I know that you’re all counting down the days until spring. I have to admit that I am doing that, too, even though I try very hard not to rush my days. I know it sounds sappy for me to say that each and every day is a precious gift—but that is exactly what I believe, and how I feel.
I don’t proselytize, and I certainly haven’t thumped a Bible in years. That’s not my job. My job is to live my life the best way I can, share whatever insights I glean along the way, and create stories that are full of hope and love, and make people feel good.
But my faith is rock solid—and it, too, is a precious gift.
Time moves so quickly now for me, and I think that is universal to us, as human beings, the older we get. Yeah, I’m sick of the cold and the snow and the ice. But I do know that before very long at all, we’ll turn the corner, and warmer weather will be here.
And I know, too, that some of you who’ve had unseasonably cold weather this winter will, also before too long, be right back into the triple digit heat of summer. I’m sure there will be days in July or August when we will all be thinking a little more fondly of the last few months.
I’ve been listening to the hype from all of the news networks as they’ve reported on the storms we’ve had this winter. Their hyperbole just makes me shake my head. News anchors have employed phrases like “snowmageddon”, polar vortex, and of course, the oft used “storm of the decade” and then, “storm of the century”.
The truth is, what we have had these past few months in the northern half of this continent is a good, old fashioned winter. Now, it’s true that those of you in the southern half of the United States did get hit a lot more severely than usual. I know that some of you saw snow and ice in your yards for the first time in years—or maybe, for some of you, for the first time, ever. That was most certainly noteworthy and perhaps deserving of a little bit of hype. I really felt bad for you, because you’re not used to any snow or ice at all, and you had a lot to contend with. Driving on icy roads is a very special skill, one that requires either snow tires, or winter chains. It’s not for the faint of heart, and certainly not for the impatient. My advice to any of you contemplating trying to drive in icy conditions is just one word: don’t.
Let’s hope you’re done with the ice storms. For that matter, let’s hope we all are.
There’re only two more days left of February and then we’ll be in March—hopefully the beginning of the end of winter. All of my life, the rule of thumb for planting the gardens has been to wait until the Victoria Day weekend. That’s in May—this year, May 17 to 19. Usually by then, all danger of frost is past. I’m not counting on anything this year. We have (way back in my younger days when this kind of winter was normal) even seen snow in April and early May. I hope not this year. I want my gardens.
Last fall, we planted a whole bunch of new bulbs. We’re eager to see them bloom, and hopeful that they will. I love flowers, I love their smiling, optimistic faces, and the way they scent the air. I grew up knowing the joy of lily of the valley, narcissus, daffodils, and lilacs blooming sometimes together. There was a special perfume when several of them blossomed at the same time, and the breeze was just right.
Meanwhile, and until then, I’m going to do my best to make the most of each day, and remember that all things come, not to stay, but to pass.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
February 19, 2014
This past Monday, here in Ontario, saw us observing a relatively new holiday, begun in 2008: Family Day. Before this holiday was officially named, there was, for the employees of a lot of companies, a “floating holiday” in February—because this one, everyone knew, was coming, thanks to the long, drawn out, government debates.
I don’t think one should read into this day any great reverence, on the part of the provincial government, for the Canadian Family. I think it was more a question of everyone complaining that we had to go from New Years Day all the way to Good Friday without a paid “holiday”.
Some communities hold special family-oriented events on the third Monday in February. We never bothered to attend any, of course, because by 2008 all of our children were grown and gone. This year, actually, was the first time we did anything in honor of the day, and it came about in a backwards sort of way.
It’s rather fascinating how a lot of the things we Ashbury’s end up doing happen that way.
Our second daughter has a great love of “family dinners”. I don’t believe she ever enjoyed one until she became a part of our family. In fact, I remember with a lot of fondness her first one here, and so does she.
The dinner was for our middle child, Anthony’s birthday, the first year the two of them were together as a couple. Now, his birthday was July 5th. This particular July 5th was a hot one. Regardless, the birthday boy (well, birthday man as he was over 21) had expressed his dinner preferences: prime rib, baked potatoes, and cauliflower and broccoli. And cake, of course, as it was his birthday.
My house didn’t have any air conditioning.
So there we were, 7 of us, around the dinner table, perspiring, as you can imagine. I cooked the roast in the oven, so the entire kitchen was sweltering, and the kitchen is the only place here to eat. And then Anthony asked where the cheese sauce was. I told him I just couldn’t manage to make a cheese sauce that day. That comment was followed by my daughter’s then boyfriend, whom she’d been with a couple of years, asking where the gravy was. I explained that with cooking prime rib, one doesn’t have gravy, one has “au jus”. Of course, all the jokesters in the family had fun razzing me about “no cheese sauce” and not even a real gravy, just “au jus”, saying I was falling down on the job, that I should get a demerit put into my folder, and so on and so forth.
Our second daughter was sitting beside me and getting angrier and angrier—until I took pity on her and told her that they were all just teasing me—and that it was something that happened a lot around here.
This past Family Day family dinner was on the other end of the spectrum, so to speak. My second daughter wanted us to have a family dinner, since we hadn’t had one since Christmas. I told her, and my daughter, that if they wanted a family dinner, I would be happy to provide the venue and the food, but they would have to help. I’m not up to the big productions I used to do, and that’s just the way it is. They agreed. Then I asked (foolish question because I knew the answer) what they would like to eat for this meal. The answer? T-Bone steaks. There would be 8 of us eating steak, as my youngest grandson doesn’t care for it and prefers a couple of hamburgers instead.
When I pointed out that the only way to cook these steaks would be to do so on the outdoor grill, my daughter said she would be happy to do that. And she did, wonderfully, after her son cleared the mountain of snow leading up to and around the grill.
The girls were true to their word about taking on the lion’s share of the work. My contribution to the meal was minimal—I prepared the veggies, including that heart-shaped potato for my beloved.
This year, at least, the Ashbury’s lived up to the hype of the holiday. We had supper on Sunday with the girls and their crew and then went to our son’s house Monday mid-morning to have brunch with him and his.
These days, I cherish every opportunity I get to spend time with my loved ones. It is, in my mind, the most fulfilling time I spend.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
I don’t think one should read into this day any great reverence, on the part of the provincial government, for the Canadian Family. I think it was more a question of everyone complaining that we had to go from New Years Day all the way to Good Friday without a paid “holiday”.
Some communities hold special family-oriented events on the third Monday in February. We never bothered to attend any, of course, because by 2008 all of our children were grown and gone. This year, actually, was the first time we did anything in honor of the day, and it came about in a backwards sort of way.
It’s rather fascinating how a lot of the things we Ashbury’s end up doing happen that way.
Our second daughter has a great love of “family dinners”. I don’t believe she ever enjoyed one until she became a part of our family. In fact, I remember with a lot of fondness her first one here, and so does she.
The dinner was for our middle child, Anthony’s birthday, the first year the two of them were together as a couple. Now, his birthday was July 5th. This particular July 5th was a hot one. Regardless, the birthday boy (well, birthday man as he was over 21) had expressed his dinner preferences: prime rib, baked potatoes, and cauliflower and broccoli. And cake, of course, as it was his birthday.
My house didn’t have any air conditioning.
So there we were, 7 of us, around the dinner table, perspiring, as you can imagine. I cooked the roast in the oven, so the entire kitchen was sweltering, and the kitchen is the only place here to eat. And then Anthony asked where the cheese sauce was. I told him I just couldn’t manage to make a cheese sauce that day. That comment was followed by my daughter’s then boyfriend, whom she’d been with a couple of years, asking where the gravy was. I explained that with cooking prime rib, one doesn’t have gravy, one has “au jus”. Of course, all the jokesters in the family had fun razzing me about “no cheese sauce” and not even a real gravy, just “au jus”, saying I was falling down on the job, that I should get a demerit put into my folder, and so on and so forth.
Our second daughter was sitting beside me and getting angrier and angrier—until I took pity on her and told her that they were all just teasing me—and that it was something that happened a lot around here.
This past Family Day family dinner was on the other end of the spectrum, so to speak. My second daughter wanted us to have a family dinner, since we hadn’t had one since Christmas. I told her, and my daughter, that if they wanted a family dinner, I would be happy to provide the venue and the food, but they would have to help. I’m not up to the big productions I used to do, and that’s just the way it is. They agreed. Then I asked (foolish question because I knew the answer) what they would like to eat for this meal. The answer? T-Bone steaks. There would be 8 of us eating steak, as my youngest grandson doesn’t care for it and prefers a couple of hamburgers instead.
When I pointed out that the only way to cook these steaks would be to do so on the outdoor grill, my daughter said she would be happy to do that. And she did, wonderfully, after her son cleared the mountain of snow leading up to and around the grill.
The girls were true to their word about taking on the lion’s share of the work. My contribution to the meal was minimal—I prepared the veggies, including that heart-shaped potato for my beloved.
This year, at least, the Ashbury’s lived up to the hype of the holiday. We had supper on Sunday with the girls and their crew and then went to our son’s house Monday mid-morning to have brunch with him and his.
These days, I cherish every opportunity I get to spend time with my loved ones. It is, in my mind, the most fulfilling time I spend.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
February 12, 2014
It’s not all glitz and glamor, the life of an author. No siree. I may spend my days playing on my computer with people created from my own imagination, but I am still a wife, mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother. I still have to cook and clean—although I have convinced my beloved that it really is past time that he lends a hand with the latter.
Still, the bulk of the work running the household falls to me. And every once in a while, strange things happen.
One such strange happening occurred one day last week as I began to prepare dinner. We were having beef stew and it was time to get the potatoes peeled and into the pot. I reached into the bag and pulled out a potato that was in a nearly perfect valentine heart shape.
I kid you not.
I held this thing in my hand and laughed. Of course, I didn’t peel it. How could I? I mean, how often do you suppose anyone reaches into a bag of potatoes and pulls out a heart? So I set the potato aside, and made the dinner. But that heart made me think back to those days long gone when I was a young mother—and probably my only Valentine’s Day fail, ever.
When we were five—mom and dad, and three children aged from five to eleven—we didn’t have much. We scraped and saved for Christmas. For Valentine’s Day, we made sure that we had enough money set aside for the kids to buy their package of cards to give out at school, and to get them each a small, heart shaped box of candies for the day itself.
But some years were leaner than others. One time, in particular, I recall, there was just enough for the cards but not the chocolates. It really upset me at the time—you know how it is. Kids think you’re a big meanine when you have to say no, but you understand, as a parent, that things can happen to prevent you from doing what you’d hoped. When that happened in the past, I always just felt like a failure. You want to give your children not just what they need but some of what they want, but you can’t, always.
Valentine’s Day came that particular year, and I was making dinner—meatloaf, which everyone actually loved, mashed potatoes, and carrots. Suddenly, I had an amazing thought.
So I cooked the dinner carefully—the meatloaf not in the standard loaf pan, but instead on a tray in the oven, because I’d shaped the meat differently. I cut the carrots differently too—not sliced round, as usual, but in sticks.
When my family came to the table for supper, rather than just putting the food on the table for them to serve themselves, I presented them with their plates: meatloaf in the shape of hearts, with mashed potatoes forming a white pseudo-lace “boarder” around each heart, and the carrots laid out across the hearts as “arrows”.
I laugh thinking about it now, because I was so proud of myself for my great ingenuity! Unfortunately the comments I got were less than laudatory. You can imagine: “you should have used corn, because this sure is corny”, and other grumblings of a less than enthusiastic nature. They were children, after all, and more interested in chocolate than the sentiment behind them.
Flash forward about thirty years, to this freak of nature I found in my bag of potatoes. I haven’t done anything with it yet. It’s still sitting in the centre of the “lazy Susan” on my kitchen table. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with it—but I think I might just save it until the 14th. Then I’ll scrub it, prick it, brush it with olive oil and wrap it in foil. I’ll present it to my beloved for dinner, perhaps alongside a steak.
He might think (once more) that it’s corny, but that’s all right. I’m nearly sixty, and if there is one thing in life I’ve learned, it’s this:
Often times, a potato is only, in the end, a potato. And Valentine’s really is about sentiment behind the day.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Still, the bulk of the work running the household falls to me. And every once in a while, strange things happen.
One such strange happening occurred one day last week as I began to prepare dinner. We were having beef stew and it was time to get the potatoes peeled and into the pot. I reached into the bag and pulled out a potato that was in a nearly perfect valentine heart shape.
I kid you not.
I held this thing in my hand and laughed. Of course, I didn’t peel it. How could I? I mean, how often do you suppose anyone reaches into a bag of potatoes and pulls out a heart? So I set the potato aside, and made the dinner. But that heart made me think back to those days long gone when I was a young mother—and probably my only Valentine’s Day fail, ever.
When we were five—mom and dad, and three children aged from five to eleven—we didn’t have much. We scraped and saved for Christmas. For Valentine’s Day, we made sure that we had enough money set aside for the kids to buy their package of cards to give out at school, and to get them each a small, heart shaped box of candies for the day itself.
But some years were leaner than others. One time, in particular, I recall, there was just enough for the cards but not the chocolates. It really upset me at the time—you know how it is. Kids think you’re a big meanine when you have to say no, but you understand, as a parent, that things can happen to prevent you from doing what you’d hoped. When that happened in the past, I always just felt like a failure. You want to give your children not just what they need but some of what they want, but you can’t, always.
Valentine’s Day came that particular year, and I was making dinner—meatloaf, which everyone actually loved, mashed potatoes, and carrots. Suddenly, I had an amazing thought.
So I cooked the dinner carefully—the meatloaf not in the standard loaf pan, but instead on a tray in the oven, because I’d shaped the meat differently. I cut the carrots differently too—not sliced round, as usual, but in sticks.
When my family came to the table for supper, rather than just putting the food on the table for them to serve themselves, I presented them with their plates: meatloaf in the shape of hearts, with mashed potatoes forming a white pseudo-lace “boarder” around each heart, and the carrots laid out across the hearts as “arrows”.
I laugh thinking about it now, because I was so proud of myself for my great ingenuity! Unfortunately the comments I got were less than laudatory. You can imagine: “you should have used corn, because this sure is corny”, and other grumblings of a less than enthusiastic nature. They were children, after all, and more interested in chocolate than the sentiment behind them.
Flash forward about thirty years, to this freak of nature I found in my bag of potatoes. I haven’t done anything with it yet. It’s still sitting in the centre of the “lazy Susan” on my kitchen table. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with it—but I think I might just save it until the 14th. Then I’ll scrub it, prick it, brush it with olive oil and wrap it in foil. I’ll present it to my beloved for dinner, perhaps alongside a steak.
He might think (once more) that it’s corny, but that’s all right. I’m nearly sixty, and if there is one thing in life I’ve learned, it’s this:
Often times, a potato is only, in the end, a potato. And Valentine’s really is about sentiment behind the day.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
February 5, 2014
In a rare show of unity, three of North America’s weather-predicting groundhogs agree on one thing. Winter isn’t over, baby. We get to have six more weeks of the witch.
In Ontario, we have our own groundhog. His name is Wiarton Willie, and he can boast a 60% accuracy rate. I suppose that’s not bad. I have no idea how the weather network fares on their forecasts. Probably better than 60%, but maybe not by much.
We have another groundhog in Canada, on the east coast. His name is Shubenacadie Sam. Yeah, I know, I can’t pronounce it, either. Sam, apparently, did not see his shadow, thus, according to folklore, predicting an early spring. He, however, and at least this year, is in the minority.
Punxsutawney Phil, the most famous groundhog of them all, saw his shadow...or maybe it was just fear of the large, boisterous crowd coupled with those dudes in the tall hats that scared him. But one must keep in mind, regardless of the reason for his “seeing his shadow” that since the beginning—1887 for this Pennsylvania predictor—he’s only been right about 39 per cent of the time. Of course there are Phil supporters who point out that in recent decades, that number has risen to a nearly impressive 59%. But like Willie, that’s not really very reliable at all.
Then we come to the fourth member of the rodent oracle quartet—Staten Island Chuck.
Now, Chuck is a groundhog you can believe in! He has an impressive 80 percent success rate. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, he is right 80 percent of the time. I don’t think the major networks well-paid meteorologists can boast as much.
So you can imagine that, being fed up with winter the way that I am, I was rubbing my hands in great anticipation for Chuck’s prediction.
Now here, for just a moment, I must digress.
Have you ever had the sense that things go well, until politicians get involved? I don’t mean to be cynical. We need politicians, I guess, because the current way we select those who are in charge of the government is through elections; in order to be elected one must campaign; enter the politicians, women and men who are versed in the best way to appear before the crowds, and woo the voters to their sides.
Personally, I have never understood why someone who’s good at appearances and has an aura of charisma is also, therefore, automatically considered talented at governing. But that’s just me and surely a discussion for another day.
Now, let’s get back to our main topic. I awaited word from Staten Island, that beleaguered community still trying to recover from Hurricane Sandy. As in other places, there is pomp and ceremony—tradition, if you will—surrounding Chuck’s performance on February 2nd. I imagine Chuck hasn’t, in the past, been too unwilling when it came to this sort of thing. I use as my reasoning in this assumption, of course, his 80% success rate.
But then, like the rest of us, he began to become weary of the politicians involved. He certainly let Mr. Bloomberg, the former mayor of New York, know this opinion in 2010. What did he do? He bit the mayor.
I imagine that if it weren’t for the fact that Chuck is a revered and beloved figure, he might have become Chuck stew at that point. However, Chuck remains, and mayor Bloomberg is mayor no more.
But this year, this year, it was poor Chuck who was the victim of a politician when the new mayor of New York, Bill de Blasio, dropped the little guy. Yes, he dropped him, and so—maybe out of pique—Chuck agreed with Phil and Willie, and told us we were in for six more long, cold, miserable weeks of winter.
Friends, I submit to you for your consideration, the following credo, which I believe is only logical: We humans like to boast that we are educated, intelligent, technologically advanced, and forward thinking.
But if we are going to place our faith in prognosticating rodents, then we surely deserve however much more winter we get.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
In Ontario, we have our own groundhog. His name is Wiarton Willie, and he can boast a 60% accuracy rate. I suppose that’s not bad. I have no idea how the weather network fares on their forecasts. Probably better than 60%, but maybe not by much.
We have another groundhog in Canada, on the east coast. His name is Shubenacadie Sam. Yeah, I know, I can’t pronounce it, either. Sam, apparently, did not see his shadow, thus, according to folklore, predicting an early spring. He, however, and at least this year, is in the minority.
Punxsutawney Phil, the most famous groundhog of them all, saw his shadow...or maybe it was just fear of the large, boisterous crowd coupled with those dudes in the tall hats that scared him. But one must keep in mind, regardless of the reason for his “seeing his shadow” that since the beginning—1887 for this Pennsylvania predictor—he’s only been right about 39 per cent of the time. Of course there are Phil supporters who point out that in recent decades, that number has risen to a nearly impressive 59%. But like Willie, that’s not really very reliable at all.
Then we come to the fourth member of the rodent oracle quartet—Staten Island Chuck.
Now, Chuck is a groundhog you can believe in! He has an impressive 80 percent success rate. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, he is right 80 percent of the time. I don’t think the major networks well-paid meteorologists can boast as much.
So you can imagine that, being fed up with winter the way that I am, I was rubbing my hands in great anticipation for Chuck’s prediction.
Now here, for just a moment, I must digress.
Have you ever had the sense that things go well, until politicians get involved? I don’t mean to be cynical. We need politicians, I guess, because the current way we select those who are in charge of the government is through elections; in order to be elected one must campaign; enter the politicians, women and men who are versed in the best way to appear before the crowds, and woo the voters to their sides.
Personally, I have never understood why someone who’s good at appearances and has an aura of charisma is also, therefore, automatically considered talented at governing. But that’s just me and surely a discussion for another day.
Now, let’s get back to our main topic. I awaited word from Staten Island, that beleaguered community still trying to recover from Hurricane Sandy. As in other places, there is pomp and ceremony—tradition, if you will—surrounding Chuck’s performance on February 2nd. I imagine Chuck hasn’t, in the past, been too unwilling when it came to this sort of thing. I use as my reasoning in this assumption, of course, his 80% success rate.
But then, like the rest of us, he began to become weary of the politicians involved. He certainly let Mr. Bloomberg, the former mayor of New York, know this opinion in 2010. What did he do? He bit the mayor.
I imagine that if it weren’t for the fact that Chuck is a revered and beloved figure, he might have become Chuck stew at that point. However, Chuck remains, and mayor Bloomberg is mayor no more.
But this year, this year, it was poor Chuck who was the victim of a politician when the new mayor of New York, Bill de Blasio, dropped the little guy. Yes, he dropped him, and so—maybe out of pique—Chuck agreed with Phil and Willie, and told us we were in for six more long, cold, miserable weeks of winter.
Friends, I submit to you for your consideration, the following credo, which I believe is only logical: We humans like to boast that we are educated, intelligent, technologically advanced, and forward thinking.
But if we are going to place our faith in prognosticating rodents, then we surely deserve however much more winter we get.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
January 29, 2014
Even we hardy, snow-loving Canadians are sick of winter already. This has been the coldest and the snowiest winter in recent memory. I would have to go back and look at the official records to tell you exactly when we had it this bad, but I do know it is somewhere in the vicinity of 20 years ago. I keep recalling that winter a few years back when it was in the 50s in January and I saw one brave soul who went grocery shopping, wearing shorts.
I feel particularly bad for all my southern friends who have been hit pretty hard with the cold temperatures—and some of them even having to endure snow! Please don’t blame Canada. Apparently it’s the arctic that is sending all these deep freezing, polar vortex type temps your way.
This coming Sunday is Groundhog Day. I live in hope that the little varmint will not see his shadow and that we will get an early spring. I, myself, am blessed because I have the freedom to pretty much stay indoors. I can turn up the heat, layer on clothes, cover up with a blanket. In other words, the cold is inconvenient, but not devastating.
There was a time when it was exactly that, and I remember all the things we did to help our old drafty house stay warm. We tacked six mil plastic to the inside of nearly every window. We stuffed towels at the bottom of the front and back doors. We kept alert to the possibility of power outages. Since in those days we had a well for water with an electric pump that meant filling the bathtub with water for flushing the toilet and two large pots of water on the stove for other needs. On the occasions when the outages came without warning, we were able to melt snow in pots on our wood stove for the basic necessities.
I can remember filling mason jars with boiling water and then wrapping them in a towel and setting them in the children’s beds an hour before bedtime. I’d replace them before I went to bed, and again first thing in the morning, an hour or so before they got up. We loved rural living, but it was not without its challenges.
These days, although we have had two instances of furnace malfunction in the last couple of months, it was no real hardship. Like I said, extra layers, a couple of electric heaters and the oven on for a few minutes here and there, and we were fine. Too, once you’ve been through really tough times, for extended periods, you discover that nothing can really shake you that badly again. As I always say, sometimes bad things come our way, but they don’t come to stay, they come to pass.
Time moves too quickly as it is, so I know that before long, this winter will pass, and spring and then summer will be here. We joke now that the first person we hear complaining about how hot it is this summer is going to get a smack – but face it, we’re humans—fickle, and imperfect.
The first heat wave that hits us, we’re all going to complain about the heat. I think it’s inevitable.
There isn’t anything we can do, really, about the weather except to try and simply cope with it. We can work on keeping the best attitude possible. For those who have to work out of doors, I salute you and I know what you’re going through. My beloved drives a truck now at the quarry where he’s been employed for more than 35 years. But that is a recent development.
Not that many years ago he would be outside all day, and when the quarry was a family owned operation, and before “safety first” became a way of life, he even used to climb up 100 foot conveyor belts when they would jam with ice and snow—no matter the winds or the blowing snow at the time.
That was in the years when we lived next door to the place, and he would come home each day for a hot lunch—and clean, warmed socks waiting for him by the stove.
It’s amazing looking back at what we endured, together and separately, when we were younger. Older has its own adjustments, but it has its rewards, too.
Stay warm, keep smiling, and we’ll get through this nasty winter.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
I feel particularly bad for all my southern friends who have been hit pretty hard with the cold temperatures—and some of them even having to endure snow! Please don’t blame Canada. Apparently it’s the arctic that is sending all these deep freezing, polar vortex type temps your way.
This coming Sunday is Groundhog Day. I live in hope that the little varmint will not see his shadow and that we will get an early spring. I, myself, am blessed because I have the freedom to pretty much stay indoors. I can turn up the heat, layer on clothes, cover up with a blanket. In other words, the cold is inconvenient, but not devastating.
There was a time when it was exactly that, and I remember all the things we did to help our old drafty house stay warm. We tacked six mil plastic to the inside of nearly every window. We stuffed towels at the bottom of the front and back doors. We kept alert to the possibility of power outages. Since in those days we had a well for water with an electric pump that meant filling the bathtub with water for flushing the toilet and two large pots of water on the stove for other needs. On the occasions when the outages came without warning, we were able to melt snow in pots on our wood stove for the basic necessities.
I can remember filling mason jars with boiling water and then wrapping them in a towel and setting them in the children’s beds an hour before bedtime. I’d replace them before I went to bed, and again first thing in the morning, an hour or so before they got up. We loved rural living, but it was not without its challenges.
These days, although we have had two instances of furnace malfunction in the last couple of months, it was no real hardship. Like I said, extra layers, a couple of electric heaters and the oven on for a few minutes here and there, and we were fine. Too, once you’ve been through really tough times, for extended periods, you discover that nothing can really shake you that badly again. As I always say, sometimes bad things come our way, but they don’t come to stay, they come to pass.
Time moves too quickly as it is, so I know that before long, this winter will pass, and spring and then summer will be here. We joke now that the first person we hear complaining about how hot it is this summer is going to get a smack – but face it, we’re humans—fickle, and imperfect.
The first heat wave that hits us, we’re all going to complain about the heat. I think it’s inevitable.
There isn’t anything we can do, really, about the weather except to try and simply cope with it. We can work on keeping the best attitude possible. For those who have to work out of doors, I salute you and I know what you’re going through. My beloved drives a truck now at the quarry where he’s been employed for more than 35 years. But that is a recent development.
Not that many years ago he would be outside all day, and when the quarry was a family owned operation, and before “safety first” became a way of life, he even used to climb up 100 foot conveyor belts when they would jam with ice and snow—no matter the winds or the blowing snow at the time.
That was in the years when we lived next door to the place, and he would come home each day for a hot lunch—and clean, warmed socks waiting for him by the stove.
It’s amazing looking back at what we endured, together and separately, when we were younger. Older has its own adjustments, but it has its rewards, too.
Stay warm, keep smiling, and we’ll get through this nasty winter.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
January 22, 2014
We go through life, we humans, as if we really are, to paraphrase the words of William Ernest Henley, the “masters of our fate and captains of our souls”. But every once in a while something happens that completely disabuses us of any such presumption of power.
One such time for me occurred this past week as I was hit unexpectedly with a bout of illness. I developed an infection. The effects of this temporary condition were quite far reaching. There were the usual culprits, of course: fever and chills. In fact I had chills so bad I couldn’t text coherently. Needless to say my daughter was quite concerned and came running thinking her elderly mother had mentally crumbled.
Nope. I was just shivering so bad my teeth were mimicking castanets and my fingers could not hit the right darn keys.
I’ve been sick before, and I’ve been on antibiotics before. But this time has been different. I am kicking at the gate of 60, so I understand that this whole aging thing comes into play in some areas. One of those areas is how your body reacts to illness.
I know how to be sick. I’ve done it occasionally for years. Usually, it means that although I feel like “crap”, I’m able to soldier on, doing what needs to be done in the day-to-day. I might have to rest a lot more often than I’m used to, but stuff gets done. Stuff has to get done. That’s just the way it goes. Where do you think that saying comes from, that “moms don’t get sick”?
Not this time. This was the first time that I found not only did I have no energy to do anything—I had no ability to focus for more than a few minutes at a time on anything. Period.
So for the last almost week, I have been resting. I’ve written no words until I sat down yesterday afternoon to begin to write this essay. When I wasn’t in bed actually sleeping, I was in my recliner, with my legs up, my blanket on, and my eyes closed. Not sleeping, just lying there. Doing nothing.
I regret to inform you that I’m kind of a failure at doing nothing.
In the week leading up to this one of near complete and total incapacitation, when I thought I just had a cold so much like the one that so many people I know had over the last few weeks, I wasn’t faring that well, either. I had to rest a lot through the day and I was getting frustrated with myself because... because I am getting older.
I’m getting older! Most of the time I try very hard to ignore that fact, but there are times when “mind over matter” just doesn’t work. Damn it.
I’m not whining, and I’m not complaining—well, not much, anyway. I guess mostly I’m sitting here, scratching my head, trying to figure it all out. There has to be a way over, around or through this thing.
I just haven’t found it yet. But I’m not giving up. I’ll keep looking.
I’m sure, under the circumstances, that y’all won’t mind if I cut things short this week. Some of you may even cheer, and that’s fine. I’m just going to hunker down right here, close my eyes and rest.
And I’m going to hope that you’re all doing fine.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
One such time for me occurred this past week as I was hit unexpectedly with a bout of illness. I developed an infection. The effects of this temporary condition were quite far reaching. There were the usual culprits, of course: fever and chills. In fact I had chills so bad I couldn’t text coherently. Needless to say my daughter was quite concerned and came running thinking her elderly mother had mentally crumbled.
Nope. I was just shivering so bad my teeth were mimicking castanets and my fingers could not hit the right darn keys.
I’ve been sick before, and I’ve been on antibiotics before. But this time has been different. I am kicking at the gate of 60, so I understand that this whole aging thing comes into play in some areas. One of those areas is how your body reacts to illness.
I know how to be sick. I’ve done it occasionally for years. Usually, it means that although I feel like “crap”, I’m able to soldier on, doing what needs to be done in the day-to-day. I might have to rest a lot more often than I’m used to, but stuff gets done. Stuff has to get done. That’s just the way it goes. Where do you think that saying comes from, that “moms don’t get sick”?
Not this time. This was the first time that I found not only did I have no energy to do anything—I had no ability to focus for more than a few minutes at a time on anything. Period.
So for the last almost week, I have been resting. I’ve written no words until I sat down yesterday afternoon to begin to write this essay. When I wasn’t in bed actually sleeping, I was in my recliner, with my legs up, my blanket on, and my eyes closed. Not sleeping, just lying there. Doing nothing.
I regret to inform you that I’m kind of a failure at doing nothing.
In the week leading up to this one of near complete and total incapacitation, when I thought I just had a cold so much like the one that so many people I know had over the last few weeks, I wasn’t faring that well, either. I had to rest a lot through the day and I was getting frustrated with myself because... because I am getting older.
I’m getting older! Most of the time I try very hard to ignore that fact, but there are times when “mind over matter” just doesn’t work. Damn it.
I’m not whining, and I’m not complaining—well, not much, anyway. I guess mostly I’m sitting here, scratching my head, trying to figure it all out. There has to be a way over, around or through this thing.
I just haven’t found it yet. But I’m not giving up. I’ll keep looking.
I’m sure, under the circumstances, that y’all won’t mind if I cut things short this week. Some of you may even cheer, and that’s fine. I’m just going to hunker down right here, close my eyes and rest.
And I’m going to hope that you’re all doing fine.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
January 15, 2014
This past weekend the weather finally stumbled out of the deep freeze that most of us have been suffering through for far too many days. On Saturday, here, it was a balmy 46 degrees. But the slight wind kept us from feeling any warmth. Instead of just being cold, this past weekend we were cold and wet.
I think a good half of the snow we had here melted. But it didn’t really melt away. It pooled and became watery ice and then, overnight, it would harden again. The snow in our back yard is now ice-covered, which I don’t mind, necessarily. Tuffy, however, doesn’t care for it.
I should qualify that. He doesn’t like walking over it, but does like that the last few days have been milder. He’s been able to stay outside longer, allowing him to take complete olfactory inventory of every critter who, over the last couple of weeks, dared to enter his yard when he was tucked up safe and warm inside.
He’s a dog (no longer a puppy since he turned 1 on Christmas Day) who enjoys his front porch and his back yard. We did keep him in over the worst of the cold, not letting him out at all—not even for a minute. This meant making sure we had a pad down for him, which he used properly. But he’s little, and that wasn’t too bad an ordeal for either of us (him or me) to endure.
My dear husband returned to work on January 6, after being home for 17 straight days. Or I should say, he tried to return to work. They worked a half day on Monday, and then were sent home upon arrival on Tuesday, because of the bitter cold. Quarry work is outside work and company policy does cite the lowest temperature for working. The temperatures here were below that.
Thank God Wednesday turned out to be a full day on the job for him. Murder was therefore, fortunately, averted.
It’s amazing, in a way, how quickly I was spoiled by two previous winters that only had a couple of minor cold snaps, and snow that kept melting away completely. It’s been a lot of years since we had snow that came in early December and stayed. I think I’ve lost my immunity to the weather that I used to have. Going outside every morning to take David to work, and then again to pick him up in the afternoon had me used to being out in the snow and ice. Now, I only venture out Thursday afternoons to bring him home. Sometimes not even that. When it’s been a couple of weeks since I made that trek to the next county, I’m always shocked at the progression of the season.
The very poor condition of some of our roads these last few days has been another shock. In some areas the plows hadn’t done a very good job; in others, they were too enthusiastic, and left potholes behind to prove it.
One result of that ice storm that we had here in Southern Ontario a few days before Christmas was that within a day of it, there was no safety salt left to be had at any of the stores. In fact, we were unable get any as late as yesterday. The manager of our local grocery store said salt was en route, on Sunday. We’re still waiting. In the interim, I mostly stayed inside the house. I’m at the point in my life where falls are to be avoided at all costs.
Monday, my eleven year old grandson came over with his sister, and he took a shovel and cleared the ice from my walkway. He’s growing up to be a good little man.
Most people are lamenting about how long this winter has seemed already. We have, potentially, two months of the season left to go. In this area of life only, I take a pessimistic view, and I believe that view actually leads to an optimistic outlook.
Most people cling to that outdated tenet that winter “officially” begins on December 20th or 21st, depending. Not me. October first, baby. That is the first day of winter in my book, and it doesn’t stay here in my part of Canada for a paltry three months. No siree, it’s ours for half a year.
And by that reckoning, we are already nearly two-thirds done with the bitch. Ground Hog Day is in just 18 days. It’s just about time to celebrate.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
I think a good half of the snow we had here melted. But it didn’t really melt away. It pooled and became watery ice and then, overnight, it would harden again. The snow in our back yard is now ice-covered, which I don’t mind, necessarily. Tuffy, however, doesn’t care for it.
I should qualify that. He doesn’t like walking over it, but does like that the last few days have been milder. He’s been able to stay outside longer, allowing him to take complete olfactory inventory of every critter who, over the last couple of weeks, dared to enter his yard when he was tucked up safe and warm inside.
He’s a dog (no longer a puppy since he turned 1 on Christmas Day) who enjoys his front porch and his back yard. We did keep him in over the worst of the cold, not letting him out at all—not even for a minute. This meant making sure we had a pad down for him, which he used properly. But he’s little, and that wasn’t too bad an ordeal for either of us (him or me) to endure.
My dear husband returned to work on January 6, after being home for 17 straight days. Or I should say, he tried to return to work. They worked a half day on Monday, and then were sent home upon arrival on Tuesday, because of the bitter cold. Quarry work is outside work and company policy does cite the lowest temperature for working. The temperatures here were below that.
Thank God Wednesday turned out to be a full day on the job for him. Murder was therefore, fortunately, averted.
It’s amazing, in a way, how quickly I was spoiled by two previous winters that only had a couple of minor cold snaps, and snow that kept melting away completely. It’s been a lot of years since we had snow that came in early December and stayed. I think I’ve lost my immunity to the weather that I used to have. Going outside every morning to take David to work, and then again to pick him up in the afternoon had me used to being out in the snow and ice. Now, I only venture out Thursday afternoons to bring him home. Sometimes not even that. When it’s been a couple of weeks since I made that trek to the next county, I’m always shocked at the progression of the season.
The very poor condition of some of our roads these last few days has been another shock. In some areas the plows hadn’t done a very good job; in others, they were too enthusiastic, and left potholes behind to prove it.
One result of that ice storm that we had here in Southern Ontario a few days before Christmas was that within a day of it, there was no safety salt left to be had at any of the stores. In fact, we were unable get any as late as yesterday. The manager of our local grocery store said salt was en route, on Sunday. We’re still waiting. In the interim, I mostly stayed inside the house. I’m at the point in my life where falls are to be avoided at all costs.
Monday, my eleven year old grandson came over with his sister, and he took a shovel and cleared the ice from my walkway. He’s growing up to be a good little man.
Most people are lamenting about how long this winter has seemed already. We have, potentially, two months of the season left to go. In this area of life only, I take a pessimistic view, and I believe that view actually leads to an optimistic outlook.
Most people cling to that outdated tenet that winter “officially” begins on December 20th or 21st, depending. Not me. October first, baby. That is the first day of winter in my book, and it doesn’t stay here in my part of Canada for a paltry three months. No siree, it’s ours for half a year.
And by that reckoning, we are already nearly two-thirds done with the bitch. Ground Hog Day is in just 18 days. It’s just about time to celebrate.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)