July 17, 2019
Last Sunday my husband and I marked our 47th wedding anniversary.
When you say that number out loud, forty-seven, it seems impossible to reconcile it with the sense of the life we’ve lived since our marriage all those years ago. We were only babies! Teenagers, with no real concept of what we were doing or where we were going. We married a week to the day before my 18th birthday, which means my mother had to sign consent for the marriage licence. We were already expecting our first child.
There have been times when our life together has seemed very long, and times when it feels as if we married just yesterday. There have been incredibly high highs, and devastatingly low lows.
We have struggled with issues of alcoholism (David) and self-esteem (me). The two are, like us, inexorably connected.
I can tell you that David is now more than 36 years sober. I’m still working on the self-esteem issues.
We have suffered losses, of course. My father died when I was a child, but we lost my mother after only three years of marriage. Then one of his sisters, then his parents, and his only brother. There are just him and his one sister left of their original family. I lost my sister, leaving just my brother and I as our original family’s sole survivors.
We have lost a granddaughter, and a son. There’s no recovering from that kind of loss. You never really get over it, you just move on. Even now, there are times of tears, and times when faith bolsters the heart. I imagine I will be teary over them, missing them, until I’m with them again. I have absolute faith our son and his daughter are in the arms of Jesus. That knowledge, that faith, helps me move on.
I’ve come to understand that the purpose of life is not to show me a good time. Fairness is a wonderful concept. I believe it exists in the ultimate sense, but not necessarily in the every-day living of life. Someone does you wrong, and eventually, I believe, they get their piece of karma cake. You just might not ever know that it’s happened. So maybe in your mind that unfairness is never met with what you consider to be its just desserts.
The truth is that yes, life is unfair. But it’s unfair to everyone, not just you, so get over it. Sometimes it’s super fair to you, giving you more than you ever imagined you would ever have, so just tell yourself it all balances out in the end, and again, get over it.
Those of us who live a faith-based life, and even those who perhaps consider themselves atheists, agree on one thing: evil is real and it does exist in this world. So knowing that, you shouldn’t be all shocked and upset when evil actually seems to get ahead or take center stage. Yeah, that happens, and it sucks, but it’s not forever.
Stand your own ground against evil where you can. No, maybe you can’t affect the ultimate victory over it. But be aware of the evil around you and refuse to participate in it. The more people resist it, the more easily it will, eventually and in its time, be defeated forever.
I had a friend who lived by the motto: life is short; eat the dessert first.
That’s not a bad motto to live by, all things considered. I’m not sure what my motto should be. I know I’m deeply flawed. That I try to be kind and help others where I can, but again, deeply flawed so nowhere near as good as I could be. My goal is to do a better job in every area of my life each day. Some days I settle into my bed at night, and know I’ve tried and maybe advanced, oh, about an inch toward this goal of mine.
Other nights I ask extra politely for a bigger dose of forgiveness, because I know I’ve blown it in a major way and have taken several steps back.
I truly believe my heart is good, because I don’t wish horrible things to happen to anyone, not even, necessarily, the evildoers. Generally, in my heart, I just want them gone. I want them relegated to the pages of history where, in due time, the entire world will celebrate the demise of their existence.
It will happen. I have faith.
And maybe, that informs what should be my motto through this life. I know it’s something I’ve said in these essays from time to time, so I guess the choice is only natural. I’m going to be sixty-five on next Sunday, the 21st, and so I can say that I have lived long enough and know the secret to contentment.
It’s the realization that things don’t come to stay. They merely come to pass.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, July 17, 2019
Wednesday, July 10, 2019
July 10, 2019
The most amazing thing happened Sunday night. It had been a very hot and humid weekend, and I’d spent most of it inside the house. There’s no sense in my going out, even on the porch, when it’s like that. It’s not good for my arthritis and being in the heat too long’s not good for my heart. I know I’ve written in these essays more than once I’ve become a bit of a hermit of late. And while I am completely aware of that fact, I am also fine with it.
Life is what you make it, and contrary to the way things were forty or even thirty years ago, a person who more or less stays inside for health considerations is no longer “shut in”. Thanks to the internet, one can keep their mind and their fingers occupied even if their body is somewhat at rest. Life changes, and what you used to love to do, maybe you can’t do any longer. Instead of thinking on that, I choose to find new things that I love to do. But I digress.
Sunday evening, around twilight, the heat had broken, and it was at that perfect temperature outside—not too hot, and not too cool/breezy or damp, that a visit to the porch was definitely in order. And made even more special when, after inviting me out to join him, my husband said, very quietly, “watch the lawn across the street.” I did…and then I saw it! But not just it, I saw them. There had to be ten or even twenty of them.
Fireflies!
I know my friends in the U.S. tend to call them “lightning bugs” but we always called them fireflies. And I hadn’t seen any in years. Years!
While I sat there and took them in, I felt connected once more to my childhood. I used to love to sit out at night, on our little piece of rural Ontario, and watch as the light show began each twilight in the early summer. The fireflies were just act one of my evening entertainment. The twinkling off and on was more attractive to me than city lights. In the distance, either across the road or behind us, which were both wooded tracks, the sound of the whip-poor-wills could often be heard. They provided the music, and the fireflies danced!
In my child-memory, those two natural phenomena—the bird with the onomatopoeic name and the fireflies—were a matched set.
I haven’t heard any whip-poor-wills in years, either. Those, I imagine, I will have to be in a rural setting—and at night—to hear. But I had wondered if the fireflies were no longer in our area, because I hadn’t seen them in so very long.
I don’t often sit out at night, and certainly not the way I used to as a child, and a teen, and again as a young, very busy mother of three. The outside used to be my sanctuary, my “me space” where I could be alone, surrounded only by the sights and sounds of nature. A place to breathe, to rest, to regain some of the equilibrium that would have been leeched out of me during the hours of the day just ended.
As a young girl, I would sometimes take a towel and get up on the hood of my mother’s car—a sturdy Plymouth. Yes, this was in the days when cars were made of steel. You see, the hood, then the windshield provided a solid “chaise lounge” at just the perfect angle. I could then stargaze to my heart’s content. The stars, the awesomeness of the milky way, and the occasional shooting star or aura borealis, that would be act two of my evening viewing pleasure. Oh, there were a few mosquitoes in those days, but we didn’t have any standing water close by, so their breeding grounds weren’t near us. There were a few, but not many. And they weren’t infamous, in those days, for carrying the diseases they do now.
It would be only in the aftermath of a couple of rainy days that I’d be chased inside by the biting little buggers.
Now that I know it’s possible to see fireflies again, I’ll take a couple more twilight vigils and see if I can. And if the bugs are too bad out, I’ll try viewing them from the inside of my car, which is parked right in front of my house.
I think that would be one sure way of bringing the past and the present together. Sometimes life gives you little full circles—if you are aware and keep your eyes open for them.
Blessings abound.
Love, Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
The most amazing thing happened Sunday night. It had been a very hot and humid weekend, and I’d spent most of it inside the house. There’s no sense in my going out, even on the porch, when it’s like that. It’s not good for my arthritis and being in the heat too long’s not good for my heart. I know I’ve written in these essays more than once I’ve become a bit of a hermit of late. And while I am completely aware of that fact, I am also fine with it.
Life is what you make it, and contrary to the way things were forty or even thirty years ago, a person who more or less stays inside for health considerations is no longer “shut in”. Thanks to the internet, one can keep their mind and their fingers occupied even if their body is somewhat at rest. Life changes, and what you used to love to do, maybe you can’t do any longer. Instead of thinking on that, I choose to find new things that I love to do. But I digress.
Sunday evening, around twilight, the heat had broken, and it was at that perfect temperature outside—not too hot, and not too cool/breezy or damp, that a visit to the porch was definitely in order. And made even more special when, after inviting me out to join him, my husband said, very quietly, “watch the lawn across the street.” I did…and then I saw it! But not just it, I saw them. There had to be ten or even twenty of them.
Fireflies!
I know my friends in the U.S. tend to call them “lightning bugs” but we always called them fireflies. And I hadn’t seen any in years. Years!
While I sat there and took them in, I felt connected once more to my childhood. I used to love to sit out at night, on our little piece of rural Ontario, and watch as the light show began each twilight in the early summer. The fireflies were just act one of my evening entertainment. The twinkling off and on was more attractive to me than city lights. In the distance, either across the road or behind us, which were both wooded tracks, the sound of the whip-poor-wills could often be heard. They provided the music, and the fireflies danced!
In my child-memory, those two natural phenomena—the bird with the onomatopoeic name and the fireflies—were a matched set.
I haven’t heard any whip-poor-wills in years, either. Those, I imagine, I will have to be in a rural setting—and at night—to hear. But I had wondered if the fireflies were no longer in our area, because I hadn’t seen them in so very long.
I don’t often sit out at night, and certainly not the way I used to as a child, and a teen, and again as a young, very busy mother of three. The outside used to be my sanctuary, my “me space” where I could be alone, surrounded only by the sights and sounds of nature. A place to breathe, to rest, to regain some of the equilibrium that would have been leeched out of me during the hours of the day just ended.
As a young girl, I would sometimes take a towel and get up on the hood of my mother’s car—a sturdy Plymouth. Yes, this was in the days when cars were made of steel. You see, the hood, then the windshield provided a solid “chaise lounge” at just the perfect angle. I could then stargaze to my heart’s content. The stars, the awesomeness of the milky way, and the occasional shooting star or aura borealis, that would be act two of my evening viewing pleasure. Oh, there were a few mosquitoes in those days, but we didn’t have any standing water close by, so their breeding grounds weren’t near us. There were a few, but not many. And they weren’t infamous, in those days, for carrying the diseases they do now.
It would be only in the aftermath of a couple of rainy days that I’d be chased inside by the biting little buggers.
Now that I know it’s possible to see fireflies again, I’ll take a couple more twilight vigils and see if I can. And if the bugs are too bad out, I’ll try viewing them from the inside of my car, which is parked right in front of my house.
I think that would be one sure way of bringing the past and the present together. Sometimes life gives you little full circles—if you are aware and keep your eyes open for them.
Blessings abound.
Love, Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, July 3, 2019
July 3, 2019
We had a lovely Canada Day weekend, just passed. The spirit of holiday began for us on Saturday, when the three of us—David, our daughter and I—visited the St. Jacob’s Farmer’s Market for the first time this year. And this time, we managed to see a lot of it. We spent more than a half hour going our separate ways and could do that for the first time in more than a decade because we took our scooters with us.
There is definitely something to be said about having the freedom to explore on your own. David and I have never lived in each other’s pockets. We have separate interests, and when we would, in the past, go to a place as rich in choices as that farmer’s market, we would always spend some time exploring on our own.
Of course, for the last few years that wasn’t possible unless I sat somewhere and waited while he went off—which almost always happened. I learned to bring my kindle with me so I could read while I was left on my own. However, this was the first time I was able to go off on my own. I like to look at different things than he does. Not that I want to purchase anything, necessarily. But I do like to look. People are so talented! There are tons of arts and crafts there, free for the ogling. What a great time we had.
The only purchases I made were of the edible sort. Among the goodies we bought were two items it’s hard to find in our usual stomping grounds: smoked pork chops and really good apple fritters. I even got some of each for our Sonja who had to work that day and couldn’t join us.
I’m a bit more used to riding a scooter than my husband is. This was only the second time that he’d been on one in a large crowd. The last time was a few years back when we visited Las Vegas. We both rented one of those large, freedom-giving machines, and it was a definite blessing, being able to go wherever we wanted to go in that very busy and highly populated area. The big surprise for David during that trip? The way that once he was on the scooter, people didn’t always “see” him.
That’s something I noticed from the beginning. People don’t always see you if you’re n a scooter. Of course, they don’t necessarily see your cane when you walk with one, either. The reason people don’t see you on a scooter is, very simply, because you’re no longer at eye level. And they don’t see you walking with a cane because the cane’s not at eye-level, either.
David came to understand very quickly in Vegas, and was reminded this past Saturday, that he had to “drive defensively”. At one point on Saturday he had to veer hard left, because a woman was walking and texting at the same time and was headed straight for him. She did bump him, but it was only a slight bump all the way around.
The funniest thing was the woman looked up and said to him, “you should watch where you’re going.” Anyone who knows my husband would, at this point, have said, “uh oh”, and ducked. Amazingly, he didn’t lash out at her. He simply said. “I’m sorry, but you walked into me.”
I will only say that this mild response of his was refreshing to hear about—and the fact that I heard about it from him doesn’t necessarily discount his narrative of the event.
Later that day, my daughter brought her friend from an hour’s drive away to stay Saturday and Sunday nights. And she also brought her two grandbabies to stay over, Sunday night. So for a forty-eight hour period, this was a very full house. It’s a testament to the construction work done by her and her daddy that the upstairs bed-sitting room held two adults, two children, four dogs….and with the door closed, we heard nothing of them at all.
When I said those very words to Jennifer the next morning, she grinned and nodded…and then proved she was, after all, my daughter.
She said, “well, it’s a testament either to our construction skills—or how far gone your hearing is, too.”
It’s a blessing to know that when I am no longer here, the family practice of “smart assery” will continue on. A proud family tradition.
Happy Fourth of July to all my American friends. I hope your celebration is filled with family, patriotism, a fantastic meal—and the best fireworks, ever!
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
We had a lovely Canada Day weekend, just passed. The spirit of holiday began for us on Saturday, when the three of us—David, our daughter and I—visited the St. Jacob’s Farmer’s Market for the first time this year. And this time, we managed to see a lot of it. We spent more than a half hour going our separate ways and could do that for the first time in more than a decade because we took our scooters with us.
There is definitely something to be said about having the freedom to explore on your own. David and I have never lived in each other’s pockets. We have separate interests, and when we would, in the past, go to a place as rich in choices as that farmer’s market, we would always spend some time exploring on our own.
Of course, for the last few years that wasn’t possible unless I sat somewhere and waited while he went off—which almost always happened. I learned to bring my kindle with me so I could read while I was left on my own. However, this was the first time I was able to go off on my own. I like to look at different things than he does. Not that I want to purchase anything, necessarily. But I do like to look. People are so talented! There are tons of arts and crafts there, free for the ogling. What a great time we had.
The only purchases I made were of the edible sort. Among the goodies we bought were two items it’s hard to find in our usual stomping grounds: smoked pork chops and really good apple fritters. I even got some of each for our Sonja who had to work that day and couldn’t join us.
I’m a bit more used to riding a scooter than my husband is. This was only the second time that he’d been on one in a large crowd. The last time was a few years back when we visited Las Vegas. We both rented one of those large, freedom-giving machines, and it was a definite blessing, being able to go wherever we wanted to go in that very busy and highly populated area. The big surprise for David during that trip? The way that once he was on the scooter, people didn’t always “see” him.
That’s something I noticed from the beginning. People don’t always see you if you’re n a scooter. Of course, they don’t necessarily see your cane when you walk with one, either. The reason people don’t see you on a scooter is, very simply, because you’re no longer at eye level. And they don’t see you walking with a cane because the cane’s not at eye-level, either.
David came to understand very quickly in Vegas, and was reminded this past Saturday, that he had to “drive defensively”. At one point on Saturday he had to veer hard left, because a woman was walking and texting at the same time and was headed straight for him. She did bump him, but it was only a slight bump all the way around.
The funniest thing was the woman looked up and said to him, “you should watch where you’re going.” Anyone who knows my husband would, at this point, have said, “uh oh”, and ducked. Amazingly, he didn’t lash out at her. He simply said. “I’m sorry, but you walked into me.”
I will only say that this mild response of his was refreshing to hear about—and the fact that I heard about it from him doesn’t necessarily discount his narrative of the event.
Later that day, my daughter brought her friend from an hour’s drive away to stay Saturday and Sunday nights. And she also brought her two grandbabies to stay over, Sunday night. So for a forty-eight hour period, this was a very full house. It’s a testament to the construction work done by her and her daddy that the upstairs bed-sitting room held two adults, two children, four dogs….and with the door closed, we heard nothing of them at all.
When I said those very words to Jennifer the next morning, she grinned and nodded…and then proved she was, after all, my daughter.
She said, “well, it’s a testament either to our construction skills—or how far gone your hearing is, too.”
It’s a blessing to know that when I am no longer here, the family practice of “smart assery” will continue on. A proud family tradition.
Happy Fourth of July to all my American friends. I hope your celebration is filled with family, patriotism, a fantastic meal—and the best fireworks, ever!
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, June 26, 2019
June 26, 2019
The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and the house is blessedly quiet. In all fairness, the house has been pretty quiet even after the move-in last week. Most of the time, one wouldn’t know that this is now a house that boasts more than one dog. Actually, we have my daughter’s four small chihuahuas and our Mr. Tuffy. Five. Five dogs. This isn’t the first time the Ashbury’s have had five dogs at one time. That other time was when we lived out in the rural environs of the community into which I was born. I’m thinking, around 40 years ago.
At this moment, Mr. Tuffy is with his daddy, at the park. That morning scooter ride and walk is their private time. The others show no jealousy, and only bark when they first see their grandpa in his scooter. He brings it down from the upper back yard on his own, and then he comes in and gets the dog, loading up on the sidewalk in front of the house.
I asked David if his reason for doing it that way now was because Tuffy recalls vividly the last time daddy put him in the basket in the backyard. That time ended up in David’s dumping the scooter with the puppy in the basket. It was a very gradual “dump” and David protected the dog. Neither was hurt, of course, unless you count Mr. Ashbury’s pride. I don’t believe he answered the question.
But I digress.
The first two to three days, move and post-move, were exhausting for Tuffy. One of my daughter’s dogs had just finished her heat a couple days prior to the event. So Tuffy’s interest in her was, shall we say, heightened. That’s a good word because for the most part, it describes Tuffy’s challenge with um…intimacy. He’s lacking the sufficient height in his legs to get to the good part. So, except for one time when my daughter wanted this particular dog of hers to have puppies with Tuffy as the daddy, he’s never quite managed to fulfill nature’s urge. (That one time she kind of helped by facilitating the event with a clever placement of stools.)
By Sunday afternoon our poor dog was exhausted, the female dog in question was resigned, and life more or less returned to normal—whatever that is.
The dogs have free reign of the house except at nighttime, and otherwise except for one other thing. I will not allow any other dogs on my desk, between my monitor and tower. That’s Tuffy’s private spot and is to be honored because this was his home first. He’s happy to come to bed with us each night again (he didn’t want to do that the first few nights), and the only difference there is that he wants out of our room on his own at some point in the wee hours. I’m not quite sure why that is, because the others are upstairs in the newly renovated bed-sitting room, behind a closed door. Oh, and we close our door at night, too, because my daughter gets up very early, and her dogs don’t need help to jump up on our bed.
We’re all still finding our balance in this new expanded household. David isn’t fond of having more than one dog—his own—wanting to sleep on him while he’s in his recliner, relaxing and watching television. I don’t mind it so much. In a way, it’s nice, because Tuffy doesn’t like my chair and so won’t sit with me. There’s a space between the foot panel and the seat. There is strong upholstery there, so he wouldn’t fall through, but he doesn’t like it. The other dogs do settle down, and they are actually a lot better trained than our dog is. So yes, part of my job now is to be a puppy bed for at least three of my daughter’s dogs. They don’t weigh much. But they are fairly well trained.
Yesterday was a case in point. I was right here, at my keyboard, working away on my manuscript. David was on the porch, the front door was open, and all the dogs were with him. They all love being out on the front porch, as long as there’s a chair for them to sit on. Apparently, the cement is too whatever for them. The chihuahuas are trained that when the “squirt bottle” appears, they stop barking.
Predictably, when a person walking their dog appeared, the dogs all started yipping and my husband grabbed up that squirt bottle and asked, “Do you want me to use this?”
Well, the dogs did shut up immediately with the exception of the oldest one. It was enough to break my author-concentration. I called out, asking David, “which one of those little guys just said ‘no’?” I’d heard it, plain as day.
Surprise? Yes. Shock? Maybe not so much as we had a cat once who learned how to say ‘no’. In response, my husband cut to the real issue, and did it adroitly.
His reply: “It was Bella (the oldest). Let’s hope that’s the only thing she says no to.”
Here’s hoping, indeed.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and the house is blessedly quiet. In all fairness, the house has been pretty quiet even after the move-in last week. Most of the time, one wouldn’t know that this is now a house that boasts more than one dog. Actually, we have my daughter’s four small chihuahuas and our Mr. Tuffy. Five. Five dogs. This isn’t the first time the Ashbury’s have had five dogs at one time. That other time was when we lived out in the rural environs of the community into which I was born. I’m thinking, around 40 years ago.
At this moment, Mr. Tuffy is with his daddy, at the park. That morning scooter ride and walk is their private time. The others show no jealousy, and only bark when they first see their grandpa in his scooter. He brings it down from the upper back yard on his own, and then he comes in and gets the dog, loading up on the sidewalk in front of the house.
I asked David if his reason for doing it that way now was because Tuffy recalls vividly the last time daddy put him in the basket in the backyard. That time ended up in David’s dumping the scooter with the puppy in the basket. It was a very gradual “dump” and David protected the dog. Neither was hurt, of course, unless you count Mr. Ashbury’s pride. I don’t believe he answered the question.
But I digress.
The first two to three days, move and post-move, were exhausting for Tuffy. One of my daughter’s dogs had just finished her heat a couple days prior to the event. So Tuffy’s interest in her was, shall we say, heightened. That’s a good word because for the most part, it describes Tuffy’s challenge with um…intimacy. He’s lacking the sufficient height in his legs to get to the good part. So, except for one time when my daughter wanted this particular dog of hers to have puppies with Tuffy as the daddy, he’s never quite managed to fulfill nature’s urge. (That one time she kind of helped by facilitating the event with a clever placement of stools.)
By Sunday afternoon our poor dog was exhausted, the female dog in question was resigned, and life more or less returned to normal—whatever that is.
The dogs have free reign of the house except at nighttime, and otherwise except for one other thing. I will not allow any other dogs on my desk, between my monitor and tower. That’s Tuffy’s private spot and is to be honored because this was his home first. He’s happy to come to bed with us each night again (he didn’t want to do that the first few nights), and the only difference there is that he wants out of our room on his own at some point in the wee hours. I’m not quite sure why that is, because the others are upstairs in the newly renovated bed-sitting room, behind a closed door. Oh, and we close our door at night, too, because my daughter gets up very early, and her dogs don’t need help to jump up on our bed.
We’re all still finding our balance in this new expanded household. David isn’t fond of having more than one dog—his own—wanting to sleep on him while he’s in his recliner, relaxing and watching television. I don’t mind it so much. In a way, it’s nice, because Tuffy doesn’t like my chair and so won’t sit with me. There’s a space between the foot panel and the seat. There is strong upholstery there, so he wouldn’t fall through, but he doesn’t like it. The other dogs do settle down, and they are actually a lot better trained than our dog is. So yes, part of my job now is to be a puppy bed for at least three of my daughter’s dogs. They don’t weigh much. But they are fairly well trained.
Yesterday was a case in point. I was right here, at my keyboard, working away on my manuscript. David was on the porch, the front door was open, and all the dogs were with him. They all love being out on the front porch, as long as there’s a chair for them to sit on. Apparently, the cement is too whatever for them. The chihuahuas are trained that when the “squirt bottle” appears, they stop barking.
Predictably, when a person walking their dog appeared, the dogs all started yipping and my husband grabbed up that squirt bottle and asked, “Do you want me to use this?”
Well, the dogs did shut up immediately with the exception of the oldest one. It was enough to break my author-concentration. I called out, asking David, “which one of those little guys just said ‘no’?” I’d heard it, plain as day.
Surprise? Yes. Shock? Maybe not so much as we had a cat once who learned how to say ‘no’. In response, my husband cut to the real issue, and did it adroitly.
His reply: “It was Bella (the oldest). Let’s hope that’s the only thing she says no to.”
Here’s hoping, indeed.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, June 19, 2019
June 19, 2019
What do you mean it’s Wednesday? We just had a Wednesday! Yesterday, wasn’t it? What’s going on here?
Does that refrain sound familiar to you? It’s one that’s echoed silently in my mind, by now featuring every single day of the darn week at one time or another. Of course, I never said anything out loud, in case people thought I was already losing what few marbles I have left.
And then Mr. Ashbury, just last week, said those words to me. It was a Tuesday. He was genuinely perplexed. Then he smiled at me and shrugged. And he said, a real confession, that he doesn’t pay attention to the days of the week because since he’s retired, it doesn’t really matter what day it is.
I think it’s because I’m more than a little anal that I’ve always kept track of the days. They fly by, but for the most part, I do keep track of them. They really do just zoom past so darn fast; I sometimes feel that we just had a Wednesday, and here we are again, so soon!
Mr. Ashbury on the other hand was being completely honest about not caring what day it is. He really doesn’t. Usually at least once a week he will ask me what day it is. When he tells me that he can never remember, I do tell him all he has to do is open his cell phone. Right there, on his menu screen, is the calendar icon that has the name of the day, and its position in the month.
His response to that was to tell me it’s easier to just ask me.
We’re continuing to get ready for our daughter and her dogs to move in. Her half of the upstairs, an area that is really very big (16 feet by 25 feet), is now complete, walls, ceiling and flooring. The drywall is up, mudded, sanded, and painted—both primer and finish coats. The flooring—laminate flooring in a shade of grey—is installed. They finished it yesterday. Now all that remains is for them to tidy up the debris of construction.
Our daughter decided that on moving day, which is Friday (yes, two days away), she’ll bring her dogs here with the first load. Since I’m not able to help with the move in, I will have the hounds—all of them—enclosed with me here in my office. It will be the first practical use of my two brand new office doors. I have not yet needed to close them so I can work, but I can if I have to and that, my friends, is awesome.
It shouldn’t take too long for our grandson and his friend to move her furniture in; there isn’t a lot she’s bringing with her. Just what goes in her bedroom, along with one sofa—a sectional—her television, her computer, a couple of bookshelves and a faux fireplace that she loves. That piece is heavy, but the upstairs is well fortified.
There are going to have to be some adjustments made by all of us, human and canine alike. I do believe in time that everything will be fine. Normal is, after all, just what you get used to. Her dogs know us, and the house, and the current canine-in-chief. Our daughter’s workday has never been standard since she began to work in home health care. As a Personal Service Worker, she visits clients in the community, and therefore everyday for her is a split-shift day. She begins usually at six a.m. and may have several clients close together and be done by mid-morning or very early afternoon. At that point she might be done for the day, or she may have to resume client visits at about six in the evening, until, sometimes, ten at night.
In the past, when she’s only had about an hour or so between client visits, she would stop in here, and stretch out on one of our recliners. She didn’t like to go home to her dogs that had been alone, only to have to go out again a short time later, leaving them alone again. That problem will be solved, because except for the odd appointment time, and grocery shopping times when we go out, her dogs won’t be alone at all.
They’ll have grandparents to crawl all over, and sleep on.
Looking at it all that way? The dogs really are going to be getting the sweetest part of this deal. Huh, I guess it really is a dog’s life.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
What do you mean it’s Wednesday? We just had a Wednesday! Yesterday, wasn’t it? What’s going on here?
Does that refrain sound familiar to you? It’s one that’s echoed silently in my mind, by now featuring every single day of the darn week at one time or another. Of course, I never said anything out loud, in case people thought I was already losing what few marbles I have left.
And then Mr. Ashbury, just last week, said those words to me. It was a Tuesday. He was genuinely perplexed. Then he smiled at me and shrugged. And he said, a real confession, that he doesn’t pay attention to the days of the week because since he’s retired, it doesn’t really matter what day it is.
I think it’s because I’m more than a little anal that I’ve always kept track of the days. They fly by, but for the most part, I do keep track of them. They really do just zoom past so darn fast; I sometimes feel that we just had a Wednesday, and here we are again, so soon!
Mr. Ashbury on the other hand was being completely honest about not caring what day it is. He really doesn’t. Usually at least once a week he will ask me what day it is. When he tells me that he can never remember, I do tell him all he has to do is open his cell phone. Right there, on his menu screen, is the calendar icon that has the name of the day, and its position in the month.
His response to that was to tell me it’s easier to just ask me.
We’re continuing to get ready for our daughter and her dogs to move in. Her half of the upstairs, an area that is really very big (16 feet by 25 feet), is now complete, walls, ceiling and flooring. The drywall is up, mudded, sanded, and painted—both primer and finish coats. The flooring—laminate flooring in a shade of grey—is installed. They finished it yesterday. Now all that remains is for them to tidy up the debris of construction.
Our daughter decided that on moving day, which is Friday (yes, two days away), she’ll bring her dogs here with the first load. Since I’m not able to help with the move in, I will have the hounds—all of them—enclosed with me here in my office. It will be the first practical use of my two brand new office doors. I have not yet needed to close them so I can work, but I can if I have to and that, my friends, is awesome.
It shouldn’t take too long for our grandson and his friend to move her furniture in; there isn’t a lot she’s bringing with her. Just what goes in her bedroom, along with one sofa—a sectional—her television, her computer, a couple of bookshelves and a faux fireplace that she loves. That piece is heavy, but the upstairs is well fortified.
There are going to have to be some adjustments made by all of us, human and canine alike. I do believe in time that everything will be fine. Normal is, after all, just what you get used to. Her dogs know us, and the house, and the current canine-in-chief. Our daughter’s workday has never been standard since she began to work in home health care. As a Personal Service Worker, she visits clients in the community, and therefore everyday for her is a split-shift day. She begins usually at six a.m. and may have several clients close together and be done by mid-morning or very early afternoon. At that point she might be done for the day, or she may have to resume client visits at about six in the evening, until, sometimes, ten at night.
In the past, when she’s only had about an hour or so between client visits, she would stop in here, and stretch out on one of our recliners. She didn’t like to go home to her dogs that had been alone, only to have to go out again a short time later, leaving them alone again. That problem will be solved, because except for the odd appointment time, and grocery shopping times when we go out, her dogs won’t be alone at all.
They’ll have grandparents to crawl all over, and sleep on.
Looking at it all that way? The dogs really are going to be getting the sweetest part of this deal. Huh, I guess it really is a dog’s life.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, June 12, 2019
June 12, 2019
First, a flower update: I discovered just this past Saturday that the lilies-of-the-valley planted in the back yard are blooming later than the ones in the front of the house and at the base of the lilacs. I would guess that’s because the ones in the back yard are mostly in shade throughout the day. Of course, that meant that while my lilacs did burst into bloom on Sunday, it was too late for me to get the natural combination of fragrances, because those lilies-of-the-valley were done.
Enter Mr. Ashbury, who clipped a sprig of lilac and then went into the back yard and pulled out a sprig of the lilies. He put them in a vase and set them beside me on my desk. I inhaled deeply and…ah, heaven. I was still inhaling that bit of heaven last night, and for that, I’m grateful. Springtime flower quest, met.
My husband and my daughter have been working together on our upstairs area. I may have mentioned that renovations were underway here in 2006, and that my husband didn’t have the heart to continue after our son died, as it was a project they were working on, together. Since David has been retired, however, he’s come to understand that a house with an unfinished upstairs, and cosmetic repairs left uncompleted has considerably less value than it could. This building, such as it is, is our major savings account for the future. It’s been fully paid for, and we need it to be in as saleable a condition as possible for that time in the future when we’ll possibly need to enter a nursing home.
The upstairs has served us in the past as “bedrooms” for two of our grandchildren, when they needed to be with us while their mother, our Sonja, was working nights. The kids didn’t seem to mind the unfinished look. However, it really was past time to get some drywall up there and something other than area rugs over the sub-flooring. So daughter and daddy have been working on that. David has managed to get the dry wall up, and even on the ceiling, thanks to the drywall lift he purchased. Daughter is in charge of the “taping and mudding” half of the renovations, a process that is now underway.
They plan to do the painting together, beginning this coming weekend. And there is a deadline for them, as our daughter will be moving in with us in just under two weeks’ time.
Sadly, she recently had it brought home that when you rent a house without a lease, then you run the risk of having the owner of the house decide to sell it out from under you. Real estate values have increased in this area, and it’s hard to fault the man’s desire to capitalize on that reality. Our daughter has been renting from him for several years, and she was quite devastated to have him suddenly show up one day and ask her to move out.
Her rent was more than I would pay (because of course I am older and recall smaller monthly amounts), but it was less than she’d have any expectation of paying for a new lease. As well, she has her chihuahuas. They’re her children, and there is no way she could, or should be forced to get rid of them. Her dogs and our Mr. Tuffy are best buddies. In fact, they are the only dogs our Mr. Tuffy tolerates, and he loves them.
We convinced our daughter her best option was to move in, take over the upstairs, where she could stay for as long as she wants. It’s a way for her to save up and either eventually buy her own home or take that money she’s saving and finally have a retirement account of her own.
This will be good for her in that regard, and it will be good for us, too. She’s going to help me one day a week, and that will be a blessing. Plus, there will be a peace of mind for us both knowing that she is here.
In this day and age, with expenses rising and salaries stagnant, younger people are finding it more and more difficult to manage, especially if they’re single. One of the information shows I was watching last week stated that the dream of home ownership is becoming harder and harder to attain in these expensive times. For most, it is a dream out of reach.
It used to be a given that the next generation would flourish beyond what the previous one had been able to accomplish. I’ve heard some of the talking heads say that this generation of young people coming up—the millennials—will not be as well off as their parents.
Personally, I think our expectations need to change. I believe it’s very hard to prepare for a future when the reality of what the future is going to be shifts under your feet, like sand in the grip of a wave.
We have an entire floor above our heads that’s just sitting there, as fancy storage space. We have a fenced in back yard. She’ll be here, safe and sound, and can look forward to having a meal waiting for her at the end of her workday.
I think that’s a win-win-win situation (including the dogs in that equation).
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
First, a flower update: I discovered just this past Saturday that the lilies-of-the-valley planted in the back yard are blooming later than the ones in the front of the house and at the base of the lilacs. I would guess that’s because the ones in the back yard are mostly in shade throughout the day. Of course, that meant that while my lilacs did burst into bloom on Sunday, it was too late for me to get the natural combination of fragrances, because those lilies-of-the-valley were done.
Enter Mr. Ashbury, who clipped a sprig of lilac and then went into the back yard and pulled out a sprig of the lilies. He put them in a vase and set them beside me on my desk. I inhaled deeply and…ah, heaven. I was still inhaling that bit of heaven last night, and for that, I’m grateful. Springtime flower quest, met.
My husband and my daughter have been working together on our upstairs area. I may have mentioned that renovations were underway here in 2006, and that my husband didn’t have the heart to continue after our son died, as it was a project they were working on, together. Since David has been retired, however, he’s come to understand that a house with an unfinished upstairs, and cosmetic repairs left uncompleted has considerably less value than it could. This building, such as it is, is our major savings account for the future. It’s been fully paid for, and we need it to be in as saleable a condition as possible for that time in the future when we’ll possibly need to enter a nursing home.
The upstairs has served us in the past as “bedrooms” for two of our grandchildren, when they needed to be with us while their mother, our Sonja, was working nights. The kids didn’t seem to mind the unfinished look. However, it really was past time to get some drywall up there and something other than area rugs over the sub-flooring. So daughter and daddy have been working on that. David has managed to get the dry wall up, and even on the ceiling, thanks to the drywall lift he purchased. Daughter is in charge of the “taping and mudding” half of the renovations, a process that is now underway.
They plan to do the painting together, beginning this coming weekend. And there is a deadline for them, as our daughter will be moving in with us in just under two weeks’ time.
Sadly, she recently had it brought home that when you rent a house without a lease, then you run the risk of having the owner of the house decide to sell it out from under you. Real estate values have increased in this area, and it’s hard to fault the man’s desire to capitalize on that reality. Our daughter has been renting from him for several years, and she was quite devastated to have him suddenly show up one day and ask her to move out.
Her rent was more than I would pay (because of course I am older and recall smaller monthly amounts), but it was less than she’d have any expectation of paying for a new lease. As well, she has her chihuahuas. They’re her children, and there is no way she could, or should be forced to get rid of them. Her dogs and our Mr. Tuffy are best buddies. In fact, they are the only dogs our Mr. Tuffy tolerates, and he loves them.
We convinced our daughter her best option was to move in, take over the upstairs, where she could stay for as long as she wants. It’s a way for her to save up and either eventually buy her own home or take that money she’s saving and finally have a retirement account of her own.
This will be good for her in that regard, and it will be good for us, too. She’s going to help me one day a week, and that will be a blessing. Plus, there will be a peace of mind for us both knowing that she is here.
In this day and age, with expenses rising and salaries stagnant, younger people are finding it more and more difficult to manage, especially if they’re single. One of the information shows I was watching last week stated that the dream of home ownership is becoming harder and harder to attain in these expensive times. For most, it is a dream out of reach.
It used to be a given that the next generation would flourish beyond what the previous one had been able to accomplish. I’ve heard some of the talking heads say that this generation of young people coming up—the millennials—will not be as well off as their parents.
Personally, I think our expectations need to change. I believe it’s very hard to prepare for a future when the reality of what the future is going to be shifts under your feet, like sand in the grip of a wave.
We have an entire floor above our heads that’s just sitting there, as fancy storage space. We have a fenced in back yard. She’ll be here, safe and sound, and can look forward to having a meal waiting for her at the end of her workday.
I think that’s a win-win-win situation (including the dogs in that equation).
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, June 5, 2019
June 5, 2019
I’ve got my fingers crossed. My two lilac trees are somewhat behind the rest of the lilacs in our area. However, there are good buds there, and my fingers are crossed that they will bloom this year, and within the next four to five days.
You see, I still have vibrant lilies of the valley blooming, and I really do want those two scents mingled for my olfactory delight. Yes, it’s a little thing, but I am currently out of big things, and will take my pleasures where I find them, however small they may be.
I’ve managed to excavate my desk, grateful to discover there was indeed an antique oak library desk beneath all the accumulated papers and such I had stacked upon it. I’m thinking this new habit of mine—letting things pile up—is a late-arriving protest after years of working in an office, where one’s desk needed to be tidy and free of “litter” all the time. Except of course, if one was on vacation.
Then there was that one time when I went back to work after a one week vacation; before leaving, I had made a comment that questioned the value of a week off when one returned to a week’s accumulated work and had to then spend a week working twice as hard. The company boss overheard my comment. He told me then and there that he would inform my supervisor that my work was to be covered while I was gone. Of course, when I returned, my desk looked pristine. He came over, beaming, and told me he’d kept an eye on my desk, and wasn’t I pleased? I held his gaze as I opened the drawer and pulled out the more than two hundred documents that had accumulated in my absence: company bills that needed to be paid, many of them within the week.
He was so angry his instructions had not been met, he gave me two more days off with pay as a consolation prize, which just proved to me the man didn’t get it, period.
There might be a bit of that in my latest habit of not stuffing things away until I can deal with them properly; or I could just be getting into that “who cares?” portion of life’s program. I believe I previously noted in one of these essays that I don’t have any rat’s butts left to give. I thought there might be a shipment on route, but sadly, I’ve seen no signs that there is.
More likely, that old adage, “out of sight, out of mind” is at play here, as well. Because now, as never before, that adage is a literal reality for me. So I keep things where I can see them in the faith and hope that I will eventually deal with them.
Regardless of the reasons behind this new habit, I do believe that it’s perfectly okay for my attitude about certain things to change as I get older. It’s not a sign of any mental deficiency, but rather, an acknowledgement on my part that there is a bit more of a physical deficiency than I would like. Each day I think of what my “to-do” list comprises, and each day I realize I need to revisit my thinking. The truth is, I simply don’t have the stamina to do all I would like to do in a day.
I was a bit more graceful in coping with the first wave of physical limitations, the most obvious being: no more work done on the knees. No gardening, and no scrubbing of floors. That second one might sound to some of you like a blessing. But I loved gardening, and I’m sorry, I don’t care what mop you use, the floor simply does not get as clean as it can be if one does not take to one’s knees with a sturdy scrub brush and a bucket of cleanser—followed by one of clear water to rinse with.
When I shared that opinion with a friend, she opined, “you can’t tell me that, able-bodied, you’d still be scrubbing the floors on hands-and-knees if you won the lottery.” And she was right. If I won the lottery I likely would not continue to do so, even if I was physically able.
But you can be certain I would then hire someone else to do it.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
I’ve got my fingers crossed. My two lilac trees are somewhat behind the rest of the lilacs in our area. However, there are good buds there, and my fingers are crossed that they will bloom this year, and within the next four to five days.
You see, I still have vibrant lilies of the valley blooming, and I really do want those two scents mingled for my olfactory delight. Yes, it’s a little thing, but I am currently out of big things, and will take my pleasures where I find them, however small they may be.
I’ve managed to excavate my desk, grateful to discover there was indeed an antique oak library desk beneath all the accumulated papers and such I had stacked upon it. I’m thinking this new habit of mine—letting things pile up—is a late-arriving protest after years of working in an office, where one’s desk needed to be tidy and free of “litter” all the time. Except of course, if one was on vacation.
Then there was that one time when I went back to work after a one week vacation; before leaving, I had made a comment that questioned the value of a week off when one returned to a week’s accumulated work and had to then spend a week working twice as hard. The company boss overheard my comment. He told me then and there that he would inform my supervisor that my work was to be covered while I was gone. Of course, when I returned, my desk looked pristine. He came over, beaming, and told me he’d kept an eye on my desk, and wasn’t I pleased? I held his gaze as I opened the drawer and pulled out the more than two hundred documents that had accumulated in my absence: company bills that needed to be paid, many of them within the week.
He was so angry his instructions had not been met, he gave me two more days off with pay as a consolation prize, which just proved to me the man didn’t get it, period.
There might be a bit of that in my latest habit of not stuffing things away until I can deal with them properly; or I could just be getting into that “who cares?” portion of life’s program. I believe I previously noted in one of these essays that I don’t have any rat’s butts left to give. I thought there might be a shipment on route, but sadly, I’ve seen no signs that there is.
More likely, that old adage, “out of sight, out of mind” is at play here, as well. Because now, as never before, that adage is a literal reality for me. So I keep things where I can see them in the faith and hope that I will eventually deal with them.
Regardless of the reasons behind this new habit, I do believe that it’s perfectly okay for my attitude about certain things to change as I get older. It’s not a sign of any mental deficiency, but rather, an acknowledgement on my part that there is a bit more of a physical deficiency than I would like. Each day I think of what my “to-do” list comprises, and each day I realize I need to revisit my thinking. The truth is, I simply don’t have the stamina to do all I would like to do in a day.
I was a bit more graceful in coping with the first wave of physical limitations, the most obvious being: no more work done on the knees. No gardening, and no scrubbing of floors. That second one might sound to some of you like a blessing. But I loved gardening, and I’m sorry, I don’t care what mop you use, the floor simply does not get as clean as it can be if one does not take to one’s knees with a sturdy scrub brush and a bucket of cleanser—followed by one of clear water to rinse with.
When I shared that opinion with a friend, she opined, “you can’t tell me that, able-bodied, you’d still be scrubbing the floors on hands-and-knees if you won the lottery.” And she was right. If I won the lottery I likely would not continue to do so, even if I was physically able.
But you can be certain I would then hire someone else to do it.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
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