For just the second time in 17 years, I went to a movie theatre Monday night. I had yet to see a “3D” movie, and although we have that new television and it does have that technology, my daughter and husband swore the experience was different in the theatre, and they were right.
There were six of us for this outing—my beloved and our daughter [I guess you could say the rest of us infringed on their usual Monday night excursion] our second daughter, and her two kids, who are the grandchildren I take care of. The movie: Pixar’s Brave.
I can’t tell you why I stopped being a movie fan. We used to go to the cinema from time to time, but when VCRs became all the rage in the 1970s and 80s [oh my God, I am getting old!] we used to not only rent movies every weekend; we rented a lot of them.
Sometimes we’d watch 3 movies on Friday night and 3 movies on Saturday night. This was a family activity, with all five of us in our living room, enjoying the entertainment together. We watched all different genres of films—except, of course, horror movies, or films that had tragically sad endings. I absolutely refused to watch them, period. It just wasn’t ever going to happen.
One incident in particular sticks out in my memory as I look back on those days, but I have to kind of qualify this story first.
As parents, my beloved and I took an unusual stance: we would both rather our children see a movie that had a bare modicum (pardon the pun) of nudity than have them watch a movie with extreme violence or where people got hacked to pieces. Now obviously, we generally didn’t go out of our way rent movies with nudity in them. But once in a while we would get “flashed”.
The year after it came out, we rented The Sword and the Sorcerer with Lee Horsley. In this movie there was one scene when the hero swung through the “harem” on a rope. For the span of about four or five seconds, while the camera ‘followed’ the hero’s swing, the viewer was treated to a background scene of several sets of naked, female breasts.
We were neither of us expecting this; we looked at each other, said nothing, and the movie played on. And, I thought, okay, no harm, no foul as not a one of our three children said a word about it. Christopher was nearly 11 at the time, Anthony 6, and Jennifer 5. I thought: whew, bullet dodged.
The next morning I awoke early to a strange sound. It was click, click, silence for about five seconds then click, click again. Coming from the living room, which was just outside our bedroom, it happened more than a dozen times, and I decided to get up to investigate.
There was my six year old son, Anthony, on the floor in front of the television, remote control in one hand, thumb of the other in his mouth, as he ran that harem shot on the screen over, and over again.
I kind of think my drifting away from watching movies—and television too, because I really don’t watch more than a hand full of hours of that a week—is tied to my reading and writing. At some point after my heart surgery, my interests changed, and I found that, given the choice, I’d rater either read or write than watch a movie.
Through our cable company, we’re able to rent movies on a “pay per view” basis without leaving the house, and if by chance I am in the mood to see a movie, then that is generally what I do. In the past couple of years, I’ve seen The Social Network, The King’s Speech, and The Iron Lady. My sister-in-law (my beloved’s sister) has made it her personal mission to see to it that every couple of months I’m subjected…er, treated to a “girls night”. She brings a couple of movies, “chick flicks”, usually, and she and I and my daughter commandeer the living room to indulge in this female bonding ritual. Hence, I’ve also seen Fried Green Tomatoes, Love Actually, and The Lake House. On the most recent of these evenings, we watched “It’s Complicated” starring Meryl Streep and Alec Baldwin.
There are often margaritas involved in these rituals, so I guess they’re okay.
Ironically it’s my role as author that has prompted me to try and fit in a few more movies recently. Our film media does, after all, reflect our lives, and our collective consciousness. We can take our “social temperature” by looking at the movies we create and watch. It can be argued that it’s difficult to be current with the world if one is ignorant of the art, and art forms, being produced and celebrated by it.
Films and television shows draw the largest audience of all the arts.
While that is true, and I don’t want my books to begin to sound as if they are novels written by a woman not in tune with her times, one thing remains non-negotiable.
I still refuse to watch horror movies, or any movies that have a dreadfully tragic ending. It’s simply not going to happen.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
My mother raised me to be polite at all times. There were certain mores of behaviour that she instilled in me, and I guess they stuck pretty well, because I still cling to them today, sometimes even in the face of unbelievable circumstance.
For example, when mom and I would go to my aunt and uncle’s for dinner, I wasn’t expected to just help with the after dinner clean up. I was expected to do it all—by myself.
Likewise, growing up, if I was a guest in anyone’s home for dinner, and they served something I really didn’t like, too bad for me. I was expected to eat it and say, “yum yum, thank you.”
Maybe you could class that as a white lie, but I don’t think there’s any real sin involved in that one.
We lived out in a rural community all through my youth, the same one my beloved and I moved to after our first year of marriage. You didn’t often get any “traveling salesmen”. Oh, they came by once in a while, but not often.
Even as I kid I got a kick out of the Fuller Brush man. He always had some little do-dad he would leave behind, even if you said “no, thank you”.
As a matter of fact, I recall when it was acceptable to say “no thank you” to the peddler at the door, and their response would inevitably be, “thank you for your time, have a nice day”.
Not, apparently, anymore.
Lately there has been a new breed of “traveling salesman” prowling our neighborhood. These are young, brash, hard-sell engineers who not only don’t take “no” for an answer, they’re rude.
And not only are they rude, they are pushy and try to intimate you. One man I particularly recall from a couple of years ago came to the door, wanting me to sign up with an “energy re-distributer”. Do you get them in your area?
Now, if the electricity rates had doubled when we got our “smart meters” - that is to say, if we were the kind of people to ignore the “peak periods” and use our a/c, our washer and our dryer at those times—then maybe, and I mean maybe, one of those contracts might have saved us a few dollars.
But I am leery, on principal, of anyone who wants you to sign on the dotted line right away. As if they know that if you have a moment to think things over, you’ll see reason and say: no, thank you.
So I told this gentleman, “no, thank you”, oh, probably about four or five times at least. Despite the fact that my anger was increasing I didn’t slam the door in his face or tell him to take, um, a flying leap. I was still trying, you see, to be polite.
However, this particular gentleman pulled out what he must have thought was his “big gun argument”. Now please keep in mind, I am dressed very casually around the house most days, when I am writing. My hair is caught up, haphazardly in a clip; I’m decently covered, but I am wearing jammies—long ones in the winter, short ones in the summer, but jammies for me are my “business apparel” of choice.
This would-be salesman of the year looked me up and down, and said, “Perhaps you’re just too stupid to understand what I’m saying to you.”
Now friends, there does come a moment, and I am certain my mother, rest her soul, would agree, when it is time to abandon that which clearly does not work.
So I said, “Actually, I probably would score well above you on any IQ test you’d care to name. Moreover, I’m a published author, and, congratulations, you’ve earned a spot in my next novel as the obnoxious itinerate asshole.”
Well, perhaps my mother wouldn’t quite approve of my language, but I did feel ever so much better when I then shut the door in his face.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
For example, when mom and I would go to my aunt and uncle’s for dinner, I wasn’t expected to just help with the after dinner clean up. I was expected to do it all—by myself.
Likewise, growing up, if I was a guest in anyone’s home for dinner, and they served something I really didn’t like, too bad for me. I was expected to eat it and say, “yum yum, thank you.”
Maybe you could class that as a white lie, but I don’t think there’s any real sin involved in that one.
We lived out in a rural community all through my youth, the same one my beloved and I moved to after our first year of marriage. You didn’t often get any “traveling salesmen”. Oh, they came by once in a while, but not often.
Even as I kid I got a kick out of the Fuller Brush man. He always had some little do-dad he would leave behind, even if you said “no, thank you”.
As a matter of fact, I recall when it was acceptable to say “no thank you” to the peddler at the door, and their response would inevitably be, “thank you for your time, have a nice day”.
Not, apparently, anymore.
Lately there has been a new breed of “traveling salesman” prowling our neighborhood. These are young, brash, hard-sell engineers who not only don’t take “no” for an answer, they’re rude.
And not only are they rude, they are pushy and try to intimate you. One man I particularly recall from a couple of years ago came to the door, wanting me to sign up with an “energy re-distributer”. Do you get them in your area?
Now, if the electricity rates had doubled when we got our “smart meters” - that is to say, if we were the kind of people to ignore the “peak periods” and use our a/c, our washer and our dryer at those times—then maybe, and I mean maybe, one of those contracts might have saved us a few dollars.
But I am leery, on principal, of anyone who wants you to sign on the dotted line right away. As if they know that if you have a moment to think things over, you’ll see reason and say: no, thank you.
So I told this gentleman, “no, thank you”, oh, probably about four or five times at least. Despite the fact that my anger was increasing I didn’t slam the door in his face or tell him to take, um, a flying leap. I was still trying, you see, to be polite.
However, this particular gentleman pulled out what he must have thought was his “big gun argument”. Now please keep in mind, I am dressed very casually around the house most days, when I am writing. My hair is caught up, haphazardly in a clip; I’m decently covered, but I am wearing jammies—long ones in the winter, short ones in the summer, but jammies for me are my “business apparel” of choice.
This would-be salesman of the year looked me up and down, and said, “Perhaps you’re just too stupid to understand what I’m saying to you.”
Now friends, there does come a moment, and I am certain my mother, rest her soul, would agree, when it is time to abandon that which clearly does not work.
So I said, “Actually, I probably would score well above you on any IQ test you’d care to name. Moreover, I’m a published author, and, congratulations, you’ve earned a spot in my next novel as the obnoxious itinerate asshole.”
Well, perhaps my mother wouldn’t quite approve of my language, but I did feel ever so much better when I then shut the door in his face.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Last Friday, my 26th novel became available from my publisher, this one under my second penname, Cara Covington. Considering that my debut novel came out in March of 2007, that’s a lot of books in a relatively short time. You probably surmise that I spend a lot of my time writing, and you’d be right.
The most amazing thing is, if I was still waiting for a publisher to say “yes”, I would still be writing, although probably not with as much confidence.
I guess I had to have a heart attack and then open heart surgery to get to the place where I was able to do what I love most in all of the world to do. Before my medical problems—at age 48—I worked for nearly 30 years in the field of accounting. I did accounts payable, accounts receivable, balance sheets, and payroll and benefits. I knew beyond a doubt that a credit was a debit and a debit was a credit, and just because it balanced didn’t mean it was right. I was pretty good at what I did, and I had been told by more than one boss that they’d never seen anyone work so quickly, or with so few mistakes.
A co-worker once accused me of treating my “job” like a career, a comment she thought was an insult, but which I took as a compliment. I have always believed that if you’re going to do something, you should do the best damn job at it that you can—especially if you’re being paid for it.
I carried that attitude over to my writing, of course. My beloved will tell you he shakes his head in amazement at how much time I spend looking things up, contacting experts, checking my facts...doing research to try and ensure that I get things right.
My sister-in-law once told me—and yes, I am still speaking to her—that since I was only writing porn and not The Great Canadian Novel, she didn’t see why I had to be such a perfectionist about it.
Well, aside from the fact that I don’t write porn, thank you very much, I am writing the great Canadian novel. To me, that’s what every one of my books truly is. Yes, they have graphic love scenes. But they also have compelling characters, and good plots. They often address real challenges that women, and men, face in life.
Each of my stories has more than one level to it. And even if they didn’t, there is value in simply giving your reader a few hours away from the challenges and stresses in their own lives.
If that was all that my books were about, I would still strive to write the best book I could. The thing is, I love what I do, and I’m proud of what I do. If I wasn’t getting published, I would still be doing it.
I guess that’s the definition of happiness...and passion, too.
I know how lucky I am that I can devote my days to doing what I love. I know what it’s like to go to work each day, and sometimes wonder if you’ll get through the eight or ten or twelve hours. Folks who do that, who go to work day in and day out, even though they don’t like what they’re doing are, in my opinion, the real heroes in life.
I can’t say that I had a passion for accounting the way I have a passion for writing. It was boring work at times, but I found a way to make it interesting. I don’t put up with boring. I never have. If something needs to be done and it’s dull and dry, I find a way to make it palatable, and I work as quickly as I can to be done with it.
I may never be famous, or monetarily wealthy. Those things don’t really matter to me. I’ve always said that as long as I have the makings for a good cup of coffee, and plenty of toilet paper, I can get by.
But I am enormously rich in the work that I do, and the friends I have made, and the readers who read my books and then write to me to tell me that they love them.
I am blessed, and highly favored.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
The most amazing thing is, if I was still waiting for a publisher to say “yes”, I would still be writing, although probably not with as much confidence.
I guess I had to have a heart attack and then open heart surgery to get to the place where I was able to do what I love most in all of the world to do. Before my medical problems—at age 48—I worked for nearly 30 years in the field of accounting. I did accounts payable, accounts receivable, balance sheets, and payroll and benefits. I knew beyond a doubt that a credit was a debit and a debit was a credit, and just because it balanced didn’t mean it was right. I was pretty good at what I did, and I had been told by more than one boss that they’d never seen anyone work so quickly, or with so few mistakes.
A co-worker once accused me of treating my “job” like a career, a comment she thought was an insult, but which I took as a compliment. I have always believed that if you’re going to do something, you should do the best damn job at it that you can—especially if you’re being paid for it.
I carried that attitude over to my writing, of course. My beloved will tell you he shakes his head in amazement at how much time I spend looking things up, contacting experts, checking my facts...doing research to try and ensure that I get things right.
My sister-in-law once told me—and yes, I am still speaking to her—that since I was only writing porn and not The Great Canadian Novel, she didn’t see why I had to be such a perfectionist about it.
Well, aside from the fact that I don’t write porn, thank you very much, I am writing the great Canadian novel. To me, that’s what every one of my books truly is. Yes, they have graphic love scenes. But they also have compelling characters, and good plots. They often address real challenges that women, and men, face in life.
Each of my stories has more than one level to it. And even if they didn’t, there is value in simply giving your reader a few hours away from the challenges and stresses in their own lives.
If that was all that my books were about, I would still strive to write the best book I could. The thing is, I love what I do, and I’m proud of what I do. If I wasn’t getting published, I would still be doing it.
I guess that’s the definition of happiness...and passion, too.
I know how lucky I am that I can devote my days to doing what I love. I know what it’s like to go to work each day, and sometimes wonder if you’ll get through the eight or ten or twelve hours. Folks who do that, who go to work day in and day out, even though they don’t like what they’re doing are, in my opinion, the real heroes in life.
I can’t say that I had a passion for accounting the way I have a passion for writing. It was boring work at times, but I found a way to make it interesting. I don’t put up with boring. I never have. If something needs to be done and it’s dull and dry, I find a way to make it palatable, and I work as quickly as I can to be done with it.
I may never be famous, or monetarily wealthy. Those things don’t really matter to me. I’ve always said that as long as I have the makings for a good cup of coffee, and plenty of toilet paper, I can get by.
But I am enormously rich in the work that I do, and the friends I have made, and the readers who read my books and then write to me to tell me that they love them.
I am blessed, and highly favored.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Not long after my mother passed away, I discovered a cache of old newspapers and magazines that she and my father had collected and saved. Among them was a souvenir program that had been printed for the coronation of King George VI—the father of our present Queen Elizabeth II.
I remember how thrilled I was to find these in 1976. Our parents raised us to think of ourselves as British subjects, which in fact we were back then. I suppose you could have called my parents monarchists, and been quite accurate.
Sadly, when we suffered a house fire in 1985, all those lovely pieces of history went up in flames.
My beloved and I are very much fans of the Royal Family, and consider ourselves monarchists to this day. Queen Elizabeth II is in fact the “Queen of Canada”, and David and I consider her our Queen.
Each Christmas, the Queen gives a televised ‘message’ and that message has been a part of my Christmas tradition all of my life. Canada does have a Prime Minister, who is the head of government, but our head of state is the Queen, represented day-by-day in Canada by “vice-regent”, the Governor-General.
The two of us have been paying avid attention this last week especially, as the celebration of the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee has been taking place here, and in England. We have been very conscious of the fact that we are living through the making of history. There have only been two diamond Jubilees for the British Crown, and both have been achieved Queen Regents. The other one, of course, was attained by Queen Victoria.
The Jubilee is the celebration of the Queen’s 60 years of service. Notice I said service, and not reign. The word ‘reign’ brings to mind images of power, opulence, self-indulgence—words that simply don’t fit our Queen at all. She is the embodiment of the word ‘service’.
Her Majesty has been known in the past to walk through the Palace in the evenings, turning off lights that don’t need to be on. She has put off renovations to the various properties and has ordered a scaling back of expenses for state dinners and balls (a lot of which she finances herself) to reflect the times. She could afford to spare no expense, but is sensitive that her people are going through difficult economic hardship. Ever frugal, she has been even more so in the last several years.
During the Second World War she trained as an ambulance driver and mechanic. When she turned 21, the then Princess Elizabeth gave a radio-address in which she pledged to dedicate her “whole life, be it long or short” to the service of her country, and the Commonwealth.
Over the years when I would hear different news commentators wondering aloud if the Queen would “retire”, I would shake my head because of course, she will never retire. She will be Queen for the whole of her life, period.
These special celebrations this past weekend are celebrations that will likely never occur again. The two next in line for the Crown—Prince Charles and then Prince William—will probably not attain 60 years on the throne, because they will be so much older at the time of their coronations than Elizabeth was.
And who knows what the future holds for the institution itself? At the moment, the Queen enjoys an 80 per cent approval rating. Yet the concept of having a King or Queen does seem to some people to be archaic. Monarchies can be considered institutions of the past.
In a hundred years, they may not even exist.
Old fashioned monarchies might be, but I can tell you that I, for one, have greater faith in Queen Elizabeth to put first the interests and well being of her people, than I do in our Prime Minister—or any elected politician, for that matter. There is not a single occasion that I can recall, where she has done anything that could be considered even the slightest bit self-aggrandizing.
Politicians by their very nature have extremely healthy egos. They seek office, and who among them does so for purely altruistic reasons? I cannot name a one.
Our Queen has been on the job without a vacation from her duties for 60 years. She has been there, through good times and bad times, ever dutiful, unwavering, and solid. At 86 years of age, she continues to inspire me.
God Save the Queen!
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
I remember how thrilled I was to find these in 1976. Our parents raised us to think of ourselves as British subjects, which in fact we were back then. I suppose you could have called my parents monarchists, and been quite accurate.
Sadly, when we suffered a house fire in 1985, all those lovely pieces of history went up in flames.
My beloved and I are very much fans of the Royal Family, and consider ourselves monarchists to this day. Queen Elizabeth II is in fact the “Queen of Canada”, and David and I consider her our Queen.
Each Christmas, the Queen gives a televised ‘message’ and that message has been a part of my Christmas tradition all of my life. Canada does have a Prime Minister, who is the head of government, but our head of state is the Queen, represented day-by-day in Canada by “vice-regent”, the Governor-General.
The two of us have been paying avid attention this last week especially, as the celebration of the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee has been taking place here, and in England. We have been very conscious of the fact that we are living through the making of history. There have only been two diamond Jubilees for the British Crown, and both have been achieved Queen Regents. The other one, of course, was attained by Queen Victoria.
The Jubilee is the celebration of the Queen’s 60 years of service. Notice I said service, and not reign. The word ‘reign’ brings to mind images of power, opulence, self-indulgence—words that simply don’t fit our Queen at all. She is the embodiment of the word ‘service’.
Her Majesty has been known in the past to walk through the Palace in the evenings, turning off lights that don’t need to be on. She has put off renovations to the various properties and has ordered a scaling back of expenses for state dinners and balls (a lot of which she finances herself) to reflect the times. She could afford to spare no expense, but is sensitive that her people are going through difficult economic hardship. Ever frugal, she has been even more so in the last several years.
During the Second World War she trained as an ambulance driver and mechanic. When she turned 21, the then Princess Elizabeth gave a radio-address in which she pledged to dedicate her “whole life, be it long or short” to the service of her country, and the Commonwealth.
Over the years when I would hear different news commentators wondering aloud if the Queen would “retire”, I would shake my head because of course, she will never retire. She will be Queen for the whole of her life, period.
These special celebrations this past weekend are celebrations that will likely never occur again. The two next in line for the Crown—Prince Charles and then Prince William—will probably not attain 60 years on the throne, because they will be so much older at the time of their coronations than Elizabeth was.
And who knows what the future holds for the institution itself? At the moment, the Queen enjoys an 80 per cent approval rating. Yet the concept of having a King or Queen does seem to some people to be archaic. Monarchies can be considered institutions of the past.
In a hundred years, they may not even exist.
Old fashioned monarchies might be, but I can tell you that I, for one, have greater faith in Queen Elizabeth to put first the interests and well being of her people, than I do in our Prime Minister—or any elected politician, for that matter. There is not a single occasion that I can recall, where she has done anything that could be considered even the slightest bit self-aggrandizing.
Politicians by their very nature have extremely healthy egos. They seek office, and who among them does so for purely altruistic reasons? I cannot name a one.
Our Queen has been on the job without a vacation from her duties for 60 years. She has been there, through good times and bad times, ever dutiful, unwavering, and solid. At 86 years of age, she continues to inspire me.
God Save the Queen!
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Growing up, I was one of the kids who always got picked last for whatever games were played in our schoolyard. On top of that, I attended a three-room school from grade 1 to grade 5. In one room were grades 1 to 4, in another, grades 5 to 8. The third room was used for music class (read dancing, mostly), and our country-school version of phys-ed—until the last year I was there, when it became the “special education” class.
Four grades, one teacher, it’s no wonder, then, that I learned how to get by on my own at an early age. There wasn’t a lot of structure to my early life at any rate. My dad died when I was 8, so again, I was left to my own devices a lot. I had school and I had home, and because we lived out in the sticks, that was about it. If I complained about being bored, I got put to work. I made my own fun, and wasn’t allowed to stay inside on a Saturday or Sunday if the weather was decent.
Of course, it was a different world, and really, I don’t think I would like to see us return to the way things were back then, fifty or so years ago. I’m intelligent enough to understand that while those times seem “better” to me on occasion, I’m peering at them through the prism of what I’ll call “filtered” memory.
No human rights, no medical coverage, and certainly even less sense of world security then than now (duck and cover, remember?) They weren’t really kinder, gentler times at all.
I never really wanted to turn into one of those older people who lamented that “back in my day things were so much better”. But I’ve discovered that I have from time to time, and mostly only when I seem confounded by the pace and the mores of life today.
Every generation takes its turn at the wheel, with the generation that preceded it becoming back seat drivers—and the one coming up whining for the keys to the car.
I do my best to keep up with modern technology. But I have to tell you, there are times when I find it a real challenge.
There are some things that I think are wonderful, and a few things I think are lacking.
Sometimes I think I spend far too much time at my computer. It’s easy to do. I try to write at least 1,000 words a day, but really would be happier to triple that figure. That takes effort, and how much depends on the fickle moods of my muse—and my degree of discipline.
I would be lying to you if I were to tell you that I keep a sharp focus throughout the day. Sadly, I’m weak, and get distracted easily. I like to look around on Face Book, and I like to play a few games here and there.
I think there is a danger in spending too much time with online friends and not enough with face-to-face friends. I think parents need to monitor not only what their kids are doing online, but how long they are doing it each day.
I worry not just about the fact these children aren’t getting exercise; I worry that they get their heads too far into the ‘virtual’ world, at the detriment of their ability to learn to cope with the real one.
However, were it not for this modern technology, I seriously don’t have a clue what my life would be like now.
Long before I began to make a living with my writing – and through this modern technology, I might add – I thought the internet a Godsend for those people who were mobility-challenged. My first experiences on line were in “free game rooms”. I’d go and play bingo, and chat, and there were so many elderly people in those game rooms who were thrilled to be communicating with others. For them, their computers represented their entire social life, especially those who were “shut-ins”.
For the most part, I believe that, despite “text speak” and the various and sundry short forms we see like LOL and IMO, using a computer does help the cause of literacy. As far as I’ve seen, this is well and good, with this one exception—and this is a pet peeve of mine.
My grandchildren can’t read what the schools these days call “cursive” communication—what we referred to back in my day as “writing” , which was as opposed to “printing”. And I’m wondering if that sort of writing will become a lost art.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Four grades, one teacher, it’s no wonder, then, that I learned how to get by on my own at an early age. There wasn’t a lot of structure to my early life at any rate. My dad died when I was 8, so again, I was left to my own devices a lot. I had school and I had home, and because we lived out in the sticks, that was about it. If I complained about being bored, I got put to work. I made my own fun, and wasn’t allowed to stay inside on a Saturday or Sunday if the weather was decent.
Of course, it was a different world, and really, I don’t think I would like to see us return to the way things were back then, fifty or so years ago. I’m intelligent enough to understand that while those times seem “better” to me on occasion, I’m peering at them through the prism of what I’ll call “filtered” memory.
No human rights, no medical coverage, and certainly even less sense of world security then than now (duck and cover, remember?) They weren’t really kinder, gentler times at all.
I never really wanted to turn into one of those older people who lamented that “back in my day things were so much better”. But I’ve discovered that I have from time to time, and mostly only when I seem confounded by the pace and the mores of life today.
Every generation takes its turn at the wheel, with the generation that preceded it becoming back seat drivers—and the one coming up whining for the keys to the car.
I do my best to keep up with modern technology. But I have to tell you, there are times when I find it a real challenge.
There are some things that I think are wonderful, and a few things I think are lacking.
Sometimes I think I spend far too much time at my computer. It’s easy to do. I try to write at least 1,000 words a day, but really would be happier to triple that figure. That takes effort, and how much depends on the fickle moods of my muse—and my degree of discipline.
I would be lying to you if I were to tell you that I keep a sharp focus throughout the day. Sadly, I’m weak, and get distracted easily. I like to look around on Face Book, and I like to play a few games here and there.
I think there is a danger in spending too much time with online friends and not enough with face-to-face friends. I think parents need to monitor not only what their kids are doing online, but how long they are doing it each day.
I worry not just about the fact these children aren’t getting exercise; I worry that they get their heads too far into the ‘virtual’ world, at the detriment of their ability to learn to cope with the real one.
However, were it not for this modern technology, I seriously don’t have a clue what my life would be like now.
Long before I began to make a living with my writing – and through this modern technology, I might add – I thought the internet a Godsend for those people who were mobility-challenged. My first experiences on line were in “free game rooms”. I’d go and play bingo, and chat, and there were so many elderly people in those game rooms who were thrilled to be communicating with others. For them, their computers represented their entire social life, especially those who were “shut-ins”.
For the most part, I believe that, despite “text speak” and the various and sundry short forms we see like LOL and IMO, using a computer does help the cause of literacy. As far as I’ve seen, this is well and good, with this one exception—and this is a pet peeve of mine.
My grandchildren can’t read what the schools these days call “cursive” communication—what we referred to back in my day as “writing” , which was as opposed to “printing”. And I’m wondering if that sort of writing will become a lost art.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
This past weekend was our first long weekend of the summer here in Ontario. On the Monday before the 24th of May each year, we commemorate the official birthday of Queen Victoria, who reigned Great Britain and the Commonwealth (of which Canada is still a part) from 1837 to 1901.
When I was a kid, “Victoria Day” was the only time when we got to enjoy large firework displays. I guess because we had yet to embrace our own unique nationalism, this was our big national holiday. Our National Flag at the time was the Canadian Red Ensign with the Union Jack, the flag of Great Britain, very prominent in the upper right corner, and one of our two national anthems was God Save the Queen.
Years later, when I became a young married woman, after the great flag debate and the adoption of our current flag and the repatriation of our Constitution, a shift in attitudes began. Some communities decided to move the date of their fireworks from May 24th to July 1, which is Canada Day. Also at that time, we began to refer to the weekend as May 2/4. Yes, you’d be right if you guessed that moniker refers to what we call a case of 24 bottles of beer up here.
Victoria Day is similar to your Memorial Day in the U.S., in that we consider it the unofficial beginning of our summer. Although our Elementary and High Schools here don’t let out until about the 25th of June, this weekend marks the beginning of a new season—more than spring, less than full on summer.
Mostly, in my neck of the woods and in my experience, this weekend was considered the beginning of planting season. I can recall that many Victoria Day weekends found us out planting the veggie and flower gardens.
My mother had a large vegetable garden, easily a quarter of a block long and 30 feet wide. We lived in a rural area, and the farmer from down the road would bring his tractor each spring and plough, and then disc it for her. She also had a large square flower bed at the front of the house, and round ones that surrounded the flowering crab apple trees we’d given her one Mother’s Day.
Then, when my children were young, this weekend became remarkable in that we always took them to the park, where there were carnival games and rides, and fireworks. Many a time, we had to bring blankets to snuggle them under, because sometimes Mother Nature liked to make the temperature dip close to freezing. I shivered through many an evening but counted it as good, because the kids always had such a great time.
I’m older now, and not necessarily missing either those shivery pyrotechnics or those half-inebriated get-togethers. This year, once again, I’m content to just enjoy the weather and the activities of others from a distance.
Just a couple weeks ago, the woman who owned the house across from us on the north-east corner of our intersection (we live on the north-west corner) moved across the side street to the south-east corner, leaving her grown son and his girlfriend in her former residence.
On Saturday, the younger ones began make the place their own as they set out to take down the 40 foot tall pine tree next to their house. My husband and I watched, wondering if this was one of those moments when we should have our video camera in hand, while simultaneously looking up the submission instructions for America’s Funniest Videos. Fortunately, the young men managed to bring the tree down in stages without any injuries or accidents.
We left the house about the time they were breaking out another 24, on our way to the grocery store. It was then I noticed the truck they used to pile some of the tree limbs in, a truck that bore the logo of a local tree service. I made a note of the name. Since the young men went about their task without any PPE – not a hard hat, work boot or pair of safety glasses had been in sight – I decided these were not the people to call in the future, should the need arise.
My DH and I just looked at each other, shaking our heads. We didn’t have to voice the opinion which I knew we both shared. Once more we’d been given proof that God does indeed look after drunks and fools.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
When I was a kid, “Victoria Day” was the only time when we got to enjoy large firework displays. I guess because we had yet to embrace our own unique nationalism, this was our big national holiday. Our National Flag at the time was the Canadian Red Ensign with the Union Jack, the flag of Great Britain, very prominent in the upper right corner, and one of our two national anthems was God Save the Queen.
Years later, when I became a young married woman, after the great flag debate and the adoption of our current flag and the repatriation of our Constitution, a shift in attitudes began. Some communities decided to move the date of their fireworks from May 24th to July 1, which is Canada Day. Also at that time, we began to refer to the weekend as May 2/4. Yes, you’d be right if you guessed that moniker refers to what we call a case of 24 bottles of beer up here.
Victoria Day is similar to your Memorial Day in the U.S., in that we consider it the unofficial beginning of our summer. Although our Elementary and High Schools here don’t let out until about the 25th of June, this weekend marks the beginning of a new season—more than spring, less than full on summer.
Mostly, in my neck of the woods and in my experience, this weekend was considered the beginning of planting season. I can recall that many Victoria Day weekends found us out planting the veggie and flower gardens.
My mother had a large vegetable garden, easily a quarter of a block long and 30 feet wide. We lived in a rural area, and the farmer from down the road would bring his tractor each spring and plough, and then disc it for her. She also had a large square flower bed at the front of the house, and round ones that surrounded the flowering crab apple trees we’d given her one Mother’s Day.
Then, when my children were young, this weekend became remarkable in that we always took them to the park, where there were carnival games and rides, and fireworks. Many a time, we had to bring blankets to snuggle them under, because sometimes Mother Nature liked to make the temperature dip close to freezing. I shivered through many an evening but counted it as good, because the kids always had such a great time.
I’m older now, and not necessarily missing either those shivery pyrotechnics or those half-inebriated get-togethers. This year, once again, I’m content to just enjoy the weather and the activities of others from a distance.
Just a couple weeks ago, the woman who owned the house across from us on the north-east corner of our intersection (we live on the north-west corner) moved across the side street to the south-east corner, leaving her grown son and his girlfriend in her former residence.
On Saturday, the younger ones began make the place their own as they set out to take down the 40 foot tall pine tree next to their house. My husband and I watched, wondering if this was one of those moments when we should have our video camera in hand, while simultaneously looking up the submission instructions for America’s Funniest Videos. Fortunately, the young men managed to bring the tree down in stages without any injuries or accidents.
We left the house about the time they were breaking out another 24, on our way to the grocery store. It was then I noticed the truck they used to pile some of the tree limbs in, a truck that bore the logo of a local tree service. I made a note of the name. Since the young men went about their task without any PPE – not a hard hat, work boot or pair of safety glasses had been in sight – I decided these were not the people to call in the future, should the need arise.
My DH and I just looked at each other, shaking our heads. We didn’t have to voice the opinion which I knew we both shared. Once more we’d been given proof that God does indeed look after drunks and fools.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Sunday was Mother’s Day and I wonder if you took time to let your mother know how much you appreciate her?
My mother passed away in 1976 at the very young age of 57. Last May 1st was the first day I lived to be older than her. Since then, I’ve thought of my mother often.
The truth is, although she wasn’t what anyone could term affectionate, I miss her. I wish I had paid more attention as she spoke about our heritage, as she told me tales of her mother and father and growing up during the Great Depression and what it was like to be a young woman in love during World War II.
She met my father while she was a nurse in training, during the war. He was the sole support of his own mother, and he didn’t pass the medical for enlistment—although I have no idea why. He worked as an orderly at the hospital where she took that training. They married in secret on May 29th, before her graduation, as in those days only unmarried women could attend nursing school.
I wish I knew more of her and my father’s love story, and more details of their lives, their growing up years and just starting out years.
My father died 13 years before my mother. They’d barely had 20 years together, and after he passed, my mother rarely spoke of him. Neither did she ever even look at another man.
Because I was so young when my father died, my mother became the center of my young life. She once told me, years later, that one of the reasons she never considered dating or the possibility of marrying again was that she didn’t want to turn her life over to a man to run. She had become used to doing things herself and for herself. That statement had shocked me, because I never imagined she looked at marriage that way.
My mother cooked and sewed; she was a registered nurse, working full time; she could cut the grass, fix a toaster, and made wooden valances for over the windows in our living room.
I grew up believing that women could do whatever they set their minds to because of the example my mother set, and I understand now it was an example she set only because of the vagaries of fate.
My mother had a wry sense of humor, and a very agile mind. She didn’t often say a negative thing about a person. One time, when I heard her make such a comment about a woman who was the wife of my late father’s best friend, I chided her by saying, “everyone has a bad side.” My mother’s retort? “All the way around?”
My mother was a wise woman, one who had good people skills, and a good insight into human behavior. She also gave me the best advice I ever received when I was only 17 years old.
She came to my high school for a meeting with the guidance counsellor and my teachers. The reason was that my marks had suffered as a result of my having been off for a few weeks—I’d had a fractured ankle that had been surgically set with a pin, and the doctor felt I needed to stay home.
One of my teachers was a sarcastic fellow, one with whom I didn’t get along. After the meeting, when it was just me, my mom, and the counsellor, my mom sat quietly as she stared at the chair where this man had sat. Finally, she pointed to the chair and said, “The minute he opened his mouth, I knew he was an asshole.”
Strong language from mom, a woman who rarely swore. Then she said, “Unfortunately, Morgan, the world is full of assholes, and nine times out of ten when they come into your life, they are going to have some authority over you. So you need to learn how to deal with them.”
Wise words indeed, and advice that I have never forgotten, and ever found useful.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
My mother passed away in 1976 at the very young age of 57. Last May 1st was the first day I lived to be older than her. Since then, I’ve thought of my mother often.
The truth is, although she wasn’t what anyone could term affectionate, I miss her. I wish I had paid more attention as she spoke about our heritage, as she told me tales of her mother and father and growing up during the Great Depression and what it was like to be a young woman in love during World War II.
She met my father while she was a nurse in training, during the war. He was the sole support of his own mother, and he didn’t pass the medical for enlistment—although I have no idea why. He worked as an orderly at the hospital where she took that training. They married in secret on May 29th, before her graduation, as in those days only unmarried women could attend nursing school.
I wish I knew more of her and my father’s love story, and more details of their lives, their growing up years and just starting out years.
My father died 13 years before my mother. They’d barely had 20 years together, and after he passed, my mother rarely spoke of him. Neither did she ever even look at another man.
Because I was so young when my father died, my mother became the center of my young life. She once told me, years later, that one of the reasons she never considered dating or the possibility of marrying again was that she didn’t want to turn her life over to a man to run. She had become used to doing things herself and for herself. That statement had shocked me, because I never imagined she looked at marriage that way.
My mother cooked and sewed; she was a registered nurse, working full time; she could cut the grass, fix a toaster, and made wooden valances for over the windows in our living room.
I grew up believing that women could do whatever they set their minds to because of the example my mother set, and I understand now it was an example she set only because of the vagaries of fate.
My mother had a wry sense of humor, and a very agile mind. She didn’t often say a negative thing about a person. One time, when I heard her make such a comment about a woman who was the wife of my late father’s best friend, I chided her by saying, “everyone has a bad side.” My mother’s retort? “All the way around?”
My mother was a wise woman, one who had good people skills, and a good insight into human behavior. She also gave me the best advice I ever received when I was only 17 years old.
She came to my high school for a meeting with the guidance counsellor and my teachers. The reason was that my marks had suffered as a result of my having been off for a few weeks—I’d had a fractured ankle that had been surgically set with a pin, and the doctor felt I needed to stay home.
One of my teachers was a sarcastic fellow, one with whom I didn’t get along. After the meeting, when it was just me, my mom, and the counsellor, my mom sat quietly as she stared at the chair where this man had sat. Finally, she pointed to the chair and said, “The minute he opened his mouth, I knew he was an asshole.”
Strong language from mom, a woman who rarely swore. Then she said, “Unfortunately, Morgan, the world is full of assholes, and nine times out of ten when they come into your life, they are going to have some authority over you. So you need to learn how to deal with them.”
Wise words indeed, and advice that I have never forgotten, and ever found useful.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)