BRAYS OF OUR LIVES

When I don't post here at Brays of Our Lives, you can assume one of two things: A) I'm out in the woods being Intrepid and Mighty, with FarmWife astride. This was the case this morning, and tomorrow I'll give you all sorts of cheerful anecdotes about our daring adventures. B) I'm standing in my paddock being Lonesome and Forlorn, with FarmWife at work. This was the case yesterday and again this afternoon, and tomorrow I'll cheerfully eat some of the hay which she pays for, in part, through her efforts. Never fear, my dear friends—whether I post or whether I don't, you're always in my noble and capacious heart. Ears to you, Fenway Bartholomule

1. Find the thing you love to do. Do it. 2. Know what skills or traits you're proud of. Grow them. 3. Surround yourself with people that inspire you. 4. Make others happy. 5. Smile. 6. Sing. 7. Notice beauty. I've been thinking a lot lately about how we live—we gas-pumping, plastic-wrapping, internet-surfing, walmart-going people. I've been wondering if we're on the brink of something big—some cataclysmic ecological or social crisis that will tear our oil-driven subsistence from our hands. I've also been thinking, though, that it hardly matters whether we are or are not. In terms of personal integrity, it doesn't matter if the end is next year or next millennium. For those of us who've noticed (or those of us who believe) that we are driving ourselves to eventual or imminent calamity, there's an answer: live differently.  A total, cold-turkey severence from the status quo is one thing, and there have been times I've thought of it: join a commune. Bui...

I changed my mind yesterday. Instead of carrying FarmWife and Clover up the mountain, I told FarmWife that I wanted to do her a very special favor—I wanted to show her that I could pull the tire about my pasture with poise, confidence, and cucumber-coolness. She harnessed me, affixed my homemade singletree, and hitched the tire up behind. I walked. I trotted. It was glorious! I cantered a little. (Whoops!). Then I composed myself, and decided that I had not died, and all was well. I walked some more, and trotted, and was generally composed and agreeable. FarmWife unhitched the tire, unharnessed yours truly, and offered me a celery bite. I was so startled by its unpalatable taste that I spooked, whacking my head on FarmWife's knee. PUBLIC SAFETY NOTICE: CELERY CAN BE HAZARDOUS TO YOUR HEALTH. Luckily, it was not a hard whack, and it was not FarmWife's touchy knee. We're unscathed, and we've made friends again. The reunion involved a carrot—undeniably the best membe...

This is your heart: Emu egg photo from www.metrocurean.com This is your heart on a mule: Emu photo from www.birdsoftheworldonline.com

Queen Elizabeth II Speaking of my housemule, B, there is this mystery: Our neighbor, the Chicken Lady, announced today that she is in the market for a queen and four pounds of B's. I'll bet my  B weighs about five pounds right now and, unlike some of us, she can't stand to lose much weight. My first question: how on earth is a real queen going to fit in in Wickersham? We have no drum horses, no limousines, and certainly no castles! My next question: where is the Chicken Lady going to find an even smaller minimule? Assuming that by B's she means several (that is, plural—more than one) they can't top two pounds each. That's pretty darned tiny. My third question: Why "B"? Can't you pick a new name? I can think of 25 other letters that would do nicely, and that's without even deviating from American English. Ears, Fenway

B, the minimule, regrets to inform the public that she is the humiliated heir to a "too small for the chihuahua" pirate sweater. She rocks the Jolly Rodger with disgruntled resignation. The fit is perfect, the style sassy, and the cut flattering. The overall effect is humorous, the colors dashing, and the yarn luxurious. The bun, however, is pissed. 'sok. She can take it off until the next photo shoot. Ears, Fenway

Photo courtesy Juniper Burro of www.sweejuniperblog.blogspot.com. I am honored recently by being recognized as a Stylish Blogger by Sheaffer the donkey . I could not be more tickled, for not only does this grant me the acknowledgement I so obviously deserve but it also awards me the privilege of nominating my own hoofful of favorite bloggers! Sheaffer, thank you for this esteemed nomination. In accordance with the contest rules, which state that I must share seven things about myself that my readers may not know, I offer a twist: three and a half things about me, and (for her devotion to typesetting and transcribing obligations) three and a half things about FarmWife. They are as follows: 1) I grind my teeth when I am waiting for a meal. FarmWife has asked me to pinky swear that I shall not develop ulcers, to which I respond that I have no pinkies. 2) I can be sent on down the trail with a "walk on" and can wait, up ahead, with a "whoa" and a "stand....

Photo: Paisley, who models better than he writes. To those who have asked whether B, Harriet*, Clover, Paisley, Townes, Desmond, B.G., Missy, Jasper Jules, or the chickens will be starting their own blogs, the answer (respectfully) is no. At least not, says FarmWife, until they learn to type. If this spawns any worries about the permanence of MY blogging endeavors, shed them. I am yours forever. Finally, please note that FarmWife does post her own thoughts, albeit intermittently, at www.puddlerun.com. Most of them are about me, Fenway Bartholomule. Faithfully, FB *You may remember Harriet's abortive attempt at blogging last year. She turned out not to be nearly as clever as me, but by appropriating her blog for my poetry I facilitated her respectable resignation. 

FarmWife wouldn't let me use the play-doh (she was afraid I'd eat it, I suppose, or get it hairy) but I did convince her to make you this lovely little donkey. Thanks, FarmWife! FB

The Bold and the Brayful—a column by Fenway Bartholomule reprinted from the Brayer, the magazine of the American Donkey & Mule Society Fantasy versus Reality When my FarmWife bought me, I was a Pasture Mule. Like Reining Mules, Working Cow Mules, Dressage Mules, Driving Mules, and Jumping Mules, Pasture Mules do good, challenging, and important work. In my case, my key responsibilities were eating the grass, swishing the flies, and keeping an organized manure pile. FarmWife bought me—or, rather, accepted the gift of me, because I was bestowed upon her as a present—with the idea that I would make a fine dressage mule, and that she would like to learn to drive me, and that perhaps we might do a bit of trail riding. She imagined our dressage as one-tempi's and canter pirouettes, lovely lengthenings, a symphony of travers hither and renvers thither . . . or is it renvers thither and travers thither? In any case, I set her straight the first time she tried to ...

We bred our doe today. Good news! As a dairy goat, B.G. has an obligation to the family beyond baaing beautifully and entertaining us with her doglike adoration of human company. If luck and fertility is with us, she will kid in five months. She will feed her kids (we abstain from the bottle, choosing instead to honor motherhood and the natural bond) and us. The question, whenever one breeds an animal, should be whether and how the offspring will be guaranteed a good home. Being a vegetarian, I cannot morally embrace the "male offspring as a byproduct" mentality of commercial dairymen. I can neither accept that older and nonproductive animals should be culled, and for that reason we have young Jasper Jules and his physically imperfect mother here as lifelong pets. When it comes to placing goats in pet homes, it can be done. I think that with advanced planning, a small-scale dairy breeder like myself can produce enjoyable goats of both genders that are easy to place. In our fa...

On April 9th, 1968, the body of the Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King, Jr. was pulled in a rustic farm cart through the streets of Atlanta by two humble brown mules. His funeral procession included a trailing throng of tens of thousands. The images are startling. There is no pomp, there are no uniforms, and there are certainly no ostrich-plumed friesians and glass-walled hearses. There is nothing haughty, nothing gaudy, and nothing unreachable here. Martin Luther went to the grave as he lived—among the people. Speaking, even after his death, of equality. Speaking to the poor, the laboring, and the oppressed. Speaking of the strength of common humanity, and of the work still to be done. May all our brays be with him. FB

FarmWife and Weanling Human were up at dawn with a clever scheme to squeeze in a trailride before the rest of the family rose. Luckily for them, "up at dawn" means up by 8ish in a northwest January! I breakfasted at 7 and and was out on the trail by 8:30, by which time the larval humans and FarmHusband were awake to see us off. The pouring rain was enough of a deterrent that they were happy to let us slip away unaccompanied. Clover, FW, WH and I rode up yonder mountain, the former riding in FW's coat until we'd passed Eagle Village. Once away from the birds of prey, she was set free. It turns out that she is a good trail dog—ranging ahead, but not out of sight, and stopping for a quick visual check at every bend. Staying on the trail. Avoiding hooves. Listening. FarmWife and Weanling took turns riding me (thank goodness they know better than to clamber up double! I'm small!) whilst the other walked, and there was pleasant conversation all around. By the la...

This poem is dedicated to Mr. S, our friendly neighborhood tractor guy. He cleaned out a very deep goat litter bed today, and accomplished in half a morning what FarmWife could have done in many, many, horrible hours of backbreaking labor. We are grateful. Ode to a Tractor Guy You rumbled up the driveway on your trusty green John Deere; We brayed to you—we brayed, and thanked our stars that you were here. You moved a layer of bedding that was filthy, and was deep— Your words were kind, your tractor strong, your fee not one bit steep!  FarmWife and I, we noticed that there was a yucky odor, And yet, without complaint, you dug right in with your green loader!  You pulled a post that had been set as firmly as a stone, You moved, like feathers, heavy muck that must have weighed a ton.  Your wheels, they churned. Your engine purred. You glided back and forth, And while we watched you moved the straw that had been such a scourge.  You made a tidy compost he...

When my FarmWife met me, I was Buck. Buck from the Buckeye state. Now, for those who wonder how she justifies changing a fellow's perfectly fine name just because he's joining a new family, please note that FarmHusband changed his new woman's name from Marnie "FarmWife" Jackson to Marnie "FarmWife" Jones when he got  her ! So FarmWife, who has always preferred haughtier names for her animals, changed me to Fenway when she met me. It was an insidious attempt to ingratiate me to FarmHusband, a Red Sox fan—you may know that the Sox play at Fenway Park. Anyway, FarmWife's friend Carey Yaruss (of facebook fame herself) said she had always wanted a mule named Bartholomule, and it seemed the perfect noble appendage to my new, sporty moniker. Carey granted permission for its use in light of the fact that she lives in a N.Y.C. walk-up and will not likely add her own mule to the mix without a major geographic change. In late 2009, there was a move afoot ...

Before there was Clover, there was Duke. The Duke of Wickersham, to be exact—a handsome fawn chihuahua from the other side of the tracks. He's a dapper lad of nearly three, neutered (as all the best gentlemen are), and polite in all company. It was no surprise, then, that FarmWife labeled him Second Best Chihuahua Ever and invited him and his family to join us for a doggy playdate at Bent Barrow Farm. Duke came bearing gifts—a lovely little satin-lined peacoat for his pretty lady! He even went so far as to include a romantic little note (though the elegant script gives me some suspicion that he was aided by the opposably-thumbed). I hope he won't mind if I lay his love bare for all the world by quoting him here: "My dearest Duchess of Wickersham, Please accept this humble gift as a token of my courtship. I hereby welcome you to the noble court of Wickersham, and wish to express my delight that you have so graced us with your presence. Eternally yours, The Duke....

Dog helmet and photo by Zoomer Gear FarmWife lets Clover join her on muleback these days. Doesn't bother me, and Clover seems to feel secure and restful tucked hands-free into FarmWife's coat (or custom-made apron, as it were). She wears polarfleece, since she's not exercising and might be the chilliest of the three of us. FarmWife thought of getting her a little helmet (after all, she herself would NEVER ride without one!) but then she thought it might be more cumbersome than helpful. Your thoughts? FarmWife feels safe taking Clover on me, though she wouldn't do it on a less predictable mount. Such a small dog mustn't fall any distance, but no one ever falls from me. I am dependable. Ears to you (and puppy ears, too), Fenway B.

Happiness is having a nice neighbor with a John Deere tractor—especially around shed-cleaning time! Deep litter bedding. For those unfamiliar with the term, it refers to the animal bedding system wherein you throw clean straw on top of the old (after removing the most obviously soiled material). All's well and good until the floor—and under it the composted layers that were the floor before that, and the floor before that—rises uncomfortably high. My goat shed roof is about 14 inches closer to the straw bed now than it was last autumn, and that means it's time for the very big job of digging back down to the gravel. This job had me quaking in my boots until Mr. S. from down the road stopped in. A simple, quick job, he said. Good tractor access, he said. Maybe he'll tackle it, weather permitting, on Thursday. Next question—anyone want a half a ton of well-composted straw and manure? I haven't the foggiest idea where to have him put it, as our compost pile is inaccessible...

Saturday, the snow fell. Sunday, it was just right for a frosty ride: not too heavy, not too slick. Crunchy, but not so much as to be hard on the hooves. Icy, but not so much as to be slippery. FarmWife and I got a good hour in, and the footing was nice. We picked our way carefully on the paved road, walked boldly on the gravel roads, and trotted in places where tree cover lessened the depth. Monday, vehicle traffic had compressed the snow into icy sheets. We passed on riding and instead I was invited on a hand-walk to the salmon pond. The larval humans requested a ride, but FarmWife and FarmHusband denied them out of consideration for everyone's safety. I focused on the safe placement of my feet, and we arrived without mishap. I have a few general observations to share on the matter of snow and hoofies: 1. Easyboot Epics are great in the snow. Good traction. No balling. 2. Vaseline really works. If you are dealing with snow balls forming in bare hooves, slather the soles...

"What do you say, Ralph—you wanna take the left ear?" "Sure, Wilma—you take the right! Beat's having salmon again." We seem to have a bit of a bald eagle infestation in Wickersham right now. FarmWife and I counted 47 on our ride yesterday . . . in the first ten minutes, after which time we got tired of keeping track! They are EVERYWHERE! I know, I know—majestic splendor, freedom's pride, yada yada yada. Frankly, I find them unnerving, the way they stare disapprovingly down from every prominence. Not only is FarmWife's little dog the eagle equivalent of a Hungry Man dinner, but my beautiful auricles would make delicious ear-kababs. Winged predators give me the heebie-jeebies, and I spent the first half of yesterday's outing spooking at them. Have you ever heard a pair of eagles chit-chat? Of course there's the keening cry that we're all so familiar with, but it turns out that they chirp, too! Sort of a "twitter, twitter, chirpi...

Small Dog, Big Forest. 1) The humans ventured to Baker Lake without me yesterday, and the chihuahua turns out to be the family's best hiker. Who'd have thunk? Gets me off the hook for doing serious day hikes—FarmWife does well to travel with a more nimble animal companion wherever narrow bridges, crumbling trails, and bouldery stream crossings are involved. 2) Jasper Jules has been bullying his mother and sister, and is therefore going to be relegated to the brushy front corner of the property. It needs fencing and tidying up first, and FarmWife had best get cracking if she wants it safe and habitable before the spring surge of vegetative growth. If she misses this deadline, I promise to help her by eating everything within my reach. As an aside, Jasper will be sleeping in my trailer once he makes the big move. I hope I get a hearty thank you! 3) FarmWife has been irritable with everyone but me lately. She blogged about this over at Puddle Run today. She is sorry abou...

It's been hard to blog about happiness—since Christmas, I've been an irritable bitch. I've been stewing over things that don't need stewing over . . . wishing I had arena footing when I hardly have room for an arena, wishing I had a barn when the animals are perfectly content in their shed. I've been resenting my children (my children, who are wonderful girls and who've granted me the right to be a stay-at-home, part-time-self-employed farm wife of liesure!) and wishing, wishing, wishing. Wishing for forty acres in the scorching California desert. 60 acres in the frigid Montana wilderness. 200 acres in the chigger-infested wasteland of rural Arkansas. All I really want is right here, and all I really need is a muleback ride. It's amazing to me how irritable, discontent, and restless I can get for lack of a muleback ride. I've been riding once since Thanksgiving, the unfortunate result of a combination of short daylight, hectic schedules, inclement weathe...

Pop Quiz! Anyone recognize this character? Hint in text below . . . Today we are going to work. So says FarmWife. I interpret this to mean that I will have an immaculate shed, a graded paddock, a raked yard, and laundered blankets. FarmWife interprets it to mean that I am going to trot until my breathing is elevated (60 to 90 seconds?) and I am going to pull my tire around the "arena" in both directions. Considering that my shed, paddock, and yard are very little and that my "arena"—such as it is—is rather small, too, I think there should be plenty of time in the afternoon for a picnic or a Star Trek marathon. Ears, FenBar

Photo from www.rodneyonearth.com FW is planning some vacation time this summer (and no, I'm not going to tell you when—this IS the internet!). She will need a Farm Sitter. It is not a hard job. All you need to be able to do is fill my hay net twice daily, give the goats two flakes of hay in four piles twice daily (making sure that Jasper gets led by his collar up onto the goat loft, where he will stay until he finishes pile 1 of 4), muck out the mule shed once daily, add bedding to the goat shed twice weekly, check troughs once daily, check chicken water and dog water once daily, change bunny water twice daily, clean the coop and the cat litter once weekly, gather eggs once daily, feed the bunnies pellets twice daily, feed the bunnies hay once daily, feed the chickens once daily, scatter oyster shells once weekly, feed the bunnies vegetables once daily, exercise Harriet and B in the kitchen once daily each (but separately) and for at least an hour, let Clover pee every hour, ...

Photo: Does this look like a sedentary mule to you? FarmWife likes this idea of a Paddock Paradise —a long track, describing a circular or irregular shape around one's property, dotted with hay, diverse footing, water, and interesting natural features to enrich the lives and the exercise habits of turned-out equines. The idea, I suppose, is that wild equines would move almost constantly through a texturally diverse geographic area—foraging, moving, foraging, moving. In a traditional paddock, stationary dining is the name of the game, and we're fatter because of it. FarmWife believes that a Paddock Paradise would be impractical at Bent Barrow Farm, at least without a much larger gravel budget than she currently has. Because of our high rainfall and heavy clay soil, it is a constant battle to stay ahead of the mud in Wickersham. We have a decent solution now—a 3/4 acre pasture that is mostly mud-free and a small (50 ft. squarish) sacrifice paddock with gravel footing. I am ...

Photo: Claire de Lune, formerly of Bent Barrow Farm, and young Jasper Jules frolicking on a different winter day. The goats made an admirable show of ingenuity today: they broke out, shoving the gate aside as FarmWife wrestled with her barrow full of frozen droppings. They had freedom. They had liberty. They had adventure. They traded it all in for a frozen goat turd. Here's how it happened. FarmWife, knowing from experience that the goats would only be caught with a bribe, looked around. No grain. No hay. No gravel, even, to rattle in a tin. What she did have, and in abundance, were nice solid little poopsicles! Scooping a few into an empty bucket, she rattled away. Missy, Empress of All the Light Touches, succumbed first. This is good, because Missy is the one most likely to make real mischief when at large. Jasper Jules, Garden Tool, succumbed second. You'd think he would have learned from watching his mother that no good could come from sticking ones head into ...

I say "ppphhhhllllbbbttttttt" to exercise. FarmWife may have failed in her duty when it comes to caloric monitoring, but one thing I can say for her is that she knows how to exercise a fatty—gently, and with care. She knows that it should take me a month or more to get fit, and that we can have a nice gallop in February or March. She isn't going to rush me back into this business of surmounting precipitous slopes and plunging down rocky trails, for she would rather have a sound chub than a damaged one. FarmWife and I had a lovely ride yesterday, and part of what made it so nice is that she thought of all sorts of fun mental games we could play. I'm not talkin' about 20 questions or the animal guessing game–instead, she identified my weak areas and found physically comfortable ways for me to work on them. Most undersaddle problems, in my opinion and in FarmWife's, have one or more of three root causes: incorrect riding, incorrect training, or incorrect...

FarmWife went sledding at Mt. Baker with her human family today. She saw a man skijoring with his huskies, and it stirred her heart. I could do that. I have a harness (different kind, but surely workable!), I have enthusiasm, I have tenacity and a tolerance for cold weather! FarmWife says, "now, Fenny, we haven't time for a new hobby." I say, "now, FarmWife, galloping through the drifts beats grinding round the track."  If she wants me to burn calories, I'd say slogging through a frozen wasteland would do it! Here, for the curious, are skijorers in action. (Note that these movies were selected quickly and are not neccessarily the best representations of the sport—FW is rushing me tonight!) Canine version: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8vrjr_eN4aA&feature=related Equine version: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bmJnzt0FkC8&feature=related Your fleshy friend, FB