Life is back to normal in the
Ashbury household. Or at least, as normal as it ever gets around here.
Christmas is over, schedules have been resumed, and the house is once
more my own. I know it sounds boring, and really, for the most part, our lives
are boring. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.
Well, we did have a bit of
excitement a week or so ago when a bird flew into the house. That was my fault.
I like to have my bedroom window open a bit at night when I sleep, and I forgot
to close it when I got up that morning. So I got up, and as usual, left the
bedroom and closed the door behind me. And no, there’s no screen on that
particular window.
Imagine my surprise when I went
into my bedroom some hours later to catch a nap—and was subsequently dive-bombed
by a bird.
My catching it was out of the
question, of course. There were only three possible outcomes for this situation.
Either the cat would catch the bird; the dog would catch the bird; or the bird
would fly back out the window.
With my head under the covers I
did send a text to Mr. Ashbury, but that was just so he could admire how
exciting my day was. I certainly didn’t expect him to do anything about the
situation. He was, after all, at work.
I fell asleep, and when I awoke
from my head-under-the-covers nap, there was no sign of the bird, and no sign of
feathers or other biological debris anywhere, so I took that as a good sign and
closed the window so the winged creature could not make another foray
indoors.
But other than that very rare
deviation, our days are predictable and we have no problem with that.
I pass my time writing to the
sound of the cat snoring, and the dog occasionally exploding into a yapping fit
because another dog has dared to walk down his street. And still, with all this
boredom and predictability, our days speed by very quickly. Sometimes there
aren’t enough hours in a single day (or stamina in yours truly) to get
everything done that I want to do.
We are coming upon the one
holiday that my eldest son and my husband both look forward to with great
fervor—Ground Hog Day. I kid you not, my beloved checks the weather forecast
daily just to see if it’s going to be cloudy on February 2nd or not.
Up until yesterday, the forecast called for overcast skies on that
day.
Yesterday, I looked, and the
prediction read that next Tuesday would be sunny with cloudy periods. I quickly
checked what was expected in the small Ontario town of Wiarton (pronounced “wire
ton”) where our province’s prognosticating groundhog named Willie resides.
Sadly, they have the same forecast as we do.
All over FaceBook I’m seeing
little memes declaring people’s desperation for spring. So many are tired of
winter and want it to go away quickly. I used to be like that. Certainly I don’t
particularly like this season. It’s cold which aggravates my arthritis, and it
brings with it icy surfaces, which makes it difficult for me to get out and
about. But if I want time to speed up to get me out of winter, I feel like it’s
going keep going fast, through every season.
I am already in my September
years. These are the years when, supposedly, I’ve earned the right to slow down
and smell the roses—providing I haven’t developed an allergy for them, which I
have not. I’m allegedly out of the rat race, the comings and the goings. Why, I
can see the gate to elderly from my front porch!
That all may be true, but so is
one more thing. I don’t need to urge time to hurry up. I think it goes far too
fast as it is.
Love,
Morgan
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