The last few days have actually been hot and humid here, but nothing like some of my friends south of the border have been enduring for weeks, now. This year you could almost say we are the frozen north, as we have had a much cooler than normal summer.
This past long weekend found Mr. Ashbury with not just the usual three days off, but four. They had an equipment malfunction at his place of employment late Thursday afternoon, one that would not be repaired before Tuesday morning.
He was glad for the extra time off. While he still loves what he does, he’s looking forward to retirement. He’ll be sixty-two this November. In addition, he has COPD. The latter is the reason we’re looking at heading south for at least a month this coming winter. We’ll try to do two months the year after that. Cold weather is not great for his breathing, because the colder the air, the smaller the oxygen molecules.
But then, neither is the hot and humid weather of a normal summer good for him, either.
This past weekend, since he had four days off, he decided he needed to do something by way of house repairs. Our old, worn out hardwood floor in our entrance hallway finally “sprang”. With the wear and tear, and the humidity over the many years, the nails holding the hardwood in place, over time, rusted out to the point of disintegration, and we had a bouncy little popup near the door that happened about a week ago.
So early Friday morning we headed to the local hardware store where he purchased the aspenite sheeting, the very thin mahogany sheeting to go on top of that, and a box of tiles to finish the job.
My beloved had replaced the kitchen floor a couple of years ago, a vastly larger project, with not that much difficulty. This smaller job was a bit more taxing, not only because of the progression of the COPD, but mostly because it was such a small, awkward space in which to work. Being by the front door, he couldn’t set up his saw and work table in the back yard—that would be too far to carry the heavy wood. So he had to manage it all on the front porch, a cramped work area to be sure.
But over the course of the four days, he prevailed, and we now have a nice tiled floor right inside our front door.
It was interesting, as always, listening to him as he tackled this project. He can sometimes come up with very colorful phrases, especially if things don’t go quite the way he wants them to. This house of ours is old, and nothing is square, or even close to level. Each new job is a challenge for him. But he has more patience than he had in his younger days which just might balance out the lack of stamina.
Of course, there are some things in this house of ours that likely never will be repaired. We have an upstairs that he and our late son created when it was time to replace the roof. Up until then, the upstairs was essentially an attic, but finished to make a bit of a living area – long and narrow and only about five foot high. When we first moved in, two of our kids had their bedroom up there. A few years later, it became our bedroom.
When it came time to do the roof, by adding just a couple of feet to the existing wall, they were able to create a place that in fact doubles our living area. But it still needs gypsum sheeting on the walls, and the flooring there is just sub-floor. But in the summer, with fans in the windows, it was sufficient to hold what was needed to make temporary bedrooms for our grandchildren.
They no longer need to come here overnight, and that area has become mainly storage space. It was originally designed to give us a large master bedroom area, but that just isn’t ever going to happen.
But that’s okay. Having enough room to store the accumulated minutia of four decades worth of marriage cannot be overrated.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
August 27, 2014
You can never predict just what new thing will capture the imagination of the masses on the Internet. The latest trend to catch fire and go viral in the last couple of weeks is the “ice bucket challenge”, and it’s in support of a very worthy cause: funding research to find a cure for ALS - amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.
It’s refreshing to see something like this become popular. I’m not certain how it started. The why of it doesn’t really matter. Every day brings new little videos posted to the Net, a few even filmed by folks I know, getting in on the fun(?) of either self or family inflicted icy water filled buckets being dumped on their heads.
I don’t imagine it hurts the popularity of the challenge that so many areas have wicked hot weather right about now. [I’m pretty certain the challenge wouldn’t have caught on at all in the winter.]
Of course for some people, dumping a bucket of frigid water over their head isn’t recommended, for health reasons. But that’s fine. The challenge, as I understand it, is take the bath and donate $10, or decline the bath, and donate $100. I’m glad it was structured that way, so people like yours truly could still participate without any undue health risks.
Yes, it is refreshing that this latest fad is for such a great cause, because sometimes I worry about really unlikely things when it comes to humanity. For example, I worry that ET will be training his telescope on us just as we’re consumed with twerking, or doing things gangnam style, or tossing ourselves off of cliffs, bungee cords attached, hopefully, correctly. I mean, really, do you want “first contact” to happen when all the aliens know about us is some of the stuff that we egomaniacal Homo sapiens have posted on YouTube?
But if that event happens in the next little while, at least we are shown to be a race willing to endure a good dousing in support of our fellow human beings.
You can never know what’s going to catch on next. In recent memory, there have been some books: Harry Potter, Twilight, and Fifty Shades. Who could have predicted any of those would be such phenomenal hits?
With dancing and music, the afore mentioned twerking and gangnam have been recent crazes, but there have been dancing fads catching on since the jitter bug back in the 1930s—and likely even before that. Just a few years ago, it was “flash mob” dances and songs. Fads come and go, but the speed with which they do so has increased with each year, and with the new and many technological ways we have of communicating and sharing them.
There are video compilations making the rounds on a regular basis showing us at our worst: we’re either doing stupid things, or dangerous things, or illegal things...how many times, as you’ve surfed the Web have you been tempted to click on those little montages and witness your fellow human’s most embarrassing moments?
Some of these embarrassing events are staged, of course. I suppose there are those who think fame is fame, and as long as they have that video of themselves up there and people watching, it makes them...famous. Some aren’t staged, they’re the result of people, armed with cell phone cameras, who cash in on the misfortune of others—seizing the moment, as it were.
Just one brief digression, if I may. People, in this day and age with cell phones everywhere, and even satellites taking pictures which you can then see on Google Earth, why, oh why would you do anything outside, ever, while naked? How many times have you heard of someone speeding dangerously, filming it themselves, posting it, with the result that they are subsequently arrested? Seriously, give your heads a shake! It’s not a case of “big brother” watching you. No, it’s more like little brother and the damned varmint is going to tattle on you big time, no ifs, ands, or buts.
In the meantime, keep those ALS ice bucket challenge videos coming, and, more importantly, keep those donations flowing.
When we stand together, and will it to be so, we can make miracles happen.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
It’s refreshing to see something like this become popular. I’m not certain how it started. The why of it doesn’t really matter. Every day brings new little videos posted to the Net, a few even filmed by folks I know, getting in on the fun(?) of either self or family inflicted icy water filled buckets being dumped on their heads.
I don’t imagine it hurts the popularity of the challenge that so many areas have wicked hot weather right about now. [I’m pretty certain the challenge wouldn’t have caught on at all in the winter.]
Of course for some people, dumping a bucket of frigid water over their head isn’t recommended, for health reasons. But that’s fine. The challenge, as I understand it, is take the bath and donate $10, or decline the bath, and donate $100. I’m glad it was structured that way, so people like yours truly could still participate without any undue health risks.
Yes, it is refreshing that this latest fad is for such a great cause, because sometimes I worry about really unlikely things when it comes to humanity. For example, I worry that ET will be training his telescope on us just as we’re consumed with twerking, or doing things gangnam style, or tossing ourselves off of cliffs, bungee cords attached, hopefully, correctly. I mean, really, do you want “first contact” to happen when all the aliens know about us is some of the stuff that we egomaniacal Homo sapiens have posted on YouTube?
But if that event happens in the next little while, at least we are shown to be a race willing to endure a good dousing in support of our fellow human beings.
You can never know what’s going to catch on next. In recent memory, there have been some books: Harry Potter, Twilight, and Fifty Shades. Who could have predicted any of those would be such phenomenal hits?
With dancing and music, the afore mentioned twerking and gangnam have been recent crazes, but there have been dancing fads catching on since the jitter bug back in the 1930s—and likely even before that. Just a few years ago, it was “flash mob” dances and songs. Fads come and go, but the speed with which they do so has increased with each year, and with the new and many technological ways we have of communicating and sharing them.
There are video compilations making the rounds on a regular basis showing us at our worst: we’re either doing stupid things, or dangerous things, or illegal things...how many times, as you’ve surfed the Web have you been tempted to click on those little montages and witness your fellow human’s most embarrassing moments?
Some of these embarrassing events are staged, of course. I suppose there are those who think fame is fame, and as long as they have that video of themselves up there and people watching, it makes them...famous. Some aren’t staged, they’re the result of people, armed with cell phone cameras, who cash in on the misfortune of others—seizing the moment, as it were.
Just one brief digression, if I may. People, in this day and age with cell phones everywhere, and even satellites taking pictures which you can then see on Google Earth, why, oh why would you do anything outside, ever, while naked? How many times have you heard of someone speeding dangerously, filming it themselves, posting it, with the result that they are subsequently arrested? Seriously, give your heads a shake! It’s not a case of “big brother” watching you. No, it’s more like little brother and the damned varmint is going to tattle on you big time, no ifs, ands, or buts.
In the meantime, keep those ALS ice bucket challenge videos coming, and, more importantly, keep those donations flowing.
When we stand together, and will it to be so, we can make miracles happen.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, August 20, 2014
August 20, 2014
The saga of the Ashbury’s quest for television repair continues. The bad news is we that are still without our television. The good news is, the part that was needed to fix the thing is in the hands of the tech, and has been since last Friday...when the service desk called to give us the earliest possible appointment for said tech to come with the part in hand. That date? This coming Friday, August 22nd.
To recap, our television went on the blink on July 27th. We called the service center that very day, and we received the earliest possible appointment for the tech to come came out to our house which was... Friday August 1. Of course, it turned out that a part had to be ordered. The tech had told us it would take a week. It took two.
I was very polite when the young woman called us last Friday. After she announced (in a tone of voice that suggested I was most fortunate to receive such prompt service) that the tech would make his appearance at our door the following Friday, I told her I only had one question. I asked her how she could imagine that waiting 27 days to have one’s television repaired was, by anyone’s definition, acceptable.
Strangely, the young woman seemed at a loss for words as to how to answer me.
Now here I must be honest and tell you that I, personally, don’t actually miss the thing all that much—but only because it’s still summer re-run season. Even when the new shows start, I won’t, in any given week, watch the tube for more than a handful of hours.
It’s Mr. Ashbury who has been going into withdrawal.
Knowing this would be so, the first thing I did when it we realized we were going to be setting a family record for waiting for a repair was to set him up with a service our cable company provides called “anyplace TV”. This service is included in the astronomical subscription we pay the company and in essence, lets him watch several channels on his computer.
Sadly, the news networks aren’t among the channels provided, and those are the programs he especially looks forward to watching—and arguing with—on Sunday.
However, he’s been able to see a few programs, and of course, he has his kindle, currently loaded up with a good dozen books from his “TBR” pile, so he has been a relatively happy camper throughout this very trying time.
He has also been spending almost all of every evening since July 27th with me, right here in my office—which is where his computer is. Yes, he and the dog have been keeping me company as I sit here and do my thing. Since I multi-task all day, interspersing my writing time with housework time, and since I also often nap in the afternoon, I end up extending my “working” hours into the evening. After dinner I write, and I also attend to my social media obligations.
It’s very unnerving having him looking over my shoulder as I work. If I’m writing, at some point I stop noticing his attention, because I get lost in the words. But if I’m scrolling through Face Book, following up on “tags”, reading what some of my “friends” are doing, or even posting in my street team, it’s very disconcerting to have a face hanging over my shoulder—even the face of my beloved. I don’t have anything to hide, it’s just...weird. And in case anyone thinks I’m being overly sensitive, Mr. Ashbury himself positively hates it when people look over his shoulder at his computer screen.
So if I seem a little antsy as the days count down this week to blessed Friday, it’s really got nothing to do with waiting to have the boob tube working again, filling my brain with minutia and my ears with noise.
It has to do with ending the twenty-seven days long siege of my office.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
To recap, our television went on the blink on July 27th. We called the service center that very day, and we received the earliest possible appointment for the tech to come came out to our house which was... Friday August 1. Of course, it turned out that a part had to be ordered. The tech had told us it would take a week. It took two.
I was very polite when the young woman called us last Friday. After she announced (in a tone of voice that suggested I was most fortunate to receive such prompt service) that the tech would make his appearance at our door the following Friday, I told her I only had one question. I asked her how she could imagine that waiting 27 days to have one’s television repaired was, by anyone’s definition, acceptable.
Strangely, the young woman seemed at a loss for words as to how to answer me.
Now here I must be honest and tell you that I, personally, don’t actually miss the thing all that much—but only because it’s still summer re-run season. Even when the new shows start, I won’t, in any given week, watch the tube for more than a handful of hours.
It’s Mr. Ashbury who has been going into withdrawal.
Knowing this would be so, the first thing I did when it we realized we were going to be setting a family record for waiting for a repair was to set him up with a service our cable company provides called “anyplace TV”. This service is included in the astronomical subscription we pay the company and in essence, lets him watch several channels on his computer.
Sadly, the news networks aren’t among the channels provided, and those are the programs he especially looks forward to watching—and arguing with—on Sunday.
However, he’s been able to see a few programs, and of course, he has his kindle, currently loaded up with a good dozen books from his “TBR” pile, so he has been a relatively happy camper throughout this very trying time.
He has also been spending almost all of every evening since July 27th with me, right here in my office—which is where his computer is. Yes, he and the dog have been keeping me company as I sit here and do my thing. Since I multi-task all day, interspersing my writing time with housework time, and since I also often nap in the afternoon, I end up extending my “working” hours into the evening. After dinner I write, and I also attend to my social media obligations.
It’s very unnerving having him looking over my shoulder as I work. If I’m writing, at some point I stop noticing his attention, because I get lost in the words. But if I’m scrolling through Face Book, following up on “tags”, reading what some of my “friends” are doing, or even posting in my street team, it’s very disconcerting to have a face hanging over my shoulder—even the face of my beloved. I don’t have anything to hide, it’s just...weird. And in case anyone thinks I’m being overly sensitive, Mr. Ashbury himself positively hates it when people look over his shoulder at his computer screen.
So if I seem a little antsy as the days count down this week to blessed Friday, it’s really got nothing to do with waiting to have the boob tube working again, filling my brain with minutia and my ears with noise.
It has to do with ending the twenty-seven days long siege of my office.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
August 13, 2014
Hell has indeed frozen over. Mr. Ashbury this past week became the proud owner of a brand new cell phone, and iPhone 5.
This is something that the rest of the Ashbury family, myself included, have been suggesting to the man for, oh, the last ten years or so. Why now, you might ask. It could very well be that the decision to arm himself with one more piece of modern technology (he has a Kindle, a digital camera, and a PC) is connected to the fact that his major piece of modern technology—the fifty-four inch totally digital, complete with computer keyboard on the back of the remote television is still not working.
The tech came out a week ago last Friday, but discovered the part that was kaput was one he didn’t have. Update: as of the end of business last Friday, the part had been shipped to him, but he had not yet received it.
So, did Mr. Ashbury cave and get an iPhone because of boredom? Possibly. But I rather think it was that day last week when my daughter was nearly an hour late picking him up from work that pushed him over the edge. He claimed he was neither upset nor worried, because he’d heard on the news that a local bridge had been shut down by a drunken dump-truck driver. Actually I think most of North America heard about that one. But I believe the incident brought home to him how isolated and cut off he really was.
He couldn’t call home to ask me about daughter being late because, as luck would have it, the phones where he works were out that day.
So yes, he has a cell phone. He has actually not only spoken on it, but he has sent texts! My husband, for all that he is a senior citizen, isn’t one to let technology scare him over much (unless it’s the afore mentioned big ass TV. The first thing he does when there’s a problem with that is to call our daughter).
There are several reasons why a cell phone for him is a good idea. I’m looking forward to the next time we are both in a big box store and I’m trying to track him down. That will be handy, indeed.
He doesn’t like to talk on the phone much because he is partially deaf. Even his hearing aids don’t help him when it comes to phone calls. But he can text, and that requires no hearing at all. He’s sometimes felt as if he’s out of touch with his son who lives thirty minutes away. And actually, unless we go there or they come here, he is—because he doesn't like to talk on the phone.
I use my cell phone to keep in touch with those grandchildren, too. They all live busy lives, but all I have to do is send a text, and they answer me.
Mr. Ashbury has already also figured out how to use several different functions on his phone, including looking up the weather, and doing just a little bit of web surfing. Three days into cell phone ownership, and it’s already the first thing he checks when he gets up in the morning.
I, of course, am looking forward to another benefit of my beloved finally having a cell phone. I can text him from the next room instead of trying to yell at him (especially when he has his TV headphones on), to remind him that the dog is still outside—or that it’s time to feed the cat.
And of course with texting, it’s ever so simple to copy and paste so I’ll be able to remind him again and again and again.
But maybe I’ll hold off on that until he is thoroughly hooked on the thing.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
This is something that the rest of the Ashbury family, myself included, have been suggesting to the man for, oh, the last ten years or so. Why now, you might ask. It could very well be that the decision to arm himself with one more piece of modern technology (he has a Kindle, a digital camera, and a PC) is connected to the fact that his major piece of modern technology—the fifty-four inch totally digital, complete with computer keyboard on the back of the remote television is still not working.
The tech came out a week ago last Friday, but discovered the part that was kaput was one he didn’t have. Update: as of the end of business last Friday, the part had been shipped to him, but he had not yet received it.
So, did Mr. Ashbury cave and get an iPhone because of boredom? Possibly. But I rather think it was that day last week when my daughter was nearly an hour late picking him up from work that pushed him over the edge. He claimed he was neither upset nor worried, because he’d heard on the news that a local bridge had been shut down by a drunken dump-truck driver. Actually I think most of North America heard about that one. But I believe the incident brought home to him how isolated and cut off he really was.
He couldn’t call home to ask me about daughter being late because, as luck would have it, the phones where he works were out that day.
So yes, he has a cell phone. He has actually not only spoken on it, but he has sent texts! My husband, for all that he is a senior citizen, isn’t one to let technology scare him over much (unless it’s the afore mentioned big ass TV. The first thing he does when there’s a problem with that is to call our daughter).
There are several reasons why a cell phone for him is a good idea. I’m looking forward to the next time we are both in a big box store and I’m trying to track him down. That will be handy, indeed.
He doesn’t like to talk on the phone much because he is partially deaf. Even his hearing aids don’t help him when it comes to phone calls. But he can text, and that requires no hearing at all. He’s sometimes felt as if he’s out of touch with his son who lives thirty minutes away. And actually, unless we go there or they come here, he is—because he doesn't like to talk on the phone.
I use my cell phone to keep in touch with those grandchildren, too. They all live busy lives, but all I have to do is send a text, and they answer me.
Mr. Ashbury has already also figured out how to use several different functions on his phone, including looking up the weather, and doing just a little bit of web surfing. Three days into cell phone ownership, and it’s already the first thing he checks when he gets up in the morning.
I, of course, am looking forward to another benefit of my beloved finally having a cell phone. I can text him from the next room instead of trying to yell at him (especially when he has his TV headphones on), to remind him that the dog is still outside—or that it’s time to feed the cat.
And of course with texting, it’s ever so simple to copy and paste so I’ll be able to remind him again and again and again.
But maybe I’ll hold off on that until he is thoroughly hooked on the thing.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
August 6, 2014
Quite the debate has been happening in the Ashbury household this summer. And the topic of these intense discussions has been our back yard. We don’t spend much time there, because it’s unappealing. Basically, we have a couple corner gardens, it is a fenced space so it is puppy proof, but I’d like to be able to use it more. But how best to use it? That was our discussion.
To give you an idea of the situation, we have a back yard that stretches from our back door, about 110 feet to the west, to our back property line. And of that land, only about the first 18 feet of it is flat and level with the house. The rest is a hill, steep in places, with a couple of small plateaus. If you stand at the back property line, you are level with the roof of our two-story home.
We have a corner property, and the only way I can get up to the top of my yard, is to walk up a steep road and then make a 90 degree turn and walk onto the grass. This “terrace” is part of the old Grand River, river bottom, from ancient times, when it was very wide, indeed.
Even with my cane, I can’t walk up that road onto my yard without assistance.
So our useable back yard measures about 25 feet wide and 18 feet deep. In recent years we had one of those umbrella-type clothes lines in the grass, to the left of the back door, and, an innovation that my beloved installed, a flagstone patio to the right of it. In between grass and flagstone, the area in front of the back door, for a foot left and right and extending for all of the flat area to the beginning of the slope, is a concrete slab that is beginning to crumble. On that concrete slab, near the back fence, stands our propane barbeque.
Now, the thing about a flagstone patio is, if it isn’t installed meticulously, beginning with a ground sheet to prevent weed growth and extreme settling, then the weeds take over and some stones settle more than others, making it uneven.
You can weed that patio in twice April....and then May....and then June....well, you get idea. You are never free of those weeds. Up until a couple of years ago, however, I did weed it. I was able to get down onto a chaise lounge cushion, stretch out on my side, and weed. Getting up was difficult, but doable with the help of one of our sturdy metal lawn chairs and my cane.
Unfortunately, I can no longer put that much pressure on my knees, even for a moment.
I’ve tried various “home” methods to kill those weeds – methods that won’t poison our animals. But nothing has worked really well. I wanted my beloved to re-do the patio, this time putting down the ground sheet that should have gone down the first time. Alas, he said no.
I suggested then that we just dig it up and forget about it—let grass grow there again. This wasn’t an option either, as it was labor intensive plus we really have no place to store the stones. We spent too long picking them out to just waste them (for free, years ago, when his place of employment was family owned and the boss said, “help yourselves”). The truth is, I do believe my beloved is emotionally attached to that patio.
In the interim, after our clothes line thingy broke and while we were debating what to do with the yard, he suggested that we might get a small pool for the area to the left of the door. Ah, my beloved knows how to mollify me. I began to look into this. We could fit a 12 foot diameter above ground pool in that grassy area (because, remember, the concrete and flagstone stay). The pool I was looking at had special steps out of the water that I could easily manage, and we could build outer steps, that I could use to get into it. The pool we considered had a 52 inch sidewall, effectively making it 4 foot deep. I don’t need more than that in the dog days of summer. Just enough to get in, get cooled off and get out.
And then my beloved said, “And we can move the dog’s area to a fenced in run up the hill.”
Um...no. I wouldn’t be able to get him there on my own, not in the summer and sure as heck not in the winter. So, alas, no pool. I threw my hands in the air and said, “Okay, fine. You decide, do whatever you want.”
I love my husband. I really do. And I accept that he is, as he takes great pride in admitting, a redneck.
We now have outdoor carpeting covering the flagstone patio and most of the concrete slab. On top of this carpeting, stands a gazebo with mosquito netting, and a patio set consisting of a table and 4 chairs. He has wired the gazebo so that I may sit out and use my lap top plugged in if I so choose. The patio beneath is still uneven and I need to take care walking on it, but it works.
And, he said, in the fall, both the rug and the gazebo will be stored in his shed until spring, and the theory is that the patio beneath will then be weed free—and grouting should take care of the problem permanently.
I didn’t point out that the weeds are no longer an issue if the patio is going to be covered, spring until fall. I just thanked him for his hard work and left it at that.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
To give you an idea of the situation, we have a back yard that stretches from our back door, about 110 feet to the west, to our back property line. And of that land, only about the first 18 feet of it is flat and level with the house. The rest is a hill, steep in places, with a couple of small plateaus. If you stand at the back property line, you are level with the roof of our two-story home.
We have a corner property, and the only way I can get up to the top of my yard, is to walk up a steep road and then make a 90 degree turn and walk onto the grass. This “terrace” is part of the old Grand River, river bottom, from ancient times, when it was very wide, indeed.
Even with my cane, I can’t walk up that road onto my yard without assistance.
So our useable back yard measures about 25 feet wide and 18 feet deep. In recent years we had one of those umbrella-type clothes lines in the grass, to the left of the back door, and, an innovation that my beloved installed, a flagstone patio to the right of it. In between grass and flagstone, the area in front of the back door, for a foot left and right and extending for all of the flat area to the beginning of the slope, is a concrete slab that is beginning to crumble. On that concrete slab, near the back fence, stands our propane barbeque.
Now, the thing about a flagstone patio is, if it isn’t installed meticulously, beginning with a ground sheet to prevent weed growth and extreme settling, then the weeds take over and some stones settle more than others, making it uneven.
You can weed that patio in twice April....and then May....and then June....well, you get idea. You are never free of those weeds. Up until a couple of years ago, however, I did weed it. I was able to get down onto a chaise lounge cushion, stretch out on my side, and weed. Getting up was difficult, but doable with the help of one of our sturdy metal lawn chairs and my cane.
Unfortunately, I can no longer put that much pressure on my knees, even for a moment.
I’ve tried various “home” methods to kill those weeds – methods that won’t poison our animals. But nothing has worked really well. I wanted my beloved to re-do the patio, this time putting down the ground sheet that should have gone down the first time. Alas, he said no.
I suggested then that we just dig it up and forget about it—let grass grow there again. This wasn’t an option either, as it was labor intensive plus we really have no place to store the stones. We spent too long picking them out to just waste them (for free, years ago, when his place of employment was family owned and the boss said, “help yourselves”). The truth is, I do believe my beloved is emotionally attached to that patio.
In the interim, after our clothes line thingy broke and while we were debating what to do with the yard, he suggested that we might get a small pool for the area to the left of the door. Ah, my beloved knows how to mollify me. I began to look into this. We could fit a 12 foot diameter above ground pool in that grassy area (because, remember, the concrete and flagstone stay). The pool I was looking at had special steps out of the water that I could easily manage, and we could build outer steps, that I could use to get into it. The pool we considered had a 52 inch sidewall, effectively making it 4 foot deep. I don’t need more than that in the dog days of summer. Just enough to get in, get cooled off and get out.
And then my beloved said, “And we can move the dog’s area to a fenced in run up the hill.”
Um...no. I wouldn’t be able to get him there on my own, not in the summer and sure as heck not in the winter. So, alas, no pool. I threw my hands in the air and said, “Okay, fine. You decide, do whatever you want.”
I love my husband. I really do. And I accept that he is, as he takes great pride in admitting, a redneck.
We now have outdoor carpeting covering the flagstone patio and most of the concrete slab. On top of this carpeting, stands a gazebo with mosquito netting, and a patio set consisting of a table and 4 chairs. He has wired the gazebo so that I may sit out and use my lap top plugged in if I so choose. The patio beneath is still uneven and I need to take care walking on it, but it works.
And, he said, in the fall, both the rug and the gazebo will be stored in his shed until spring, and the theory is that the patio beneath will then be weed free—and grouting should take care of the problem permanently.
I didn’t point out that the weeds are no longer an issue if the patio is going to be covered, spring until fall. I just thanked him for his hard work and left it at that.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
July 30, 2014
It’s been a different kind of week here in the Ashbury household. Something happened last Sunday that hasn’t actually happened to us in a very long time.
Our television went on the fritz.
Televisions used to be considered appliances, did you know that? I can recall the black and white one we had when I was a kid. Um, for you younger folks, black and white refers to the colors of the pictures the television produced, not the colors of the set itself. One day—and seriously, only ever one day that I recall—ours didn’t work, and my mom had to call the T.V. repair man.
Yes, just like you might today call a washing machine repair person, or a refrigerator repair person, you used to be able to call the television repair person.
It was quite the occasion, in my mind at least. I was just a kid but he let me watch him as he worked. He unscrewed the back panel of the television (they really were bulky pieces of furniture in those days). The inside of the beast was filled with one big picture tube, and several little tubes, elongated glass things with rounded tops and prongs on the other end. Thinking back, I guess you could liken them to fuses, because when they “blew” they’d have a black area on them, a sign of burn out.
Of course, it didn’t take the repair man long to find the tube that had blown. Fixing it was a simple matter of exchanging the burned out tube for a new one and then, like magic, the television worked again.
Well, in 2014 it’s not a television repairperson that gets called—it’s a television technician. You may recall that my beloved bought this monster set three years ago, the result of a bargain hunting adventure with our daughter that still gets recounted at family gatherings. Fortunately, at the time of purchase, he also bought the four year extended warranty.
Here I will digress for a moment and tell you, flat out, in as stern a voice as I can muster, when you buy anything electronic in nature, get the extended warranty if one is available. We have done that as a regular practice for years, and several times, collected on it. We have used, for periods of two to three years, and then received full refunds for a digital camera, a GPS unit, and an expensive one-cup coffee maker.
Not to mention that there will be no charge for the “adjustment” to our 54 inch brand name television. And no, I don’t feel guilty for any of that. Manufacturers don’t want their products to last forever. If they did, their sales would stagnate. Much better for them to plan, for example, that they can sell that expensive one-cup coffeemaker to you every three to five years or so, than to make it so good it will last ten to fifteen years.
My mother’s large freezer lasted twenty-seven years, I don’t recall she ever got a new fridge, and I just inherited her wooden ironing board that I used to iron clothes on as a teen.
Now, back to our broken-down television. I called the 1-800 number on the warranty brochure last Sunday—that is good innovation, call centers that operate 24/7—and after I recited all the warranty information, the young person on the other end of the call expressed appropriate sympathy that our television was “down”.
He promised to send a tech right out to us, and scheduled the service call—for this coming Friday.
My beloved gasped when I told him how long we would be without his TV, and looked for one moment as if his world was about to end. I even knew what question was coming next: “But what if I had planned to watch something good this week?”
Really? During summer re-run season when he only puts on the news, and even that only once or twice a week? Or catches the occasional episode of that one new series he’s watching on our cable provider’s “watch on demand” service?
Still, I didn’t want to seem unsympathetic to his concerns, so I gently stroked his cheek and said, “Then you can just plan to watch it on your computer, dear.”
This is the reason it’s been a different kind of week in the Ashbury household. Yes, every spare moment after dinner he’s been right here, in my office, just two feet away from me, doing just that.
Thank goodness for headphones.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Our television went on the fritz.
Televisions used to be considered appliances, did you know that? I can recall the black and white one we had when I was a kid. Um, for you younger folks, black and white refers to the colors of the pictures the television produced, not the colors of the set itself. One day—and seriously, only ever one day that I recall—ours didn’t work, and my mom had to call the T.V. repair man.
Yes, just like you might today call a washing machine repair person, or a refrigerator repair person, you used to be able to call the television repair person.
It was quite the occasion, in my mind at least. I was just a kid but he let me watch him as he worked. He unscrewed the back panel of the television (they really were bulky pieces of furniture in those days). The inside of the beast was filled with one big picture tube, and several little tubes, elongated glass things with rounded tops and prongs on the other end. Thinking back, I guess you could liken them to fuses, because when they “blew” they’d have a black area on them, a sign of burn out.
Of course, it didn’t take the repair man long to find the tube that had blown. Fixing it was a simple matter of exchanging the burned out tube for a new one and then, like magic, the television worked again.
Well, in 2014 it’s not a television repairperson that gets called—it’s a television technician. You may recall that my beloved bought this monster set three years ago, the result of a bargain hunting adventure with our daughter that still gets recounted at family gatherings. Fortunately, at the time of purchase, he also bought the four year extended warranty.
Here I will digress for a moment and tell you, flat out, in as stern a voice as I can muster, when you buy anything electronic in nature, get the extended warranty if one is available. We have done that as a regular practice for years, and several times, collected on it. We have used, for periods of two to three years, and then received full refunds for a digital camera, a GPS unit, and an expensive one-cup coffee maker.
Not to mention that there will be no charge for the “adjustment” to our 54 inch brand name television. And no, I don’t feel guilty for any of that. Manufacturers don’t want their products to last forever. If they did, their sales would stagnate. Much better for them to plan, for example, that they can sell that expensive one-cup coffeemaker to you every three to five years or so, than to make it so good it will last ten to fifteen years.
My mother’s large freezer lasted twenty-seven years, I don’t recall she ever got a new fridge, and I just inherited her wooden ironing board that I used to iron clothes on as a teen.
Now, back to our broken-down television. I called the 1-800 number on the warranty brochure last Sunday—that is good innovation, call centers that operate 24/7—and after I recited all the warranty information, the young person on the other end of the call expressed appropriate sympathy that our television was “down”.
He promised to send a tech right out to us, and scheduled the service call—for this coming Friday.
My beloved gasped when I told him how long we would be without his TV, and looked for one moment as if his world was about to end. I even knew what question was coming next: “But what if I had planned to watch something good this week?”
Really? During summer re-run season when he only puts on the news, and even that only once or twice a week? Or catches the occasional episode of that one new series he’s watching on our cable provider’s “watch on demand” service?
Still, I didn’t want to seem unsympathetic to his concerns, so I gently stroked his cheek and said, “Then you can just plan to watch it on your computer, dear.”
This is the reason it’s been a different kind of week in the Ashbury household. Yes, every spare moment after dinner he’s been right here, in my office, just two feet away from me, doing just that.
Thank goodness for headphones.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, July 23, 2014
July 23, 2014
So far, being 60 isn’t as horrible as I’d feared it would be. But then, I’ve only been 60 since Monday.
One of the things that has always amazed me—since my early 20s—is the realization that despite our age, there’s a part of us, deep inside that is, in fact, ageless. Think about it for a moment. Focus on the you beneath the physical. Don’t you feel like the same person, inside, that you’ve always been?
Sometimes that sense is so strong, that it can be a real shock, looking in the mirror. And I’m not the only one to experience that, either.
One day, a few years ago, my daughter was going through her wedding photo album. My husband was close by, knew what she was doing, and had a look over her shoulder. Then he frowned, and in all seriousness, pointed at one of the pictures and said, “Who’s that old guy? I don’t remember seeing him there.” My daughter just met his gaze and said, “That’s you, you fool.”
My husband mumbled something that sounded like “no way”. Then he sighed and said, “I was afraid you were going to say that. It’s why I don’t look in the mirror unless I have to.”
As we age, for the most part, it’s our bodies that change. We lose height and gain body mass (well, most of us do). Where we used to take a single vitamin in the morning, now we have those handy little pill organizers chock full of our daily doses of better living through chemistry. We use new and creative means and then resort to cuss words when we try to get our bodies to bend the way we need them to bend just to be able to put on our socks. One thing that doesn’t make any sense at all: why the floor has gotten so much farther away when we’re not as tall as we used to be.
We need afternoon naps much more than we ever used to—and earlier, too, beginning mid-morning. We used to walk for blocks, and now we just read the blogs, instead.
But it really isn’t only in the physical disciplines, or lack thereof, where our increased age shows. Some things that used to really annoy us don’t cause a single blip on our mental or emotional radar, while things that are really inconsequential in the overall scheme of things, are often causes for all out, bloody war.
We used to have no trouble at all with the concepts of tact and diplomacy when we were younger—yes you might have thought something, but you certainly never would say it. Now—for better or worse—our inner curmudgeon seems to have taken over. He—or she—isn’t so inner anymore.
I wondered about that last fact, and I decided that the real truth is, the emergence of our heretofore mute inner imp is, in fact, a reward to us. It is! It’s nature’s gift to us for our having lasted so long. It likely begins coming out around the age of 60 (imagine that!) but isn’t fully out of its cocoon and at full power until the mid seventies heading toward eighty.
Do you doubt me? Remember that friend who always asked you if a particular outfit made her look sallow and ugly? And you, being in your twenties or thirties would find creative ways of either not commenting, or telling one of those myriad little white lies to assure her she was beautiful? Because, really, what was the point of being honest?
Well, getting older seems to free people from the need to be quite so diplomatic. I can foresee a time when someone might ask me, “does this outfit make me look ugly?” and my response might be, “honey, the outfit has nothing to do with it.”
And no one will shush me because, well, I’ll be old!
One more thing getting older means is a slight change of perspective. When you’re older you look at the youth of today and realize they’re lazy, they have no respect, possess hideous personal hygiene, questionable taste in music and clothes, and are completely self centered.
Hmm. Come to think of it, I seem to recall hearing words to that affect from the elders of my day, when I was a twenty-something.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
One of the things that has always amazed me—since my early 20s—is the realization that despite our age, there’s a part of us, deep inside that is, in fact, ageless. Think about it for a moment. Focus on the you beneath the physical. Don’t you feel like the same person, inside, that you’ve always been?
Sometimes that sense is so strong, that it can be a real shock, looking in the mirror. And I’m not the only one to experience that, either.
One day, a few years ago, my daughter was going through her wedding photo album. My husband was close by, knew what she was doing, and had a look over her shoulder. Then he frowned, and in all seriousness, pointed at one of the pictures and said, “Who’s that old guy? I don’t remember seeing him there.” My daughter just met his gaze and said, “That’s you, you fool.”
My husband mumbled something that sounded like “no way”. Then he sighed and said, “I was afraid you were going to say that. It’s why I don’t look in the mirror unless I have to.”
As we age, for the most part, it’s our bodies that change. We lose height and gain body mass (well, most of us do). Where we used to take a single vitamin in the morning, now we have those handy little pill organizers chock full of our daily doses of better living through chemistry. We use new and creative means and then resort to cuss words when we try to get our bodies to bend the way we need them to bend just to be able to put on our socks. One thing that doesn’t make any sense at all: why the floor has gotten so much farther away when we’re not as tall as we used to be.
We need afternoon naps much more than we ever used to—and earlier, too, beginning mid-morning. We used to walk for blocks, and now we just read the blogs, instead.
But it really isn’t only in the physical disciplines, or lack thereof, where our increased age shows. Some things that used to really annoy us don’t cause a single blip on our mental or emotional radar, while things that are really inconsequential in the overall scheme of things, are often causes for all out, bloody war.
We used to have no trouble at all with the concepts of tact and diplomacy when we were younger—yes you might have thought something, but you certainly never would say it. Now—for better or worse—our inner curmudgeon seems to have taken over. He—or she—isn’t so inner anymore.
I wondered about that last fact, and I decided that the real truth is, the emergence of our heretofore mute inner imp is, in fact, a reward to us. It is! It’s nature’s gift to us for our having lasted so long. It likely begins coming out around the age of 60 (imagine that!) but isn’t fully out of its cocoon and at full power until the mid seventies heading toward eighty.
Do you doubt me? Remember that friend who always asked you if a particular outfit made her look sallow and ugly? And you, being in your twenties or thirties would find creative ways of either not commenting, or telling one of those myriad little white lies to assure her she was beautiful? Because, really, what was the point of being honest?
Well, getting older seems to free people from the need to be quite so diplomatic. I can foresee a time when someone might ask me, “does this outfit make me look ugly?” and my response might be, “honey, the outfit has nothing to do with it.”
And no one will shush me because, well, I’ll be old!
One more thing getting older means is a slight change of perspective. When you’re older you look at the youth of today and realize they’re lazy, they have no respect, possess hideous personal hygiene, questionable taste in music and clothes, and are completely self centered.
Hmm. Come to think of it, I seem to recall hearing words to that affect from the elders of my day, when I was a twenty-something.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
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