Thoughts on the Queen of Canada

 May 18, 2022

During my lifetime to date, there have been 13 Presidents of the United States. Also, during my lifetime to date, there have been 12 Prime Ministers of Canada and 11 premiers of the Province of Ontario.

However, in my lifetime to date there has also been only one monarch: Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II. For those who don’t know, and I am certain there are many, Her Majesty is not only Queen of Great Britain but the Queen of Canada. Her “style” (how she is recognized) officially in Canada is: “Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom, Canada, and Her other Realms and Territories, Queen, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith.”

As were my parents before me, I am proud to claim Her Majesty as my queen.

She represents and truly is the greatest single example of public service done right that I can think of. She made this promise, over the radio on her twenty-first birthday: “I declare before you all that my whole life, whether it be long or short shall be devoted to your service and the service of our great imperial family to which we all belong.” In the years since, she has always put her duty first. She knows how to put country before self, a lesson that many of today’s so-called public servants (aka elected officials), in any country, would do well to emulate. Any officials, that is, except President Zelensky. He’s got it right.

From time to time through the years when I’ve heard or read of speculation that she might retire, or abdicate, I’ve just shaken my head. No, I would say to anyone who would listen, she will do no such thing. She promised to serve for her entire life. She is a woman of her word.

I really wish there were more people in the arena today who were as steadfast in their word, and as honorable in the keeping of their promises, as is my Queen.

As we were watching some footage of H.M. at the Jubilee Horse show on Monday, I became quite emotional. I felt so very happy that she was beaming and having a good time. She loves her horses, and all horses, and always seems so happy whenever she is pictured near them. As well, the show featured her granddaughter, Lady Louise Windsor, driving the carriage that the late Prince Phillip used to drive in horse competitions. Family—her family especially—is very important to H.M.

She may strip a liegeman of titles and honors for cause, as a Queen is sometimes required by duty to do; but she would never completely turn her back on a son—and rare is the mother who ever would.

Her own mother, who after her husband’s death and the ascension of her daughter asked not to be referred to as the Dowager Queen (as was the custom), but the Queen Mother, also believed in duty and family.  Folks sometimes focus on the wrong thing. One might say of the Royal Family, well, they’ve always had pots of money, haven’t they?

But pots of money did not protect the relative privacy of the marriage and home life of Prince Albert Edward, the Duke of York and his Duchess, Elizabeth Bowes Lyons and their two young daughters. When his older brother, Edward VIII turned his back on his duty—when he put himself before his country—the Duke of York became the king he hoped he never would have to be. Pots of money did not protect the King from succumbing at a relatively young age to cancer. Pots of money do not, in short, protect anyone from the vagaries of fate or the reality of life.

In the end, the sort of person you become has nothing to do with money, or prestige.  It is the result of the choices that you have made through your lifetime. One may choose to follow unprincipled leaders and turn their backs on their duty and even, apparently, on decency.

Or one may make a pledge at the age of twenty-one and still be keeping that promise some seventy-five years later.

It is all of it, very simply, a choice that one makes.  

 

Love,

Morgan

http://morganashbury.com

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

 

 May 11, 2022

As I write this, the current outside temperature is 61 degrees Fahrenheit, headed for a high of 82. Fingers crossed, we are hoping we’ve seen the last of the snow and the sleet and the icy sidewalks until at least October or November.

Yes, it’s finally spring! Later today my husband is planning to cut the grass for the first time of the season. I’ll be pleased, I’m sure, to have the green lawn which at this time of year is looking particularly lush, trimmed and neat. However, to the north of our porch, growing beyond the garden in which they thrived last season and into that lush lawn, there are dozens of spears of lilies-of-the-valley poking their hopeful little heads up.

I’m not sure what it says about me that I’m a little saddened, knowing they’re likely about to be leveled. Anyone who grows lily-of-the-valley knows they will take over, and always grow beyond their area—unless of course one goes into the back yard and has a great idea on how to make that particular area look so much better…. But that’s a story for another day.

I suppose I could come up with some poetic way to immediately console myself over this anticipated sadness—for example, I could thank those spears for appearing for the audition, but the roles have all been filled. Or I could just let the small sadness stay with me for a little while.

I’ll do that because I think sometimes, we don’t want to let ourselves feel any unhappy emotions. I understand that because over the last few years it seems as if the unhappy/negative side of our emotional spectra have had way too much prominence in our lives.

Just as one may have the thought that they can’t cry because they may never stop, one may also worry that if they give in to the sadness and grief, they’ll never feel happy again.

That’s not an outlandish prospect, because some people seem to be destined to hit that one valley experience that they will never be able to climb up out of. Sadness and grief are different for every person. We all experience them differently and the truth is that some people never do just visit those emotions. Some people do “live there”.

I don’t live in my sadness and grief, but then, I never expected them to completely go away, either. I believe that a profound loss does often engender a profound grief.  And if you’ve suffered several of those losses in your lifetime, it does change you. How could it not?

I still count the passing of my father when I was 8 as the greatest seminal moment of my life. I spent a great deal of the time over the next 13 years following that tragic event being afraid that my mother would die, too. Which she did, when I was 21.

And while at that point I had a husband and one child and was looking to have more, the knowledge that anyone could die at any moment was never buried deep enough in the back of my mind. It still isn’t, but again, I really don’t dwell there.

I, like most adults of my age, understand that we’re truly not promised tomorrow at all. Whether the people that I love live, or die is not within my control. And I believe that is another important concept for us mere humans to embrace. There are just things in our lives that we’re not only unable to control, but we’re also not meant to.

Therefore, I don’t mind acknowledging the moments of sadness that come to visit. But I also acknowledge the special moments, the loving moments, the funny moments. And I try to balance it all out by looking at the big picture and reminding myself that because our time in this life is short, every single moment matters. Happy moments and sad moments. Giggling moments and crying moments.

Every moment in my life is mine, has been mine, will be mine, and I proudly lay claim to them all.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 May 4, 2022

My husband, when he was about a decade away from his anticipated retirement date, came up with a plan as to what he would do for the rest of his life after he reached that glorious milestone. He’d hoped, by the time that he retired, that he would be able to pursue what for him would have been a wonderful hobby: he had it in mind to restore steam-era farm equipment. He’s been a tinkerer all his life, and had an acquaintance who became a friend, an elderly gentleman who actually had a working steam traction engine. Everything about that piece of machinery fascinated David, and he spent a lot of time with that man learning all he could and at the same time helping him with some of the work of his farm.

He set about planning how he could make his dream a reality. He’d need a workspace, one that he could use year-round. Well, we figured we had enough land here to put up a garage of sorts. The interesting part would be finding just the right piece of equipment for sale in need of some TLC and David’s innate mechanical talents. That would be the last phase of his plans, and he thought to begin looking for the perfect metal candidate about a year off from his retirement.

And then, just a few years shy of his 65^th birthday, David was diagnosed with COPD—Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease. And as he drew nearer to that retirement date, he knew that as much as he would have loved working on his long-imagined piece of steam-era farm equipment, he could no longer, in all honesty, manage the task, physically.

He was deeply disappointed, but he didn’t let himself dwell in that dark place for very long. David knew he had to find something to keep him busy when he was no longer a part of the work-a-day world, and if he couldn’t exercise his body in that pursuit, he would exercise his mind, instead. So after he gave the matter a lot of thought and, knowing that whatever he decided to do, it would have to be a bit more sedentary than what he was used to, he came up with his plan B.

He decided that he would write a book. But not just one book. He set his sights on producing a trilogy.

David’s adaptability is a skill honed over a lifetime of being faced with disappointments, of having to rethink a situation and take a new track. In short, it’s a skill honed from living real life every day. To date he has completed two of the three books, and while seeing them published may be something he does down the road, that wasn’t the point. In November he will celebrate his fifth year of retirement, and I can tell you that by and large, he has been content, and not at all bored.

I compare his example of dealing with life to what we see around us, and it makes me feel sorry for the younger generations. Quite frankly, they have been cheated.

And in all the ways I think that the children here in North America have been short-changed over the last twenty to thirty years, the one I believe is the most egregious is that we have made life far too easy for our children and grandchildren—to the point that they have not learned how to deal with disappointment or frustration.

It is one of the worst unintended consequences of the so-called kinder, gentler environment with which we’ve surrounded our children in the last twenty-plus years. Children stopped having to worry about failing a grade in school; they stopped having to worry about not making the team. They didn’t have to worry about not winning a trophy at the end of the sports season, because everyone won a trophy.

Oh, what’s that? You read a history book and now feel ashamed of some of the ways our forefathers and mothers behave? Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that. We’ll just rewrite the history books!

These latest generations, be they millennials or gen z, who have been immersed in the lifestyle of instant gratification, of never having to fail or be excluded, could very well end up having an extremely rocky road ahead of them. As they reached adulthood, they began to discover that as padded and insulated as their growing up years had been, they were completely unprepared for real life. And those educators and politicians, clearly folks who hadn’t dealt well with their own encounters with frustration and disappointment and therefore thought to spare the poor darlings a healthy dose of the same, instead left them ill prepared to face those very real things—things that because of our being human are practically guaranteed in real life.

Here I digress to impart a clue, because I truly believe everybody should have at least one: real life happens independent of anyone’s wishes.

We have a generation of people who grew up believing that they should be happy, and they should not have to face any tough, emotional situations. That they shouldn’t worry their pretty little heads… In short, we have raised a generation that believes a whole hell of a lot of lies.

To those geniuses who came up with that theory that the way to raise kids is without having them face anything “uncomfortable”, and are still doing so, I have one question.

Where did you ever get the idea that throwing a child into the deep end of the pool was the ideal way to teach that child how to swim?

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 April 27, 2022

The grass is greening, and the birds are singing. I have no talent for knowing which birds sing which songs; I think I recognize the song of a pigeon and of course, whippoorwills, but beyond that, I’m at a real loss. I even spent some time last year using YouTube to play for me the sounds of common birds, but my capacity for recalling that is on a par with the rest of my abilities lately. Of course, to be completely honest, I wasn’t very patient with that process. Anyone who knows me well would not be shocked by that fact.

There’s this one avian lilt that I always associate with the arrival of spring, and that is the birdsong I’ve been listening to this week. While I can’t identify the species of the singer, I can identify the joy I feel listening to it. Therefore, I’ve decided that’s good enough.

This past weekend found us—self proclaimed hermits that we are—out and about among people. The first occasion was on Friday, where we joined our second daughter, along with her two now adult children (our grandchildren) and a very small handful of their friends for dinner. The occasion was the graduation of granddaughter, Emma, as a paralegal. She graduated with honors, and so it was a very happy occasion.

The restaurant they chose was the Red Lobster, and the evening was a lovely time. One of our great granddaughters, Emma’s baby who’s now a toddler, was there as well, of course. One of the funniest moments was one I only heard about. Renee was sitting beside me, and I got up to go to the Lady’s room while her attention was on the other end of the table.  Then she looked to her right, expecting to see me, and of course I wasn’t there. She said, “Oh no, we’ve lost GG!” That’s what I’m mostly called now, GG, for Great Grandmother. Best title ever!

Despite that everyone assured the little miss that I had just gone to the bathroom, she insisted on seeing for herself—which her mother obliged by bringing her into that room. We washed our hands together and then went back to the table.

The next day I attended a bridal shower for our soon-to-be-new granddaughter. Both gatherings were small, less than 12 people at each one, and I was mostly okay with attending them. I always knew that it would take me some time to venture out. David and our daughter have been slightly bolder in that regard. They’ve gone out to breakfast on a regular basis during the weekends, as well as hitting a couple of major big box stores in the last couple of months.

I’m not quite ready for that level of exposure. At the restaurant on Friday, I wore my mask except when seated at the table. The next day, at the shower, my daughter-in-law’s house was well ventilated, and all in attendance had been fully vaccinated—as had the guests at dinner the night before.

I am taking baby steps because I believe we’re going to be living with Covid a long time, if not forever. I imagine that down the road, people will just add a covid shot or two to their annual regimen. Just as most people get their flu shot every year and keep up on their other preventative measures.

I’m happy to report that I have daffodils blooming outside my bedroom window. That window has a southern exposure, and those bulbs are always the first to come up. I have yet to venture out to discover whether or not my roses have survived this past winter. I’ll likely do that in the next week or two. They’ve been hardy, but really, I likely shouldn’t be entrusted with the beautiful perennials in the first place. I really don’t do a very good job of caring for them. What had been given to me as brushes obtained from a greenhouse are—or I should say were, as of last summer—more like wild roses now. They’re still pretty but not quite as they should be.

We’ve had a couple of beautifully warm and sunny days in the last week, but Mother Nature this year seems determined to hang onto wintery weather with both claws, doesn’t she? She is truly testing our patience this year.

I’ve a history of being pretty good when it comes to tests. But in this particular case, when the test is one of patience, I think I’ll be lucky if I escape earning myself an F.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 April 20, 2022

Easter is in the rear-view mirror, we’ve passed the halfway mark of April, and new-growth shoots are popping up in my front flower beds. And on just this past Monday, two days ago, we were treated to an encore performance by Mother Nature of her winter pageantry.

I was determined that nothing M.N. could send my way was going to get me upset; I had seen the weather report and knew what might be headed our way. But I held firmly to the knowledge that, Monday being a day that was in the latter half of April, whatever pollen fell from the sky that day would not last long.

Of course, I couldn’t avoid getting glimpses of the outside world. I wasn’t at all surprised to look out and see a blizzard in progress. My joints had already alerted me to the fact that stuff was happening in the great out of doors. Enough of that.

Last week, I decided to try out a new recipe. One of the evenings I’d fallen down a rabbit hole on YouTube, and I discovered a recipe made with apples that was similar to an apple pie, but the translation of it included the word “invisible”. It didn’t take a lot of thinking on my part, since there was a video and you could see the dessert, to understand that what was invisible was the “pie crust.”

Long story short, the “dough” was more like a cake batter, but one that didn’t necessarily rise to the occasion. The apples weren’t in slices so much as they were in strips—rendered in the video via use of a vegetable peeler, and by me using one side of my grater. I followed the directions carefully, especially taking great care in the mixing of the dough and the apples, done very gently and slowly so as not to break the strips. Then adding it all, spoon by spoon, to the spring form pan, and patting it down after each spoonful so the apples would lay flat.

The recipe was European and contained a lot less sugar than what would have been called for in a regular North American dessert. It turned out well, presenting a “slice of pie” that showed many layers, and everyone here really enjoyed it.

I’ve gotten into the habit lately of trying out new recipes on a fairly regular basis. I believe that the part of my brain I use for cooking is a different part from what I use for writing, and I want to do whatever I can to keep my cooking brain working well.

I do have the need to feel useful. That feeling can be hard to come by when the body protests most movements and stamina is nothing but a fond memory. One of the things I can still do well most of the time is cook. Producing supper is not something that I do every day, however. I likely could, if I had to. But anymore, none of us eats a great deal, and if I do too much cooking in a short period of time, we end up with left-over food overload.

We had a roast of beef last Thursday, and then we enjoyed a bone-in ham for Easter Sunday. I tend to make more than one veggie with supper, because sometimes our daughter opts to have only those for her evening meal. She does that usually on a day when she’s had eggs for breakfast. Also, with one exception, the veggies I put on the table are either cooked from fresh or if not, then from frozen. The only exception? They both love creamed corn, and I haven’t tried to make that myself yet, so that comes from a can.

One thing that I make sure to do is to keep an eye on what all we have in our fridge. We own a plethora of containers and we’re not afraid to use zipper-type plastic bags to store food in, either. Many has been the occasion when we’ve been preparing several salads either to serve here or take elsewhere, when we’ve put them in those flexible, can fit in almost any available space bags.

There’s an inside joke in this family. Everyone knows there’s nothing I hate more than to throw out perfectly good food. In years past, when our food budget was small, I became a master at using left over ingredients to make something totally different and serve it for supper the next day.

That skill was honed because there was time when no one wanted to just reheat and eat the supper from the day before. So, left over roast beef became either hot roast beef sandwiches, or shepherd’s pie, or a meat, rice, and veggie casserole (and that works for all types of meat). Left over roast pork might become chow mien, or cold sliced pork, served with pan fried potatoes and gravy. Left over chicken—well, the kids liked chicken a la king, but David never has. There were very few times I made things he didn’t like and got away with it when I did so because there were four of us and one of him.

But now our daughter is vegetarian, and is a grandmother herself, so there are no kids to put first. I will digress long enough to say, I really miss chicken a la king.

Part of our left over ham from Easter has already been turned into a spread for sandwiches which we call ham and pickle. (put ham and a few sweet cucumber pickle pieces and a bit of onion through the food processor. Put into a bowl, add mayo and mix.) Some of the rest of the left over ham will be used in a breakfast in the next day or two.

And as for all the rest? Well, that’s where the family joke comes in. You see, they all know that I refuse to throw out perfectly good food.

However, food that’s been neatly stored in the fridge and not eaten and subsequently begins to go bad? Well, that, my friends, is a whole other matter.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 April 13, 2022

The happy memories of childhood are a wonderful place to visit, aren’t they? Though imperfect, the memories we’ve stored from years passed nonetheless give us touchstones, real moments we can look back on when the spirit moves us.

The older I become, the more I’m convinced that we humans need a sense of stability for our psyches as much as we need air to breathe and food to feed our bodies. By visiting our memories, we metaphorically tie a rope between then and now, giving us something to hold onto, something to guide us. Not unlike the ropes tied between house and barn in high elevation rural areas in the winter to keep the rancher from getting lost in a blizzard.

This is Holy Week, so called because we are approaching the day which is considered the most sacred in Christianity: Good Friday.

My memories of Easter as a child—specifically before the death of my father—are filled with odd bits and pieces, freeze-framed photographs taken by a small child whose world at that point was perfect. I can recall a new Easter outfit, including a pretty if scratchy dress, white socks (also scratchy) and shiny new Maryjane shoes. I remember a cute little white hat and a pink coat, which I doubt I wore any place other than to church each Sunday, and only until spring had heated into summer.

I remember getting a white bunny rabbit one year for Easter. A real, live rabbit! I remember seeing of picture of me taken with the critter. It filled my arms, and my grin, with one tooth missing, was wide and beaming. It was a black and white photo of course, and where that picture—or the rabbit for that matter—ended up, I can only guess.

I also recall my daddy surprising us in the car after Church on Easter Sunday, with a paper bag containing 5 colored hard boiled Easter eggs he’d brought, along with the requisite saltshaker. And there, parked across from the church along the curb, we each peeled our one egg and hungrily devoured them. Funny, I don’t recall if there had been anything to drink to wash the egg down. This was, of course, before the days of the drive-through coffee shop. As well, in those days, most stores were closed on Sunday.

It seems likely to me that there might have been a thermos of water or milk, but I can’t recall if there actually was, or not.

Happy memories all of those—the memories of a child living in a sanitized world.

I don’t feel any kind of desperate need to return to those long-ago days. It’s enough for me to know they existed, and that thinking on them can give me a moment’s respite and put a smile on my face. For the most part, I don’t feel a need to escape from the reality we’re all living in today. There are moments when we all wonder, with not a little bit of consternation, what next? And we all struggle to keep our balance. My mother’s favorite assessment of life comes to mind: she used to say that life is just one damned thing after another.

These last couple of years it has been all of that. I would submit that the difference between fifty or sixty years ago and now is that mostly, those “damn things” back then weren’t as big as a global pandemic or burgeoning European war—mostly.

There’s a comfort in knowing we have those memories as a quiet place to visit, don’t you think? And a definite solace in knowing we’re not alone when it comes to feeling off-balance and overwhelmed. To understand that so many people are in the same space, emotionally, allows us to take a step back and say, “okay, the problem is real, it’s not just me. We’re all in the same boat.”

Yes, we really are all in the same boat—but we’re not all necessary rowing in the same direction.

And while that little fact might discourage you, remember the laws of science. As long as more folks are rowing in the right direction than not, then we are moving in the right direction—just not as quickly as we’d all like. That’s something, at least.

To those who celebrate, David and I wish you a Happy Easter, and/or a Happy Passover.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

 April 6, 2022

We have catch phrases for practically everything these days, don’t we? In the beginning was the catch phrase, “hashtag” which I am certain y’all know is represented by the symbol, “#”, aka number sign, aka pound sign. And then – it just took off. Your first challenge is to find where there should be a space between the words, because hashtags, by their natures, contain no spaces. So, with the spaces put it for our mutual understanding, here are just a couple of the ones I noticed. Hashtag “nothing burger”; hashtag “kabuki theater”; hashtag “there there” which, contrary to what one might think on first sight/hearing is not a reference to comforting anyone for anything. It’s a confirmation that what the speaker suspects the subject has done is true—or, conversely, what others think is true, simply isn’t. The difference is represented by the qualifying introductory words: there is a(there, there), or there is no(there, there).

In fact, the trend is to hashtag just about any damn thing you can think of! And it doesn’t have to be something short, either. Go ahead and ask Ms. Google about the longest hashtags. The one that came up when I did just that left me shaking my head at its length and blushing.

But the one catch phrase that I’ve taken the longest time to think about is this one: hashtag cancel culture.

My first question when I began hearing that phrase, “cancel culture” all over cable news was what the heck is that about? So I began my particular kind of research—a combination of looking to see what folks are saying and, of course, asking Ms. Google about cancel culture—like, is it a culture in the sense that the Roman Empire or Ancient Greece were cultures? Was it a protest directed at that 1980s rock band whose lead singer was Boy George? I seriously didn’t know. But I looked and I learned, and I am now ready to discuss this topic with a modicum of authority.

To answer my own question—and to strip it down to its most fundamental meaning—cancel culture is a form of ostracism. Did you know that the word, ostracism goes all the way back to ancient Athens—to the days of Athenian democracy? It was their form of social shunning. A citizen could be ostracised which meant they were expelled from the city-state for ten years.

We still use that word, ostracism, when we describe times when people are tossed from their particular little nook of society. Amazing, isn’t it? That what in essence was a form of bullying initiated in a culture that was thriving before the birth of Jesus would still be in such popular use today. I guess we haven’t progressed as much as some of us would like to believe we have.

Or putting it another way: this is just one more piece of evidence that, at the base of everything, human nature does not change.

My question then is this: if our natures do not change, does that mean that the onus for breaking some of these toxic behavior patterns we’ve succumbed to lies with society (aka legislation)—or does it remain with each of us, individually?

There is a half of me that wants to stomp my foot, curse and swear, and then shout from the rooftops that “we ought to make a law against all forms of discrimination!”

And there is a half of me that fervently believes that we are each of us, at the end of the day, responsible for our own selves, in every respect. You see, when at last I, to quote Shakespeare, shuffle off this mortal coil, I know that I, alone, will stand to answer for how I’ve lived my life.

It was at this moment in all my ruminations and ponderings, that I heard the voice of my mother from some long-ago moments of conflict between us. One of the things she would say to me often—beyond that old chestnut, “why should I keep a dog and bark myself”—was “you can think what you like but don’t you dare say it.”

I suppose there is no perfect answer as to how to extricate ourselves from this impossible conundrum—organized bullying via cancel culture—in which we find ourselves living.

I referred to ostracism as an act of bullying and I believe that it is. “Cancel culture” is also a act of bullying. And lest anyone you know insists that the practice of cancel culture is righteous, let me point out that one cannot believe in the freedom of speech and the freedom of expression and then turn around and persecute those who speak and express themselves in ways that one doesn’t like.

Therefore, I will state my belief that a person may feel in their hearts however they wish to feel and may believe in their hearts whatever they wish to believe. But, and this is a big but thank you Mom, there should be legislation when it comes to our actions.

What you think about me isn’t my business. You are free to think whatever you want. You should not be free to do anything that would interfere with my ability to indulge in life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. You may not like me, but you have no right to exert your influence over me based on your fickle feelings.

I find it once more worth mentioning (almost as an addendum to my last week’s essay), that those I see who most like to use cancel culture as a tool/weapon are once more those who like to proclaim themselves as believing in a certain sacred book.

And to them all I can say is this: aren’t you grateful and relieved that God doesn’t believe in cancel culture?

Just something to think about in this Lenten season.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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