December 9, 2020

Life with small dogs can be said to be many things, but boring sure isn’t one of them. You may recall my many essays over the years featuring our wonderful Mr. Tuffy. Three months after our daughter moved in last year, bringing with her Tuffy’s only puppy friends, her chihuahuas, we discovered that he had a massive tumor, and had to say goodbye to him.

In all the years of his puppy life that Tuffy and my daughter’s oldest, Bella, knew each other, he never had been successful when she was in season—though he did sire one litter of pups with Bella’s adopted sister, our daughter’s chihuahua/terrier cross, Ivy.

As a side note, I will tell you that her two oldest dogs’ full names are Bella Donna and Poison Ivy. Our daughter has my father’s sense of humor.

In the aftermath of losing Tuffy, we were surprised when we discovered that Bella was pregnant. Jennifer’s lone male chihuahua, Zeus, had been neutered years before, so Tuffy was the only possible sire. Bella gave birth to three puppies, two males and one female. The bigger of the two boys, who was all black and very fluffy, my daughter sold to a friend of hers. I believe I told you at the time, that we had a dilemma which puppy to keep of the two remaining.

It was no surprise to anyone that, in the end, we kept both.

Bear and Missy do not look like they’ve come from the same litter. Now, at a year old, they’re fully grown. Missy is a solid ten pounds, and Bear is a solid three. On a good day.

Bear is perfectly healthy, just small. He’s delicate in a lot of ways, and he’s smart. He eats delicately and if the bigger than him, but still small dogs get wrestling, he doesn’t just jump in. He carries out strategic little attacks. Yes, he’s that smart.

David thought he was too small to survive, and that fear of losing another dog played on him heavily, which was why he’d changed his mind as to which of the two we would keep—and is the reason why we kept both. David couldn’t bond with Bear when he was tiny, but I could and already had when he announced his “change of heart”. So, in terms of emotional “possession”, Bear is mine, and Missy is his.

This is a delineation that the puppies themselves seem to agree with. It’s been a year, as I said, and David has come around and loves Bear as much as he loves Missy. They come to bed with us each night, and when Missy starts to bark at things only she can see, Bear crawls up close to me. He wants no part of her antics, behaviour that can and has gotten her banned from the bedroom for the night.

Missy has a nick name, “box of rocks”, a name that is a nod to her relative intelligence. She’s not very smart, but she is loving, and loves her routines, and her brother, and her people. She’s totally in love with Zeus, my daughter’s male teacup, and gets so excited whenever she gets near him, but he’s not overly impressed.

Missy is the first dog to be walked every day, and that happens now around noon. Noon, because by that time I am ready to take a break from my writing, something I have no choice but to do when it’s walk time.

Why, you may ask, must I stop writing when I don’t even walk any of the dogs? Let me tell you.

The moment the door closes behind David and Missy, Bear begins to make noise. He howls, like a wolf or a coyote caught in a trap. A loud, piercing, lament of sorrow, is that sound. And if my daughter’s dogs are downstairs (they are always down with us if she is at work), then under his leadership, they all begin to howl, too.

When the weather was warmer, I found it an easy fix to open the door to the porch. Once Bear was on the porch and could watch for the return of the daddy and the sister, the howling stopped. However, now it’s December, and cold, and Bear, because he is a small sized, albeit long-haired chihuahua, really feels the cold. Walks for him require sweaters. So, no porch in the winter for him.

Fortunately, in the last few weeks I have discovered that the “Lament of the Abandoned Bear-Bear dog” lasts only about three minutes. Long enough to inspire a headache sometimes, and always interfere with any focus for writing. But it does cease, thank goodness. And of course, after about fifteen minutes, his sister and daddy return, and all is well for Bear and for us.

Until, of course, David takes Bear for his walk—leaving behind a clearly abandoned and totally desolate Missy dog. A Missy dog who has no choice, of course… but to howl.

And yes, my friends, this happens every single day. As I said, boring, those two little fur babies definitely are not.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

 December 2, 2020

As we continue to travel down this path of uncertainty that is the year 2020, many of us find ourselves discovering who we are underneath the layers of the minutia that became our lives during the relatively good times of the last few years.

I hear a lot of people saying how weary they are of this whole “pandemic thing”, and how they just don’t want to do it anymore. They want to get back to normal. The foot stomp is, of course, implied.

People who say words to that effect clearly have never had to endure much hardship in their lives. The one thing that going through tough times teaches you is that you have to persevere until the hard times leave again. And yes, they always leave again.

In our earliest years as a couple, we went through huge tracts of time when David was out of work. Now, I know I didn’t say out loud, “I’m sick of having to do without. I am so done with this.” I likely thought it, but I wouldn’t have said it aloud, because even I knew, as a young mother, that the hard times would be played out and there really wasn’t much I could do about it except endure.

That is not to say we suffered in silence and did nothing.  We supplemented. David worked at clearing driveways in the winter, he cut wood in the fall, thanks to the generosity of a neighbor who said we could take from his bush what we needed to heat our house. In the spring and summer, we drove around looking for cast away beer bottles. In those years, when drinking and driving was an activity many participated in, there were plenty of bottles to be had. We often put bread and milk on the table from the coins earned turning those empties in. We never sat back and did nothing. But whether or not you can land a job isn’t up to you alone. David always looked for work. And then one day, that neighbor who had offered us all that free wood, hired him. He also owned the quarry, you see, and had watched with his own eyes how hard David worked even without a paycheck. That was, incidentally, the last time David was ever permanently out of a job. There were a few seasonal lay-offs in his first years with the quarry, but that is another story.

Now I can say that I feel blessed having acquired my tolerance of tough times through the innocuous years of simply going without material things. I could have had a bit of a hissy fit and stomped my feet and said I refuse to believe it….and in the end my wallet would still have been empty and my cupboards perilously close to bare. And, with that kind of attitude, my state of mind would have been in a deep hole, and that’s not good for anyone.

In 2020 if someone has a hissy fit and decides to go maskless, to congregate with others who feel the same, the end result might not be as harmless as an empty wallet and hungry belly. The experts are worried that the rash of Thanksgiving travel in the week just passed will result, two weeks down the line, in another, and worse upsurge in cases of the virus. And then a week or so after that, hospitals will be completely overwhelmed with patients. And then a week or so after that, there will be even more refrigerated trucks in use as temporary morgues.

I can’t not think about this. Look, I know you’re tired of all this, but you’ve got to hang on. Hang in there. Vaccines are coming. Relief is coming. You just have to keep on keeping on. The truth is that people are going to die because other people can’t be bothered to wear their damn masks. To save lives, all you have to do is hang on, and wear the damn mask.

For those you know who claim the pandemic was all a hoax to get rid of Trump? He’s on the way out now—he really is—and the pandemic is still here. Oh, and if those you know are arrogant enough to believe that it is all a conspiracy against them, and their dear leader who really and truly is on the way out…please ask them, for me, if they really believe the entire world is in on it?

In Iraq where their legislature was gathered on the weekend just passed and pictures of it televised, they were chanting death to America and they were burning colored posters they’d clearly created for the purpose, posters with pictures of Trump on top and Biden on the bottom. The legislature, the people in the street doing all this chanting and burning? They were all wearing face masks. I doubt the Iraqis would be in on a hoax on the side of any Americans, even if they don’t care for Trump.

To those that you, dear reader, know who are still in denial, tell them Morgan said: deny it in your quiet thoughts if you must, but please, please wear your damn mask!

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

 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