The games have begun...

 February 11, 2026

The Winter Olympics have begun!

Now, you wouldn’t necessarily think that anyone in this household would have any joy at the prospect of seeing winter sports played on the world stage and shown on our television. We don’t care for winter, not one bit. We abhor the cold, the ice, and the never-ending struggle to stay warm. We cheer when Ground Hog Day finally arrives and pray for an early spring. All this is true and I will never deny it.

 But what also is true is that we enjoy watching more sports of the Winter Olympics than we do of the summer games.

The ski jumping, the snowboarding, especially the aerials, and the moguls hold endless fascination for both David and me. We’ve never truly aspired to be performers of any of those truly mind-boggling feats. But we are happy to bear witness, to cheer in support of successfully executed derring-do, or groan in commiseration of a wipe-out, as the case may be. Some of the tricks these amazing athletes pull are simply un-fricking-believable.

We’ve always enjoyed watching figure skating events. Now, here I must confess that from the nineteen-nineties to the early-aughts we were traumatized by the spills we witnessed on Olympic figure skating ice. You know you’re on shaky emotional ground when your field of vision is obscured by the splayed-fingers-in-the-fear-of-imminent-disaster. In the years post Albertville and Lillehammer, Salt Lake City and Turin, we drifted away some from watching those events.

And of course, while the fortunes of our own Canadian teams have always been nearest and dearest to our hearts, whatever the discipline, we are eager to watch and cheer greatness and grit regardless of the nationality of any performer with heart and/or talent.

The phrase “Jamaican bobsled team” still brings a smile to my face.

In fact, I think those gentlemen should be celebrated as the kings of the spirit of the Olympics. They had no hope in hell of ever winning, or even medaling, but they gave it their all, regardless.

We watch news casts each night that we’ve taped—mainly because we’re not ready to watch when they are actually airing. And then, because the winter Olympics have indeed begun, we turn to a Canadian network where we can be assured of discovering the results for most of the events of the day, regardless of the nationality of the medal winners.

In 1998, at the Nagano games, was the first year that curling became a medal event. And we discovered that sport as we sat and watched our Canadian Women’s team, skipped by the late Sandra Schmirler, play excellent ends on their march toward the gold medal. We’d never actually watched curling before, but we were hooked before that first game ended. Now it’s a must-see event for us—even in non-Olympic years.

We have nearly two weeks left to enjoy this wonderful change of pace programming each evening. The competition is fierce, especially from those who are not athletes nor, at this time, the focus of the world’s attention. Not an unexpected bit of noise amid the true-life drama of honest athletic competition. That’s all right. I’m a mother, a grandmother and a great-grandmother.

I know how to handle the tantrums/distractions of jealous toddlers.

And I am getting better, day by day, at living in the moment. I celebrate this moment, this day, for the joy, and for the heart and determination that is on display, the show itself a truly international achievement.

I’m reminded of the time back in 2000, I think it was when my eldest grandson was eight. His family visited during the Olympics, and I asked him if he’d seen one of our Canadian gymnasts performing in particular event I knew to be one of his favorites. He sighed and said, “yes, but he only came in fourth.” He made the word “fourth” sound like the most disappointing substance, ever.

I waited until he was looking at me, and I gave him another perspective. I said, “Wow, out of all the boys or men in the world who are gymnasts, he came in fourth! The fourth best in the world! That’s great!”

I recall that at the time, he went with it and immediately seemed to feel happier than he had. I have no idea if any of that change in perspective stayed with him, but I like to think that down deep, it has.

So, let the games continue—and let us all continue to keep hope alive!

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

I can adapt...

 February 4, 2026

I don’t know about all y’all, but I am having very fond memories right about now of the January thaw that took place nearly a month ago. The last few winters sure as hell spoiled us, didn’t they? This season we are now in is more like what the ubiquitous “they” refer to as a “traditional winter” than what we’ve had in the past several years.

It’s very wise of them to call it a “traditional” rather than a “normal” winter, because honestly very little seems normal anymore.

Today marks the 23^rd straight day that I have not left my house. That is due almost but not entirely to the weather. It’s too damn cold for me outside, period. There’s too much snow and ice, as well, for me to navigate. That’s the weather.

Here is one more factor: Do you recall that I was delighted when the road construction crew, on their last day, put down some asphalt to connect what used to be my walkway (and which they had torn up all to hell) from my porch to the road? Well, I’m still grateful, although there is a teeny-tiny problem with it. Turned out, it’s not a nice, gentle slope. It’s a steepish slope with a big bump and dip at the end.

And with the ice and the snow, even after safety salt, I cannot navigate it alone. My daughter asked for and received my promise that I wouldn’t even try. I’m not an idiot. The first time she helped me from the base of my porch steps to the road, I knew that I would not be able to manage it without help.

Now, this isn’t a permanent problem. Come the spring there will be a landscaping crew here who will remove the asphalt and then reconstruct the walkway base that the crew had destroyed. Then there will be a new walkway, and we will install proper railing, and then all will be well.

I was able to navigate the journey from road to house quite well, year-round, before the disruption of this construction, and I will be able to do so again once it is complete.

In the meantime, you’re likely thinking how lucky I am that our daughter is here. She can fetch and carry what needs to be fetched and carried. And you’re more than half right, there. However, there is a limit to the number of items she can bring home on any given day. Oh, she manages that asphalt, but it’s not easy for her, either.

Bringing home a full grocery order is a lot easier done when she has her two pre-teen grandchildren there with her to lug and carry.

Of course, we don’t want to overtax them. And on other days she will bring what we need after work, but I don’t want to overtax her.

So just recently we’ve found, tried, and adopted another tool for our toolbox. We have a restaurant delivery service here in Canada called Skip the Dishes. And lately they’ve extended their services to include certain grocery stores and other places like pharmacies and even convenience stores. There are four places we shop for groceries on a regular basis, and another store where we shop occasionally, and Skip covers two of the five. Our main go-to for groceries uses a different service, and we now have an account with the company that covers that store as well.

Some members of my family might be surprised at the speed with which I’ve changed my routine and way of doing things. (The people closest to you never really see you clearly.) The truth is, I’ve never been against change.

I just don’t like change for change’s sake. But show me a solid, good reason to adapt, and I’m there.

That trait and my sense of humor haven’t saved my life. But they have saved my sanity.

 

P. S. My 71^st title for my publisher, which is also the 49^th title in the Lusty, Texas Collection is out today! You’ll find it at the second link below.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

On writing...

 January 28, 2026

Every author has their own process, their own style, and their own unique point of view. Each of us has very definite preferences when it comes to those things that are on the periphery of the production of our work: time of day for best results, type of music at play (if any), and perhaps even favorite talismans that must be present in the vicinity of “where the magic happens”, in order for the writing process to go smoothly.

 Seriously, the only dedicated group of practitioners that I’ve ever seen even more finicky than authors are avowed Bingo fanatics.

One can attempt to circumvent the “process”, but in my experience that never ends well. It causes, at the very least, a lot of re-thinking. But at most, trying to speed things up can sometimes result in epic slowdowns instead.

What rules there are when it comes to the art and/or craft of writing are almost always to do with syntax and punctuation. You do need some talent, but you don’t need truckloads of it. Because a lot of what one does when one writes is craft—and craft can be learned.

I’ve been a published author since 2007, and in the next week, my 71^st title will be available for release from my publisher, Bookstrand.com. Being an author is the career I dreamed of when I didn’t believe it could happen. That didn’t stop me from writing manuscripts. I wrote plenty, most of which will likely never see the light of day. They were mine in the way that a pianist may exercise her fingers over the keyboard, producing tunes that are in fact evidence of craft in motion.

I’m in the process right now of sketching out my 72^nd title. The last couple I rushed through the opening phases and I’m here to tell you I won’t do that again. I love what I do, every aspect of it. I’m not, I’m sad to say, fond of or even very good at promoting my work. I’m a writer because I love to write. I know now, as I never understood as a child, that love came to me through my genes.

My father was a writer at heart, a man who began as a teen to take pen to paper to produce poems and very short little stories. But when he was in his senior year of high school, his father died. This was in the 1930s, and in those days a young man, as he was, whose mother had been widowed, left school and found a job to support his mother and himself.

He died when I was a child and I have no idea how he truly felt about that. Except, being a young man who turned his back on what he loved in order to do his duty, I can only guess. By the time he was a husband himself, and a father, he would have made peace with how things had turned out. I don’t believe once he went to work that he ever truly picked up pen and pad again. I found remnants of his work from when he was a young man, still dreaming his own dreams. No later work was found. So perhaps he decided to just let that dream go.

My memories are of a loving and smiling man, a man who loved to pull pranks. This tells me now, with my adult understanding, that he made peace with his life, and lived to the best of his ability.

But I also know that while that might have been so, it wasn’t all. My mother told me, when I was old enough to understand, that he had made her promise that if anything happened to him, his son was not to be pulled out of school to go to work. It was my father’s wish that his son would have the freedom to choose his own future.

And so, when my brother was in his senior year of high school, and his father died, my mother insisted he finish his education. He attended Teacher’s College after high school and then, as he assumed the teacher’s role that he held until he retired, he also attended university courses every summer until first earning his B.A. and then his Master’s.

Our father would have been proud—and I believe with all my heart he would have been proud of us both.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

 

We're the ones!

 January 21, 2026

I’m not at all sure just exactly when it all changed. I would have thought that if that was going to happen, we’d notice it. I’d notice it, you’d notice it, everybody would notice it. Then somebody would blow a whistle, and some referee would step up, step out, and throw a flag on the play. Folks would be penalized on every side, then, situation fixed, play would resume. It would have been nipped in the bud.

It should have been nipped in the bud.

Growing up, working your way from the teenage years toward that coveted, holy grail of individual evolution—aka adulthood—there were several things you were careful about. You wanted to be liked but you also wanted to be respected. You wanted to make a good impression. Remember that? You were cognisant of the weight of certain moments. You knew enough to take your time, prepare, check yourself in the mirror. The introduction. The interview. A shot at having a job. Those moments, the closer you got to being “grown up”, mattered even more, and you were of sober mind going forward—even if you were nervous as hell.

And going forward there were a number of mistakes that you could make if you weren’t careful. Mistakes you knew existed and that you were already determined not to make. That you promised yourself you would avoid.

Number one on the list of what to absolutely avoid? Lying. You didn’t want to be known as a liar.

You wanted to be trustworthy, you wanted to be honest and have a good reputation, and being a liar would have been the biggest black mark of all black marks that you could earn.

When exactly did we, as a society, stop caring about honesty? It must have been one of those slippery slope things we were warned about growing up and somehow missed as we were sliding.

A damn shame, that. If you don’t believe me, just look around at what we’re living with in the wider world around us. Look at the characters that fill our news screens each night.

I have always believed in the power of accumulative personal action. I’ve written countless essays on the topic. I once mused on how busy our local grocery is almost every day, and I spoke of the existence in that store of a big empty box that awaits donations to the local food bank. I pointed out that sometimes we don’t give because we think the small amount of the donation we can afford won’t make a difference. And then I mused that there were likely more than a hundred people going into that store every day. And if every time someone going into the store chose one item and put it in that big ol’ empty box for the food bank, it wouldn’t be empty for long. In fact, I think it would be filled each day.

There’s a tragedy in another town, another state, or even another country. We could give 5 dollars, but who needs 5 dollars? That won’t make a difference. But what if you are one of a thousand such people in your state or your province? Why, your 5 dollars becomes 5 thousand dollars! Or what if there are one hundred thousand such people in your country – and there are! Holy crap, that’s half a million dollars! Not so small, really, is it?

We can hope for things to get better in the wider world, for folks to be more honest and to be kinder. To stop lying. To stop letting lying liars who lie get away with it. But we can do one more thing. We can, each of us, do our best to be the example that others can live by. We can be kind, and honest. And when we see someone who needs our help, we can reach out. We can show respect for the law by behaving lawfully, and our distain for abuse of power by speaking out when we see it in action.

Just as it is never the wrong time to do the right thing, it’s never too late to begin to do the right thing, either.

By the simple act of standing up and saying no, we encourage others to do the same thing. And before you know it, a movement has been born. The truth is the truth now, as it has always and ever been, and here it is:

We are the heroes that we have been waiting for.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

Routines and ice...

 January 14, 2026

The January thaw has come and gone—more or less. Once one understands that “normal” is a highly subjective word, one may relax and simply observe the days as they come and go, noting them in a journal, perhaps, if one is so inclined. But the need to clarify and to classify is no longer present.

We did have a few days that were wonderfully mild last week. You know the kind of days I’m talking about. Days in January when you step out your door in shirtsleeves and give yourself a small grin, because it feels like spring. Well, yes, that happened. For a few days. Sadly, we likely won’t see above forty-degree temperatures in these parts again until it really is spring. We’re not there yet. Hell, the official countdown hasn’t even begun yet. That starts on Groundhog Day, more than 15 days from now.

A great deal of the snow and ice that we had has melted, but certainly not all of it. Yes, there are bare patches on lawns and roads, and the large ridges of snow and ice that had fallen off the blades of the various plows that had been out since the first snowfall in early November have shrunken. But they didn’t go away entirely.

According to the weather forecast, we’re about to get some more snow, a steady downfall, but who can know exactly how much? In the meantime, between the snow and ice that was and that which is to come, the stores are out of safety salt. Again.

I’ve actually been out of the house once over the last few days. The day before yesterday my daughter and I ventured to a large store in our area to get a few things. Barely three bags worth of things, because we’re being thoughtful about how we shop. Not only because we are practicing frugality, but also because what one purchases must then be carried into the house.

At the moment, I am only capable of carrying myself. Because of the slope of the “walkway” from porch to road that we’ve got (a temporary situation, to be remedied come the spring), I need assistance from house to car and back again. Until it is spring and the other path my grandson built is absolutely ice free, I cannot make the trek alone. That is one boundary I am not willing to push.

That leaves the grocery lugging up to our daughter. She can manage, if she’s careful. Hence neither David nor I want to overload her. Our larger once a month supply runs will resume in the good weather.

Tomorrow, David goes in for cataract surgery on his left eye. So today the eye drop regimen began. It’s not as difficult, or as confusing, as I thought it would be. Of course, being anal, I had to read the instructions over and over again. I've organized this assignment, but that’s all I can do. The actual application of the drops is up to him. Then in about two weeks—on the twenty-eighth—he goes back for the same surgery on his right eye.

We had been warned that the wait to get the work done might be long, but we’ve lucked out. Between when he discovered he needed the surgery and today was a period of not quite three full months.

So for the next while at least, there is a new element to the daily routine here in the Ashbury household. And I’m sure once we’re into it, things will go smoothly and we can relax into the rhythm of life.

The truth is that while I’m far more anal than he is, he, too, prefers a routine that is established, and familiar, edging toward comfortable.

Which means, just by the reality of what life can be like, the times when we are in the open seas of smooth sailing are truly few and far between.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

January...

 January 7, 2026

For many of us, the holiday season has come to a close for another year. For some, this week of getting back into the routine of living is welcome relief. I know that everyone in this house is grateful for the “pieces of quiet” that are now ours—for the most part.

Of course, the dogs are still barking and the unplanned and inconvenient will still happen. Such is life. But if one is unused to large gatherings and lots of noise and activity, then one is grateful for the afterwards. The good thing is that the noisier and more chaotic those few days of celebrations were, the more calming seems this return to the “boring norm”.

It was a lively and fun season for us. We got to see all but three of our grandchildren – and when I use that word it includes our “in-law” grands—we have two granddaughters-in-law. One of our granddaughters and her wife are now in another province. This makes getting together en masse very challenging and thus rare. The one grandson we didn’t get to see, we’d hosted the month before for a few days. He couldn’t make it here during Yule and again, that’s just life.

So far, the winter of 25-26 appears to be what I would call a more traditional winter. This is the first year in a few that the snow that fell in early November has remained in place without melting. The cold has been pretty solid, too, not deviating much except to the degree of cold we get to enjoy—alternating between bone-chilling and bone-shattering.

I checked the weather for the next few days. To go along with the theme of “traditional winter” it appears that we are about to have a true January thaw. The temperature is slated to hit 50 on Friday. And because it has been pretty solidly cold since early November, I’m thinking that 50 is going to feel like a 70 in early spring.

In case y’all have forgotten what a “traditional winter” entails, after the January thaw there should be another deep dive into the world of sub-zero temperatures by next week. And it’s possible that this plunge will last the entire month of February.

This is the reason, I believe, that February is the shortest month. My father, I’ve been told, used to refer to the second month of the year with a prefix that was a hyphenated epithet. But I digress.

It’s generally in February that I go into semi-hibernation mode. I hunker down, because for me this time of year—when nature is getting ready to hold its nose and dive deep into the sub-zeroes—is a time of year to be survived, period.

I really don’t mind hunkering down. I have my writing, and there are always books to read. There can be nice, quiet afternoons spent in comfort heaven, with a heating pad, a warm blanket, and a much-loved recliner. Sometimes I put music on my television, as a just-able-to-hear background sound. Cap it all off with a nice cup of decaf, and I’m good.

I suppose that’s all part of the grand plan, when you think about it. Nature herself tends to have a period of dormancy, a time to rest, to prepare for the growing season to come. Many of her wild critters do the same.

So keep warm, my friends. And after the hustle and bustle of the last few weeks, make sure you take time for yourself. If you can’t hunker or hibernate, at lease schedule some quality self-care time. Pamper yourself.

You deserve it!

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

New Year's Eve...

 December 31, 2025

Congratulations, you’ve made it to the end of 2025! 

Do you ever think of making it to the last day of the year as an accomplishment? Maybe that’s something we should do, each New Year’s Eve.

I think that too many of us tend not to give ourselves enough credit for the work we do, day in and day out. We can buy into other people’s less than stellar opinions of us; we can succumb to some of the mass-marketing campaigns and believe we are nothing without product X, Y, or Z; we can, in other words, find ourselves thinking that we are just not enough.

We are enough, my friend. Each and every one of us is enough.

So congratulate yourself for a job well done. For the last three hundred and sixty-five days, you arose, went through the day, handled umpteen challenges, worked, endured, went to bed at night and got up and did it all over again the next morning. Three hundred and sixty-five days. 8,760 hours. 525,600 minutes.

You are amazing!

New Year’s Eve, and more, the celebration of that one moment when the old year passes and the new one arrives, is such an ingenious idea. To make a definitive end of something, immediately followed by the beginning of something new is a triumph of its own, don’t you think?

Over the years David and I did celebrate this moment a few times. There were a handful of New Year’s Eve parties we attended. I think the last time we did, though, was in the 1980s, and that last party was at the home of a friend. Not being party animals by nature, we were always more content to say home and watch the ball drop. Much happier to spend our extra money—what there was of it—on our children.

When we finally got to the point that we could, with careful planning, celebrate the new year, we simply weren’t interested. As I said, we really aren’t party animals at all.

We don’t tend to make New Year’s resolutions, either, because in the past we rarely were able to keep them. Decisions of that sort made in the emotional soup pot of New Year’s Eve are rarely decisions we are truly ready to stand by.

But we all need the sense of possibilities that this one moment gives us. Out with the old, in with the new has a sense of hope about it. We need that. We need to have our hope tanks filled every now and then, so that we can give ourselves some much needed stress relief. I hope you’re able to do that tonight.

David and I wish all of you a wonder-filled and Happy 2026. Be kind to yourself—and to one another.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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