May 6, 2026
The sun is shining intermittently
through the clouds and the birds are singing. The dampness of yesterday is
hovering in the wings, like an understudy who prays the lead will stumble and
fall. And swirling around and above and through everything is the sound of an
earth-moving machine grunting and groaning, shifting and shoveling, as the work
begins on the piece of construction that shall be created for yours truly to
have full and unfettered access to the road from her house.
Of course, I have decided to
be grateful for whatever the end result turns out to be, because I do know what
was there, however temporarily. This, whatever we end up with, will be better.
The gentlemen at work in front
of my house are not landscapers. They are a construction company. This is a
difference that my husband had a bit of difficulty grasping earlier today.
Fortunately, after the requisite amount of steam was released from his soul, we
were able to set him to rights. First the concrete work, and then
the landscaping.
I reminded him that the properties
up and down the cross street to our north looked rough and tumble after their
road construction – before the landscapers came and did quite a lovely finishing
job of it all.
The challenges of getting
older are not confined to one subdivision of the human experience.
I haven’t mentioned to him,
but will, if necessary, that worse come to worse and he doesn’t like the end
result? We have grandsons for that very purpose.
It’s springtime here in Southern
Ontario. The neighborhood trees are beginning to leaf. Our walnut tree, of
course, will be the last to provide its shade. In that trait it reminds me of
that amazing weeping willow we had when I was a child. The last to get its
leaves, and the first to lose them.
I miss my willow. That tree
was impossibly high and incredibly magical to seven-year-old me. A very mature
tree, its branches provided twigs that grew up and out and then down, creating
the perfect childhood sanctuary where my imagination soared. Umbrella like in
structure, it would keep the soft mists of a light rain from spoiling my play.
I practically lived under that tree from spring until late autumn. When those
protective twigs grew so that they lay on the grass, as they did every year, it
was my job to trim them. I used the long-handled shears and trimmed them just
enough. My first priority of course was protecting the sanctuary atmosphere of
that, my most personal space.
But it wasn’t just the pocket
of shade and the privacy provided by my green “screen” that I loved. One could sit
on the grass, back to the trunk, and lounge within the luxury of a long-armed divan
as sturdy roots on either side of me invited me to drape my arms over them.
That natural nook had, I was convinced at the time, been created just for me.
One substantial and accommodating
branch shot straight out from the trunk, several feet above my head, at a level
ninety-degree angle from the ground, the perfect host for my own private swing.
Made of strong rope and a cut and drilled and sanded four-inch-thick plank, I
could swing to my heart’s content.
I was never lonely under my
tree. My imagination furnished me with endless imaginary friends and wonderful adventures.
I understand now that all of my play at that time was aimed at honing myt
imagination.
I’m certain that if my parents
were alive when it happened, they would not have been surprised in the least that
I became a published author. My mother would have said I got the talent from my
father.
She would have been right.
I am certainly learning how to
be comfortable in my new office chair. I have it working to my best advantage,
too.
For example, I don’t always
need it raised up. Having it up is best for writing, and for whatever
not-so-rare but still precious moments I may indulge in a game or three. All in
the interest of keeping my mental faculties sharp, of course. Wordle and
acrostics keep the noodle prime.
But if I’m going to watch
videos, or podcasts, or just indulge in research, then I lower the seat.
Lowered, I can more easily relax as I don’t have to be concerned with keeping my
wheel-bearing chair, sitting on a somewhat sloping floor, from rolling away
from my keyboard.
The ability to adapt is a valuable
skill to have, don’t you think?
Love,
Morgan
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
