Thoughts...

 September 23, 2026

It’s been a month since we lost the amazing and truly incomparable Dolly Parton. For those of you who hang back in life when it comes to participating in anything that might be life changing for others, who feel as if you’re “not enough” be it smart, wealthy, or educated, I point to the late Dolly. Not only was she an individual human being, born into a very humble life she was—as she herself always pointed out—little. That is to say, small of stature.

I’ve never been what I or anyone else would call a super fan of Dolly’s. But I watched some of her movies and listened to a lot of her music. (I just checked. Three of her songs that were first released in the last century, are on Apple Music’s top 100.) And through the years, I watched her in several televised interviews that she gave, time after time after time. The woman rarely said no to an interview, never lost it when the interviewer asked rude questions, and she was always honest and forthright.

Her intelligence, her humanity and her deep faith all shone through for all to see. One month on, people are still celebrating her life. Gee, I guess what “they” have always said is true: one person can indeed make a difference.

We are not all given to the same causes in this life. We have all been given talents, but our talents are not identical. I’ve always believed that our main job in life was twofold: First, to be as kind as we can and to do as much good as we can for as many people as we can. And second—and this is key—to discover our own talents and then to use them to the best of our abilities.

We are not all destined to live large, or to be famous. But I truly believe we are all destined to be able to be of help to someone, or several of them, at some point, somewhere. As I look over my life I know that while I haven’t qualified for any awards or medals on a grand scale, I have done what I could when I could. And God willing, I’ll move forward with that philosophy and do more in the years I have left.

Here in Southern Ontario it appears as if we are done with the triple digit temperatures for now. I only say “for now” because I have learned that nearly anything is possible. It’s cool in the early mornings, and warmest just after midday. There’s been no frost on the lawns yet, but that’s not far off.

Our porch is adorned by various plants, some of which winter in our upstairs on a rack in front of a sun-framing window. This weekend there are plans to have some of our great-grandchildren by so they can carry those plants inside and up.

This week I hope to test out my new walkway. Everyone else has used it and all have agreed it’s great. I, however, managed to annoy a muscle in my right knee a week ago and need to wait just a bit longer for that knee to get just a bit stronger.

We’re also going to measure the walkway and decide on the railings we want, and that needs to be done in advance of the second week of October, which is when we’ll have son and grandsons’ assistance with that part of the project.

I’m also looking forward to “putting down” some vegetables in the next couple of weeks, so that we’ll have a variety available during the winter months.

Time marches on. Seasons change. It’s time to get working on what needs doing.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

 

 

A work in progress...

 September 16, 2026

The world around us is changing, and sometimes faster than we’re comfortable with. The last few months, for me, have put me in mind of the feeling I had at the first amusement park I went to after having given birth to my first child. Before having kids, I loved those rides. After? Well, one ride was all it took to let me know those days of feeling at risk and upside down were behind me forever.

I fared better than my brother. He never could stomach them. He could barely stomach looking at a bowl of Jello.

But I digress.

I’ve been trying very hard not to go running helter-skelter through current events emulating Chicken Little of old European folklore fame. Metaphorically, of course since I cannot now, nor will I ever again, be able to run.

But I do have a few things to say. And you won’t need to buckle up.

You all know that I’m Canadian. I’ve never hidden that fact, and yes, you also know I am proud of my country. Every citizen who lives in a country should own a sense of patriotic pride for the nation that is their home.

I have never agreed one hundred percent with any Canadian Prime Minister in my lifetime. They have all, regardless of political party, had their good points and their not-so-good points. We have episodes of deep shame in our history, and I have never denied that fact, either. No nation is perfect. And the only perfect human being who ever lived died on the cross. Which was not a murder, by the way; it was a sacrifice. His life was not taken from Him. He laid it down.

I have also traveled extensively in the U.S. I’ve been to 30 of the lower 48 states! I have many American friends, and my very best friends are American. I love my American friends as much as I love my Canadian friends, my Ukrainian friends, my Polish friends….well, you get the idea.

A subject in these essays of mine that is likely one of the most repeated and was in fact the topic of my very first Wednesday’s Words written prior to my first book being released was that we have more in common, we Americans and Canadians, than the total of differences that may exist between us.

The Bible teaches us to hate the sin but love the sinner and I’ve tried to live my life that way. I do hate sin in all its forms. And I’m working very hard on keeping sin the only object in my life to receive my hate. Do I stumble? Of course, I do. But I keep trying.

I am a work in progress.

If one is going to espouse a doctrine/belief/tenet, then one needs to truly do so—one needs to walk as one talks. Of all the words in the Bible that I’ve read—and I have read them all, more than once—the words I always return to are those ones that are printed in red.

Politics is politics and can be used as a vehicle for more than one motive. And as politics is an invention of humans, those motives can be anything from benign to good to bad to evil. Politics is fluid; it is ever changing, ever adapting, and therefore not a matter of permanence. Convenience? Yes. Permanence? No.

But values? Values are forever. They are solid and, in my opinion, foundational. And therefore, it is my values that I cling to. My values prod me to help others where I can; to do my best to begin each day with a positive attitude. To do my share, or as much of my share as I am able. To not judge other human beings, as that’s not for me to do. And most importantly, to be kind to whomever I encounter in my day to day life—in person, on the phone, or online.

And to be kind to myself, first.

Why first? Just as I’ve always believed that as one must put on their own oxygen mask before helping another with theirs, being kind to myself first—by not indulging in negative self-talk, calling myself names, or assuming responsibility that I do not own—allows me to more freely and easily be kind to others.

Do I stumble? Of course, I do. But I keep trying.

I really am a work in progress.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

And then the bottom fell out...

 September 9, 2026

Last week, David and I headed to the city which is only about twenty minutes from our small town. We needed to pick up his new glasses. He’d gotten a new prescription about a year ago, and then last fall he was having difficulties seeing. After an exam, he was told that he needed cataract surgery for both eyes.

That happened in January and March. His left eye had presented a bit of a challenge and took longer to heal. But finally by mid spring, all was well. He made an appointment, because it was time to visit his regular optometrist to get a new prescription.

Fortunately, the place where we purchase our glasses allowed him to bring in the frames he’d bought last year and have them fitted with new lenses.

After getting the glasses, we made a stop at a local farm-market. We bought a dozen ear of corn—three to eat that night with supper and the rest to be put in bags and into the freezer, once the kernels had been stripped from the cobs. I also had it in mind to purchase six or so large field tomatoes for stuffing. Unfortunately, they didn’t have any tomatoes that big, but I bought a small basket of good-sized ones, for sandwiches and burgers and such.

As we were out and about, I noticed something that seemed very odd to me. Here it was the first days of September. Usually, at this point, the lawns in our area are varying shades of brown with very few green highlights scattered among them. But this year, we didn’t have any browning of the local yards at all. It had been hot enough for that, and the sun had at times beat down upon us unmercifully.

However, it has been so wet here this year, that the grass remained green and vibrant. And required a lot more cutting than just the summer before. I looked up the stats just to be official, but I knew that the rainfall for the last two months had been more than double that of the previous year. I knew that because my arthritis has been screaming at me since early August.

Now, about buying those tomatoes. I was trying to be patient, waiting for ours to get big and to ripen. But I must have been prescient that day. Because, you see, yesterday the bottom fell out of the wooden garden that our larger variety tomato plants had been growing.

Quite literally.

The garden was fine yesterday morning when daughter left for work. But when she returned in the afternoon, there it was, bottom slats broken, dirt on the ground, and tomato plants mangled beyond repair. She rescued what unripened fruit she could. There wasn’t much there. It was a sad moment for me. For daughter? A bit less so. She has the realistic attitude that shit happens, and crying over spilled milk—or tomatoes—does no good whatsoever.

Of the other three wooden table gardens that we have, one is solid—because our son made it for his dad and brought it just ahead of Father’s Day this year. But the others are rotting. We’re going to have to come up with a solution for next spring, of course, and we will.

There was plenty of rain this year, but there was not nearly enough sunshine to help those tomatoes grow. Although one of our cherry tomato plants over preformed. That one plant gave us both the “cherry sized” fruit as well as a few that are about the size of Roma tomatoes. Weird.

Part of our problem is the ever-growing cedars in our back yard. They’re planted on the hill but doing a slow encroachment, shade-wise, over the lower yard. There are plans to trim those trees next month. But it’s also not good for the gardens to receive the “droppings” from the cedars, those seeds that the squirrels like to gather. Something about adding unwanted substances to the garden soil. Or so I’ve been told.

Daughter also planted beets and Spanish onions and two zucchini plants this year. But she put them in large pots and set them along the back walkway, between our gated and too shady back yard and the side street on the south side of our house. Those plants get full sun from morning to about three in the afternoon, when the sun is not obstructed by clouds.

Those plants done ok, but again, they could have thrived with more sunshine.

Farmers the world over will tell you that of all the ways there are for one to earn their living, counting on crops is the riskiest. That’s a truth we’ve always known, one that applies even to hobby gardening..

We’ll appreciate all we reap for the remainder of this growing season. And then, come the spring, will implement whatever new ideas we develop.

The fun really is in the trying.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

My lazy tree...

 September 2, 2026

I haven’t spent much time studying trees. That’s not to say I don’t care for them. I love trees. I love their look, their shade, and the way they seem, in their quiet and subjective way, to be a constant symbol of stability.

 I’ve never once before this vey moment considered whether or not any particular tree is hard working or not. But if I were to consider such a thing, I’m afraid I would have to rank our walnut tree—yes I mean you, Mr. Walnut Tree growing at the northeast corner of my porch—as the laziest tree that God ever created.

The very last to form its leaves in the spring, the walnut is a great, beautiful tree that provides wondrous, green-leafed shade. Right up until that first walnut begins to form.

The moment you see that first round green nut you know the truth—autumn is about to hit. Oh, not by the calendar, nor by the temperatures, and not in our thoughts, because that first nut is formed in August. It’s truly as if the tree says, “okay, there you go. Done my job. Now go away and let me sleep.” Because from that moment on, constantly, one after another, those beautiful and distinctive green leaves begin to turn a very ordinary yellow and then drop everywhere.

Everywhere!

And there’s no variety to them, they’re just a limp and useless yellow, not remarkable except in their landing everywhere and over everything.

The first couple of years that we lived in this house, we set out being scrupulous when it came to the tidiness of our yard. I’d get out every weekend and rake, rake, rake, until I had gathered up all the discarded leaves and bagged them.

A sense of satisfaction visited me on Monday morning as I left for work, because that front yard and sidewalk looked well-groomed and free of debris. And by Wednesday evening the yard looked as if its owners didn’t even own a rake!

I will admit that our enthusiasm began to wane after the first decade or so. The Walnut tree was our tree (even though it’s technically on the town’s land) and I didn’t mind caring for its debris. But friends, I would rake those leaves from mid-August (and a couple of years from late July) and just when that tree was finally bare and done, well, the various other trees in our neighbourhood would take their turn. The leaves of the maple and ash trees would change colour and drop. David would mumble something about the trees not even being ours. But I always felt that since I had sat on that porch and enjoyed their beauty through the spring and summer, my raking up those leaves was appropriate payment for that privilege.

The good news from the gardens is that there are several green tomatoes out there growing. The bad news is they’re still green, and taking their sweet time turning red. I accept that I’m more than a tad impatient. But after a very long three or four days of rain, yesterday there was sun and there’s a hint of that today. I’m certain that if we could have two or three sunny days in a row, we would indeed have fresh tomatoes just waiting to be picked and devoured.  Therefore, I’m hopeful.

This year we have the latest possible Labor Day we can have. I remember as a kid being sad when this happened: it had been a long summer, and I wanted to get back to school. I’d reached the point of boredom, and it was agony. Why? Because if I dared to say those two words (I’m bored) within hearing of my mother, goodness knows what awful chore she’d find for me.

For my entire life, both elementary (includes primary) and high school in these parts has begun the day after Labor Day—and ended in late June. I no longer have children or grandchildren going to school. I do have some great-grandchildren—four, in fact—of school age. But we do live on the bus route and so for me in a way, “back to school” is still a thing.

School back in session means there will be dog barking from about 8 until 9 each weekday. It also means I have to tell our daughter’s oldest chihuahua, “it’s not time yet”, when she asks for the porch. Kids don’t need to be barked at first thing in the morning.

By the signs and customs of my people—and canines—next week our routine begins to get back to normal.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

 

Unplugging...

 August 26, 2026

As I look around me, I can’t help but notice how challenging life is becoming for us all. Partly, and most absolutely, the environment—in any definition of that word you choose—is less easy going than it once was. Not only are there more physical upheavals (weather, wildfires and violence), but we are also bombarded with more information, more noise than we ever were in times past.

I tried to think of something I could liken the level of this seemingly constant barrage of stimulus to. The only thing in my lived experience was the few times as a young woman when I would go to a bar that had music videos playing on large screens at full blast, while everyone around you shouted in the (futile) hope of being heard.

The constant broadcasting of information is like that. People today seem anxious to unplug and go off the grid, desperate for a break—to disconnect from society. And they spend a lot of money to do just that.

Disconnecting from society didn’t used to be called that. It was simply alone time. You turned off the television and the radio. Unplugged the phone if you had to. And there, in the comfort of your own home you were “disconnected from society”. You could have that necessary alone time.

We all need time to be alone, to be able to power down our thinking, our coping, our emotional responses. We need to breathe. We need to relax. We need to be able to place ourselves in a state of grace so that we can cherish the sound of the ticking of the clock on the wall.

Oh dear. I just realized that last metaphor may not be as universal as it used to be.

The noise of social media is more harmful than we know. I’ve come to that conclusion. Social media can be a useful tool. In the right hands, it can even help save lives. But we must always remember that we are the users and it is the tool. We’ve given this particular form of media a kind of mission creep within the boundaries of our lives. Instead of using the thoughts and ideas of others to simply inform us, we far too trustingly have given those voices too much authority in our minds. We’ve let it replace our own sense of self, our own moral compasses, as well as our own common sense.

Even when I was young, aka the old days, the saying was: “The only problem with common sense is it's not very common.”

Another expression I would sometimes hear growing up? “If your friends jumped off the cliff would you jump off it, too?” Now, setting aside the humanitarian gut instinct of wanting to save said friends, the answer was always no. Because in those days the thought of needing to save anyone presupposed that those in need of rescue weren’t stupid enough to jump off that cliff in the first place. That saying meant this: you’re responsible for all of your actions, so stop and think first.

Recently I’ve been using this noodle of mine to better advantage when it comes to social media. And by social media, I mean the ones I use regularly: Face Book and YouTube. I do have Instagram, but I really don’t know how to use it very well. I used to have Twitter, but it died, the first social media platform to be torn apart by wild, ravenous beasts. I do not have Tik-Tok or whatsit, because there’s only so much modern technology I can cram into my brain.

So, using my noodle…..when I get postings from “friends” on my Face Book feed and it’s outside my own boundaries of decency, I unfriend whoever sent it to me. As for YouTube, I’m careful about what I will watch. Some videos have a hook they don’t honor. I stay away from anything that is obvious misinformation, or that intones hatred—and I use the discretion that I’ve been gifted with as my filter. I prefer uplifting messages, especially the rescue of animals or humans by random people. Because I have come to the conclusion that there are two kinds of people one meets via social media, and on YouTube, especially.

Extraordinary people who in the course of their lives have achieved much good; and ordinary people who, when placed in extraordinary circumstances, rise to the occasion and thereby fill us with pride and gratitude.

And I am convinced of the fact, and pleased to announce, that the latter far outnumber the former, by a landslide.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

Waiting on tomatoes...

 August 19, 2026

I don’t know if summer is waning or not. I do know that we are mid-way through August and I’m not certain what the weather is going to be like from day to day.

I don’t usually care overly much, because I don’t spend a lot of time outside. It’s just not something I tend to do anymore. I remember past years, long walks, visits to beaches and parks. Raking the leaves in October and earning red chilled cheeks for my efforts and loving it. Enjoyed every bit of outdoor time I got to spend with my family. I don’t dwell on the limitations I have now, they are what they are. So, I don’t generally care if the day is sunny or not, sweltering or not.

Except, of course, when I am waiting for the tomatoes that are on the vines to start ripening. They really do need sunlight to do that, and we haven’t had a whole lot of sun over the last couple of weeks.

Here I sit with my stuffed tomato recipe ready to go, but I need ripened beefsteak tomatoes and so far, while we’ve had some of the cherry tomatoes to nibble, the larger ones are still green. Those I live with seem to be on the same page with me, here. They’ve both begun wondering aloud if there was something wrong with the plants we got this year, that they seem to be taking their damn time to ripen.

And because I tend to be a teeny bit perverse at times, their echoing of my thoughts got my attention.
The last summer that we had a really good bumper crop of tomatoes was the summer of 2023. And I do recall at that time, I was so tickled with the bounty of fat juicy red fruit I picked in one day, that I took a few (well, maybe more than a few) pictures of them.

So in theory it was a simple matter to access my camera download file. These photos are stored digitally, and they show the date that the pictures were taken.

I am relieved to report that those pictures were taken between late August and well into September. Hopefully that means there’s time yet for me to eat my fill of fresh picked tomatoes.

Having worried a little about them, my mind skipped ahead to autumn and so has our daughter’s. We have enjoyed several meals of green beans from our garden so far, but we already know we won’t likely have enough from our own garden to freeze and enjoy through the winter.

We don’t grow corn but always get enough from our local farms to freeze. We’ll add a few baskets of beans to that plan, and we thought we’d also buy a few butternut squash—the last more for the convenience of having it on hand when we have a hankering for a supper side dish—or a soup.

I make several soups in the fall and winter, and they are almost always gobbled right up. The family’s favorite by far is cream of potato, or potato/leek, or even potato/bacon. I actually get special requests from our “second daughter” for that, and I usually make it for her. My family also likes a hearty squash soup, and all those soups are easy enough to make. I’ve also made mushroom soup, and a few times I’ve served cream of broccoli, too.

But I’ve always loved a good home-made chicken soup. Chicken noodle, and chicken with rice. And those I make from pure chicken stock.

We purchase packages of boneless/skinless chicken breasts which we then cook up and put through the food processor. Thus ground, we serve it as a supplement meal to the dogs. They get kibble, but at night they each get a quarter cup of ground white chicken meat. Low fat, good protein and the dogs love it.

How I cook the chicken varies. In the summer months, I slow simmer the pieces on the stove top in a bit of water. But in the cooler weather I place the meat in a lidded casserole dish and bake it. There is always a good amount of “juice” remaining, and since I don’t add any water to the casserole, that juice is pure chicken stock. And my how good that tastes compared to anything from a can or a package. I very rarely need to add anything other than salt, some chicken, and either rice and carrots, or noodles.

Daughter and I will schedule the gathering of the veggies for stocking our freezer for either September or October. We considered going to a very large and amazing outdoor market here in our neck of the woods in a community called St. Jacob’s. But I know myself and would be tempted to buy more than I can easily process if we did so.

So we’ll shop very local. Daughter has promised to help because, despite my desire to just do it all myself, I’m no longer able to manage the chore alone.

But those stuffed tomatoes? Mine to make, certainly. And mine to eat, too—as I’m the only one in the house who enjoys them.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

The power of your words....

 August 12, 2026

I play with words for a living.

It’s true! At this point I’m working on my seventy-second title for my publisher, Siren-Bookstrand. I cannot tell you exactly how many words I have written in my lifetime. I can tell you that, since becoming a published author, and taking into consideration my novels, a novella or two, and of course these weekly essays (since the autumn of 2006, once a week, minus a small handful of Wednesdays missed) the total is more than four million words.

Can you imagine? No wonder I’ve had carpal tunnel surgery twice on my right hand. Although in the interest of full disclosure, I should point out that the first time—and it was on both wrists—was due to the office work that I had done in the course of all of my nine-to-five working life. And the only good news there is that’s why it was only on my right wrist this time. Because I play with words only now and not numbers, too.

But I digress.

Words have meaning. I want you to read that again, because that is one of those sentences in life that has become a common place saying without actually being understood. So here it is once more:

Words have meaning.

Or to state it more accurately: words have power.

That’s a truth that has been repeated again and often without being fully comprehended. In some cultures, both historically and in the present day, people don’t give their names out to just anyone. There is a deep-seated, perhaps even intrinsic reluctance to give one’s name, because it’s seen as a giving away of power over the one named.

In the last century, the belief that words had meaning/power was at the heart of the self-help/motivational movements that many people used as their own personal north-stars. And then of course, there is the Bible.

God created the world by speaking it into existence; and then He created humankind in His own image.

Words have meaning and they have power, and nothing annoys me more in this life than when people just open their yaps and let it all hang out. Linguistic inaccuracy and ignorance are not considered sins in the traditional sense. But they should be.

This isn’t voodoo, and before you tell me you don’t believe that words have power let me ask you a question and give you a couple of examples.

If you doubt that words have power, then why do you compliment someone who’s feeling down? Surely their mood has nothing to do with you. And yet you tell them something good about themselves, something nice, and their mood is improved, and their spirit is refreshed.

Your words did that.

Conversely, those of you who are parents, teachers, or bosses, cannot deny that sharp words, words used as weapons, deflate the emotions of the person you’ve hurled them at. They wound. Say the wrong thing and your employee/student may quit. A few careless words, and your child dissolves into tears.

Your words did that, too.

Those are two personal examples that point to a larger, universal truth. We all need to be a little more careful of the words we choose to use. Because there’s one more power our words have and it’s this: our words, used recklessly and with abandon, rob us of our credibility and our integrity.

To the point that we’ll open our mouths, and no one in this life or the next, will take us seriously.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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