March 16, 2022

Have you ever heard that expression, “life is a beach”? It can be used for positive, inspirational messages, but also for somewhat negative ones. “Life’s a beach” can imply the last word as a substitute for another word that also begins with the letter b. If you google the expression, you’ll find a plethora of memes illustrating both of the concepts of inspiration and frustration.

I’ve been letting my mind wander a fair bit over the last few days—an exercise, by the way, that is never without risk, especially lately. And one of the things I was thinking of was that there is an ebb and flow to life, to human society, and if one were to take the time to sit and consider that ebb and flow, one might very well end up sitting on a beach—whether one that’s metaphorical or literal, doesn’t really matter.

An ocean, or if you prefer, a lake, can be a calm and soothing presence. I’m never so rejuvenated after a vacation as I am if I’ve spent that time on or near the water. Whether lake or sea, the moon and the wind combine in varying degrees to encourage the lapping of waves, and the rhythm can be very soothing. It can engender a sense of rest and relaxation, and a natural peace that recharges one’s emotional, mental and physical “batteries.”

This is one of the more pleasant aspects of life, these moments of “Zen”.

I have a “noise machine” which I bought after our last cruise. During that cruise, which was on a ship that had us in a cabin with a private balcony, we slept with the glass balcony door slightly ajar. The sound of the ship cutting through the water, the soft slap of waves on the steel hull, and the fresh sea air became the rhythm of peace and lulled us both into a deep restful sleep each night.

When the machine arrived, we set it on “surf” and ah, that was just like being on vacation again. Since then, we alternate between surf and thunderstorm. It doesn’t play very loudly, but a few years ago when we had a friend stay over night, sleeping on a portable bed in our living room—well, she awoke and was convinced she would be driving her motorcycle through a storm that morning as she headed home.

It had never occurred to me to warn her that we had a noise machine that she would be able to hear, because by then it was simply a part of our bedtime routine.

So yes, I celebrate times spent by the water, on the water, and the peace and pure air that can oftentimes accompany that venue, whether experienced inland or at sea.

However, there are also times when the oceans, or the lakes, for that matter, can be quite turbulent. When the waves, rather than being measured, and soft, and appealing to both the heart and the soul, come hard and fast, whipped by the ferocity of the wind into a storm from hell, one frothy, angry wave crashing into the one before it with the next piling on right after, faster and harder until you are so overwhelmed, so filled with tension, with fear, with utter exhaustion that you just want it to stop. You pray for calm.

The two extremes, when you think about it, truly represent life.

Over the last three years, the world has been dealing with political-slash-moral storms of upheaval in our societies, as well as in our seats of governments. We’ve been dealing with a deadly pandemic that some soulless folks have coopted as a tool that they’ve fashioned into a weapon for personal gain. And now, on top of those two spirit-stripping circumstances, those two humungous storm-tossed waves, a war now rages in Europe—one brought on by a single, not-quite-sane malignant narcissist. A war that could very well escalate into the next world war—or a reasonable facsimile thereof.

There can be no justification for the slaughter of innocent civilians. This is not so much a war as it is a mass murder spree committed by the worst psychopath ever born.

Those of us who are not directly, physically involved in these raging traumas are still affected deeply by them. If we have beating hearts, if we have compassion, and if we have a conscience—in short, if we are human, then we are being bombarded by these monster waves of contemporary life, one on top of the other followed by the next.

And more and more, many of us are reaching the ends of our ropes—we just want it all to stop.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 March 9, 2022

Ah, March! The last month of winter has finally arrived. And with this new month, it seems that our government here in Ontario is beginning to let go of every single pandemic restriction that has been in place for the last couple of years. We no longer are required show proof of our vaccination status when we go into restaurants, theaters, stores, or any other basic businesses. There are no longer any seating limits, either.

And by the end of this month, apparently, they’ll be lifting the mask mandate for most indoor activities and venues.

Of course, I am skeptical. In the interests of complete transparency, I will tell you that this past weekend, I did go to Walmart and afterward, David and I went to our favorite seafood restaurant for lunch. That excursion was a reaction to the latest concern that has been brought to my attention.

I’ve been told by those who live with me that I need to get out more. They presented quite the united front. Both husband and daughter absolutely agree on this. Me, not so much. But I decided I would cooperate to a certain extent. I have resumed the responsibility for grocery shopping, and I will go out occasionally beyond that, where there is a reason to do so.

But when they drop the mask mandate at the end of this month? Well, there’s a red line, at least for now. I plan to keep using my masks, thank you very much. In fact, when we didn’t know for certain that this pandemic would last as long as it has so far, (and here please understand that Covid is not yet over), David and I had discussed keeping a supply of masks on hand to wear for when we got colds, in the future. I think it’s a good idea to do that just as a matter of courtesy.

Therefore, I will be wearing a mask for the foreseeable future when I go out and about amongst the general public.

I’m pleased that my daughter is in agreement with my stance on the masks, so that’s a good thing. I am also gratified that the Long-Term Care homes in this province are not letting go their protocols at this time, either.

As to the wishes of my family, that I turn away from my hermit ways, I would love someone to tell me this: what difference does it make to anyone if I choose not to be a social butterfly? Why would I go out for no particular reason at all? Y’all have been reading my essays for some time now. Does that sound like something I would have done, ever? Of course not.

Right now, at this moment as I write these words, a lot of the ice that had been solid around our house has begun to melt. I walk with a cane, and winter is a very tricky time for me outside and has been for years. That’s why I have a claw on the end of my cane that I can engage when I go out. It gets affixed to my stick in late fall, once the snow and ice show up, and comes off in the spring once I’m sure it won’t be needed any longer.

Also, since every step I take is painful, it is a lot of work for me to simply go out.

My two housemates say they would be happy if I just went for a drive a few times a week. I won’t use the cost of gas as a consideration against this plan, although that brings up an interesting possible codicil to this declaration that they both came up with last week.

A small digression here: The cost of gasoline is at its highest here, ever. I was out yesterday and saw the price per litre of regular gas is 1.801. There are 3.75 Canadian litres in a U. S. gallon. That means the price we are paying per gallon is: 1.801 x 3.75 = 6.75.

Now, back to that “possible codicil” that I mentioned. It was last week that they both told me I really need to get out more. Last week, I went out on Saturday and Sunday, and I even went out yesterday, too. Three times out over four days! I seized hold of this “codicil” they inadvertently handed me last night at the supper table, and pardon the pun, I took it for a ride.

Over supper last night, our daughter was complaining about how much it costs to fill her new car’s gas tank, and that over the course of her work week it needs to be filled twice. Her former car, the one I’m now driving, is more than twice as economical to drive—it had only required a single tank of gas for the week. This is something she realized shortly after she bought her new car, but the current state of the cost of gas has put the situation in a whole new light for her. I gave it a moment after she voiced her complaint, and then I made my conversational gambit:

Me: You should perhaps take the Ford Escape during the day.

Daughter: I was thinking that myself, and I think I will.

Me: You’ll have to show me how to drive your new car, of course. (She has a fob but no key, a push button to start the car, and a dial for the gears. And then there’s the camera/display stuff.)

Husband: No! We’ll just stay home, and if you need the car for an appointment, then she’ll take the Edge that day and leave you the Escape.

Me: Okay.

And now, friends, I am just waiting to see how long it takes for them to admit that they’ve completely abandoned their “Mom must get out more” campaign.

That could happen. What’s less likely to occur is an admission on their part that their original premise—that I’d slipped a cog and was clinging to home with a crazy old-woman’s paranoia—was just a tad off base. I’m a homebody, always have been. I am happiest right here. Cue the music to the chorus, “Be it ever so humble/There’s no place like home”.

But I do thank them ever so much for their revolving concerns, and for helping me to keep my mind sharp, countering them.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 March 2, 2022

As you know, we live in a small but growing town in Southern Ontario. At the north end of the block on which we live, is a property that holds the local Catholic church. The building is situated with its front doors facing the next street over, but the plot of land attached stretches to our street. The church has stood there since 1857 when it replaced a wooden frame building opened twenty years previously. By the time we first moved in, directly on the other side on the cross street that intersects ours stood a Catholic elementary school that bore the same name as the church.

That school was replaced about ten years ago by a brand new one, built a few miles to the west, and given the same name as the one it replaced. The building that used to be the school across from the church was sold by the diocese and is now a home for severely impaired people.

The church enjoyed a nice expanse of lawn, that extended east from our street to the building’s back wall—an expanse that stretched more than half a block in length. This lawn was dotted with high, stalwart, beautiful pine trees. And in the course of the last several months, beginning sometime mid-summer, those beautiful trees were hewn down, and the ground they stood upon is now being excavated. The powers that be connected to the church have decided to add a parish hall to their plot of land, and construction on the new building will begin soon.

So far, what I can tell you is that I knew immediately what it was I was feeling earlier this week. They’re still in the process of digging for the foundation and basement, you see, and there have been excavators and one of those large “earth rollers” that vibrates and yeah, that sick, deep in the bone vibration as that roller tries to shore up whatever it is that it’s shoring up is a sensation I only felt once before. I had really, really hoped that would have been the only time I would experience that.

That previous case, you may recall occurred when the town finally undertook to have long-needed repairs done to the road that runs east-west and is less than thirty feet from my living room window.

The only good thing about the sensation this time is the vibrations don’t seem to be making me feel sick like they did the last time. That’s likely due to the offending machine being a solid half a block away from me instead of just outside my window.

I usually begin to compose my Wednesday’s Words on the day before I post them. Occasionally I procrastinate until the morning of, but not often. There are times when I’m sorely tempted—or at least briefly consider—writing a number of them in advance, in order to have them at the ready. But I never know if doing that will jinx me, or not. But once in a while, I do begin one several days ahead of schedule and I think that is more often than not a mistake.

For example, I might start writing my essay about something maybe a little bit silly that’s happening in my life, and then, wham, a damn war breaks out in Europe, and I would have to begin all over again.  But, I suppose the most economical thing to do would be to just start a new paragraph.

I have a dear friend, one I met in 6^th grade, who is Ukrainian-Canadian. She has a lot of family over in Ukraine and has been beside herself with worry since it became known that Russia was amassing troops on her family’s ancestral homeland.

Leading up to this unprovoked, totally evil attack, when the troops were gathering on Ukraine’s borders, pundits were divided on whether or not an attack would actually happen. Some thought the buildup was just an elaborate bluff. That, my friends, was yet another case of witless souls not only possessing a failure of imagination, but the unfortunate tendency to believe a documented liar’s lies.

When, oh when, will we recognize the liars on the world’s stage and treat them with the derision they deserve? But I digress.

Of those who believed an attack was inevitable, most believed that the “vaunted” Russian military would easily defeat the Ukrainian Army, likely in a day. I didn’t think that, because these are people who’ve been suffering from aggression from their eastern neighbor forever, but more violently for the last eight years after Russia’s initial invasion of Crimea. And in the time since then, their sense of nationhood and their belief in their right to be a nation has only increased. Their army has become seasoned. And their will to exist as an independent country has solidified.

As the bombs continue to rain down on a people who have done nothing to deserve such horrific treatment, I am praying for the protection of the most vulnerable, and the continued empowerment of those people, military and civilian, who have taken up arms and are defending their homeland—alone.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 February 23, 2022

I’ve always considered the definition of a traditional February as being the month of bitter sub-zeros and too much snow. With less than a full week left of this deeply wintry month, I can report that February of 2022 has been exceedingly traditional.

With the freeze-thaw-freeze cycle we’ve been in the last week or so, I haven’t ventured outside. I have to be very careful moving when it’s snowy and icy, of course, and it just seems unnecessary to go out just for the sake of getting fresh air.

I open the front door, as well as the back one, at least twice a week. I stick my head out and I breath in, and deeply too, at least three times! That’s fresh air, and that’s my story and I’m sticking to it—at least until we get a few warmer days.

As soon as we have couple of days where the mercury climbs to forty, then of course I will open my doors and windows and air this house out. It never gets really stale in here anyway, because we do have several little places where the seals between the doors and windows of this place and the outside world are not what anyone would call airtight.

David tried to replace the weatherstripping on the back door last week, but quickly realized that it’s a project best saved for the spring. He also has proposed installing screen doors, front and back, and actually, I like that idea. Not because I think that the extra door will keep the cold out in winter, though I suppose it might help. But because I can then have the doors open to the air in the summer, but not open for the bugs to come in.

There’s nothing I hate more than when flies get in my house. And we don’t even want to mention the occasional wasp, do we? I think having screen doors will be a great way to combat that habit he has of leaving the inside door wide open. And yes, I will suggest, strongly, that the screen doors he acquires have glass that can be raised or lowered as the need arises.

Wish me luck with that one.

Our renovation in the bathroom is complete, and I am now almost exclusively using the door that opens between it and our bedroom. The new closet is still in the planning stage, and that’s fine. David will be getting to work on that soon. I’ve done my part, as I have given away nearly a half of all the clothing I had prior to this renovation. That wasn’t as hard as I had feared it would be, because I gave myself permission to keep anything I felt really attached to.

I know I didn’t do a good job of explaining myself when my husband asked me why I was so upset over his original dictate – “that you have too many clothes, and they just have to go!” Fortunately for the cause of world peace and security, my beloved will never be a member of Canada’s diplomatic corps.

As I get older, I often reflect on the days of raising kids. I used to joke that once you become a parent, you no longer have the right to own anything, because those kids were capable of breaking, borrowing, or losing anything and everything, on a regular basis. And not necessarily but also, as I get older, I feel less secure, just generally speaking.

My relationship with clothing has always been…different. While raising our kids, what money was available for clothing went to buy clothing for them. I still recall the day I was taking our middle child, the one no longer here, to the mall to buy him a pair of really good athletic shoes. They cost a mint, but he needed them. As I was walking down the mall toward the store, I was glad I was wearing slacks, because the elastic in my undies chose that moment to let go. If I’d been wearing a skirt, my undies might have hit the floor. At the time, I found it really funny that I was about to spend more than a hundred dollars on shoes for my son, when I didn’t have decent underwear for myself.

Now, I have no kids to raise, and since, oh, about the last twenty years or so, I’ve felt relatively free to ensure I have good underwear, and all manner of other necessary clothing, whatever I’ve needed and occasionally, I even felt free to buy something that was pretty, that I wanted, but didn’t necessarily need.

So, when David told me I must rid myself of most of my clothing as if it was nothing more than unnecessary flotsam and jetsam, it just kind of pissed me off.

But I went through everything that had been hanging in my closet and not worn for a long time and managed to fill three large bags for donation. And when my husband seemed pleased with my effort, I simply shrugged.

And I assured him that if I did start leaving the house again on a regular basis, my first few trips out would most likely be to buy new clothes.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 February 16, 2022

Life has a rhythm, and for the most part, that rhythm is as familiar as our own reflections. And when we can move to it, when we can function within it, it’s a blanket of comfort that covers us with a sense of security, that feeling that all’s right with the world.

The last couple of years have shaken that sense of comfort, so that we are all of us together, in this moment in time, looking for our new familiar rhythm. I don’t know about you? But I am grateful to know it’s not just me hitting discordant notes as we bump along this Covid-lined path that life since 2020 has become.

I read somewhere once that the only people who like change are wet babies. I think for the most part, that saying is true. Most of us like a little bit a programmed change, as in, “oh, let’s do that on Saturday. That will be different, and fun!” But the kind of change that makes us feel afraid and powerless? The kind of change that upsets all of our patterns, that more or less unmoors us from the security that we need? That’s tough for most of us to deal with.

Friends, we humans need constancy, and we need to know the boundaries. Once we have those boundaries, we make ourselves happy (or not) within them. We understand the norms, the rules, and we can work with them.

But when the rules and the norms change, and change and change….that’s when we have a problem. Also, because of the ease of survival in these modern times, our stamina for stressful situations is very limited.

If we’re students of history, then we know there have been times through the ages when humans had no guarantees of living even into their fifties. There were wars and famine, there were harsh living conditions. There were plagues in medieval times for which there was no cure, no vaccine, no medication, and no escape. There were no day spas to sooth the pampered souls that too many of us, in this day and age, have become.

You’ve heard the term “snowflake”? There’s a reason that is a term, and that reason is a lot of us. Has there ever been a generation alive on this planet that is more wimpy? I think not.

During my first full time job, just after David and I got married (nearly 50 years ago!) I had a co-worker who had been born in England. She told me that after a couple of years of war, the people got used to all sorts of upheaval. During those fraught years, she went to work in London, a young woman doing the best she could to do a job and live her life. One day while she was working away, an explosion happened nearby, and a lightweight light fixture fell from the ceiling above her onto the chap working across from her. And the old woman beside her didn’t even jump, she just looked over at him, slumped over as he was, and said, “he’ll be fine in a moment.”

Some would call that being tough, and some would call it being totally insensitive, but what that old woman’s behavior was, was adaptive.

During the Spanish Flu pandemic of the last century, people didn’t have the wealth of knowledge that we have now, and didn’t understand the science, which was really still in infancy. As a result, many more people died, world-wide than have died in this pandemic.

None of us can control the world around us. We can’t make our neighbors wear a mask or take the vaccine; we can’t make people see things the way we see them. Everyone has their own point of view, forms their own beliefs, and rare is the time when someone who hangs onto those beliefs with both fists can be convinced that their “truth” isn’t “truth” at all.

The only thing we can control, in fact, is ourselves, and what we do. David and I have understood as the scientists have learned more about this virus (it was called a novel coronavirus because it was brand new, after all), that what they understood about it would change, it would evolve, which also changed the knowledge of how best to deal with it. We understood that part of the equation and don’t consider that evolution to be “flip-flopping”. It’s not politics, it’s science and it evolves.

Just recently the Ontario government has announced that the restrictions are being lifted. In our opinion, they are being lifted not because the danger of infection is past, but because people have decided that we do have to learn how to live with this in our lives—since it’s not going to go away anytime soon. And they are being lifted because a sufficient number of people have cried, “enough, already!”

Therefore, for our part, we’ve decided that we’re going to limit where we go and we’ll wear our masks when we go there. We’re going to monitor the suggestions with regard to a possible fourth shot. If our local health officials say we should have it, we’re rolling up our sleeves.

And that will form the basis of our new rhythm. And since it’s not an overly complicated one, I’m sure we’ll do just fine.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 February 9, 2022

The Olympics are on again. It seems like just last summer that we were watching Olympic updates…..oh, wait. It was just last summer that we had the summer games on our televisions.

And now here we are again with the Winter Olympics – which is actually a kind of a throw back salute to the past.  I say kind of, because it used to be that the winter and summer Olympics were always in the same year, with the winter first, and the summer second.

1992 was the last year to have both winter (Albertville) and summer (Barcelona) Olympic games in the same year.

Then, two years later, in 1994, the Winter Olympics were held again, in Lillehammer, Norway. This was a decision made by the International Olympic Committee in 1986. As one who’s always watched the Olympics, I thought it was a good idea, even if it felt weird to have the winter games again so soon that first time.

Now, of course, it just feels normal, and I would imagine that from an organizational standpoint it was a good decision. This way, you’re not taxing the officials to be super busy in one year only out of four.

David and I tend to watch more of the winter games than we do of the summer ones. Looking at our lives, that doesn’t make any sense, really. I did skate as a kid, but living out in a rural area, with only two friends close by, there was never any opportunity to go sledding or tobogganing—and no hills whatsoever close by that were available for that purpose.

And really, while I loved skating and would skate on the frozen pond-slash-marshy area that was across the road from our house back in the day, I wasn’t ever the athletic type. Activity was never really encouraged when I was a kid, and, not living in a town, there weren’t any organized local sports in my area. Or at least, there were never any that I knew of.

For David’s part, he never had any interest in hockey. He did live in a town, but he told me years ago that his father didn’t want him to participate in little league baseball or any other organized sport, because it would interfere with his golf trips with his buds and his week every summer at a cottage.

My mother did arrange for me to have dance classes and to be a majorette when I was about twelve, but I didn’t excel at either of those activities. I did twirl my baton in a few parades, but after a couple of years, we agreed—my mother and I—that I had gleaned all I could from that particular experience.

Despite our lack of athleticism, David and I both do love to watch the winter games! Monday night we watched some women’s freestyle skiing, I think its subtitle was “big air”? We also watched the mixed team ski jumping. We are looking forward to catching some curling in the coming week. Not the mixed teams, but the regular men’s and then women’s team event. There are the round robin portion that will lead into the semi-finals. And then of course, the bronze medal game, followed by the gold medal game.  

The first year that curling was reinstated as a medal sport at the Olympics (1998) was the first time we’d ever watched the sport, and we were both into it.

We also have watched a lot of figure skating in the past. We liked the pairs and the ice dancing, especially. We were yacking back and forth as we watched that freestyle event, and we both agree that these athletes make their sports look so easy. And we marveled as those women in the freestyle event went down the huge drop, some backwards, and then leapt and spun in the air, then landed and again, some backwards. We thought it wasn’t just toned muscles one would need to compete in that event, but nerves of steel.

I confessed, and David agreed, we would both be shaking on our skis and feeling ill just standing at the top of that hill, envisioning hurling ourselves down.

I suppose that one could class our viewing of the winter games as a kind of passive patriotism. We always cheer team Canada on, of course. But we also cheer on all the young women and men who have worked hard, and who strive to be stronger, higher, faster, to be the best that they can be.

The Olympics have served as a vehicle for worldwide friendships. They also provide us with the chance, for a brief time, for us to come together as people, our focus on something not egocentric, something that, at its heart and soul, is not connected to politics.

It’s a time to celebrate those who’ve had a dream, who’ve set goals, and who’ve dedicated themselves to a course of action. It’s a time to cheer on those who leave it all out there and lay it all down in the trying. Winning is of course the north star, but it isn’t the only benefit to be had from the process. Yes, the glory of the gold belongs to the winners, and I’m certain serves to motivate them.

But I also believe that those who have given their all but, in the end, fall short can still stand tall, and for one very important reason.

The odds were against them, and there were no guarantees, and it did indeed take long, tough hours over years where much would be sacrificed again, and again, and again just to reach the point where they earned the privilege to compete at the Olympics. Yet, despite all of that, they stepped up and gave it their best, anyway.

Or, to paraphrase the immortal words of Theodore Roosevelt, at least they failed by daring greatly, thus distinguishing themselves from those who never find the gumption to even try.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 February 2, 2022

For the next two days we’re supposed to get more snow—anywhere from 8 to 10 inches more, in fact. A significant winter storm, the forecast said. Most of what we’ve already received is still on the ground, though a tiny bit has melted from the few times the sun shone down. Before I went to bed last night the temperature outside had begun to rise. It was 40 at eleven last night. According to the weather network, when the storm began it would be with rain. I’ve seen this movie before. The rain looks like a friend as it melts some of the old snow, then the temperature drops, the rain on the snow freezes, and then is covered with a ton of new snow. I’ve seen that movie, and I hate that movie.

But last night as I took in this information, my most pressing concern as I thought about this scenario playing out once more was this: how on earth is the groundhog supposed to emerge from his burrow, let alone see his shadow when he, like the rest of us, could be covered in ice and snowed in tomorrow morning?

Well, imagine my surprise (not) when I awoke this morning to….nothing. No ice. No new snow. I shook my head and checked the weather network dot com again, and of course, the hourly forecast show this latest rendition of snowmageddon beginning at ten a.m. today.

We’ll see if they have it right this time.

Meanwhile, today is February second, Groundhog Day. We here in the Ashbury household have always celebrated the day. You may recall that my husband David, before he retired, worked at an open pit mine. A quarry, which was an outdoor job all year round.

The great hope of Groundhog Day was always the possibility of an early spring. He loved that job but outside in the winter could be brutal. By the first of February, his craving for spring was a real thing.

In the United States, the most famous groundhog is Punxsutawney Phil. But there’s also Staten Island Chuck, and Milltown Mel (New Jersey), Buckeye Chuck, in Ohio, Woodstock Willie in Illinois, Potomac Phil, in Washington, D.C., Birmingham Bill in Alabama, and Sir Walter Wally in Raleigh, North Carolina.

We have a couple of groundhogs in Eastern Canada, too—Shubenacadie Sam in Nova Scotia, and of course, Wiarton Willie, here in Ontario.

Despite the fact that I have touched on the subject of Groundhog Day in more than one of these essays, I always have to look up to see how this prognosticating thing goes. So here it is, straight from the authentic academic accreditations of Wikipedia: If a groundhog emerging from its burrow in this day sees its shadow due to clear weather, it will retreat to its den and winter will go on for six more weeks; if it does not see its shadow because of cloudiness, spring will arrive early.

Or as I explained it to my kids, either way, it’s six weeks more weeks, because Groundhogs cannot really predict the arrival of spring.

Our oldest never truly cared one way or another, until he left school to work with his father at the quarry. Now, all these years later, he’s still in the same industry, a manager, and usually gets a few weeks off in the winter. When the forecast from Wiarton Willy wasn’t a good one, he would joke aloud, wondering if anyone would get angry enough to go groundhog hunting.

I had to tell him of that old saying: don’t shoot the messenger.

Now, in the interests of clarity, and brevity, I will reveal two American and two Canadian results of this year’s rodent climate prognosticators: Both Punxsutawney Phil and Shubenacadie Sam declare six more weeks of winter. Staten Island Chuck and Wiarton Willie have proclaimed an early spring.

And I think, as I usually do, that we’ll get spring-like weather beginning on April 1, 2022—following the six months of winter that by then will have played out from October to March, inclusive.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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