November 25, 2020

We awoke Sunday morning to three inches of snow on the ground, and while it did seem to be melting, it also kept falling throughout the day. This was two days after it being in the high fifties, again. That turned out to be another set of warm few days that made us all want to check the calendar to make certain it was November!

Monday morning, I did a double take, because my back yard had a wide patch where there was no snow and the rest had yes, three inches. It took me a moment to understand the wind must have been out of the west. We have a line of cedar trees on the hill at the edge of our lower back yard, and they acted like a giant natural snow fence for part of our yard.

There was a time when the first snow fall would have arrived in late October and stayed until mid-May. There would rarely be a complete January Thaw, and yes, that was a thing. But that few days of warmer temperatures rarely got rid of all the snow. That first one, the base of our winter accumulation, looked old and tired when it finally would be revealed in mid-to-late April.

Now those were winters! I can recall riding in my mother’s car as we made our way home, down our country road with snowbanks higher than our car. Some days, you had to count the driveways to get to the right one. We built snow forts, had a natural outdoor skating rink that stretched for a mile…as I said, those were real winters.

We are acclimating ourselves to being in a “locked down” state of mind once more here in the Ashbury household. This county, while not high by some standards, our infection numbers are climbing, and they are in fact higher than they were during the first wave last spring.

I’m not surprised. They told us it would happen that way. Studies of the last great pandemic to hit us, the Spanish Flu outbreak of the last century, showed that it was the second wave that proved to be the deadliest.

In these modern times, with all of the scientific improvements that have allowed us to know how to slow this virus and to take hope in the knowledge that innovations have allowed for an new kind of vaccine, the only low point is the failure of the common human being to process information efficiently so that they are able to discern the main thing, and keep that as their focus.

All the innovation in the world doesn’t mean squat when knuckle-dragging humans insist on clinging to their inner primordial psyches.

As I listen to the words of those who cling to their right not to wear a mask, it reminds me (the parent and grandparent me) of arguing with a child, trying to get them to willingly do something that you know is right and good and will keep them safe, and that they just do not want to do.

I understand, a little, the psychology behind this. Modern life moves too fast and is scary. Sometimes, crap happens that is difficult to understand. Some people don’t want to understand the logical and scientific reasons why things happen. It’s easier to just make something up and by doing so, have someone or something to blame. If you have someone or something to blame, then you can vent your fear and energy on hurling hate at your target, making yourself believe you feel better—that you feel in control in a world where that sensation is too often unattainable.

The psychological placebo of conspiracy theory, however, never lasts long. And before you know it, you have to find an entirely new conspiracy theory to replace the first one…and so on and so on and so on.

Because making stuff up or believing as true that which others make up without actually exercising the brain that the Good Lord gave you is nothing more than a placebo. It does nothing to help you grow as a human being. And it does just the opposite of giving you any kind of control in your life. Instead, clinging to conspiracy theories makes you a slave.

Some people are afraid to grow up. And I guess in a free society, that has to be allowed. I just wish they’d all go to a playroom somewhere, lie down on their towels and take a nice, long nap.

Oh, and lest I forget…wear a damn mask!

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

 

 

 

 

 

 November 18, 2020

If you don’t count today, there are 37 more days until Christmas. And a week from tomorrow, my American friends have their Thanksgiving Day, followed, of course, by Black Friday.

All these “special holidays” in the midst of a pandemic certainly make for interesting, and complicated times.

I’ve been sitting in my little bubble up here in Canada, with my little routines, and only going out for medical related appointments, and to check in on my brother-in-law, my late sister’s husband, for whom I am “the designated alternate decision maker”. Yes, I promised him I would serve as his power of attorney shortly after my sister’s death. Of course, despite the fact that he was about ten years her senior, I never imagined I would have to do anything. Sadly, he has Parkinson’s and dementia, and has needed my help since 2018. He’s in hospital and has been for awhile, because he cannot manage on his own, and because dementia has caused behaviors in him that translate to his sometimes being a danger to others, and to himself.

My brother-in-law isn’t happy about being where he is, and that to me is the saddest thing of all. You see, he believes he can take care of himself just fine. Of course, he can’t. I had never before had any close contact with someone who has dementia. It’s a heart-breaking disease, one I sincerely hope I never develop. And if I do, I hope I don’t turn miserable and ornery with it, because that is just no good at all, for anyone. Fortunately for me, my daughter has delt with dementia patients and was able to give me some pointers. Still, I really hope I never get it.

But since we have no say over what might occur in the future during our aging process, I can only hope for the best.

So here I am in my bubble, as I said, and at this time staying home with no visitors because of course the entire continent is having a surge in Covid-19. We are having one here in Canada but our numbers are not nearly as high as those in the U.S. Since we are by choice, more or less on lockdown, I’ve been thinking a lot about what’s happening “out there”. One train of thought I rode for a while was that it’s going to be really hard for people who do not even believe that Covid-19 exists, if they get it. They don’t wear masks, they don’t social distance because they don’t believe it’s real. It’s going to be a real shock for those folks if they contract the virus. And I was wondering how many of them would have to contract it in order to make a difference to the anti-masking crowd. I have seen several individuals on different news casts saying that they thought it was a hoax until they got sick themselves. Then they look into the camera and say words to the affect of, “Covid is real. Wear a damn mask.”

The key part in that last paragraph was that I was wondering.

Because I read reports in the last few days from a healthcare provider in the Dakotas who says she’s had patients whose dying words deny the virus. Here I was safe in my belief that more people would admit it’s not a hoax when they or their family members actually contract it, and they put paid to that idea completely. They’re so anti-fact that they’re refusing to believe, even in the face of their own impending death from it that Covid-19 is real.

Well, that just seals it. It's official. I will never understand some people.

I was all prepared with this logical argument to make here today, that it’s better to miss one Thanksgiving dinner with family now and enjoy the rest of them together through the years yet to come than it is to insist you have to celebrate as a crowd of 25 this year—and end up losing possibly several family members to the virus.

But why should I bother trying? If the people I am trying to reach are so obtuse as to cling to their lies even in the face of their own imminent deaths, why should I think I have even a snowball’s chance in hell of changing their minds?

So I am not going to belabor the points I’ve made about this damn pandemic anymore. You want to be “free”? You want to not wear a mask because “it’s not about a virus, it’s about control”? [By the way, I saw that on a billboard during a newscast last week and had to give my head a shake] Okay. You win. Don’t wear a mask.

As long as you stay away from me, and don’t get close to anyone who doesn’t believe as you believe. I hope you don’t get sick and die. Seriously, I don’t wish that on anyone. But if you do? Ah, well. Sorry about your luck.

Since I mentioned Christmas at the opening of this essay, I’ll finish with it—or rather, by reimagining an exchange in the movie, A Christmas Carol—the Alastair Sim version. In the original, two men seeking donations for the poor were trying to get Scrooge to open his money bag. Scrooge responded by asking the men if there were no prisons? Were there no workhouses? Do you recall that scene? So, instead of workhouses, let’s imagine that Scrooge asked about masks instead.

I know I said I wasn’t going to bother, but I can’t not. Thanksgiving comes every year; so does Christmas. Get together next year, and it will be a sweeter reunion, and because of your great, super-human sacrifice of missing one holiday season in person gathering, there will be chairs filled at your table that might otherwise, next year, be empty.

Covid is real. Wear a damn mask.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

 

 November 11, 2020

This past weekend was incredibly warm for November. Sunday was David’s birthday—he turned 68. It was also our Sonja’s birthday—she turned 43, but don’t tell her I told you that.

In years past, David and I would take the gang out to one of our better Steakhouse chains in the area for a supper, complete with a plethora of appetizers as well as desserts for those who wished to indulge. If I get any dessert at that restaurant it’s usually a tiny crème brûlée, because I’m not a fan of anything overly sweet.  The restaurant provides a complementary and very large piece of an ice cream cake with whipped cream and lots of rich chocolate for each birthday celebrant. It’s far too big of a portion for one person to eat. So generally, everyone else gets a fork and the two pieces of cake are shared.

This year is different, of course, but thanks to the cooperation of the weather (it hit 70 on Sunday), we hosted an outdoor “barbeque” where steak and garlic shrimp skewers were the main entrees. We also served a few grilled burgers and some boneless, skinless chicken breasts cooked in foil. There were seven adults at this outdoor celebration and one baby, not too big a crowd, and we have all been very careful in these times to keep ourselves safe.

The number of active cases of Covid-19 in our combined county/city on Sunday was 77, down from 79 the day before. Also, the week ending November 8th has been the worst week for new cases here since the pandemic began, with 61 new positive tests for the week ending Sunday. The virus and its continued reign over our lives is one stressful element that will continue on for some time to come.

How are you feeling now that we’re well into November? Would it surprise you to learn that every single person up here who I have spoken to feels a tremendous sense of relief beginning Saturday? One thing that has become apparent to me over the years is that not all news casts are created equal. We always would watch Canadian, American and British news to get the best, most well-rounded picture of what’s really going on in the world. We still do that, but perhaps not as devotedly as once we did.

Perspective is an interesting phenomenon, don’t you think?

As we take time on this Remembrance Day/Veterans’ Day today to honor the sacrifices of all those who gave their lives in the major wars of the twentieth century, I hope we devote a few minutes to trying to put ourselves in their “heads”.

What was it that they believed to be so precious, so sacred, that they stepped up and volunteered to wear the cloth of their country? What great cause moved them to accept a weapon and, not only put themselves in harm’s way, but be willing take the lives of others?

These were ordinary people who said, “I’ll go.” They had families they loved and lives they were living, and yet, they went to war, and many never came home. Why would they do that? It must have been something extraordinary, don’t you think?

I’ll never forget the snippet of an interview I saw with a man who, in his halting English, explained why he had risked his life to come to our country, and why, on the cusp of voting for the first time, he had tears on his cheeks. His eyes glistening, he whispered one word: freedom.

I had never heard that word said with such majestic reverence before. We perhaps are guilty of taking the splendid idea represented by that word, that concept, for granted. Those of us who were born from the twentieth century forward here in Canada and in the United States, have, for the most part, always been free.

I also recall the warnings, issued in high school by history and sociology teachers alike that we must guard our freedom, for it could be taken from us. These warnings came particularly on special days of commemoration, like today. Maybe at the time we shrugged those warnings off, believing that nothing like that could ever happen here. Certainly not to us, and certainly not here.

If the last four years have taught us anything, it is that we can indeed have our freedom stolen from us because that very nearly happened. And we’ve learned that democracy is more fragile than we knew, and we must do all we can to guard it.

Freedom isn’t free; and it isn’t infinite. My freedom to act how I choose has a limit, and that, of course, is where my actions would harm you. Because I am convinced by the science, I wear a mask when I leave my house; I keep my distance from anyone not of my household; I wash my hands with sanitizer while I am out, and give them a good scrubbing when I get home.

I do this to protect you and I pray with great fervor that all y’all will do that, to protect me. And if you need further convincing, I leave you with this thought:

When have you ever been given such a simple, no-sweat way to save a life and be a hero?

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

 

 

 

 

 November 4, 2020

It’s November, just. I think something was going on yesterday in the country to the south of us. There appeared to be a lot of tension and excitement, and regular television programming, what there is of it these days, was pre-empted.

As far as I can see, whatever it was is still happening. I’m hearing the words tenterhooks, premature, and patience.

But I’m not going to talk about that, because there’s just no way I can do that and have it come out well for me. So instead, I think I’ll talk for a moment about the strange weather we’re having this week.

Just this past weekend, we got snow. Wet snow came down, at times looking like a blizzard, and it was icky! I snuck a peek around my monitor to look out my window and at one point there were so many white flakes in the air I couldn’t see across the street. In the end, there was not much of an accumulation, just a coating on grass and cars, but it was cold enough for it to stay overnight. I am not a fan of snow, and even less of a fan of snow and/or ice on the outdoor walking surfaces.

I now have to try to recall where I put my ice claw, a device that fits on the end of my cane. Without the claw that covers the rubber tip of my cane with a small, metal five-pronged pick, I would not be able to use said cane as a walking device on snow or ice.

So, Sunday, snow. Today? According to the weather network dot com, it’s going to hit fifty-seven degrees today. And for the next few days our daytime temperatures are slated to be in the mid-sixties.

Let me say that again. In the mid-sixties in November in Canada. You remember, I trust, that in our national anthem, we refer to ourselves as “the true north, strong and free”. We don’t call ourselves the frozen north, because, well, we all of us up here just assume you all down there and the rest of the world knows that about us.

I have an American friend who once said that Canada was the country that used ice as a construction material, and he wasn’t far off. We’re slated to have these warmer temperatures for the rest of this week and into the next. And it’s not even supposed to hit the freezing mark overnight.

I would like to take this opportunity to remind Mother Nature that the relative and pertinent phrase is “a frosty day in July” and not “a summer day in November”.

Tenterhooks, premature, and patience.

The greatest of these three words is patience, but I’ll add one more to it. Faith. It’s a difficult set of qualities to cultivate in this life, having patience and faith, especially in these modern techno-savvy times. Life these days moves at the speed of sound, it seems, and so we like to have things when we want things and for some of us the idea of waiting is hard. Very, very hard. Keeping the faith is the same, difficult to do because we are so used to having it—whatever it is—now and may think that we don’t need faith.

Children are famous for their lack of patience, but the lack sadly isn’t relegated only to the young. The good thing about having cultivated patience as a matter of course would be that when the time comes and you really need a storehouse of it, you have it. You’re able to take a deep breath, and relax, and wait. You have patience and faith to spare, and that’s amazing.

If you’re not the sort of person who’s known for their patience (and that includes me, by the way, though I do have faith), you can learn to fake it. Those who know me best chuckle at the concept that I’m a patient person. They say my motto is “grant me patience, Lord, but hurry.”

And they’re right, absolutely, though I would point that even they know if I ask for something, who it is I ask it of.

So, let’s all do this faking thing together, shall we? Let’s take a deep breath, and then another. And we’ll tell ourselves that everything is fine and will turn out exactly the way it’s meant to be.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

 

 October 28, 2020

First, I want to begin this essay with these words: I am at home, and I am well.

But last week at this time, I was in my local hospital. I’d arrived there by ambulance on Sunday the 18^th, and on Wednesday, I was awaiting transportation to a larger General hospital in a city that lies about thirty-five minutes to the east. That hospital has a full function cardiac department. I was going there in order to have my second, ever, angiogram.

The last one occurred in December of 2002, about four months after my first and only heart attack which I suffered in August of that year. In November I’d begun having angina, and the doctor told me if angina woke me up from a sound sleep, then I was to head to the hospital, which I did.

An angiogram is a test that takes pictures of the coronary arteries and the blood vessels that supply the heart. During the test they use a catheter, inserted into a blood vessel to inject a special dye into the blood, in order for the pictures to be taken.

Due to the ongoing presence of the pandemic, new rules are in place in our hospitals, here. In order for me to be able to undergo the angiogram, I had to first have two negative Covid-19 tests, taken within twenty-four hours. Once that was a fait accompli, (late Tuesday afternoon) the procedure was scheduled for the next day. I didn’t even think of complaining about the Covid tests, even if it did feel like my brain was being sting-tickled with vinegar and a wire. Taking every precaution is one way we prevent the disease from spreading. I happen to believe that is very important.

Eighteen years had passed since my last angiogram, and as one would expect after that amount of time had passed, some improvements have been made to the procedure. The major one I was aware of was this: that if a blockage was found and if the doctor decided a stent would be appropriate, it would be done then and there.

Unlike that last time, the access point for the catheter was not my femoral artery, but my radial artery – in my right wrist. And also, unlike that last time, my test results this time were excellent. There were no blockages, and nothing to explain the couple of incidents of unstable angina that I’d experienced. They did find some mild plaque in one of the arteries. The doctors reached the conclusion that this plaque could be treated with medication. They added two new meds to the ones I was already taking, and increased the dosage of two others, and I’m (obviously) fine with all of that.

I am grateful for all the services that I received, beginning with the ambulance ride to the hospital. I was taken into the emergency room immediately, put on a stretcher, and hooked up to blood pressure and heart monitoring equipment.

They admitted me to a room on the Cardiac ward around nine Sunday evening. After the first Covid test came back negative, I was moved from that room to another, this one with a roommate who was also awaiting the results of his second test.

My roommate turned out to be a gentleman. I’m old fashioned enough that I felt some objections wanting to emerge as I realized that. I soon learned that this was not uncommon at all. They have to manage the patients they have, as well as the ones they don’t but might receive. Restricting rooms by gender means blocking beds from use, and even under normal circumstances, that’s not good.

I came home early Thursday afternoon, and I have decided to take things easy, rest a fair bit, and try to “chill”. I’ll probably get back to pushing myself eventually, because I don’t think such a relatively short stay in hospital is enough to convert this A type personality into a beta forever.

But it’s always, good, at least in my humble opinion, to take full advantage of the opportunities we’re given. And that is never so true as when the opportunity comes wrapped in a scare, and reminds us that we are, after all, very mortal.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

 

 

 October 14, 2020

It’s autumn, all right. We used to call it sweater weather, but we’re older now. It’s jacket weather, to be certain. I love the “fresh air” days. You know the ones I mean, those days when you open the door and inhale deeply, and then sigh with the pure pleasure of smelling fresh air. We’ve had a couple of them this month, already. Last Friday, our daughter, who is a very early riser, decided have the doors opened wide, to bring all that lovely fresh air into the house. We were still in bed, bedroom door closed, and she had really hoped that she would be done with her cleaning project and house airing before we got up.

Our thermostat for the furnace is in the living room, a major recipient of all that fresh air. This meant, of course that the furnace was chugging away throughout the time the front and back doors were wide open. The thermostat is set at 72, but I think the outside morning temperature here on Friday was about 42. Well, the outside temperature and also the inside temperature—in the living room.

An interesting thing happens in the rooms that have closed doors and open heat vents when the furnace keeps pumping out the heat because the thermostat in the living room tells it to. I got up for a bathroom visit just shy of 7 am and while I might have considered staying up before opening the bedroom door, I changed my mind and headed straight back to my very warm and toasty bedroom afterward.

Normally first thing in the morning before actually getting up, I do like to have the blankets off for a bit, as I tend to sleep warmer than I like, but thanks to that open door and shot of cold from the bedroom to the bathroom and back, that was not a problem on Friday.

David got up for the same reason I had when I came back to bed. I told him to put his robe on, which he did—bless him for doing that so trustingly when the bedroom was so toasty. He took the puppies with him, as he always does, putting them outside while he goes into the bathroom. Then he came back to bed. He'd left the dogs in the living room because our daughter, and her dogs were up and downstairs. The puppies love that. They don’t miss us at all during those mornings when they get to be with Jenny and their mommy dog, and the others.

That is to say, usually, they love that.  Missy-dog has a distinctive sound she makes when the bedroom door is closed, and she wants in. I’ve heard it because a few times David has ejected her from the room during afternoon nap time. It’s a pitiful and pathetic low-pitched moaning-whine, and I heard that sound five minutes after David came back to bed on Friday morning.

I got up and opened the door, and Missy shot into the room, and around the bed, likely trying to get as far away from the cold as possible. Even Bear, who doesn’t mind (and often prefers) being left alone on the sofa with a blanket around him perked up, ran down the doggie staircase, and headed into the room, too.

Bear, our boy puppy, son of Mr. Tuffy, and Zeus, our daughter’s teacup chihuahua can neither of them jump onto the couch so yes, we have a doggie staircase. But I digress.

When we all four of us got out of bed an hour later, those darn doors were still open. My office, however, had been closed up the entire time, so I just headed into that small sanctuary of warmth and stayed there until the doors were finally closed. The house did smell nice and fresh, and really that freshness was and is worth a bit of discomfort.

Autumn is also soup weather. We do buy canned and packaged soups, for convenience, and for cooking. David can’t eat regular spaghetti sauce as it gives him tummy troubles. But he does like a soup – tomato with basil and oregano – so when we make spaghetti, we use that. We also use canned mushroom soup when we fry pork chops. It’s either my homemade coating mix, or mushroom soup when it comes to the chops.

But the soups I was referring to are the ones I make myself. I will confess to using a bit of prepared vegetable, chicken, or beef broth—I prefer the powdered forms—but everything else in my soups are home ingredients.

There are family favorites, of course: cream of potato (either with leek or bacon), cream of mushroom, and cream of broccoli. Any stew or pot roast is the source of homemade beef barley soup with veggies, or occasionally just beef and veggies soup. I also will make either chicken noodle or chicken with rice soup. A new favorite the last couple of years has been butternut squash with red pepper soup. Sometimes, I get a text from our second daughter asking if there will be soup. Others, it’s my husband who hints for soup.

I am more grateful than I can say that even at this time in my life when I can’t do anywhere near as much as I used to around the house, I can still make a damned good pot of homemade soup.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

 

 

 

 October 7, 2020

The fall colors, in our neck of the words, are beautiful—not yet at their peak, but progressing nicely, the reds and yellows eating away at the green. We make a game of it, David and I, each fall when we spot that first tree that is blazing with some red and gold. We call it a traitor, because, of course, it’s a sure sign that winter truly is on the way.

Autumn is my daughter’s favorite season. She hates the high heat of summer, and the general wetness of spring. She’s not a fan of winter, either, because of the added risk in driving, something she does a lot of daily because all her clients are in the community.

But autumn, she declares, is cool and crisp and clean—and a joyous break from the heat and humidity of the weeks just passed.

I used to love to take walks in the fall, to feel the cool crispness in the air, to feel my cheeks chill from it. Every season has its own beauty, and while I know the secret is to cherish each one for its uniqueness, I haven’t quite mastered that yet.

As I write this, I am still battling my usual fall cold. I get one in the spring, too, and because I’m on heart medications, I pretty much only have sleep as my weapon against it. As with all colds, some days are better than others. Mostly, I become annoyed at my inability to do as much as whatever had become normal for me, just prior to the cold’s onset. But this, too, will pass, and so I do my best each day to acknowledge that fact and then dismiss the inconvenience of it all.

Last night, we had the last serving of beans from our garden. The entire enterprise is pretty much done for the season. We all think that the amount we harvested was well worth the effort we put in.

I didn’t spend all that much time sitting outside in my back yard this year. There weren’t that many days that were “just right” for me. I tend to be conscious all the time, whether or not my legs are getting any drafts on them. Even a breeze that feels warm can bring agony later. I’ve tried having a blanket on my legs, but that doesn’t always work. In the end, being grateful for pain medications does not mean I want to consume them copiously. So I take care.

But the back yard did see plenty of use this year. We had a few small gatherings of family for family suppers. Great-grandchildren were here a few times, and the back yard is a good place for them to run off some of their energy.

As well, our daughter bought a small charcoal barbecue, because as far as she and her dad are concerned, steak tastes so much better grilled over charcoal. She even purchased a bag of hickory to add in with the charcoal. I’m not surprised they both like that “smoky” flavor. They’re alike in a lot of ways. I like it well enough but would choose my propane grill if given the choice. Of course, because of the amount of time it takes the charcoal to give you that good, hot burn, we did only use it a few times and yes, only for the steak.

We had a few meals grilled outside in foil, for which the propane grill is the best. Jenny has taken over all of the outdoor grilling. That isn’t something that David was ever interested in doing, so I’m glad that she really enjoys doing it. Our daughter likes to marinate chicken breasts, then wrap them in foil. She also loves those small potatoes in foil—with salt, butter, and maybe a couple of drops of olive oil. And our favorite new thing this season was whole carrots, wrapped in foil, and grilled. Butter, and perhaps a tablespoon of honey goes in with those carrots, and my, they are very tasty, indeed.

David and I are staying home these days. The numbers of infections is rising in our province, though here in our county, they’re up and down, and at 11 as of yesterday. The situation is wearing on us, just as it is on everyone else. It’s stressful to always have that “what if” scenario in the back of your mind. There’s really no escaping the fear that lies in wait for a weak mental moment.  They call it Covid fatigue, and it is that, but we have to be made of stronger stuff. Yes, acknowledging that this virus will be here for another year or so feels like too much. And for some of us, a total of two years is a lot of time, because we don’t all necessarily have that many years left.

But when it’s a matter of public health, of doing what’s best not just for yourself but others, you just have to suck it up. We’re all in this together, which, turned around, mean’s we’re not, any of us, alone.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury