January 4, 2023
I hope you had wonderful
Christmas and New Year’s celebrations. Now here we all are, fully living in the
new year, having to learn to write 2023. I swear I just got used to writing
2022…. or so it seems. This is the hamster wheel we’re all on, and it’s the
same thing every January. And really, one can adapt faster than one thinks
possible.
This past week has given us
mild temperatures, for the most part. There has been a lot of rain. This time
of year, there is only one reason that I can think of not to mind the rain. And
that reason is that with rain, at least you don’t have to shovel it. Of course,
my days of shoveling snow, as well as its warm-up act, clearing off the car,
are long over. But those memories of having done so plenty of times are with
me, and they stretch all the way back to my adolescence.
We didn’t get a lot of “snow
days” when I was a kid, but we got a few. These were never causes for
celebration for me because I was expected to shovel our driveway. I’m not talking
about a little eight-to-ten feet long piece of asphalt that leads to a garage,
like so many folks have in towns and cities everywhere. The driveway of my life
from the time I was about eight was a very long country lane. The thing resembled
a high-top boot, complete with a heel—so my mother could drive in, steer to the
right at the end, then back up, and drive forward. About 120 feet long in all,
this was the safest driveway ever, allowing one to never have to back out onto a
busy road.
Good news for any drivers at
our house; bad news for the low-on-the-food-chain shoveler, which was me.
There was one time that I do recall
fondly, though. I was about twelve or thirteen and had decided to get to the
job early. I’d started to shovel at the road, working my way in, and after a
couple of hours, I maybe had about five feet done. Then I looked up and our
neighbor, the man who owned the quarry, came down the road in his big,
beautiful loader. He stopped and confirmed with me how my mother liked the
driveway plowed, then told me to stand aside, and proceeded to accomplish the feat
in about five minutes and, of course, free of charge. He then left me and drove
to the next neighbor’s house. In an hour or two, he’d cleared every driveway on
our road.
That was the sweetest gift I’d
been given to that point in my life.
As I look out the window this
morning, all I see are grey skies and wet everything. But not a bit of snow. I
do feel bad for the kids who received snow boards or toboggans for Christmas
and have this week off school. Also, I’m sorry for those folks who plow snow in
the winter to help make ends meet.
It’s just one more bit of
proof that nothing in life is either all good, or all bad.
Not even this cold that has a
good strong grip on me.
It began before Christmas,
seemingly out of nowhere. It just grabbed a hold of me and so far, is not
wanting to let go. A friend asked me if I’d gotten my flu shot, and of course,
I replied that I had, indeed. I am completely up to date with all vaccinations—Covid,
flu, and even the one for pneumococcal pneumonia.
This isn’t covid, or the flu,
or anything else but a good old-fashioned cold. I have brewed my “hot lemon” concoction
and have been sipping it (water + lemon + orange; simmer briefly, and serve
with honey and yes, at least a bit of Splenda because, well, lemon). I
have been resting and doing nothing. The resting instead of writing is mostly
because my brain doesn’t want to think about writing, so I rest it, too. And I
read—some of the books in my Lusty, Texas collection so at least I can have my
brain in the general area of where it needs to be for when this cold ends and I
can get back to work.
David has a cold, too. But his
isn’t as bad as mine, this time. We’re kind of taking care of each other at the
moment, which is our usual M.O. In the aftermath of that bone-in ham we had at
Christmas and even with this cold, a week ago I plopped that bone into a pot of
water, and the next day made his favorite 13 bean soup. He loves comfort food
with his colds.
And, in return, he’s been
fetching and carrying for me: coffee, water, and hot lemon, and anything else I
need.
My cold is moving on, slowly,
and I’ve decided my best bet is to try and see if there are a few scraps of
patience I can hang onto until it’s completely gone. In the meantime, we spend
our days side-by-side on our sofa/recliner, wearing puppies on top of our
blankets, while I read from my now one-year-old, and he reads his brand-new iPad
that the girls bought him for Christmas.
Comfy, with matching blankets
and warm beverages and good books to read. Heaven, if you ask me—even if I do need
a lot of tissues.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
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