone out to Burlington for a reason that none of us recall at this point and was on the bridge when a dump truck’s box began to rise as he was going about 25 MPH, and there was a bridge strut in the way.

David ended up calling me from a landline at the quarry where he worked (which he could call out on, but which I could not call in on), wondering where the heck she was. Of course, I, having a cell phone, knew, because she had texted me about the problem. By the time he called me, I was able to tell him she was getting off the bridge soon and would be there…before too much longer.

The very next weekend, he had a cell phone.

Being hard of hearing, he doesn’t make or receive too many actual telephone calls on his device. However, he has learned to text and using his fingers in this way is his favorite method of contact. In these retirement years, when I am in my office working (or pretending to) and he is in his office doing the same, texting has become one of our major forms of communication. We’re in separate rooms, not that far apart, but he often has his headphones on, so yeah, texting is crucial if we wish to have any interaction between us at all in the morning.

Until this past Monday, that is. Our cell phone network suffered an outage that was Canada wide, intermittent, and lasted most of the day. Now, I don’t really think that the reason for what happened next is that outage. I think it was purely coincidental. In fact, I didn’t know about the outage until I sent him a text and the message came back that there had been a “message send” failure.

Then his cell phone battery died, and we charged it up. And a couple of hours later, after not being used because there was still no network available, it died again. Aside from not holding its charge, the phone is in a perpetual “searching for signal” mode. In other words, it’s pooched.

So, a new adventure is in the offing for my husband, and to a lesser extent for me as well. Within the next few days, when she has time, my daughter is going to go online and get each of us new cellphones. Now my phone, it still works, and I haven’t had it seven years. However, it will not sync with Apple anymore, and sometimes has challenges with updates. You see, the model I have is the next model to the one David has. It didn’t cost anything when I got it a few years ago, and that was why I got it. It is definitely obsolete.

David would get upset when I would ask him, as I was driving, to answer a text message on my phone for me; he would grouse that he didn’t know how because it wasn’t like his cell phone. Sadly, whatever new one our daughter chooses for him, for us, is not going to be like his, either. But I know her. The model she owns is a fairly new one, so that will likely be the model that we get.

And that proves that while she is like her daddy in many ways, she is also like me. She is going to take the path of least resistance, knowing that we’ll both likely need not just instruction from her at the beginning, but ongoing “rescue” as well.

That, my friends, is a fine example of anal thinking. Pardon me while I wipe a tear. I’m just so proud!

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 April 14, 2021

This is the time of year I call showers, flowers and pilgrims. As in that somewhat tired old joke, if April showers bring May flowers, what do Mayflowers bring? Pilgrims.

We’re certainly in the season of showers. The last couple of days have been wet, indeed. Monday it poured for most of the day. We have 3 daffodils blooming outside our bedroom window. Those flowers are always the first to appear, because that side of the house, facing south, gets a lot more sun than the flowers we have planted at the front of the house, facing east. Along with daffodils, we have a few tulips planted outside that bedroom window, too. To the west of the window, and where I cannot see them without lifting the glass and poking my head out are my two beleaguered rose bushes. I’m hoping for a few blooms this year. I do know they’re still alive because I saw them yesterday. We’ll have to wait and see if rose buds follow.

The front garden more or less sprawls from the north-east to the south-east corner of the house. There are daffodils and narcissi, tulips and crocuses and hyacinths. We have two peonies, and an abundance of lily of the valley. And bracketing them all, at each of those noted house corners, is a lilac. We’ve had those particular trees/shrubs a few years now, and while they’re not growing rapidly, they’re steadfastly alive and have bloomed during all but one year.

The trees here are not yet budding, but I know that they soon will be. In the meantime, the flowers planted in the front of the house are already all green shoots—or in the case of the peonies, reddish shoots. Just growing, reaching higher, and hoping for no more snow.

Of course, these same bulbs have put shoots up a few times and then been snowed upon. They’re hardy, and I have faith in them, and in nature. Most of the time.

I was not at all surprised but was very saddened to hear of the passing of HRH The Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh. We saw a picture of him, taken as he was riding back to Windsor Castle after his discharge from the hospital a few weeks ago. Seeing him, one knew he was going home to die.

He has been a fixture in my life for all of my life, as has Her Majesty. There has been no other monarch in my lifetime, and yes, HM Queen Elizabeth II is my queen, as Canada is a part of the British Commonwealth.

My parents both considered themselves as British subjects. They held the monarchy in great esteem and raised the three of us to that same standard. My father died when I was 8, but I still recall one of our absolute Christmas traditions—watching the Queen’s Christmas Day message.

Until 1982, with the repatriation of our constitution, if we landed and an airport and there was a line designated “British Subjects”, why that was the line we would need to stand in because we were. That’s a poor illustration, I know, but my point is that while Canada passed the Constitution Act and Great Britain passed the Canada Act to make Canada completely sovereign, that didn’t dismiss my emotional attachment to the Crown (and I am not referring to the television show).

And yes, I do know all the words to God Save The Queen and will in fact stand any time that I hear it played or sung.

While Prince Philip can be accused of comments and jokes common to his age and the times in which he was raised, and those comments were racist, I have never believed in throwing the baby out with the bath water. I do believe the dedication he has shown in the service of others, most notably the youth of the commonwealth, far outweigh words uttered that were at the least, intemperate and at worst highly offensive. And I don’t recall hearing of any actions he’d taken that can be considered offensive.

We are in danger of becoming a people unwilling to forgive, and incapable of mercy. I think that I just described and therefore now finally understand the concept of cancel culture. But if we allow that to become our norm, that, my friends, is the ballgame. Seriously.

For what is humanity but the ability to see ourselves in others, to feel compassion for our fellow humans, acknowledging that we are all imperfect beings. To err, and be forgiven, and to forgive, and to keep trying. That is the point of living.

On a personal note, David and I received our first shot of the Covid-19 vaccine yesterday morning. Our local County Health Unit has a clinic here in town, and it was the Moderna mRNA that we received. I thought that I would cry like a baby after, but I haven’t yet.  Likely will when I least expect it. We are both relieved and very, very grateful to have been given this gift.

I got the shot for myself, no question there. But I also got it for anyone else I might come in contact with. To protect my 48-year-old son who has type 1 diabetes, and anyone else who’s vulnerable. We are all in this together. And having got the shot, yes, I am still going to wear my masks. Plural, because I wear 2. And I will definitely get the second shot, when appointment day arrives.

I hope you are planning to get your shot and will still continue to mask up as well. If we all work together, we can kick Covid’s ass.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

 April 7, 2021

On the very cusp of celebrating the joy of warming temperatures known as springtime, Mother Nature sent us a week of very cold weather, with rain and ice and even snow flurries, too. Of course, nothing that was white that landed on the ground stayed beyond the event, but holy moly, it sure was cold!

I think the old bag just wanted to remind us that it would be spring when she declared it was spring, and not one moment before. None of us, I am certain, really needed the reminder that she’s a persnickety bitch. I, for one, never just accept that it’s time to put away the woollies, not until at least the middle of May.

And even then, being the cautious and anal person that I am, I ensure that those woollies are always within reach.

Here in the Ashbury household, we are in a state of flux. Our new freezer arrived as scheduled last Wednesday, and it is wonderful. We emptied the old one into the new one and realized we have a lot of room left. This is good, because we hope to get some produce at the market this year and freeze what we can.

A year later than hoped for, I still think it’s a good idea to build up our food stores. We don’t know what the future holds and having supplies on hand should the supply chains break down is a good thing. This freezer is larger than what we’d originally decided to get; but it does allow us to stock up, eliminating one worry. And the most important fact of all, of course, is that the appliance is here, and not…on a ship in the middle of the Suez Canal.

Our new freezer sits where the sideboard that I called our “breakfast bar” used to sit. The sideboard, which we purchased more than a fifteen years ago, held all our cutlery and most all of our cooking utensils—spatulas, knives, flippers…well you get the picture. It also held the toaster, the food processor, the fruit bowl…it held a lot and right now all of those things are either on top of the old freezer that is cleaned out and unplugged, or on the one end of the kitchen table, the end where no one sits.

My mother always had a cluttered kitchen table. The table was pushed against one wall, with three chairs attending. There could be anything on that table, and at one point in all the years I lived with her, there probably was. Tools, the carburetor from the gas lawn mower the time it broke down, a square of drapery material…. yeah. Each night you had to shove everything there against the wall and out of the way in order to set our three plates down so we could eat. I hated it so much growing up that I vowed that I would never have a kitchen table that looked like that. I’m 66 and have been true to that principle—until now. I keep telling myself that this is only a temporary clutter, but that doesn’t help the feeling of ick I’ve had since last Tuesday.

Once the freezer was in place, I ordered a new sideboard which looks almost exactly like the old sideboard, except it’s not falling apart. It needed assembly, of course. The plan: put it together and then set it where the old freezer has been since we bought it. Space-wise, this had to happen because the new freezer can only fit where it’s sitting now, on the north wall in front of the 2 of the 3 kitchen windows (and in the place where the old sideboard sat).

The sideboard was scheduled for delivery yesterday and arrived early afternoon. Rather than wait for morning, David decided to tackle the assembly after his nap. Reading the reviews on this product, I learned the consensus was that it was relatively easy to put together. I certainly hoped that proved to be the case. The sideboard would extend past the door frame to my office by just a couple of inches. I have two doors in my office, one leading to the entrance hall and living room (straight ahead) or the bathroom (to my right); the other opens into the kitchen.

All the time I was looking for this new sideboard (I’ve been searching since last June just after we ordered the freezer that never arrived) I had strict dimensions for the piece given to me by my husband. I couldn’t find any that fit those measurements and suited my purposes. Some were pretty, and some were pretty expensive. But the purpose for this piece, aside from storage, was to serve as a working surface, since its place is beside my stove. So I made an executive decision: I didn’t care if it blocked the entire door from office to kitchen. I had two doors and can only use one at a time, anyway.

This sideboard (referred to by the seller as a kitchen cart as it has wheels) features a steel top, my favorite feature of the last sideboard. I’m excited to have an actual work surface beside the stove, one that will not be damaged by a hot lid or a hot roast pan.

I have also ordered a shelf with brackets to fit above this sideboard; on that shelf will go the items that won’t fit into the sideboard’s storage space or on its surface. My challenge will be to make that only a few items, to stow the rest, and get rid of the general sense of clutter that has taken over my kitchen.

I know I can do it. And once I have my kitchen set to rights, I will take a few days—maybe even a few weeks—to appreciate and accustom myself to the new (and clutter-free) configuration of my kitchen.

Just until, sitting at my place at the kitchen table, I no longer try to reach behind me for what is no longer behind me but now available about three feet to my left.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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