August 26, 2020 

I’m a person who really, really loves routine. And when those days happen, as they inevitably do, when that routine is altered—regardless of the reason—well, friends, let me just say, it’s not pretty around here. No, it’s not pretty at all.

It doesn’t even matter if the reason why the routine is all messed up is because I slept in. Not that many years ago, say, three or four, I could go to bed at 1 am and wake up at 7 am, no problem. I go through sleep stages, not nightly ones but stages that seem to last for months. I went through a long stretch, not long after my heart surgery, when I had to have 8 hours of sleep a night, every night. I. Had. To. Have. It.

Then, that kind of tapered off and I was getting 5 or 6 hours a night, and that was fine. I’d wake up with the birds, and I had energy and could actually do some things. Real things. Substantive things. Life, as they say, was good. For a while.

And now? My friends, if I stay up as late as 1 am now, I pay a heavy, heavy price the next day. I sleep later, and I have to spend half the day looking for my energy. It seems like only yesterday that I could make myself a to-do list first thing in the morning, and by the end of the day, sit back with pride at a hand full of jobs well done. For right now, at least, those days are gone.

I know what happened, and it really does have a lot to do with the situation that we’re all living in. That situation is, of course, that we are in a global pandemic. And because it changes the way we do things, it creates a kind of “extra emotional weight” on each of us, each and every day. It’s akin to my “miss one part of your routine in the morning and the whole day is screwed” philosophy of life. Also, and not to be discounted, is the lack of going out. I didn’t go out much before the pandemic, but I did venture forth into the wider world. And I did so without stress or worry.

Now, I may go out once a week to get groceries, or sometimes it’s once every two weeks. But I am tense and stressed the entire time I am in the vicinity of other people. I wear my mask and socially distance—and I stress.

As well, I find myself in a routine at the moment that isn’t really working for me. The plan is to begin writing at 9 am and to keep at it until at least noon. Often, I can get a couple of thousand words done in that time. But my husband has a morning routine wherein he walks the two pups—first Missy and then Bear. And as each one leaves, the other begins to wail and/or yip and/or howl. And can you guess what happens to my ability to write at that point?

Life is a careful mixture of balance and compromise and at the moment, I’m in the part of balancing where I have to give in, graciously. David can’t manage both pups at the same time, and he has to walk them in the morning before the heat of the day sets in. He has COPD and his needs, health-wise, eclipse my needs, career-wise. But that’s not the worst of it. The worst of it is that my stamina when it comes to physical activity has, for whatever reason, decreased substantially in the last eight months.

There are days when I’m torn between saying to myself that I’m sixty-six years old—and actually adding an “only” in there. And I can’t help but wonder if this lack of stamina isn’t something that I’ve done to myself.

I recall when our daughter and her son moved back in here more than ten years ago when her marriage ended. She was attending college to get her PSW certificate, and for fifteen months, this household became a family of five. At the time, I had the amount of stamina I have now, but there were things that needed to be done, and so I began to push myself. Not a lot, just a little, every day. Of course, my arthritis wasn’t as bad then as it is now, but otherwise this time feels very much like that time. In the end, by the time they moved out, I could motor through the day fairly well.

I do understand that I will not be able to duplicate that. I am sixty-six years old. However, it seems to me I have a couple of choices. I can ignore how I feel, call it normal, and carry on. Or I can wait for the pandemic to be over and for life to return to normal.

Or I can do one more thing.

I can go back to pushing myself, just a little, every day because this pandemic isn’t going anywhere, not for a good year or more. Life is normal right now, at least until the next time things change.

So really, the best thing I can do is to shut up and get moving.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

August 19, 2020

Some of the hard-to-deal-with heat has indeed broken here in our neck of the words. Around nine this morning, David was out on the porch with a light jacket on. It’s really nice to turn the a/c off at night and have a window cracked open, just a bit, allowing the scent and feel of fresh air to blow in. I generally hit the bed first, and in the spring, autumn, and winter when the nights are indeed cool, 1 will open the window that crack before I go to bed and then David will shut it when he comes to bed.

That, my friends, is teamwork and cooperation in action.

Even though last week was hot and mid-August, David was craving a home-made soup. Since my daughter was doing up a veggie tray to drop of at a friend’s, she contributed half a cauliflower. I added that with some broccoli I had and a few hours later, we had broccoli-cauliflower cheese soup.

He made happy tummy sounds all through that and reiterated that I made the best soups.

I’ve always considered cooking my “other” talent, and I’ve been grateful, through my life, for the early lessons in cooking and food frugality that my mother instilled in me. After the death of my father, she became a single mom. She worked as a nurse—she was in fact an RN—at a time when nurses didn’t get paid very much at all.

In those days, of course, the cuts of meat available were of a much better quality. How do I know this? My mother could make the best hamburger gravy, as well as pork chop gravy, and that was something we all appreciated, and it’s something that is not easily made these days. We had a name for it. Pan gravy. The meat portions might have been small, but there was always bread and pan gravy to be had as a “second helping.”

To this day, bread and gravy is one of my favorite comfort foods.

We’ve experimented this year, as we did just last year, in “foil” meals on the grill. Our daughter now does the outdoor cooking, and that’s just one more thing off my plate—no pun intended. One of our new favorites this season is whole carrot, with butter and a touch of honey, wrapped in foil and cooked outside on the grill.

Jenny also put a new twist on boneless, skinless chicken breasts on the grill. She marinates them in olive oil and garlic for a few hours, then adds a bit of salt as she wraps them in the foil. Tasty fare, indeed.

Have I mentioned that since she moved in, there is usually at least 1 supper a week I don’t have to cook? I truly enjoy and appreciate when someone else is taking the time and effort to feed me—even though I love cooking myself.

On some of our hotter days, I’ll start early in the morning before it’s too hot, and make salads intended to be nibbled upon for meals or just whenever they’re craved. There’s pasta and tuna, as well as pasta and salmon. Rice is combined with ham, pineapple and mayo; a potato salad can often be found in my fridge, and once in a while, I add canned corned beef to it—at David’s request. My favorite salad, after a green salad, is Rotini pasta and chicken that also contains steamed broccoli, carrots, and mushrooms. I combine ranch dressing and mayo for that one. I do have to leave the fresh onions out of all the salads these days, because our daughter doesn’t like them. That’s not a hardship, as I can just as easily cut some onion up and put it in my own and David’s portions.

We don’t have a sit-down supper every day, because we’d gotten out of that habit when David retired. He complained that it was too much food, and he had a point. Coupled with the fact that neither he nor I eat much anymore, pre-made and available salads and easily “nuked” entrees and other assorted dishes are the way to go for us. We do eat fresh food rather than packaged most of the time.

I’ll tell you truly, especially in these times, we are grateful for every bite.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

 

 August 12, 2020

We used to call August the dog days of summer. In the days of our youth, the eighth month of the year could almost always be counted on to be the heart and the heat of the summer season. You might make it to the beach near the end of July—that is to say, the water might be warm enough to swim in near the end of that month. But that trip was guaranteed doable in August. Be it on Lake Ontario or Lake Erie, when I was a child, we headed to the beach at least a few times each summer.

Unfortunately, I don’t go swimming anymore. It’s been more than a couple of years since I’ve even put on a bathing suit. I suppose if there was a private pool close at hand, and a good changing area where I could spend a nice long while getting dried, I might. But I don’t move as well nor as quickly as I once did. And for the most part, I’m okay with that. I don’t overly miss heading to a beach. The sand is impossible to walk on and the waves are a definite no-go for me.

There can be no disputing the fact that life changes as you age. As I have gotten older, I seem to more keenly understand what’s important in life. I no longer fret so much over missed things or opportunities. I understand that, for the most part, my contentment comes from within and not from without. Not that situations or people don’t still tick me off, from time to time. Stupidity is at the top of the list, just in case you wondered.

I have lately theorized that there have to be stupid people in the world, if for no other reason than for you to gently take your child by the shoulders, point to one of them and say, “whatever you do in life, don’t be that person!”

I cherish each day, for the beauty it brings—and there are a few moments of beauty in every day. I’m more able than I used to be to let slights slide, to no longer worry about words said carelessly. For the most part, I don’t mention all the things that used to really annoy me. I notice them, of course, I just don’t bitch about them. Each morning I empty the dish tray and put a few items back over on the other side of the sink to be re-washed. Sometimes I have to hunt for my clothing because it’s been put away in the wrong drawer, or the towels aren’t folded so as to fit the available shelving space. I figure if these annoyances bother me that much, I should just take care of doing those chores myself.

I don’t get as angry as I used to when hurtful words are sent my way. I understand, as I never used to be able to, that those words are usually spoken either carelessly, or as an expression of a bad mood. They’re not necessarily malicious, and not necessarily about me.

I also try very hard not to rush the days. I have more of those behind me than ahead of me, and I know how very precious they are. And I try to balance my time. I want to make it count, but I also feel, at this point, I’m entitled to waste a bit of it doing things that give me pleasure.

I like to read, and yes, I like to play silly games on my computer. David and I both spend a fair amount of time online. We were talking about that just a couple of days ago. He’s easier staying home now, and would in fact prefer to do just that, most days. He’s no longer feeling “imprisoned” by the virus. As long as we follow all the best practices, we should be safe. We’ve seen our son and his wife, and our second daughter; and just a couple of our grandchildren, and one great-grandchild. Our two grandchildren who live in town, here, are careful. They have a small group of friends they spend time with. They don’t party, and as their mother is a nurse, they are quite on board with the necessity of wearing a mask.

So the days go by, and we do what we can to keep ourselves amused and also to not watch too much of the “news”. And every night, for an hour or so before bed, I hear the sound of my husband’s laughter and know he’s watching one of the comedy web-sites, and having a good time.

That’s one thing that he’s always gotten right. In this world, really, you’ve just got to laugh, and keep laughing.

 

Love,

Morgan

http://www.morganashbury.com

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

 

 

August 5, 2020

August has arrived and brought with some disgustingly muggy heat for the first three days—the kind of muggy heat I’ve always hated. Some days it can be so humid it’s hard to breathe. Our central air not only keeps the house cool—the coolness prevents the dampness from encroaching indoors. Well, for the most part.

Before the a/c, the wooden floors looked wet when it was as humid as it’s been. Now we only have one wooden floor left—the one in my office. And I can report that it hasn’t taken on that darker, dampened appearance this summer as of yet. 

Parts of our table gardens continue to thrive. We’ve had a couple of meals of the beans so far, but they aren’t doing as well as we’d hoped. David told me that he guessed that was on him, since he’d purchased climbing beans – at least the green and yellow beans that sort. Those purple beans that turn green when cooked, those are bush-like, and seem to be the best producers.

This morning, David picked our first two cucumbers. They’re not very big, these cucs, but they are home grown. Since they’re heavy, I ensured that they were not dangling over the edge of the garden as they grew. I haven’t seen any green peppers on those green pepper plants yet, although there were flowers. And the onions are growing. It’s not time for them to be harvested just yet.

We’ve also test-planted a few potatoes. We hadn’t planned to but it was a case of looking in the bag of potatoes and seeing sprouts. We put two in the very large pot that had previously been in our living room, home to the yucca (that we no longer have). We planted a few more in the actual garden that stretches along the back of our lower back yard. Again, they won’t be ready for a while, so it’s anyone’s guess how they’ll do.

By far, our biggest hit has been the tomatoes. And oh, how wonderful it was the other day to go outside and pick a tomato for my lunch! We’ve had more than a dozen so far; as well, we have a lot of green tomatoes growing and more flowers, to boot! Home grown tomatoes taste far better than anything you get at the grocery store. Our daughter is especially enamored of them. Her favorite thing to eat lately is a toasted tomato sandwich.

The number of people who are currently infected with the coronavirus in our county stands at 11, as of yesterday. We had been down to 1, but no one expected that to last. Masks are now mandatory in this province when going into public places. I have a variety of them from which to choose. David was able to purchase a clear plastic shield, which he prefers. Since he has COPD and breathing at the best of times can be difficult, the shield is a good alternative for him.

Neither of us has yet to go into a restaurant, and I don’t know that we will in the foreseeable future. We’ve had takeout, and for now, that’s good enough. We wash well when we get home, and use hand sanitizer when we are out. These are simple measures, that can make a huge difference. This isn’t a matter politics, nor is it a question of ideology.

It's a matter of public health. There is a pandemic raging; the number of people who contract it can be reduced if the public whose health we are trying to protect takes to the wearing of masks and the washing of hands.

It’s not politics, and it’s not ideology. No freedoms are surrendered in performance of these public services in the service of public health.

It’s something that lately has gone out of style, but hopefully is making a comeback.

It’s a little something called common sense.

Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

July 29, 2020

The road construction on the side street that runs right beside our house has finally begun. Let me tell you, these workers contracted by the county are real go-getters! They were on the job Monday morning at 6:45 am. We’ve since discovered that is their regular starting time.

We were in bed asleep Monday morning at 6:45 am. Did I mention that our bedroom window looks out onto that street? I can tell you that is the absolute best alarm clock ever.

Monday was a very interesting day, and very noisy until they finally quit at some point after 5 p.m. We did get a couple of quiet breaks—one that was probably their lunch hour. I guess one of the downfalls of living quietly most of the time is that when the noise comes to visit, it’s a guest you really can’t tolerate well for an entire day.

I have to admit that I haven’t personally kept up on the improvements in road construction equipment over the years. Frankly, construction equipment of any kind has never been of interest to me. David, of course, is quite knowledgeable on the subject and can even get excited about it. During his professional career, he has taken heavy equipment courses, and was certified to operate several pieces, from graders to backhoes.

So I thought he would be the one to ask my most recent burning question. Now, please bear with me because I am about to get technical, and I do apologize. They have this big thingy with a round thingy on the end that looks like a lawn roller, only it’s not for lawns because it’s so big. But wait, there’s more. It doesn’t just roll, it vibrates!

The street outside our house where this thingy was working on Monday and was again on Tuesday is about maybe ten feet from the house itself. And my question to David was this: has anyone ever tested this “vibratory compactor-roller” on the Richter scale?

Seriously, folks, I was sitting in my recliner late Monday afternoon when they began to use this roller for the first time, and I’m thinking: if I wanted a vibrating recliner, I would have bought one. And then I notice the clock on the wall is vibrating, and my cup on the end table is vibrating, as is my entire house. I do not want to re-enact the fall of Jericho. I do not want to see my walls come tumbling down.

My husband tells me that if that happens, the town has to pay for it. I remind him that town = government, and they tend not to like to take responsibility for anything. And I did attempt to look up on Google to answer that question of whether or not that vibratory compactor-roller has been tested vis-à-vis the Richter scale, and the response I got was Google’s interpretation of clapping its hands over its ears while yelling la-la-la-la-la.

David is enjoying the process of roadwork now that it has finally begun. He has a front row seat to the work, and by the time the workers quit on Tuesday, I’m certain every member of the crew knew his name.

For my part, I’m doing my best to ignore the process and work on my edit. The problem for me in that regard is that my ability to focus is not as keen as once it was. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve needed to bring more force of will to bear when it comes to the art of concentration. I dare not, during work time, go online for anything except looking up something very specific for my manuscript in progress.

It’s far too easy for me to get sucked down a rabbit-hole—any rabbit hole.

Monday night I went to bed earlier than usual, because I was more tired than usual, most likely because of the noise. The same thing happened last night. Before the clock struck 10, I was yawning so much, my eyes watered.

David has forgone his afternoon naps the last couple of days. Monday was especially noisy and even he, who takes out his hearing aids when he naps, wouldn’t have been able to get to sleep. Yesterday had been a little less loud, and he could have slept—but he was far more interested in watching the work.

The result is that he’s come to bed earlier than usual, too. But I really don’t believe he thinks that is too high of a price to pay for being transported back, visiting again that world of men and earth and powerful machines that was his career for so many years.

Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

July 22, 2020

One question I always have difficulty answering is when someone asks me what I want for a gift. Yesterday, I turned 66. Every year I make a bit light of the day, because let’s face it. I can’t fit all the candles on my cake, and if I did and lit them, the result would be a fire hazard. This year was no exception. I commented more than once, that hey, just 600 more birthdays and I would be of a fearsome age, indeed.

I’m not certain if anyone caught my little joke. Not unusual. I had a good friend once who, when I quipped that I was so witty, replied that I was half right.

I’ve never liked having to come up with ideas for a “gift list” and the reason why goes back to an incident that happened about ten years into our marriage. My beloved had asked me what I wanted for Christmas. He asked me to give him a list, and so I did. We were both working, but with three children, the times were lean. We’d set a modest budget for gifts for each other because most of the money was for the kids gifts.

I listed all the things I would get for myself, if only I had a few extra dollars. The list was short and simple, and was made of items I really, truly wanted: a couple of cartridges for my typewriter (yes, this was pre-computer and printer days) and some paper for the machine; a couple of pairs of pantyhose; a pair of nice, fluffy warm slippers; and I had a favorite scent in those days, Chloe, which was hellishly expensive. But some brilliant marketer had come out with “imitation” scents, and imitation Chloe could be had for less than five dollars. Of course, I expected David to pick only one or two items.

I was so excited, seeing those small wrapped gifts on Christmas morning! There were more than one or two. I sat down and began to open them….and found only one single thing that had been on my list. He had gotten me a pair of slippers, but the kind with no back of the heel, the kind I have never, ever worn.

I’m not proud of myself for feeling disappointed. I tried not to show it, and I don’t think he ever realized that I was, at the time. I did ask him why he didn’t get me anything I had asked for.

His answer was devastating. He told me that my list wasn’t good enough. That there hadn’t been a decent Christmas gift on it. It took him many years before he realized that what he had said, essentially, was that what I wanted didn’t matter.

And while I know that the other people in my life would not necessarily do what he had done, I still, nonetheless, can’t ever think of anything that might be “good enough” to make the list when I’m asked.

Well, I’m older now. Not really a lot wiser, but I’m working on it. I am a work in progress. I was asked what I wanted for my birthday by our second daughter. I did tell her, I’d think on it, but really, I couldn’t come up with anything “worth while.”

So I thought, when I sat down to compose this week’s essay, I would put together a list of things I would LOVE for my birthday—things that I will never get because they are wildly, and joyously fanciful.

First, of course, I would love this damn virus to just up and vanish. And I would love for the people of the United States to disavow the tribal mentality, and realize they can agree to disagree, and that more binds them together than separates them.

Ah, I can hear my loved ones saying, but what about something just for you?

Well, I have a lovely image in mind—a beautiful king-sized bed with luxurious sheets, a mattress that’s as soft as a cloud, set down in a field of grass and fragrant flowers. A soft, warm very slight breeze would blow, and the best coffee I have ever tasted just there, for the sipping. Needless to say, it would be magnificently comfortable experience, with not a single aching muscle or joint, period.

I would love to step into the kind of shower I’ve often described in my stories—with a “rainfall” shower head high above, and four more shower heads—wands—two on each end of the enclosure. Also, in this hedonistic bathroom would be a Jacuzzi tub that I could easily slip into, and warmed, absorbent towels just waiting to dry me off.

I would love a feast of cheese and crackers, berries and whipped cream—and maybe, just maybe a coffee laced with Bailey’s, or Tia Maria, and I would consume it and overlooking a French vineyard.

But what I really want each year—be it on my birthday or at Christmas—has nothing to do with things or money at all. I want to hear from each of my children and grandchildren—via a call, or just a text—just a few words to let me know they were thinking of me, and that they love me.

I did indeed hear from all but one grandchild. And our second daughter’s greeting put a big smile on my face this year. I may have mentioned, she’s a nurse at a psychiatric hospital. She called and sang Happy Birthday to me (as per family tradition, off key and out of tune). And then she said, “I’m at work. Everyone can hear me. That’s how much I love you.”

Hearing those three words is the best birthday gift, ever!

Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury

July 15, 2020

The time is speeding by, which it does constantly now, regardless of what’s happening in the world around us. I’ve remarked upon this phenomenon a lot in my essays because it’s, well, remarkable. I remember the days of childhood, vaguely, mind you, but I recall being so focused on the day that it seemed to last at least forty-eight hours instead of twenty-four.

And maybe that’s the secret. To slow time, you need to focus on each individual moment as if it is the most important moment you’ve ever experienced. Now, you likely wouldn’t get much done, as there would be no looking ahead, but then that’s a perfect description of what childhood was like, isn’t it?

One of the reasons I write these essays every week is to offer up thoughts and experiences which I hope will connect with some of my readers. We are all in this together, this life thing. And because while yes, humans are individuals and there is no other you, on another level, being human means that there are experiences and emotions that are not at all unique.

That’s a source of great hope for me, personally.

And I had one of those moments recently when I read an email from a good friend. She is also an author, and lives in California. She told me she was in revisions for the manuscript she’d submitted, and that her editor was telling her that every single one of her authors has been having creative difficulties during this time of the Coronavirus. Every single one.

Do you know I felt a great sense of relief reading that? Then another friend, when I was commenting about this had five words for me: “these days, writing is brutal.”

Brutal, yes that about sums it up well.

I submitted a manuscript last week, and I know right now it’s going to need a revision. Thank God for my Beta reader, Angie, for pointing out what should have been glaringly obvious to me at the time, but that just…slipped through the old fingers, or the old brain, not sure which.

I don’t care who you are or what you do in life, these strange and upsetting times are hard. They are hard for all of us. And it occurs to me that something else one of my friends said to me should be said to everyone.

You have to be kind to yourself.

 You have to give yourself permission to take a day off, to blow off steam, to do whatever it is you do that gives you a bit of a sense of relief and comfort. Listen to music (maybe even at full blast), play a game, read a book, binge watch a television series. Sleep late. Take a nap.

Do something that makes you feel good, even if that “feelgood” only lasts for the moment. Sometimes it’s those moments we remember, and that we bring back to mind to help us through the next one that feels grim and laborious.

I’m writing this on July 14th. It’s our 48th wedding anniversary. We said the words to each other, first thing. It is now an hour past first thing. And right now, my husband is outside, finding one of his happiest of happy places.

Out our back yard and on the small street that runs there, a county crew is cutting down and mulching brush in preparation of redoing that road. They’re going to rip it up, install water and sewage lines, and repave it. From David’s earliest memories, whenever there was local construction or especially road work, that’s where he’d be. His mother once told me that even when he was six or seven and otherwise never still, he could sit still for hours watching them.

I can think of no better way for him to start this day, especially, than to stand out and watch the men as they work with their big machines and making lots of noise.

Find your happy, people! We all need that now more than ever.

Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury