February 18, 2015
I told you the story of our epic efforts to get our television repaired, back in the summer. It took about 45 days for it to happen. I thought, as bizarre as that experience was, it had to have been a fluke. Customer service wasn’t truly a thing of the past. And that’s what I believed, right up until the day, about a month after the Television caper, I went to the car dealership to have my back brakes done.
To preface, I knew both sets of brakes needed to be replaced. We did the front brakes first. When I picked the car up, I noticed the ABS and Traction lights were on. I figured they’d go off as soon as I started driving. They didn’t. But since I had an appointment for about a week later, and it was summer, and believing they had just not pushed some reset button or other, I didn’t worry about it.
Then came the day I brought the car in for the back brakes. I told them about the lights. It turned out, that when they fixed the front brakes, they somehow managed to break the do-hickey that encased the ABS controls. It needed to be replaced, and, since it was partially their fault (the part had been badly rusted they said, but they shouldn’t have broken it) they would give me a discount. The part had to be special-ordered. So they replaced my back brakes, and gave me an appointment for the following week to have this part installed.
Did I mention this was happening in the midst of their learning a new computer system and at a time when they were dealing with some of the massive recalls that GM had last year? I love my Buick, but like most car companies, apparently GM had been forced to issue a lot of recalls in 2014.
I arrived on the appointed day, and went to the service desk only to discover that....the service rep I had dealt with the week before had forgotten to enter my appointment into the computer. They were too busy to work on my car, I was told. I was annoyed. They apologized and made another appointment for me to come in the following week.
I went in, they had me listed this time, and I settled into their waiting area, to wait. Twenty minutes later, the service rep came to me to inform me, that they couldn’t find the part they’d special-ordered for my car. Which meant another wasted trip into the city. Rather than have me wait a week, they gave me an appointment for Saturday. They only do special jobs on Saturday, the rep said. I accepted the appointment without feeling particularly special at all.
Saturday came, I arrived on time. But after about fifteen minutes of waiting in the nicely appointed waiting area, the service rep came to me and said that while I had arrived on time, the part had not.
He promised me that it would be there on Tuesday, and that they would do this repair on Tuesday, and at a considerable discount to me. The fourth time was the charm, and my car was fixed.
On January 29th, just a couple of weeks ago, I approached my car, as I had a doctor’s appointment, and discovered that overnight, somebody had side swiped my Buick—the only thing damaged was the driver’s side mirror. I jerry rigged the darn thing with elastics since the plastic casing was broken, but the mirror was not, and was still attached to its wires.
I got home, called the dealership, and arranged to bring the car in to them February 4th at 1 p.m. Having learned from my previous experience, on the morning of the appointment I called, and asked, was everything a go? Good call on my part. The good news was the part had arrived; the bad news was it hadn’t been sent out to be painted to match the car.
My friends, I can’t make this stuff up. My editors would shoot it back to me, with an edit note stating it exceeded the believability factor.
The receptionist transferred me over to a service rep who promised to see it was done, and he told me to come in on Monday, the 9th. Again, that morning dawned, and I called to check on the part, only to learn that I had no appointment in their system [and yes, sadly, it was the same rep]. So I made one for yesterday.
I called them yesterday morning to make sure they had my appointment showing and that the part was in. Yes to the first and they wanted to call me back once they found out just exactly where that part was.
Friday morning—two days from today—I’ll be going in to the dealership, maybe, to get my new mirror put on, I hope. Of course, I will call them first. And yes, I would go to another GM dealership, if there was one in the area for me to go to. But at least I haven’t made any unnecessary treks out into the cold and snow this time.
The telephone really is my friend.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
February 11, 2015
I used to hate it when older folks would say, “back in my day...” And yet, I seem to have, well, if not those exact words falling from my lips on a regular basis, at least the sentiment they engender surrounding me a lot.
My daughter is the youngest of my kids, thirty-six at her last birthday. She herself has one son, and he and his fiancé and their two babies live with her. She works in the community as a PSW—personal support worker. I believe in the U. S. the same position is called Nurse’s Aid.
Now, I will grant that some of her work days are stretched out—once in a while she may start as early as 5:30 and not finish until 8 at night. But on those days, most usually, she has three or four hours free in the middle of the day, and those hours are generally spent napping.
And yet, all I hear from her is how tired she is. And she says that nearly every single day.
My second daughter is also tired all the time. Of course she’s older than her sister by a whole year. My question is, whatever happened to stamina?
When I was 36, I was a mom with two kids at home, aged 13 and 12 (my oldest had already left the nest). I worked outside the home at a full time job, and while the kids weren’t small, they were still work. Whether it was dealing with those kids and homework and trying to get them to do their chores, or the cooking, the laundry, and house cleaning, it was pretty much all on me. And yeah, I had days when I would have loved some extra sleep, but I didn’t feel even half as tired as the generation behind me seems to feel.
My beloved said it’s the same way where he works. The young bucks, as he calls them, come dragging into work some mornings, groaning with the horror of it all. They are all so tired all the time—and none of them feel the least bit shy about telling you how tired they are, all the time.
Now, either everyone in this current generation of 20 to 40 year olds is suffering from a severe lack of iron, or they’re just not making people the way they used to. Then again, there might be one other factor at play: their misuse of subconscious minds could be at fault.
One rule for self-conduct I’m most fond of is the one that says you should never trash talk yourself in any way. And the reason you shouldn’t has to do with your subconscious mind. I’ve heard it said and believe it to be true that your subconscious doesn’t differentiate between the truth and a lie, it just works at making your words reality. So if you say you’re a loser, your subconscious mind works at making you one. If you say you’re a winner, guess what? Same thing, it works at making you one.
I know this is true, because there were times in the past when I focused on the discomfort I was in every day. Anyone who has it knows arthritis is a very harsh task master. But I have learned not to talk about the pain, and for the most part, not even to think about it. Because when I don’t, then it’s better.
So I wonder if it could be that these young people focus so much on how tired they are, that all they feel is even more tired. I asked my beloved if he thought it could be so, and he agreed it was not only possible, but probable.
I also know what else he thinks, and it can be summed up like this: You’re tired? So what? We’re all tired. Get on with it. Life’s hard? Yeah, funny how that works. Get on with it. A man of simple beliefs is my husband. And we tend to agree on most things—and nothing more than this.
Everything in life—especially how you feel—is a decision.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
I used to hate it when older folks would say, “back in my day...” And yet, I seem to have, well, if not those exact words falling from my lips on a regular basis, at least the sentiment they engender surrounding me a lot.
My daughter is the youngest of my kids, thirty-six at her last birthday. She herself has one son, and he and his fiancé and their two babies live with her. She works in the community as a PSW—personal support worker. I believe in the U. S. the same position is called Nurse’s Aid.
Now, I will grant that some of her work days are stretched out—once in a while she may start as early as 5:30 and not finish until 8 at night. But on those days, most usually, she has three or four hours free in the middle of the day, and those hours are generally spent napping.
And yet, all I hear from her is how tired she is. And she says that nearly every single day.
My second daughter is also tired all the time. Of course she’s older than her sister by a whole year. My question is, whatever happened to stamina?
When I was 36, I was a mom with two kids at home, aged 13 and 12 (my oldest had already left the nest). I worked outside the home at a full time job, and while the kids weren’t small, they were still work. Whether it was dealing with those kids and homework and trying to get them to do their chores, or the cooking, the laundry, and house cleaning, it was pretty much all on me. And yeah, I had days when I would have loved some extra sleep, but I didn’t feel even half as tired as the generation behind me seems to feel.
My beloved said it’s the same way where he works. The young bucks, as he calls them, come dragging into work some mornings, groaning with the horror of it all. They are all so tired all the time—and none of them feel the least bit shy about telling you how tired they are, all the time.
Now, either everyone in this current generation of 20 to 40 year olds is suffering from a severe lack of iron, or they’re just not making people the way they used to. Then again, there might be one other factor at play: their misuse of subconscious minds could be at fault.
One rule for self-conduct I’m most fond of is the one that says you should never trash talk yourself in any way. And the reason you shouldn’t has to do with your subconscious mind. I’ve heard it said and believe it to be true that your subconscious doesn’t differentiate between the truth and a lie, it just works at making your words reality. So if you say you’re a loser, your subconscious mind works at making you one. If you say you’re a winner, guess what? Same thing, it works at making you one.
I know this is true, because there were times in the past when I focused on the discomfort I was in every day. Anyone who has it knows arthritis is a very harsh task master. But I have learned not to talk about the pain, and for the most part, not even to think about it. Because when I don’t, then it’s better.
So I wonder if it could be that these young people focus so much on how tired they are, that all they feel is even more tired. I asked my beloved if he thought it could be so, and he agreed it was not only possible, but probable.
I also know what else he thinks, and it can be summed up like this: You’re tired? So what? We’re all tired. Get on with it. Life’s hard? Yeah, funny how that works. Get on with it. A man of simple beliefs is my husband. And we tend to agree on most things—and nothing more than this.
Everything in life—especially how you feel—is a decision.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, February 4, 2015
February 4, 2015
So much for the anticipation of Groundhog Day. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. If we’re silly enough to put any hope on the prophesies of a prognosticating rodent, we deserve whatever disappointment we get.
Winter, in the form of fairly deep snow, has finally landed in my neck of the woods this past weekend. We were treated to a good snow storm on Sunday night. The windows in my bedroom are fairly low. Lying in bed, I can see out—the ground, the street light, and on this occasion, the blizzard-like storm as it was happening.
My beloved had already made the decision that he was going to give work a miss on Monday. Most times, even though where he works is only 35 miles away from where we live, there’s either usually more snow there than here, or vice versa. It’s rarely the same amount. Here, we’re about forty minutes from Lake Erie. There, he’s about forty minutes from Lake Ontario.
To stay home was a wise decision, as it turns out. If he hadn’t done just that, he would have received a call on his cell phone when he was about half way there, telling him not to come in. There was enough of the white stuff on the ground, in fact, that for the first time in a long time, they closed the quarry gates and sent everyone home.
It was snowing again last night, but the forecast only called for a few centimeters, and that was all we got.
Winter is a real pain for me. First, it’s a pain because it’s cold, and the cold—in the form of drafts—is absolutely not good for my arthritis. I’ve learned to keep my ankles covered, either by my tall slippers, or by wearing socks with my short ones. Regardless, I also have to have a blanket on my legs. The funny (or maybe not) thing is that when my ankles are cold, they don’t feel cold. They just ache—like a really bad toothache.
Second, winter is a pain because it’s difficult for me to get out at any given time. My steps and walkway have to be salted on a daily basis. There is also a little “dip” in the street right where I usually step off the curb to get to my car. The dip is new, caused a year ago when the crew finished repairing the street and deposited a bit of “left over” asphalt in a way that created a tiny little pond when it’s rainy and a miniature skating rink when it’s frozen.
At least now I have an ice claw on the bottom of my cane, and that helps a great deal. But still, moving about, running errands, and making it to appointments is a lot more difficult at this time of year.
And I do have a fair number of appointments lately as I await a date for gall bladder surgery. This latest challenge is something that needs to be done, and the sooner the better in my opinion. I know that this particular kind of surgery is not nearly as invasive as once it was, but I did have a triple heart by-pass twelve years ago, so that makes me a bit more of a risk than the average patient would be. To say the doctors are approaching this project with an abundance of caution would be about right.
However, with this latest small hurdle I have to clear, it has occurred to me that I finally understand the meaning of the phrase, “middle age”. It means that you’re in the middle of—almost constantly in the middle or in between—medical appointments and health alerts and challenges.
At least that is how it seems to me. But the good news is that I’m still on top of the grass.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
So much for the anticipation of Groundhog Day. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. If we’re silly enough to put any hope on the prophesies of a prognosticating rodent, we deserve whatever disappointment we get.
Winter, in the form of fairly deep snow, has finally landed in my neck of the woods this past weekend. We were treated to a good snow storm on Sunday night. The windows in my bedroom are fairly low. Lying in bed, I can see out—the ground, the street light, and on this occasion, the blizzard-like storm as it was happening.
My beloved had already made the decision that he was going to give work a miss on Monday. Most times, even though where he works is only 35 miles away from where we live, there’s either usually more snow there than here, or vice versa. It’s rarely the same amount. Here, we’re about forty minutes from Lake Erie. There, he’s about forty minutes from Lake Ontario.
To stay home was a wise decision, as it turns out. If he hadn’t done just that, he would have received a call on his cell phone when he was about half way there, telling him not to come in. There was enough of the white stuff on the ground, in fact, that for the first time in a long time, they closed the quarry gates and sent everyone home.
It was snowing again last night, but the forecast only called for a few centimeters, and that was all we got.
Winter is a real pain for me. First, it’s a pain because it’s cold, and the cold—in the form of drafts—is absolutely not good for my arthritis. I’ve learned to keep my ankles covered, either by my tall slippers, or by wearing socks with my short ones. Regardless, I also have to have a blanket on my legs. The funny (or maybe not) thing is that when my ankles are cold, they don’t feel cold. They just ache—like a really bad toothache.
Second, winter is a pain because it’s difficult for me to get out at any given time. My steps and walkway have to be salted on a daily basis. There is also a little “dip” in the street right where I usually step off the curb to get to my car. The dip is new, caused a year ago when the crew finished repairing the street and deposited a bit of “left over” asphalt in a way that created a tiny little pond when it’s rainy and a miniature skating rink when it’s frozen.
At least now I have an ice claw on the bottom of my cane, and that helps a great deal. But still, moving about, running errands, and making it to appointments is a lot more difficult at this time of year.
And I do have a fair number of appointments lately as I await a date for gall bladder surgery. This latest challenge is something that needs to be done, and the sooner the better in my opinion. I know that this particular kind of surgery is not nearly as invasive as once it was, but I did have a triple heart by-pass twelve years ago, so that makes me a bit more of a risk than the average patient would be. To say the doctors are approaching this project with an abundance of caution would be about right.
However, with this latest small hurdle I have to clear, it has occurred to me that I finally understand the meaning of the phrase, “middle age”. It means that you’re in the middle of—almost constantly in the middle or in between—medical appointments and health alerts and challenges.
At least that is how it seems to me. But the good news is that I’m still on top of the grass.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
January 28, 2015
I don’t understand it. I’m the one who lives above the 49th parallel, for crying out loud! I’m the one who’s supposed to be up to my assets in snow and frigid temps. I’m the one who’s supposed to be house bound due to record snowfalls. Not all my friends in the US Southern States!
And yet, it is indeed my friends south of the border who seem to be suffering the last couple of years with way too much snow and far too many days of cold temperatures. When I see Texas and Virginia and Georgia digging out, I know there has to be something terribly wrong in the world.
If I were egocentric, I’d feel guilty about this weather situation. Let me explain why. To do so, I have to start at the beginning.
I’m Canadian and we have a currency called the Canadian dollar. Very similar to the currency south of the border that is called the American dollar, structure-wise. We had pennies, (no more), and we have nickels, dimes and quarters. Four quarters is one dollar here, just like down there.
And about, oh, six months after my first book came out—somewhere between my first quarterly royalty payment and my second, (back in 2007) the Canadian dollar did something it hadn’t done since Prime Minister Trudeau let it float—not, in fact, since I was a child. It gained strength and value against the U. S. dollar. And with each successive royalty payment (that I received in US dollars) the exchange rate got, for my purposes, worse, and worse, and worse.
Everyone I knew joked that they were saving big time, turning their Canadian dollars to US dollars for travel, thanks to me. I agreed with them. It was just exactly how my luck usually went to have the exchange rate reverse just when I started to be paid in U. S. funds.
I should have become suspicious last year, about the weather, when the cold crept south. You see, my beloved and I were discussing our winter options for the coming years. He has COPD, and breathing in the frigid temperatures of our traditional Canadian winters is very difficult for him.
An acquaintance of mine, a couple years ago, took two months down in Texas as a personal writing retreat. She told us what she paid for a condo on the gulf coast. It was amazingly reasonable—far less expensive than that other Canadian Snow Bird destination, Florida.
“We can do that,” my beloved said. “We just save half of our vacation money, take fewer trips—why, we could go down to Texas ourselves for two months—January and February!” The weather where we were looking to go averaged in the 70s for those months. And, we’d be on the ocean—something that my husband particularly wanted. His employer of 35 plus years had already agreed to let him have a 2 month leave of absence whenever he wanted it.
As for me—well, I can write from anywhere as long as I have my laptop and the Internet.
“Let’s do it!” he said.
“When? Next year?”
I knew we couldn’t really swing it that fast.
“No. I realize we have to plan more. We’ll make it 2016.”
“All right. Let’s do it!”
Those words were spoken in December of 2013.
My beloved and I would like to take this opportunity to offer our sincere apologies to the people of the southern United States, especially the residents of Texas for the cold weather they have been enduring for the last two years. If it’s any comfort to y’all, we have been re-examining the premise of our decision, in view of the temperature adjustment you’ve experienced.
But, on the bright side, the exchange rates have finally reversed again, and that’s good for my payday.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
I don’t understand it. I’m the one who lives above the 49th parallel, for crying out loud! I’m the one who’s supposed to be up to my assets in snow and frigid temps. I’m the one who’s supposed to be house bound due to record snowfalls. Not all my friends in the US Southern States!
And yet, it is indeed my friends south of the border who seem to be suffering the last couple of years with way too much snow and far too many days of cold temperatures. When I see Texas and Virginia and Georgia digging out, I know there has to be something terribly wrong in the world.
If I were egocentric, I’d feel guilty about this weather situation. Let me explain why. To do so, I have to start at the beginning.
I’m Canadian and we have a currency called the Canadian dollar. Very similar to the currency south of the border that is called the American dollar, structure-wise. We had pennies, (no more), and we have nickels, dimes and quarters. Four quarters is one dollar here, just like down there.
And about, oh, six months after my first book came out—somewhere between my first quarterly royalty payment and my second, (back in 2007) the Canadian dollar did something it hadn’t done since Prime Minister Trudeau let it float—not, in fact, since I was a child. It gained strength and value against the U. S. dollar. And with each successive royalty payment (that I received in US dollars) the exchange rate got, for my purposes, worse, and worse, and worse.
Everyone I knew joked that they were saving big time, turning their Canadian dollars to US dollars for travel, thanks to me. I agreed with them. It was just exactly how my luck usually went to have the exchange rate reverse just when I started to be paid in U. S. funds.
I should have become suspicious last year, about the weather, when the cold crept south. You see, my beloved and I were discussing our winter options for the coming years. He has COPD, and breathing in the frigid temperatures of our traditional Canadian winters is very difficult for him.
An acquaintance of mine, a couple years ago, took two months down in Texas as a personal writing retreat. She told us what she paid for a condo on the gulf coast. It was amazingly reasonable—far less expensive than that other Canadian Snow Bird destination, Florida.
“We can do that,” my beloved said. “We just save half of our vacation money, take fewer trips—why, we could go down to Texas ourselves for two months—January and February!” The weather where we were looking to go averaged in the 70s for those months. And, we’d be on the ocean—something that my husband particularly wanted. His employer of 35 plus years had already agreed to let him have a 2 month leave of absence whenever he wanted it.
As for me—well, I can write from anywhere as long as I have my laptop and the Internet.
“Let’s do it!” he said.
“When? Next year?”
I knew we couldn’t really swing it that fast.
“No. I realize we have to plan more. We’ll make it 2016.”
“All right. Let’s do it!”
Those words were spoken in December of 2013.
My beloved and I would like to take this opportunity to offer our sincere apologies to the people of the southern United States, especially the residents of Texas for the cold weather they have been enduring for the last two years. If it’s any comfort to y’all, we have been re-examining the premise of our decision, in view of the temperature adjustment you’ve experienced.
But, on the bright side, the exchange rates have finally reversed again, and that’s good for my payday.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, January 21, 2015
January 21, 2015
My father was a writer. That was something I knew about him as I grew up—not from him, as he was gone. But my mother told me, as did a friend of the family, a man who’d grown up best friends with my dad.
This man was a lawyer. My dad, on the death of his own father when he was a young man of 17 or so, had to leave school and go to work to support his mother. It was the 1930s and that was just what you did. But for all of the rest of his life, this man remained a good friend to my dad, despite the differences in their educations, and vocations.
I recall, when I was about ten or so, seeing a small sample of his writing—just a half page, and I had never been able to recall what it was. As I grew older, I just assumed that nothing of what he’d written remained.
Fourteen years after his death at the age of 46 in 1962, my mother passed away—at the too young age of 57. I was married at the time, with one child. Yet I remember thinking that even though I was a wife and mother, I was also now an orphan.
I raised my kids and worked, and then, just as we were about to become “dinks”—double income with no kids—I had a heart attack. I was 48 at the time, and I survived. Three months later, I began to have angina attacks and it was determined I needed angioplasty. At the last minute, that turned into triple by-pass. I recovered, and was told by my beloved that I was now a “retired” person. Being idle isn’t me, and when I wondered aloud what I would do for the rest of my life, he told me to go after that dream of mine.
And I did.
My first taste of success was winning a short story contest hosted by the Canadian Writer’s Journal. This was a literary publication. I was so excited, of course I had to share the news with my big brother.
And that is when he gave me the most unexpected and precious of gifts: an envelope containing samples of my father’s work. It thrilled me even as it saddened me. My father stopped writing when he left school. He had to work, and I guess he considered it time to “put away childish things”.
These glimpses into my father’s writer’s soul were ink on paper, the paper yellowed with age. I transcribed what I found there, and put it on my computer, in a file I called Legacy, and distributed it to my family.
There were poems, mostly, and one short story. One poem in particular spoke to me—written in 1931, when he was a young man of 16. It was as if he knew that soon he’d join the work-a-day world. It’s called Childhood Play, and I’d like to share it with you:
When the little children play
Happy beings night and day
Grown up folks look sadly on
And think of childhood that has gone.
Just a little simple noise
Animates their very toys
A little motions fascination
The rest comes from imagination.
A piece of string, a little board
Some coloured glass oh what a hoard!
“Tis junk” the grown up people say
Tis treasure to a child at play.
A ditch with muddy water filled
Delights a little pilot skilled
Who, over rapids safely guides
His little bateaux through the tides.
And thus in early, joyful life
When yet each child has met no strife
Each simple article contains
Some hidden joy adults distain.
In childhood beauty reigns supreme
And innocence the only theme
Would God our thoughts would so remain
Tis true that thus we’d miss much pain.
His poems and story serve as an echo from an earlier time, and provide a connection—not from father to daughter, but from writer to writer.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
My father was a writer. That was something I knew about him as I grew up—not from him, as he was gone. But my mother told me, as did a friend of the family, a man who’d grown up best friends with my dad.
This man was a lawyer. My dad, on the death of his own father when he was a young man of 17 or so, had to leave school and go to work to support his mother. It was the 1930s and that was just what you did. But for all of the rest of his life, this man remained a good friend to my dad, despite the differences in their educations, and vocations.
I recall, when I was about ten or so, seeing a small sample of his writing—just a half page, and I had never been able to recall what it was. As I grew older, I just assumed that nothing of what he’d written remained.
Fourteen years after his death at the age of 46 in 1962, my mother passed away—at the too young age of 57. I was married at the time, with one child. Yet I remember thinking that even though I was a wife and mother, I was also now an orphan.
I raised my kids and worked, and then, just as we were about to become “dinks”—double income with no kids—I had a heart attack. I was 48 at the time, and I survived. Three months later, I began to have angina attacks and it was determined I needed angioplasty. At the last minute, that turned into triple by-pass. I recovered, and was told by my beloved that I was now a “retired” person. Being idle isn’t me, and when I wondered aloud what I would do for the rest of my life, he told me to go after that dream of mine.
And I did.
My first taste of success was winning a short story contest hosted by the Canadian Writer’s Journal. This was a literary publication. I was so excited, of course I had to share the news with my big brother.
And that is when he gave me the most unexpected and precious of gifts: an envelope containing samples of my father’s work. It thrilled me even as it saddened me. My father stopped writing when he left school. He had to work, and I guess he considered it time to “put away childish things”.
These glimpses into my father’s writer’s soul were ink on paper, the paper yellowed with age. I transcribed what I found there, and put it on my computer, in a file I called Legacy, and distributed it to my family.
There were poems, mostly, and one short story. One poem in particular spoke to me—written in 1931, when he was a young man of 16. It was as if he knew that soon he’d join the work-a-day world. It’s called Childhood Play, and I’d like to share it with you:
When the little children play
Happy beings night and day
Grown up folks look sadly on
And think of childhood that has gone.
Just a little simple noise
Animates their very toys
A little motions fascination
The rest comes from imagination.
A piece of string, a little board
Some coloured glass oh what a hoard!
“Tis junk” the grown up people say
Tis treasure to a child at play.
A ditch with muddy water filled
Delights a little pilot skilled
Who, over rapids safely guides
His little bateaux through the tides.
And thus in early, joyful life
When yet each child has met no strife
Each simple article contains
Some hidden joy adults distain.
In childhood beauty reigns supreme
And innocence the only theme
Would God our thoughts would so remain
Tis true that thus we’d miss much pain.
His poems and story serve as an echo from an earlier time, and provide a connection—not from father to daughter, but from writer to writer.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
January 14, 2015
January 14, 2015
There is a lot of hate in the world today. I’m not just referring to the acts of terrorism that have taken place so recently in France. That is heartbreaking, and criminal and an outrage to humanity. It is always tragic when hate becomes institutionalized as a movement bent on destruction. I believe that what is happening in the world in this regard today is not the product of the true heart of Islam. Before you denigrate an entire religion because of the actions of a few fanatics think on this. There have always been small minded and evil people who eagerly use the excuse of religion to terrorize those they consider lesser or evil, or just “other”. If you think this behavior is unique to what we call Islamic terrorism, then I would suggest you look back to the 1950s and 1960s. Those KKK members would have sworn they were doing the Lord’s work when they terrorized their victims, bent on denying them their rights, and even for some, their very lives. If that doesn’t convince you, go back further in time to the Spanish Inquisition and the “Crusades” that were directed against those who were not “Christian”. This is not to excuse these crimes against humanity. Just to let you know they’re nothing new.
All this is more than bad enough but there’s another indication of hate in the world that is very worrisome to me. It is is the hate I am seeing everywhere from ordinary people, people you might think were mild mannered, regular ordinary citizens. If you have FaceBook, then I am sure you’ve seen it. Check your news feed, and look at some of the memes that have been making the rounds for the last several months. Haters abound. It’s very sad and very scary, and sadly, very true.
I remember how, in years past when there would be elections and, no matter how invested you were in the process, at the end of the day, if your guy or gal lost, you put it behind you, recognized the legitimacy of the government elected of the people, by the people, for the people, and carried on until the next election.
No more. Now, if your guy or gal loses, the thing to do is to spread hate about the one who was elected, to do your best to stir up fear and loathing of this individual.
Here’s what saddens me about this. You see, hate breeds hate. And those who fill their lives with hateful messages and ideas and memes are filling their hearts and souls with hate, too. You can’t help it, you can’t keep it out. Every ounce of hate you take in and celebrate displaces an equal measure of love. The more hate you fill yourself with, the less love you can hold and—the absolute worst part—the more miserable you yourself are bound to feel.
I challenge anyone to tell me that they simultaneously hate particular politicians, or religions, or groups, or various movements and still honestly feel good about themselves deep inside. You can’t do it because hate and love don’t co-exist. You can’t love yourself and your life and your neighbor, while you are busy spewing hate all over the place.
You cannot love, while you are busy spewing hate.
Too many people in today’s society demonize those with whom they have philosophical differences. They are sowing a bitter, bitter harvest for themselves.
I’m not saying that we shouldn’t do all we can to thwart those who would terrorize innocent people in the name of ideology. Of course we should. We need to take action against those who would break our laws and disregard the rights of others. We need to stand firm, and refuse to be afraid to live our lives, and we should urge those in positions of authority to investigate, and prosecute to the fullest extent of the law, those guilty of crimes such as bombing, kidnapping, and murder. We should stand up and speak out about injustice.
However, what we absolutely must not do, is lose our humanity in the process. Because the truth is that if you surrender completely to the hate you do in fact lose your humanity, and you do one more thing as well.
You accomplish the terrorists work for them.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
There is a lot of hate in the world today. I’m not just referring to the acts of terrorism that have taken place so recently in France. That is heartbreaking, and criminal and an outrage to humanity. It is always tragic when hate becomes institutionalized as a movement bent on destruction. I believe that what is happening in the world in this regard today is not the product of the true heart of Islam. Before you denigrate an entire religion because of the actions of a few fanatics think on this. There have always been small minded and evil people who eagerly use the excuse of religion to terrorize those they consider lesser or evil, or just “other”. If you think this behavior is unique to what we call Islamic terrorism, then I would suggest you look back to the 1950s and 1960s. Those KKK members would have sworn they were doing the Lord’s work when they terrorized their victims, bent on denying them their rights, and even for some, their very lives. If that doesn’t convince you, go back further in time to the Spanish Inquisition and the “Crusades” that were directed against those who were not “Christian”. This is not to excuse these crimes against humanity. Just to let you know they’re nothing new.
All this is more than bad enough but there’s another indication of hate in the world that is very worrisome to me. It is is the hate I am seeing everywhere from ordinary people, people you might think were mild mannered, regular ordinary citizens. If you have FaceBook, then I am sure you’ve seen it. Check your news feed, and look at some of the memes that have been making the rounds for the last several months. Haters abound. It’s very sad and very scary, and sadly, very true.
I remember how, in years past when there would be elections and, no matter how invested you were in the process, at the end of the day, if your guy or gal lost, you put it behind you, recognized the legitimacy of the government elected of the people, by the people, for the people, and carried on until the next election.
No more. Now, if your guy or gal loses, the thing to do is to spread hate about the one who was elected, to do your best to stir up fear and loathing of this individual.
Here’s what saddens me about this. You see, hate breeds hate. And those who fill their lives with hateful messages and ideas and memes are filling their hearts and souls with hate, too. You can’t help it, you can’t keep it out. Every ounce of hate you take in and celebrate displaces an equal measure of love. The more hate you fill yourself with, the less love you can hold and—the absolute worst part—the more miserable you yourself are bound to feel.
I challenge anyone to tell me that they simultaneously hate particular politicians, or religions, or groups, or various movements and still honestly feel good about themselves deep inside. You can’t do it because hate and love don’t co-exist. You can’t love yourself and your life and your neighbor, while you are busy spewing hate all over the place.
You cannot love, while you are busy spewing hate.
Too many people in today’s society demonize those with whom they have philosophical differences. They are sowing a bitter, bitter harvest for themselves.
I’m not saying that we shouldn’t do all we can to thwart those who would terrorize innocent people in the name of ideology. Of course we should. We need to take action against those who would break our laws and disregard the rights of others. We need to stand firm, and refuse to be afraid to live our lives, and we should urge those in positions of authority to investigate, and prosecute to the fullest extent of the law, those guilty of crimes such as bombing, kidnapping, and murder. We should stand up and speak out about injustice.
However, what we absolutely must not do, is lose our humanity in the process. Because the truth is that if you surrender completely to the hate you do in fact lose your humanity, and you do one more thing as well.
You accomplish the terrorists work for them.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, January 7, 2015
January 7, 2015
Happy New Year!
How is 2015 treating you so far? My biggest surprise has been that the few times I have had to write the date, I’ve gotten it right! It usually takes me more than a few tries to get the year correct. I don’t worry that there’s something Freudian in that—that usually, I want to cling to what was instead of embracing what is. My daughter will tell you I’m afraid of change, but isn’t true—at least not in this case.
It’s more that I can be a bit of a dolt when it comes to some things.
Life has returned to normal in the Ashbury household. The Christmas tree and trimmings have been boxed up and put away, and the man of the house has returned to his job, leaving the woman of the house....the house. We enjoyed spending the three weeks together, of course. I was glad to see my husband take that time and totally rest. And I do mean totally. There were many days when he did nothing but read and sleep.
After the previous two years of having no overtime at work at all, this past year, my beloved had a lot. He really was tired by the time December 12th arrived. Yes, it was difficult writing while he was home. I find it nearly impossible to get into the zone when someone is in the same room with me. But the writing didn’t come to a complete standstill, and it was the holiday season, after all.
Routines are useful, and humans by and large like routines. I’m certainly no exception. I like my schedule, and am most productive in all areas if I am on track.
I got to see all of my family except for one grandchild these last few weeks. That, by definition, is a good Christmas. And while the last few years I’ve battled colds and flu and other upsets at this time of year, this year was much better for me, health-wise. I was even able to eat a few “seasonal” treats, something I hadn’t done in a couple of years.
And now it’s time to figure out what the year ahead will hold, and what needs to be accomplished. For me, of course, it’s always the next book. I don’t write as quickly as some writers do, especially the younger ones, so I have to keep plotting on. On December 19th, my publisher released my 40th title! That is a lot of books, when you consider that the first one was published in March of 2007.
Thanks to the incredible increase of available books due to authors who’ve chosen to go the self-publishing route, coupled with new seemingly reader-friendly marketing strategies on the part of on-line booksellers, the marketplace is lively indeed. One needs to keep writing and producing more books in order to try and keep up and keep one’s head above financial water.
The reading public can be capricious, and each consumer only has so much money to spend. The onus is on the writer therefore, now more than ever, to ensure that the reader gets what they want, when they read their book. Knowing who your readers are, and what they want, is the first responsibility of all who pen stories. You have your art, and you have your message, and yes, those are important. But if no one reads what you write, then what do you really have?
I have been most fortunate to have readers who are willing to plunk down their hard earned dollars to visit the town that first lived in my imagination, and now lives between the pages of twenty-four novels—twenty-five, come January 23rd.
Thank you to all who’ve visited Lusty, Texas, for your loyalty, and the part you’ve played in making my life’s dream a reality. Thank you, especially, for taking the time to write to me. I adore hearing from readers!
And as I’ve said to all who’ve asked, yes, there are going to be more books written about that small, unique Texas town—as long as you, the reader, keep reading them.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
How is 2015 treating you so far? My biggest surprise has been that the few times I have had to write the date, I’ve gotten it right! It usually takes me more than a few tries to get the year correct. I don’t worry that there’s something Freudian in that—that usually, I want to cling to what was instead of embracing what is. My daughter will tell you I’m afraid of change, but isn’t true—at least not in this case.
It’s more that I can be a bit of a dolt when it comes to some things.
Life has returned to normal in the Ashbury household. The Christmas tree and trimmings have been boxed up and put away, and the man of the house has returned to his job, leaving the woman of the house....the house. We enjoyed spending the three weeks together, of course. I was glad to see my husband take that time and totally rest. And I do mean totally. There were many days when he did nothing but read and sleep.
After the previous two years of having no overtime at work at all, this past year, my beloved had a lot. He really was tired by the time December 12th arrived. Yes, it was difficult writing while he was home. I find it nearly impossible to get into the zone when someone is in the same room with me. But the writing didn’t come to a complete standstill, and it was the holiday season, after all.
Routines are useful, and humans by and large like routines. I’m certainly no exception. I like my schedule, and am most productive in all areas if I am on track.
I got to see all of my family except for one grandchild these last few weeks. That, by definition, is a good Christmas. And while the last few years I’ve battled colds and flu and other upsets at this time of year, this year was much better for me, health-wise. I was even able to eat a few “seasonal” treats, something I hadn’t done in a couple of years.
And now it’s time to figure out what the year ahead will hold, and what needs to be accomplished. For me, of course, it’s always the next book. I don’t write as quickly as some writers do, especially the younger ones, so I have to keep plotting on. On December 19th, my publisher released my 40th title! That is a lot of books, when you consider that the first one was published in March of 2007.
Thanks to the incredible increase of available books due to authors who’ve chosen to go the self-publishing route, coupled with new seemingly reader-friendly marketing strategies on the part of on-line booksellers, the marketplace is lively indeed. One needs to keep writing and producing more books in order to try and keep up and keep one’s head above financial water.
The reading public can be capricious, and each consumer only has so much money to spend. The onus is on the writer therefore, now more than ever, to ensure that the reader gets what they want, when they read their book. Knowing who your readers are, and what they want, is the first responsibility of all who pen stories. You have your art, and you have your message, and yes, those are important. But if no one reads what you write, then what do you really have?
I have been most fortunate to have readers who are willing to plunk down their hard earned dollars to visit the town that first lived in my imagination, and now lives between the pages of twenty-four novels—twenty-five, come January 23rd.
Thank you to all who’ve visited Lusty, Texas, for your loyalty, and the part you’ve played in making my life’s dream a reality. Thank you, especially, for taking the time to write to me. I adore hearing from readers!
And as I’ve said to all who’ve asked, yes, there are going to be more books written about that small, unique Texas town—as long as you, the reader, keep reading them.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
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