December 30, 2020

I hope you had a good Christmas. I hope there was something special, one moment of, if not joy then at least a sense of contentment. We all know that life is comprised of so many disparate moments, and emotions, and experiences that, good or bad, become etched upon our brains, a part of our memories, and a portion of the book of our lives that we, alone are writing.

I recall Christmases past that were busy, busy times; I’ve cooked a feast for 13 and more people and I’ve done that more than once. We were still sleeping upstairs and the room that is now our bedroom was empty at the time of that first big feast, and we set up two trestles with a piece of plywood on them for our table. We have an old cedar chest that is about six foot long, and that became a bench for the occasion. Luckily, it’s a flat-topped, very sturdy piece that was the exact right height for that particular diner table.

Looking back on that first big feast, the most memorable moment was when my now late son, Anthony, a strapping and always hungry teenager turned to me and said, “We should eat like this every day!”

I also recall David looking at all that food, and I could just see his mind calculating the cost. I simply reminded him that a feast was supposed to be a lot of food—and that we had budgeted for that one. Taking his cue from me, he relaxed.

That first Christmas family feast was more than twenty-five years ago, and yet I can still reach back and touch the joy, and the love. I guess because it’s the way I’ve conditioned myself over the years to look on the positive, I really don’t recall how exhausted I felt, though intellectually I know that I was. I also know that there was a huge disagreement between a couple of my guests, a great roaring war of words, though for the life of me I can’t recall who, or what it was about. Again, conditioning. I tend not to hang on to the negative.

I’m proud of that conditioning because as a child and a teenager, I was most definitely Wednesday’s child—full of woe!

But being full of woe, or bitter, or filled with negativity feels awful. And when I discovered that life was a choice, I decided that since I didn’t like feeling awful, it was up to me to change that. It took a while, but now, I never feel that way for very long. That icky black miasma of negative vibes? Yeah, I don’t have that anymore. Little flashes, a few difficult moments, that’s all. Kind of like how when your power goes out and you have a backup generator that kicks in, but it takes a few seconds to do so and you’re in the dark? I’m like that when it comes to those down moments.

We ate well last week in the Ashbury household. On Christmas Day, we had a prime rib roast that turned out exceptionally well. And on Sunday, I roasted a duck that had been in my freezer for a few months. Our daughter loves prime rib but refuses to eat duck. So she very happily had chicken breasts, which went well with the sides I’d chosen to serve with the duck: rice with raisins, candied yams, and David’s choice of veggie, squash. As for the family members we were socially distant from over the holiday weekend, I spoke with some of them and texted with the rest.

In between our two big meals, we ate leftovers and on Saturday evening, the three of us were in the living room, watching that new Wonder Woman movie that had premiered the day before.

And now it’s time to look forward to the New Year. I saw an ad on CNN for a New Year’s Eve countdown, and I’m curious. Will they be in Times Square? I know there will be no crowds there on Thursday evening. If that’s the case, and they do film from there, I want to see that. It’ll likely be the only New Year’s Eve in Times Square with no people, ever. A once in a forever kind of event! I don’t want to miss that.

There’s a commercial for a dating service that I saw the other day: it was a match between Satan and a young woman named 2020. Talk about gallows humour! I was laughing and realized that my laughter was the whole point of the ad—and at the same time, a commentary on how best to cope with that which seems impossible to cope with.

Laughter really is the best medicine. So wear that damn mask, and laugh. The sound carries well through the fabric, and the sparkle in your eyes makes for a very nice smile, indeed.

David and I wish you all a very happy and healthy and delightful 2021!

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

 

 December 23, 2020

I always used to treasure those rare times when in the winter, and late at night, I would step outside. Snow would be falling, and all around, in the midst of this ever-growing town of ours, the silence that wrapped around me seemed almost otherworldly.

I’d sink into that silence, become as one with it, and marvel at the beauty of the crisp air and the sweetly dancing snow that seemed to celebrate its way down to earth. Those were wondrous times, a beautiful break in the midst of a very busy and hectic life. And never more so than in the last few days before Christmas, when busy was the understatement of the year.

One other time I recall being aware of what felt like an unnatural silence was in the few days following 9/11. I worked in a small town about 20 minutes away from home, in the accounting office of a factory. In those days I was a smoker, and the company provided a picnic table outside for those of us who insisted on trying to destroy our lungs. But the factory was situated on the approach of two regional airports and the larger, international one in Toronto.

I hadn’t realized how many planes would be over head at any given time, until there were no planes to listen for at all. It was such a moment that I recall it exactly even today.

That strange and otherworldly kind of silent moment, that’s what this Christmas is turning out to be like, isn’t it? Here in Ontario, we’ll be in lock down beginning Boxing Day—December 26^th. Even so, very few people I know of are planning any large family gatherings for the holiday.

There’s no joking on the radio or among friends and family about Christmas shopping, or all the associated chatter with malls versus online, crowded parking lots, or getting stuck in a massive crowd trying to find the perfect gift. There’s no worrying about the annual holiday feast or making a list before a last-minute run to the liquor store to ensure you don’t run out of libations. The radio airwaves may still feature messages about drinking and driving, but I haven’t heard any. Of course, I haven’t been in the car and I must confess that tends to be where I listen to the radio.

Here, in the Ashbury household, it will be just the three of us humans and our six little fur babies. Later, when the lockdown is lifted, we’re hoping to indulge in turkey at our Sonja’s; we’ve always done that this time of year but really, never on Christmas day itself, so in that respect that’s no different. One year, we didn’t have our “family Christmas supper” until April! The major difference, of course, is when it happens it will be a much, much smaller group who gathers.

So, looking forward to that (eventual) wonderful turkey (our Sonja makes the best in the family), we are instead having a prime rib roast on Christmas Day. We’ll have baked potatoes, and cauliflower with cheese sauce. I will indeed make the annual carrot pudding, a steamed confection my family loves. And that’s it. But considering how so many people in North America are going hungry, that’s a feast—and one which we will be very grateful to have.

I expect to speak to our oldest, our son on Christmas Day, and I know I will be in touch via text with every one of my grandchildren. I may get momentarily sentimental and play a few Christmas carols on my computer, but otherwise, I know that both Christmas Eve and Christmas night will find me in my living room, legs up as I relax in my recliner, blanket on my lap and my e-book open and resting atop it.

The other major gathering we would attend during this season, David and I, was the Boxing Day brunch that my brother and his wife hosted each year. Last year, his sons did the cooking for all of us. This year, of course, we were already not going to have this event before the pandemic. This will be our first Christmas without my brother—my first ever without him. That one fact had already guaranteed that this year would be slightly less bright than last. In that way, I’ve been prepared for a quieter Christmas since February 29^th.

Life all around us seems to have paused and quieted on such a regular basis this year already, it’s becoming the norm and not the exception it once was. And all by itself, a slowing down of every day life is not a bad thing at all. Of course, the reason for all this quiet is not a good thing. Too many have fallen ill, and far too many have died.

And too many more people, people who work hard day after day after day hear little during their days save for the constant, droning sound of medical monitors and equipment working to keep other people alive.

The truth of the matter is that we’ve used symbols and images to represent a season, instead of letting the season be its own representative. We’ve focused on those trappings instead of keeping the reason for them at the center.

Christmas is celebrated because long ago on a dark night, amid the silence of the world readying for sleep, a baby was born—a baby destined to grow into a man who would, by the sacrifice of his life, become the savior of the world.

A joyfully solemn event, that needs only an open and grateful and submissive heart in order to be properly commemorated.

David and I wish you all the joy your hearts can hold, a few tears so that the joy becomes extra sweet, and that you always, always, wear your damn masks.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 December 16, 2020

Christmas is less than two weeks away, but it’s never felt farther off. The season for me isn’t about things. I’m passed the age where I look forward to getting gifts. From the time when I was a child, and up until I married and hell, even for several years after that, the only time I could look forward to getting something new for myself was at Christmas.

After the loss of my father, I grew up with a single mom who worked as a nurse at a time when nurses didn’t make much money. Any “new” clothes I received usually were courtesy of a great-aunt who did housekeeping for a wealthy family who, my luck, had a daughter about my age and size.

I can recall one time receiving a bag of clothes that contained a beautiful red and black cable knit pull-over sweater and a pair of black slacks with stirrups! I had always wanted slacks with stirrups. I felt like a princess when I put them on!

Likely, because of all those early experiences, I learned to focus on the season rather than the trappings and have for some time. I much prefer to give Christmas gifts than to get them. Not that getting isn’t very nice, and not that I’m not grateful for every gift. It is, and I am. But I no longer dwell on that. When asked by family what I would like for Christmas, I am hard pressed to think of anything.

What Christmas means to me, and what makes it a wonderful occasion to anticipate, is spending time with my family. When I have spent time with each of my children and their children, and lately their children during the season, then I feel content and blessed beyond measure. When I’ve made face-to-face contact with my entire family, that to me is a great Christmas.

The virus infection numbers are still on the rise here. Our area is on orange alert – one down from red, which is one down from lockdown. Where my son lives, their area is on red alert. The latest numbers for here are from yesterday, when we learned that we’d topped 100 cases—we’ve got 105. Last week was the worst week for new cases here, ever. So David and I have made the very painful decision that we won’t be seeing our family this Christmas.

This is the right decision, because by this time next year, we should have had our vaccinations, and getting together should be easier for us all. I don’t want to get this virus, and I sure as hell don’t want to pass it on to anyone, either. Our son has type 1 diabetes, a disease he contracted after a bad case of pneumonia that damaged his pancreas, when he was in his early thirties. He’s vulnerable—as are both his father (COPD) and I (heart disease and diabetes).

It is the right decision but it was not an easy decision to make. There’s a part of human nature that sees the shining promise of Christmas, and the dark threat of Covid, and makes us want to run and cling to the shining, to the light. That’s a false choice.

Christmas is an annual celebration, and I can remember a couple during my lifetime when other things happened around the same time of year that were hard and hurtful. Christmas will return and will be available to celebrate every December 25^th for the rest of my life.

The decision that we’ve made really is this: we choose to miss this one year’s Christmas gatherings, and thereby live to celebrate more joyfully for years to come, beginning next Christmas.

This virus is real, and we are taking all precautions, David and I. In choosing to stay home, we are protecting ourselves and our loved ones; we are also doing our part to prevent our local hospitals from being overrun with patients who have Covid-19.

In a lot of places, especially in the United States, the hospitals are so full of Covid patients that they’re nearing the breaking point. This is a tragedy not only for those who may be turned away from receiving care when they need it most; it’s a horrid situation for those health care providers to be in; dedicated professionals whose only wish is to help those who need them. For them to have to contemplate turning away patients, or deciding who lives and who dies? Do we have any idea of the gravity of the decisions we’re forcing on our medical personnel? The moral and emotional burden we’re asking them to bear?

David is going to put up our little tree, so we can have a feeling of Christmas. And our Christmas wish for ourselves and for everyone one is really just one wish.

That we all find some joy in the moment of not only Christmas, but in every day, and that we hold onto the hope of a host of many much brighter and happier tomorrows.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

 December 9, 2020

Life with small dogs can be said to be many things, but boring sure isn’t one of them. You may recall my many essays over the years featuring our wonderful Mr. Tuffy. Three months after our daughter moved in last year, bringing with her Tuffy’s only puppy friends, her chihuahuas, we discovered that he had a massive tumor, and had to say goodbye to him.

In all the years of his puppy life that Tuffy and my daughter’s oldest, Bella, knew each other, he never had been successful when she was in season—though he did sire one litter of pups with Bella’s adopted sister, our daughter’s chihuahua/terrier cross, Ivy.

As a side note, I will tell you that her two oldest dogs’ full names are Bella Donna and Poison Ivy. Our daughter has my father’s sense of humor.

In the aftermath of losing Tuffy, we were surprised when we discovered that Bella was pregnant. Jennifer’s lone male chihuahua, Zeus, had been neutered years before, so Tuffy was the only possible sire. Bella gave birth to three puppies, two males and one female. The bigger of the two boys, who was all black and very fluffy, my daughter sold to a friend of hers. I believe I told you at the time, that we had a dilemma which puppy to keep of the two remaining.

It was no surprise to anyone that, in the end, we kept both.

Bear and Missy do not look like they’ve come from the same litter. Now, at a year old, they’re fully grown. Missy is a solid ten pounds, and Bear is a solid three. On a good day.

Bear is perfectly healthy, just small. He’s delicate in a lot of ways, and he’s smart. He eats delicately and if the bigger than him, but still small dogs get wrestling, he doesn’t just jump in. He carries out strategic little attacks. Yes, he’s that smart.

David thought he was too small to survive, and that fear of losing another dog played on him heavily, which was why he’d changed his mind as to which of the two we would keep—and is the reason why we kept both. David couldn’t bond with Bear when he was tiny, but I could and already had when he announced his “change of heart”. So, in terms of emotional “possession”, Bear is mine, and Missy is his.

This is a delineation that the puppies themselves seem to agree with. It’s been a year, as I said, and David has come around and loves Bear as much as he loves Missy. They come to bed with us each night, and when Missy starts to bark at things only she can see, Bear crawls up close to me. He wants no part of her antics, behaviour that can and has gotten her banned from the bedroom for the night.

Missy has a nick name, “box of rocks”, a name that is a nod to her relative intelligence. She’s not very smart, but she is loving, and loves her routines, and her brother, and her people. She’s totally in love with Zeus, my daughter’s male teacup, and gets so excited whenever she gets near him, but he’s not overly impressed.

Missy is the first dog to be walked every day, and that happens now around noon. Noon, because by that time I am ready to take a break from my writing, something I have no choice but to do when it’s walk time.

Why, you may ask, must I stop writing when I don’t even walk any of the dogs? Let me tell you.

The moment the door closes behind David and Missy, Bear begins to make noise. He howls, like a wolf or a coyote caught in a trap. A loud, piercing, lament of sorrow, is that sound. And if my daughter’s dogs are downstairs (they are always down with us if she is at work), then under his leadership, they all begin to howl, too.

When the weather was warmer, I found it an easy fix to open the door to the porch. Once Bear was on the porch and could watch for the return of the daddy and the sister, the howling stopped. However, now it’s December, and cold, and Bear, because he is a small sized, albeit long-haired chihuahua, really feels the cold. Walks for him require sweaters. So, no porch in the winter for him.

Fortunately, in the last few weeks I have discovered that the “Lament of the Abandoned Bear-Bear dog” lasts only about three minutes. Long enough to inspire a headache sometimes, and always interfere with any focus for writing. But it does cease, thank goodness. And of course, after about fifteen minutes, his sister and daddy return, and all is well for Bear and for us.

Until, of course, David takes Bear for his walk—leaving behind a clearly abandoned and totally desolate Missy dog. A Missy dog who has no choice, of course… but to howl.

And yes, my friends, this happens every single day. As I said, boring, those two little fur babies definitely are not.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

 December 2, 2020

As we continue to travel down this path of uncertainty that is the year 2020, many of us find ourselves discovering who we are underneath the layers of the minutia that became our lives during the relatively good times of the last few years.

I hear a lot of people saying how weary they are of this whole “pandemic thing”, and how they just don’t want to do it anymore. They want to get back to normal. The foot stomp is, of course, implied.

People who say words to that effect clearly have never had to endure much hardship in their lives. The one thing that going through tough times teaches you is that you have to persevere until the hard times leave again. And yes, they always leave again.

In our earliest years as a couple, we went through huge tracts of time when David was out of work. Now, I know I didn’t say out loud, “I’m sick of having to do without. I am so done with this.” I likely thought it, but I wouldn’t have said it aloud, because even I knew, as a young mother, that the hard times would be played out and there really wasn’t much I could do about it except endure.

That is not to say we suffered in silence and did nothing.  We supplemented. David worked at clearing driveways in the winter, he cut wood in the fall, thanks to the generosity of a neighbor who said we could take from his bush what we needed to heat our house. In the spring and summer, we drove around looking for cast away beer bottles. In those years, when drinking and driving was an activity many participated in, there were plenty of bottles to be had. We often put bread and milk on the table from the coins earned turning those empties in. We never sat back and did nothing. But whether or not you can land a job isn’t up to you alone. David always looked for work. And then one day, that neighbor who had offered us all that free wood, hired him. He also owned the quarry, you see, and had watched with his own eyes how hard David worked even without a paycheck. That was, incidentally, the last time David was ever permanently out of a job. There were a few seasonal lay-offs in his first years with the quarry, but that is another story.

Now I can say that I feel blessed having acquired my tolerance of tough times through the innocuous years of simply going without material things. I could have had a bit of a hissy fit and stomped my feet and said I refuse to believe it….and in the end my wallet would still have been empty and my cupboards perilously close to bare. And, with that kind of attitude, my state of mind would have been in a deep hole, and that’s not good for anyone.

In 2020 if someone has a hissy fit and decides to go maskless, to congregate with others who feel the same, the end result might not be as harmless as an empty wallet and hungry belly. The experts are worried that the rash of Thanksgiving travel in the week just passed will result, two weeks down the line, in another, and worse upsurge in cases of the virus. And then a week or so after that, hospitals will be completely overwhelmed with patients. And then a week or so after that, there will be even more refrigerated trucks in use as temporary morgues.

I can’t not think about this. Look, I know you’re tired of all this, but you’ve got to hang on. Hang in there. Vaccines are coming. Relief is coming. You just have to keep on keeping on. The truth is that people are going to die because other people can’t be bothered to wear their damn masks. To save lives, all you have to do is hang on, and wear the damn mask.

For those you know who claim the pandemic was all a hoax to get rid of Trump? He’s on the way out now—he really is—and the pandemic is still here. Oh, and if those you know are arrogant enough to believe that it is all a conspiracy against them, and their dear leader who really and truly is on the way out…please ask them, for me, if they really believe the entire world is in on it?

In Iraq where their legislature was gathered on the weekend just passed and pictures of it televised, they were chanting death to America and they were burning colored posters they’d clearly created for the purpose, posters with pictures of Trump on top and Biden on the bottom. The legislature, the people in the street doing all this chanting and burning? They were all wearing face masks. I doubt the Iraqis would be in on a hoax on the side of any Americans, even if they don’t care for Trump.

To those that you, dear reader, know who are still in denial, tell them Morgan said: deny it in your quiet thoughts if you must, but please, please wear your damn mask!

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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