Ruminations....

 October 9, 2024

Similar to 2024’s tomato crop, this year the walnut tree that rules over the north-east corner of our small domain had little to no production of walnuts. The entire purpose of the walnut crop, in my opinion, is to feed the local rodents. They aren’t the sort of walnuts that one can do anything else with, either. As to the lack of production I’m hearing that this year was just not as great for growing things in this area as was last year.

Those who live more in tune with the land will tell you that’s simply nature’s way.

Our walnut tree is the last to get its leaves in the spring and the first to lose them—usually that begins in early August. Typically, when the first walnut hits the ground, so do the first leaves. Last year, we had a couple of near misses, navigating our way from house to car, never knowing if a walnut was headed to our, well, heads. The bombardment, some days, got to the point that I very nearly dug out an umbrella, thinking to at least slow the velocity of any missile that dropped from tree, on its way earthward to me.

Like a lot of things in recent days, I didn’t quite get around to digging out that umbrella.

Last year’s was a hell of a good crop of walnuts, and when we were outside, we always did our best to pick them up off the road and toss them onto the grass, and sometimes into the garden that borders the house in front. Otherwise, cars would inevitably roll over them. Have you ever heard a walnut being flattened, suddenly, under the press of automobile tires? It sounds like a firework—or a gun shot. The squirrels and chipmunks seemed to appreciate our efforts, too, because they did a good job of taking those yummy (to them) walnuts away.

During this time of year, when there is a danger of incoming walnut bombs, our daughter does park her car out of reach of any possible barrage—when she thinks of it. Or perhaps more accurately, after weighing protecting the car from possible dents versus that extra block’s walk from and to the car. Her work is quite taxing, and her days are often long.

As I’ve sometimes put it, it’s not so much that we’re lazy here as that we give priority where it is most beneficial. That’s our story, and folks, we’re sticking to it.

October, in the Ashbury household, is the first month of winter. Here, in this family, we acknowledge the reality of things. Winter runs from October 1 to March 31, inclusive. Spring, summer and autumn can just fight over the other 6 months.

Spring has always been my favorite season. The time of freshness, of renewal, the optimism that everything can be new again after winter’s cruel grip upon us is broken. Of course, the last couple of winters haven’t been all that cruel. But that doesn’t mean it won’t be this time around.

When one has lived through times that have been a real struggle, it’s difficult to put those memories away, completely. The “old wives” have all sorts of maxims that demonstrate that principle. Once burned, twice shy is the one that comes to mind in this moment.

It can be challenging these days, especially if one is determined to try and figure out what is going to happen next. Logic no longer seems to be in vogue, and folks, I regret to inform you that common sense is not only no longer common, I fear that it is dead and buried.

After much thinking I’ve come to a conclusion that will surprise no one who has read these essays. The best way, the only way, to face whatever comes next is with an attitude of gratitude.

A healthy, strong sense of gratitude for everything is the best shield I have found to dispense with life’s slings and arrows. Gratitude is one of my most cherished possessions and my everlasting prayer is that it always will be so.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

Life is like a .... mattress in a box?

 October 2, 2024

Welcome to October!

It feels as if time has been passing a lot faster in these last couple of years than in every year before. Of course, I know that’s just my own perception. And it puzzles me. There isn’t nearly as much variety in my days as there was, say, even five years ago. I certainly can’t get as much done in my mornings as I once did. In other words, I’m nowhere near as busy as I used to be. With that being the case, one would think that time would seem to crawl, rather than speed up.

I have to wonder, should I rethink this entire perception of mine? Maybe instead of the years beginning to drag in a slow, tedious march, life is more like….  a mattress in a box.

Have you ever purchased one of those? Have you ever been present when that mattress is taken out of the box? It certainly is something to witness and I promise you, it will leave an indelible impression.

One has to tug and pull and swear a little just to get the mass of content out of the cardboard, first. Then one needs to find the space to begin to unwrap it. Yes, it’s wrapped, and well, too—in shrink wrap.

Once you have it unboxed, you lay it out—and because this is your first time, maybe you place it on the center of the naked bedframe. And then you check the orientation, and line it up so it is in the middle. And then you begin to peel away the plastic. It’s very slow going, and there sure is a lot of shrink wrap on this thing. Miles of it. But you work on it. You tug. You pull. The cookie-dough-like object covered in shrink wrap begins to roll as you pull, and it seems to get a bit smaller. You bring it back to the starting position, and then you tug on the wrap some more.

It becomes difficult to work with all that shrink wrap no longer on the cookie-dough thing, so maybe you take scissors or a knife to the wrap that has been removed, so you can separate it from the mass and then kick it out of the way—or maybe set it in the next room.

You look at your fellow un-wrapper wondering if there really is a mattress in here, of if this is just a joke. And then, finally, several minutes after you’ve begun, you give it one more mighty tug—because you’re getting tired—and then say something to the effect of “oh, shit!”

And you get the hell out of the way, because this last little bit doesn’t need your help at all! You somehow finally reached that point of no return, and that baby is unwrapping itself—or rather, the mattress is throwing off its enforced configuration in its quest to be free!

At this point I want to pause and pose a question, something to think about. I know that there have been serious accidents involving workers and tires in garages, and some in factories. Has anyone ever been hurt by a layered foam mattress which is in the process of being wrapped but that doesn’t want to be squished into a roll? I imagine it’s a somewhat automated process, but I was just envisioning if there is,  perhaps, a special alarm that would sound in those factories when a mattress makes a break for it.

But I digress.

The analogy, and yes, it’s a lame one, is that maybe our lives are like those wrapped mattresses. One struggles for most of the time that it takes to unwrap them. To reveal their inner core. But perhaps there is a magic point that is reached and suddenly, that thing exerts its own natural force, and the wrap is literally thrown off.

It seemed at the time as if we were never going to get all that plastic off the new mattress, and then, suddenly, it was just thrown off. It was unwrapped and then we had to maneuver it into the right position—after pulling the now useless and discarded plastic out from beneath it.

So maybe time moves fast for us as we get older, because it’s hastening us to the point of…. well, you get my drift. A lame analogy, indeed.

I am not sure if it fits. I’m not even sure that it makes complete sense. But I do know one thing for certain and it’s something that I am grateful for.

I don’t have many moments of boredom as I settle into my golden years. I don’t get as much done, that’s true. But I sure as hell am very rarely at odds and ends.

No, I don’t get bored much at all.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

Those rare moments...

 September 25, 2024

Last night, after our customary couple of hours of television viewing was done, as usual, we separated and moved on to our computers. David’s is in the living room, in a corner where he’s made himself an office. Mine, is in my actual office. One door and about fifteen steps separate us.

This is a routine that is so us. We’ve never had to live in each other’s pockets, as it were.

We’ve developed a good rhythm that suits us both since he retired nearly seven years ago. Throughout the day, we can be found most often, each of us at our keyboards. I spend my mornings at mine, working on my writing—or trying to. Focus is sometimes a problem for me lately, and I have no idea why that is. But I do my best, between when I finish my devotionals—along with most of my first and only fully caffeinated coffee of the day—and that moment when I know I must go into the living room and get my legs up.

My legs go up as I sit in my recliner, a blanket on me to keep either the draft of the a/c or the draft of warmer air from the furnace, off those legs. Drafts, of whatever temperature, give my arthritis merry hell. Elevating my legs for a while seems to help a great deal. This “rest” usually lasts a couple hours, and that’s the first time in the day David and I turn on the television.

I perform so many different tasks at my keyboard. Personal, promotional, financial. Some are necessary and some, inevitably, are not. However, I do resist going to YouTube until near the very end of my day, after our shared evening time, and as I’m having fond thoughts of my bed. Just before I begin to shut everything down, I’ll take what I intend to be only a few minutes but of course, often becomes a half hour or more, “sliding down the rabbit holes” on that very interesting site.

Sometimes I am surprised and enriched by what I discover. Last night was just such a time. There were a couple of video clips from a documentary, “David Foster: Off the Record,” that was produced in 2019.  The clips focused on the first meetings between the composer/producer and Josh Groban, and also with his fellow Canadian, Celine Dion (although she is also in the video featuring Groban).

The first video recounted the time in New York and on the eve of the Grammys when Foster called a 17-year-old Groban, who had been referred by a friend, asking him to come to the theater to rehearse The Prayer with Celine Dion—Josh was to sing in place of Andrea Bocelli, who had been held up arriving in the city. The second focused on Celine’s first meeting with Foster, and the recording of “All by Myself” – and that glorious and wonderful, impossibly high note.

Celine Dion said words to the effect that David Foster writes music that will last forever.

As the music played, the camera focused on Foster, and it was clear that he had been transported by the music back to that moment in time. Eyes closed; an air of reverence and peace settled upon him. I understood that expression and could almost feel the sense of wonder and accomplishment that an artist experiences when what had been but a concept born from creative talent becomes a reality.

Those are the kinds of moments that we who are artistic cherish. They are not everyday occurrences. Those moments that are mystical, magical, are truly rare. I’ve never experienced such a fulsome epiphany as I saw on my screen last night, but I’ve had a handful of moments that have come close.

Some people—and I pity them—believe that life, that jobs, that relationships should be all rainbows and unicorns and magic, all of the time. And I pity them because they don’t understand that those times, in whatever endeavor, both artistic and living, are not and can never be the norm. I pity them because they doom themselves to live in an eternal disappointment that is of their own making.

The rarity of the truly wondrous, the truly joyous, and blissfully happy is what makes them special. Their rarity shows us what can be and gives us the hope and the strength to carry on, knowing that if we work hard, and if we are lucky, we will also become blessed with such moments—and I promise you, that just as they are few and far between, they are so much more.

They are real. And they are the absolute signs and acknowledgements that we need that tell us that we’re on the right path. We are learning. We are growing. We are becoming.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

As autumn arrives....

 September 18, 2024

The calendar may say that it’s not autumn until sometime on Sunday, the 22^nd of September, but that has no relation to reality. Today, 4 days ahead of that date, I can tell you without a doubt that autumn is indeed upon us.

I know that the days here have decided to go warm again—the usual seventy-five but feels like eighty-four in the late afternoon kind of warm. But by eleven tonight, it will be  in fact, and feeling like, sixty-three. (Forgive me, fellow Canadians. I grew up in the 1960s and temperatures and weights will forever, for me, be Imperial).

Our walnut tree, the last to get its leaves and the first to lose them is crapping all over our sidewalk and porch and steps. Cleaning them is a constant job—because if they are not seen to, at least along the path from sidewalk to front door, they will invade my entranceway. Once they find purchase within my house, they can be traipsed everywhere.

Folks, daughter and I have been sweeping those leaves like nobody’s business. And as a side note, no, neither one of us are the persons going in and out all day long and thus responsible for the problem.

We’ve finally caught a break from the rain, but of course the downside of that is now, in September, on the very precipice of true autumn, our lawn is turning brown. That would be funny if it wasn’t so sad. For most of spring and through the hot/wet summer our lawn has been a lovely, lush green. Now, when one would perhaps expect the situation to be otherwise, the grass looks as if it has been scorched by the sun.

The sky above has seconded our decision that it is indeed autumn. No longer the deep blue to be seen in June and July, the blue above us today—what I can see through the cloud cover—looks watered-down, paler, and less robust. We haven’t, of course, had a frost yet—but it is only a matter of time.

I’m okay, mostly, with the fact that this year, our garden was a bit of a disappointment. Last year’s tomato crop was one for the record books. But in nature, you don’t get bumper crops every year. That’s what makes those times when you do seem so amazing. We had several meals of green beans, and we’ve had enough tomatoes that we haven’t become what our daughter termed last year as “tomatoed-out”.

In other news, we’re looking forward to the fall television season. Oh, yes, I do know that there are copious very good shows available to be streamed online. And that’s good, and we do partake of streaming in this household, as we have about three different options in that regard. On our computers. In separate rooms.

But David and I do enjoy sitting together each night to watch television together. We start off our viewing each night with the evening news. We tape two of the six-thirty news casts, and when they are done, it is animal “treat time”. Which I vociferously announce with the skill of a carnival barker.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank my husband and my daughter for not recording that performance and putting it on any of the social media sites.

After the treat time, we may watch one other hour-long program. We do long for our usual fall shows, because the flood of politics has about reached the critical level in this household. And too often, what we have available after the news right now is cable news offering laced with, you guessed it, politics.

It is important to be informed about what is happening in our own country and around the world. But there is a very fine line between sufficient and too much information.

Life goes on here, day by day and mostly at a comfortable pace, with relatively predictable results. Deviations can be diverting, or frustrating, depending upon one’s perspective.

The principle I most employ along this path I’m on, lately, is tolerance. People are funny and will do what they will do. Outcomes surprise, most often, only those who aren’t paying attention. It’s wise, and therefore desirable for one to be calm, cool, collected, and let things unfold as they will.

But there are times, I swear, when I hear a soft, distant rumble—a sound that can only be made by the quiet conviction, and the growing determination of a force of nature preparing to change direction.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

The importance of days like today.

 September 11, 2024

Today is Wednesday, September 11, 2024. And today many of us here in Canada take time to reflect on the brazen events that struck our neighbors to the south twenty-three years ago today.

It’s important that we remember days like today. It’s important that the names of the murdered are read aloud, that moments of silence are observed. It’s important that, for as long as those of us who were alive when in happened still have breath in our bodies, that those who perished that day are kept from the shadows of irrelevance by the simple acts of our commemoration, of our hearing their names spoken aloud.

There have been other days, both before and since the one we recognize today. Days when man has inflicted horrors against his fellow man, other days that, as was noted in a speech in the aftermath of one of such event that occurred on December 7, 1941, truly do “live in infamy”.

I think that to be human is to understand that no matter what else may change in life, moments of great tragedy and solemn commemoration will always be with us.

We all fretted, over the course of the couple of years during which Covid-19 had us in its grip, that we would never get back to normal ever again. But normal isn’t something etched in stone. Normal, like the people who seem so desperately to need it, has an ever changing, ever evolving definition.

What was normal for me when I was a young mother raising my children is nothing like what was normal for me in the weeks and months before Covid—and certainly nothing like my normal of today. We think that so many things need to stay just so in order for us to know stability, but that’s not necessarily true. Most of us do thrive if we have an anchor in this life, but it doesn’t have to be the same anchor for all of us.

And our anchors, in fact, don’t need to be external. They can be our own moral compasses; or they can be our faith. If you make them something internal, then they have that extra layer of protection, a shield that keeps them strong and sure: You cannot take from me what you cannot see or grasp within me.

Then there are some universal anchors. Good is still good and bad is still bad. Right and wrong have not switched places. We know what’s up and what’s down, and we have enough sense of self to understand that we are in control of our own hearts and minds and to varying degrees, our own bodies (I am getting older, I remind you).

Those who died on September 11, 2001had families who loved them and grieved for them. But after a period of time, those families and loved ones carried on. Many of their children now have children of their own. Wives and husbands left behind will most surely have grieved, and some may have found new loves. The parents who were left to bury their children following that dreadful day? Now that is a hard one. As one who has experienced this kind of loss, I can tell you that there is a part of your lost child who occupies a place in your heart from birth to eternity. And I can tell you that yes, the day eventually comes when you will smile before you’ll cry, thinking of them.

But you will likely always, from time to time, still cry.

It’s good to go forward and to not forget those loved ones lost. It’s good to take the time, to have those moments of silence, and to hear those names—names that have also been etched in stone close to the place called “ground zero”.

It’s good, because they were people, and because, like all people, they mattered. They mattered to their loved ones, their friends, and their coworkers. They mattered to their communities. We matter, you and I. Each of us matters, we humans who are a blessed creation of Almighty God. We are not meant to be ignored, pushed around, treated like chattel or used as if we are powerless props by any who would seek to enhance themselves by stepping on us to reach their next level.

We are a part of humanity, and the only thing that there will be left, at the end of the day, is the memory of how humanity—both collectively and individually—mattered.

I hope you were able to take some quiet moments from a busy life, especially on this day, to pause and reflect.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

Summer wanes...

 September 4, 2024

It’s not officially autumn, not yet. But in our neck of the woods, the children have headed back to school, and the rich summer blue of the sky has given way to a paler hue. Calendar or not, that changing of the sky says “fall” to us. And the fact that the last few early morning hours have been cool—about 52 degrees Fahrenheit outside and 65 inside—adds to the feeling of having slid into a new season.

I asked my husband this morning if he wanted to put the heat on—65 isn’t cold by any means, but as one’s body ages, so does our perception of being cold at times. He, like me, declined. As a matter of principle, we prefer not to switch the furnace on until October. That’s not set in stone. We also both believe that being older affords us the right to be comfortable. Translation? We’ll turn that sucker on for an hour or so if we need to.

Because comfort is important, I have turned my electric heater on here in my office the last couple of days—but only until the “chill” has been taken out of the air.

Bella dog is not happy about having to wait until 9:00 a. m. the last two mornings for her porch time. She can be very insistent, and one needs a strong will to resist her pleading. Mostly, I do and I can. But especially over this, because the little ones don’t need to be barked at as they wait with their parents for the school bus to arrive.

Our garden…. Well, what can I say? It has been a disappointment this year.  I believe that has more to do with the fluctuating weather, the less than ideal rainfall, and the dearth of pollinating insects as any lack of human devotion. We have had several meals of green beans and they’ve been tasty. But we haven’t yet been able to put any down for the winter.

The tomatoes are my great disappointment this year. Perhaps, considering the bounty of last year’s perpetual harvest, we should have expected that this year wouldn’t be quite so great. Last year, none of the critters had developed a taste for tomatoes—not like they have this year. I think that we are going to have to be a bit more intentional next year about every step we take, when it comes to planting and maintaining our gardens.

The good news is that I have indeed been able to satisfy my craving for a fresh lettuce and tomato sandwich. The bad news is it looks like I’m going to have to go to a farm market to purchase what I need to make my annual summer treat: baked stuffed tomatoes.

We have managed to purchase and process sufficient corn this year that we have about a dozen two-cup bags in the freezer. Our regular farmer, the one who had officially retired at the end of last season, was actually operating part time at his former farm. Apparently, there are tenants there now, folks who used to come by and purchase his produce in the past. They’d become friends, and they invited him to open up his stand Thursday to Saturday during the summer.

We were grateful he accepted, and he told us he will likely do the same next summer—but that next year may indeed be his last.

We discovered his return on our way out and about to find another roadside stand, so that was a truly nice surprise for us.

As the summer wanes, and as the season is in flux—there will still be hot days but more and more less so—the time is now for us to think ahead, to what comes next. Daughter and I, at some point in the next couple of weeks, will go through our freezer, reorganize and then decide what, if any veggies we will put down. I am past the pickle, relish and jam making stage of life. I did what I could, when I could, and I take satisfaction in knowing that over the years I saved us a lot of money while keeping us supplied in a combination of the necessary and the little extras for the dining table.

It used to be a question of time, or money. Which ever I had the most of, was what I would base my activities on. When I was out of work, and therefore we would be short of funds, it seemed logical to produce home-made rather than to purchase finished products from the store.

Now, our calculations are slightly different. We have to make a judgement if the veggies we’d like for the winter months will be as plentiful then as they are now. I haven’t heard a lot of rumblings about supply chain shortages this year—yet.

And of course, I have to decide if I am up to the amount of labor required to purchase fresh veggies and then process them. I have a feeling that is going to be a “decide in the moment” sort of thing.

In other words, my plan going forward is to be impulsive.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

Life is cyclical....

 August 28, 2024

That soft rumbling sound you’re hearing whenever you go outside your house for the next few days is nothing at all to be alarmed about.  That sound is the sigh of relief of parents whose children are on the very cusp of returning to the classroom. The only appropriate reaction for those of us who are beyond the active parenting years is a soft, and maybe slightly snickering kind of smile. The kind that conveys a “been there and thank God I’m done with that” sentiment.

Here in my neck of the woods the first day of school following summer vacation has almost always, in the past, been the day after Labour Day. This year, that’s Tuesday September 3^rd. We no longer have children or even grandchildren going back to school. But we do have 4 great-grandchildren who fall into that category.

Having great-grandchildren allows one to step back from the hustle and bustle of it all. We can observe and make sympathetic sounds but are no longer considered “front-line troops.” We no longer have to figure it all out.

These days, I’ve heard, that part of the “getting your child ready for school” routine involves purchasing copious amounts of supplies—over and above new clothes—so many things that there are lists handed out for parents to check off as they shop their way through one or more paychecks.

I’m grateful that we never had to contend with that. When our kids were in school, it was always a struggle just to get them some new clothes to wear. Well, there was that one year when we moved from one community to another about a half hour to the west. We had sold the house and bought another and had enough left over to ensure that they all had a few sets of new clothes to wear that year.

High School was the first point at which we had to supply all of the tools of learning—notebooks, ring binders, pens and pencils and what have you. Also, our kids didn’t have “pizza day” but there was the occasional “hot dog day” and that wasn’t too bad. As well, kids were expected to bring their own drinks to school. There were no milk orders to contend with.

When I hear of the expense involved in sending children to school in this modern age, I just shake my head and shudder. I don’t know how the parents of today can afford it all.

The only real adjustments for this time of year that we have to make, David and I, concerns the dogs. During this summer, the oldest of my daughter’s dogs, Bella, a purebred Chihuahua who turned 13 on the day before my birthday, has enjoyed her private porch time each morning beginning at around 7 am. Yes, she barks occasionally, but she purely loves being on the porch, surveying her realm. She enjoys her alone time. Considering how noisy her fellow canines are I can’t say that I blame her.

Sadly, now, with the return of the kids to school, she will have to wait until after the school bus make’s its run through our neighborhood for her version of “me time”. The last few years the bus has stopped just a half a block down from us, and at about 8:25 each morning.

I know the time because beginning a few minutes before that, all the dogs in our house begin to bark. They can see out the window. They are smart dogs. They know that so many children gathering like that in one spot can’t possibly be good! It is their duty as good doggos to sound the alarm.

Life is day to day and life is cyclical. What better example for that than the annual return to school for children of all ages. School starts, and the first few days are exciting, and then they are fully into the routine. They hopefully begin to learn, and one of the things they learn over time is that there are holidays and breaks to look forward to and, of course, their own little benchmarks—Christmas pageants and Valentines parties and Easter egg hunts…and then the prospect of summer break once more.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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