Not quite spring...

 March 29, 2023

The calendar proclaims that we have been in the season known as spring for the last 9 days. I, however, am still waiting for the requisite spring-like weather. Then I remind myself that we here in this family hold that winter does exists from October 1 to March 31, inclusive.

Two more days to go, then.

I can still report that there are happy weather-related tidings, even if it isn’t really spring, yet. Despite the general lack of warmth, the sun has shone down sufficiently in the last two weeks that there no longer exists any ice or snow on the surface of our street. And, of course, the sidewalks are completely clear as well.

This is happy news for me because it means I can wear my shoes outside instead of my boots. The shoes are much better for walking in. I suppose that I will have to break down soon and buy myself a new pair of boots as the ones I used these last few months are several years old. I hate shopping for boots. They usually fit fairly well when tried on in store. It’s only later, as one is faced with the reality of using them to navigate the snow and the ice that one understands the truth of the matter.  No winter boots that I have worn in the last few years make me feel very secure as I walk.

Of course, I can confess to you that, since I know myself very well, within the next couple of weeks I will forget all about the sensible notion of buying new boots before the next winter arrives. Unless, of course, we have another snowstorm sometime in April. And living here, I can tell you, that is not an impossibility.

David reports that most of the seeds he’s already started are sprouting. And that turns our thoughts toward the hopefully soon-to-be real springtime when we can begin to work on clearing out our table gardens and filling them with fresh soil—and new plants.  That is our daughter’s plan, and I’m leaving it up to her to implement it.

The challenge for her will be her father. When she made the suggestion in the fall, he actually sputtered that he had paid damn good money for that dirt, and he was not going to just throw it away!

I don’t fault David for being thrifty. Some would say that he takes his thriftiness a tad too far—but you will never hear that from me.  He is how he is, and so daughter will make a convincing argument for taking the dirt that is currently in those table gardens and spreading it about to various places in the yard that truly need “filling in”—especially those “damn ruts left by those damn snowplow drivers”. There actually are a few places other than those ruts that need dirt, and truly, after a few years of growing the same basic crops, that soil has given us its all. Literally.

Meanwhile, indoors, I’m really itching to throw open all the doors and windows and get that stale winter air out of here. That has always been my first step in my spring cleaning ritual, and I can see no reason not to do so again this year.  Except we need it to be just a few degrees warmer outside, first.

Looking to the weather network for guidance, I can see that the first ten days of April look promising. I have my fingers crossed that my stars may all come into alignment. For that to be the case, there must be a just warm enough day to open all portals—and that day must happen when I have just the right state of mind and body to actually get some cleaning done.

I live in a constant state of hope.

In the meantime, March break, in our neck of the woods, is in the past for another year. It was a peaceful week last week without the twice daily school bus appearances and the chatter of young ones going to and fro. Yes, there is a bus stop right across the street from our house, but none of those children live on this street, apparently. With no buses or children there was a little less barking by the canine members of the family. I’m at the point where I gratefully accept any reduction in the ambient noise. The uninitiated would suggest that there is, normally, too much noise for me to be able to make such a distinction. To them I scoff, and mentally assign one word—amateur.

Where the dogs are concerned, I haven’t changed my opinion. The pros to having them all here far outweigh the cons. They make very nice renewable-energy heaters in the evening as they vie for space on our laps, and they very efficiently take care of any crumbs or other edible debris that may land on the floor. Having the critters in our lives and in our home is a very good thing, indeed—even if it’s something I remind myself of on a regular basis.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

Sometimes the fight is the point...

 March 22, 2023

I do keep my eye on the weather forecast, because if it’s planning to be icky out, I won’t be. Out, that is. Late last night when I checked my go-to website, weathernetwork.com, it was to find an interesting comment: “In typical spring fashion, Ontario will experience pretty much everything the season has to offer in the next week.”

That quote gives a whole new depth of meaning to that oft quoted phrase, “if you don’t like the weather just wait a few moments and it will surely change.”

We’re just hoping for enough sunshine over the next couple of days to melt the build up of ice on the road in front of our house. This year, for whatever reason, the snow-plow drivers decided to plow the middle of our street, staying a good couple of feet away from the curb on this side of the road.

Even after our daughter took the time and considerable effort to move my car to the cross street (we’re on a corner), thus leaving the road in front of this house and the one next to it clear of vehicles—something, by the way, she did each and every time the snow came down—they ran that plow down the middle of the street and called it done.

The one good thing about that? The other two people who live in this house are now convinced that before the next winter strikes, we will purchase a brand-new snow blower. And not a cheap one this time, either, thank you very much Mr. Parsimonious. This one has to be what’s termed a “self propelled” one, because nobody living in this house has the strength to push one of those behemoths on their own anymore.

Meanwhile, under the heading of looking toward spring, seeds have been planted. David has a series of little starter containers that have potting soil and seeds. They are set out upstairs in front of the south-facing window. This happened, I believe, while I was on my retreat…and apparently sprouting has occurred.

All things considered the winter just passed, at least in our little corner of the globe, was not that bad. It just featured several concentrated strings of days together when that were challenging. Not like those long-ago winters when the snow came mid October and stayed until April. No, this year, it came, and then a handful of days later, it went, over and over again. And of course, then it gave us such a good dumping right at the beginning of March….actually it feels as if that last dumping we got has lasted the longest of all the snow falls that came before it this winter.

But it is now officially spring by the calendar and seeds have been planted, and they are sprouting, so it is really just a matter of time. Sometimes, one does need to keep one’s eye off the calendar in much the same way as one doesn’t sit and watch a kettle come to the boil.

In television land, The Voice has returned. The last season with Blake Shelton, and David and I are trying to decide whether or not we will watch it next time. I really think we will try and see how we feel as it goes along. We didn’t begin our viewership of the program because of one of the coaches. We began because of the concept of the Blind audition. We quite liked that idea when we first watched, and that hasn’t changed.

And speaking of seeds having been planted…. I still haven’t managed to lock those writing boundaries of mine into place. One of the things that I learned on our retreat—or I should say that I relearned—was that it’s up to me to focus on the matter at hand, to settle myself BICFOK (butt in chair, fingers on keyboard) and just write the damn book.

I’ve somehow slid into the habit of allowing myself to be distracted, of throwing in the towel a bit too easily. I’ve managed to acquire a habit I don’t like, and that is one of not holding on tightly enough to the things that really matter.

In other words, I have managed to allow myself to forget that sometimes, one has to fight for what they want to do—and that fighting for it can also be, sometimes, the whole point.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

True fresh air...

March 15, 2023

The writing retreat that kept me from posting my essay last week is in the rear-view mirror now, but my, what a good time we had!

I waved goodbye to husband and daughter on Monday morning and drove a short forty minutes to the city that’s northwest of us. My destination was the home of a dear friend, the woman who initiated our online writing sprint group. She grabbed my two bags—a duffel bag that held my clothes and a tote that held food, including two home made soups—before I could even get out of my car. She put them in the back seat of her vehicle and then we were off, destination the home of another member of our writing group—the second of the three that live in that same city. There, we changed vehicles—and drivers—and then went to get the fourth member of our writing group and traveling party.

Shortly after one-thirty we left familiar territory, bearing northwest, and within about two and a half hours arrived at the venue for our mini writing retreat, an inn on the shores of Lake Huron, Ontario, at just after four in the afternoon.

These three women are my “sprinting” partners. We sprint together via video link two days a week. Then, later Monday evening, and for the duration of our adventure, we were joined by one other author, a woman who three of us had known for a long time, and one with tremendous writing bona-fides: Kelley Armstrong.

We gathered together to write, for that is what we are at the base of our beings. We are all of us writers down to the bone. And we gathered together for personal reasons that will remain personal and private, and in our way to cosset and hold dear, in honor and support of one of us.

We are writers, and being writers have formed a bond that is unique.

We write in different genres and our novels are presented via different methods, but in so very many ways, we are one. We are women who have chosen to spend our days in pursuit of crafting stories. We reach into the ether and draw out the raw material that at first only we can see; and that which we form with that raw material becomes our sustenance. We write to connect, or to comfort, or to entertain. The why of it is different for each of us. But together, we share a similar spirit. We understand and connect with each other in ways that our nearest and dearest simply cannot do.

We are writers. And while writing by its very nature is a solitary pursuit, from time to time we need to surround ourselves with other writers. In a deep and intrinsic way, other writers are our people.

So we wrote each morning for several hours—the solitary pursuit—then gathered for lunch and talk, to feed our bodies and our need for each other. Then we’d return to our solitude for another several hours. Then we’d gather, go out to supper, and then return and again, talk all things writing, and life. It was a glorious time.

There’s a story that’s been making the rounds for several years now, although I cannot attest that this encounter really happened. But it’s a great way to explain the way writers are perceived by others. The story goes that a famous Canadian author once encountered a brain surgeon at a cocktail party. “You’re a writer?” the brain surgeon asked. “Yes,” came the reply. The brain surgeon nodded. “Isn’t that interesting? I’ve always wanted to be a writer. When I retire, and if I can find the time, then I’m going be a writer, too.” “What a coincidence!” the author said. “Because I plan, when I retire from writing, to be a brain surgeon.”

Writing is often not treated by those who are not practitioners of the craft, as a “real” career. I would argue that to be a writer, one needs to pursue as much learning and put in as much work as would be required for any other skilled endeavor.  Of course, there are a few basic personal qualities that would also be helpful to possess—though not having them is not a deal breaker. Insightfulness and the ability to discern people and motives, and an understanding of nuances—these all would be assets to anyone aspiring to be an author.

I’ve been known to say that the qualities that allow me to tell stories of deep emotion are the same qualities that can be a challenge to maintaining my own emotional equilibrium. To be honest, these last few years have played absolute hell with my ability to focus, to create…. to sink deeply into my work.

I’ve never grown that thick skin everyone always told me I should have. So I’ve had a real struggle closing out all the turmoil and angst that has been filling the empty spaces around us all. The noise has been just too loud and too pervasive at times to be overcome.

But being with “my people”; being for just those few short days in a different place, physically and therefore a different place emotionally really helped. Being with those who have also struggled, those who have also felt the miasma that others are percolating in, that seems to permeate the very air around us all? Well, everything that comprised this four-day adventure was the tonic I deeply needed. I liken the experience to the sensation of throwing the doors and windows open wide at the first sweet scent of spring.

I didn’t learn anything new, particularly. But I was able to remind myself that ultimately, everything in life really is a decision. And that, at the end of the day, I don’t really need any fancy trimmings to get the job done.

I just need to fully embrace the reality that getting the job done or not is a decision that I need to make anew each and every day.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

Coping...and looking ahead.

 March 1, 2023

One of the things I have learned over the course of this life to date, is that we all have similar experiences. Truly, nothing we go through happens only to us. We really are not ever all alone.

What differences there may be between your life and mine I believe can be found in how we deal with those experiences that life tosses our way. Nobody’s path is all roses, or all crap. We each have varying degrees of good and bad, happy and sad, joyful and tragic experiences in our personal portfolios. The meaning of life, if there is one—and I believe there is—may very well be the lessons we learn along the way, and our ability to not only survive those valley experiences but thrive as we travel through them on our individual paths.

A medical professional of my acquaintance had a reaction that surprised me. On this particular occasion, my eyes misted as I spoke of that first, long ago but very shocking loss in my young life—the death of my father when I was just 8 and a half years old. He said, “You should be well over that by now!” I let the comment pass, because, well, maybe he was over the loss of his own father, a man he had buried when he himself had been a well established adult. And, if so, then good for him.

But some of us never “get over” losing loved ones—and really, I would argue that it’s an error to think that we should. Hopefully, we do learn to go on. Hopefully, we wake up each day and get stuff done. But I don’t think a prize is being offered for the speed with which one finally and forever dispenses with the occasional symptom of grieving. As in most everything, neither extreme in this instance is healthy. Shriveling up in a perpetual if metaphorical fetal position doesn’t have much value; but neither does taking an axe and chopping off all emotion.

It’s okay if that man who seemed so shocked that a fifty-plus year old woman would have a tear for her long dead daddy could himself put aside his sense of loss, of grief, and move on and never again let that loss get him down. And it’s okay if I will forever have that occasional day, here and there, when the pain returns, and the tears fall.  Everyone grieves, but everyone grieves differently.

And of course, it’s not just that first loss. My life has been a trail of losses, which is why this is a subject I think about, and often. I lost my dad at 8 and my mother at 21. Then I lost my second granddaughter, and then her daddy, my middle son; my sister died, and three years ago, I lost my brother. And those are just the losses that are connected to me through blood.

I do not spend everyday weeping, but those losses are never completely out of mind for very long. Of course, with my brother’s death I became the last of my birth family left alive, and that is a surprisingly discomforting feeling. But I get up each day, and some days are spectacular. I live and love and laugh—and maybe I can do all those things because I have given myself permission not only to grieve, but to let that pain show.

Yes, we share experiences, but our responses to those experiences are different. We’re all walking the same path, basically, from birth to death.

But more and more I am convinced that it really is the journey, and not the destination, that matters the most.

And, speaking of destinations, next Monday I will be pursuing one! I and a few close writing pals will be gathering for a short writing retreat. We’re not going far—just a couple of hours away to a lake shore. So come next Wednesday, there will be no essay posted. I haven’t missed many since that first one in 2006, so I hope you won’t mind.

With everything that we have all dealt with over the last few years, I am really looking forward to being face to face some with fellow authors.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

Rediscovering a new old song...

 February 22, 2023

Most evenings, as my day reaches that point where I’m thinking about going to bed, I surf the world wide web one more time and arrive at my usual final destination of the day: YouTube.

Now, don’t fear, dear reader, that I might be venturing forth along strange turns of exploration. Or that I might veer off onto heretofore unheard-of paths of darkness and mystery. The algorithms, whatever they are, ensure that when I return to that site, I’m greeted with more of the same, day after day, that’s only perhaps a little different than the day before.

And some of what that same has been lately as been of a musical bent. There are actual sites that dedicate themselves to top ten and top twenty presentations. The videos are anywhere from ten to thirty minutes each, and can be on all sorts of different themes, some of which, obviously for me, are appealing.

Earlier this week, I found one video that was called the “20 Greatest Broadway Singers of All Time.” Now, there are basically two kinds of compilations, that I have found so far; those that give you only about eight to ten bars of a song—and those are usually called “the best 100 hits” of… whatever year they’re the hits of. Those are fun, and I find I have to really be on my toes as I listen. If, for example, I hear a song that I kind of remember, I have to pause that video and write the title down, and then, after watching the compilation video, I might go and search for the original song itself.

Then there is the kind of compilation where they give you a bit more of the song, along with some facts to go with it. But since the focus of this sort of video was on the singer, you may get other bits of other songs they have sung, too. I will tell you honestly, this particular video, the 20 Greatest Broadway Singers of All Time, was very interesting to watch. Why? Because it reaffirmed for me, once more, how little I know about any given subject. There were several artists highlighted on this nearly thirty minute long video that I had never heard of. There were also, of course, a few glaring omissions. How could they not have included Barbra Streisand? I will concede that she’s only been in a couple of Broadway shows. But still—she’s Streisand!

Back to my point. I wasn’t surprised that the list included Angela Lansbury. I was aware that she’s had a fulsome Broadway career. She’s one of the few artists I can think of who’s managed to excel in three mediums—stage, movie screen, and television. Each of which by itself would have been considered a good lifetime’s career for anyone.

Then came the moment that I experienced on Monday, a moment where I perked up, and said, “oh, oh!” and then I began to sing along! Of course, I had to pause the video so I could keep singing when they switched to her in another song…and then I had to search out the lyrics to the song, so I could do a proper job of it. And, yes, to do a proper job, I realized I needed to hear that particular song in its full glory because there is a bit of a melody switch or whatever you call it in the middle (I think they call it the bridge. But I can’t say for sure because while I love music, I am not at all skilled in it.)

And while I was singing along on the heels of the discovery that here was a song I knew, a song I hadn’t heard for a long, long time….I was back there. In my mind, and in my mood, I was back to being a young girl, sitting with my mother on the living room sofa, watching The Judy Garland Show, or Dinah Shore, or Ed Sullivan, or Dean Martin….my mother watched those, along with dramas, and of course, whatever program Lucille Ball was in at the time. And in those days if Mom watched it, I watched it, too.

I can’t recall which program I first heard this song on, but I do recall being drawn in as Ms. Lansbury, in her wonderful vibrant voice, invited me to open a new window, open a new door, travel a new highway that’s never been tried before….

For those few moments, as I rediscovered this new old song, I began to understand why it is we use music as therapy for so many ailments. And why so many of us will use music as our own personal escape valves.

That’s what music has always done for me. It’s always taken me out of the moment I’m in, and put me someplace other, someplace safe and wonderful, just on the edge of heaven.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

Mother Nature, you little tease...

 February 15, 2023

We’ve been teased by Mother Nature with a wonderful taste of spring this past week. It’s been mild enough these last few days that David has sat out on his beloved porch a few times—with, of course, all the dogs in tail-wagging attendance. Seriously, it would be difficult for me to decide who was more enraptured with the basking in the sun—human, or canines. Then yesterday, he treated himself to a scooter ride to the great and historic commercial center of our small town. Stated goal, he wanted to get me some flowers and a card for me for Valentine’s Day. Major side benefit? A takeout order of his favorite fries and gravy from the restaurant just across the street from the pharmacy.

In the aftermath, when the tummy bliss was but a memory, he was a very happy camper. And, since he brought me (as well as the flowers and the card) a gyro from that same take-out eatery, I was a happy camper, too.

Already our front flower beds are showing lovely little green shoots. Of course, this warming trend and glorious sunshine is truly just a tease; we’re not done with the cold and the snow quite yet. But since those same plants have come up early the last couple of years, I won’t worry about them. They’ve already proven themselves to be pretty hardy and adept at handling nature’s false starts. They don’t seem to let another snowfall or two stop them.

It’s a good thought to remember and hold close; even under the snow and during the worst blizzards, plants are working to get ready to bloom. They never once show in any way that they believe they will never bloom again—and neither should we.

For all the predictions we heard last autumn to the contrary, this hasn’t been a horrible winter, not in any way. Oh, we’ve had a few visits to the sub-zero zone on the thermometer, but those were only days at a time, and not weeks. And yes, here we’ve had a few good dumps of snow, but each time, after a couple of weeks, that snow has melted.

At this point in time all we have to show for all the active winter weather we’ve endured is a ridge of ice just a few inches from the sidewalk – underneath where the cars are usually parked.

I’ve been doing my best recently to disengage from the crazies and the reality-challenged who seem to be filling the air waves lately. For my own mental well-being, as well as my blood pressure, I believe this is a prudent course of action for me to take. I’ve come to the conclusion that the cause of most of the strife and division and bare naked stupidity in this world can be summed up in one word: politics.

There was a song released way back in 1970 by an artist named Edwin Star. It’s opening lines are: War…huh….yeah/ What is it good for? Absolutely nothing…  I’m thinking a 2023 update might be in order, substituting the word “politics” for “war”. Yes, my friends, that is harsh. I know there are some folks of every belief system, from all sides of the aisle as it were, who do good work, and are true public servants. But from where I’m sitting, those good hearted folks appear to be heartbreakingly outnumbered.

Meanwhile, we’re beginning to think of the planting season about to come. We aren’t just going to talk about the veggies we would like to start and then grow in our table gardens; no, we’re actually going to do that little thing. Now there’s a good bumper sticker: Don’t just talk; do!

But first, my daughter and I need to see what we can do about replacing all the soil currently in those boxes….my dear husband hates what he perceives as waste. But there are areas in our yard that could use the current several-years used soil to good purpose.

And now, I will focus with anticipation on the season of new beginnings and regrowth to come.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

A sure sign of spring....

 February 8, 2023

I’m sure we’re all very grateful that the polar vortex that vexed us all over the last couple of weeks is finally a thing of the past. There comes a point that, when the temperature drops low enough, the cold begins to seep in, regardless of your efforts to keep it out.

That’s how it would be if a new ice age ever came. The temperatures would finally drop so low, that everything would simply stop working, and no number of blankets would help. A deep cave with a supply of water and a safe area to burn wood for heat might increase one’s chances of survival. But it kind of begs the question: why bother to survive in so desolate a world?

I hope knowing the fact that the picture I just painted of dystopia is not in our foreseeable futures, will give us all the lift we need at this point in the year. And by “this point”, of course, I’m referring to those of us in North America that are north of the Mason-Dixon line. We, who by virtue of having been either born here or chosen to relocate here, are subjected to the four seasons of the planet, in all their extreme glory. We, who by now are thoroughly sick of snow and ice and the frigid temperatures that accompany them.

Don’t worry, all you who hunger for spring. It truly is on its way. Every year as January closes, there are two benchmarks we must hit before spring may arrive. First, of course, we must have Groundhog Day. That is now done. Next, comes the Super Bowl. That game must be a sign of spring, because once it’s done the spring season of television shows begin. And then, just a few episodes into your favorite entertainment programming should find you wearing a lighter coat as the temperatures outside begin the rise that comes with the vernal equinox.

Meanwhile, here in my hermit cave, I am attempting to get my paperwork in order in preparation for tax season. Our deadline here in Canada is the end of April, as opposed to the middle of it. Sometimes things get away from me. I think this is a flaw that is somehow etched right into my DNA. Or at the very least, a bad habit that I cannot overcome on my own. That this is so, absolutely confounds me. I can be so anal about so many things—and so completely sanguine about others.

It's not a mix that has necessarily served me well over the years, either. One would think that after several mad scrambles on the part of yours truly, I would learn. Alas, I am smart, but sometimes one would be hard-pressed to know it.

Having spent time last week opining on the subject of rodent prognostication, I feel I must also give due consideration to the Super Bowl as an harbinger of spring. Never let it be said that I jinxed the springtime rituals by not giving due consideration to the game.

When our younger son was in his early teens, he played league football. We spent a lot of time at his games, and of course, we were not silent spectators. We kept it clean but kept it lively. My beloved and I even volunteered to wield the yard markers. Anthony used to be kind of embarrassed about all the cheering coming from our cheap seats on the sidelines. Well, until that time when a couple of his teammates told him how lucky he was to have his parents there and cheering for him.

We have occasionally enjoyed football in this house, but never watched it overmuch. In our early years together, there was always a Grey Cup party in the late fall. The Grey Cup is the name of the Canadian Football Championship game and its trophy. We attended the Grey Cup parade in Hamilton on December 2, 1972. We had seats in the bleachers! Then the next day we watched the game from our small Hamilton apartment. We would have gone to my in-laws for the occasion but were smart enough to know that driving home post-game would have meant dealing with traffic of epic proportions. And, this was just a little more than a week before we had our first child.

We no longer make it a point to watch any football, though we are aware of how the various teams in the Canadian Football league do through each season. Apparently, however, these days there is as much excitement for the Super Bowl up here in the great frozen north, as there is down south below the 49^th parallel.

Having watched a few minutes of various Super Bowl games over the years, I have a question. How can you keep the game in your focus, when it seems like there’s a commercial break after every single play?

I tell you truly, that’s a skill-set I simply do not have—nor do I have any hope of being able to acquire it.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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