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