BRAYS OF OUR LIVES

Without FarmHusband, FarmWife would probably end up with this many mules . . . .  . . . and this many goats . . . .   . . . and this many dogs . . .   . . . and this much money.  FarmWife is glad she has FarmHusband. I'm glad, too, because there's only so much sharing a mule likes to do.  Ears to moderation!  FenBar

In our five years at Bent Barrow Farm, we've had good potato years and bad leek years; great years for basil and poor years for broccoli; bountiful greens and lousy root crops, and the other way round. We've had bumper crops of this and miserable flops with that, and sometimes visa versa. We've succeeded here, failed there, then succeeded again. Until we get a few more years' wisdom under our belts, I think we'll continue to be victims of the garden's fickle mood. It seems we never know whether to plant too much or too little, because what grows and flourishes one year might struggle and fail the next. We haven't yet come to understand exactly why. Some of it, I'm sure, is weather. In this cold and cloudy spring, we've had a delay of about 60 days from what we experienced with 2010's early greens. Our first peas never came up. March's lettuce is just one inch tall. Some of it, I'm sure, is rotation. We try to apply what we've learned ...

Mule: $1500 Goats: $400 Woven wire field fencing: $1400 Hay (per bale): $3 to $14, depending upon the season The happiness on FarmWife's face when three goats and a mule face are in her lap, ready for scratching: Priceless.

I'm a little overdue to bray a hearty thanks to some of my online friends—first, Zelda the Zorse and her kind human caregivers, who worked in cooperation with John from Hahahorses.com to get FarmWife a really nifty Zorse t-shirt last month. Thanks, guys! (I have to admit to having a soft spot for Zelda. As much as I adore my darling Katie Scarlett, there is something exhilarating about a beautiful, exotic woman!) Second, I'd like to thank Stacey of Behindthebitblog.com for the fantabulous bottle of showsheen that arrived in my mailbox a couple of weeks ago. Her haiku contest was loads of fun, and with this prize I can have the silkiest and most tangle-free tail on the block. (Lord knows I don't need help with SHINE, but a little bit of comb-through ease never hurt anyone's fly swisher.) The contests at www.hahahhorses.com and www.behindthebitblog.com are always fun, and I do love free stuff. Thanks, guys. Ears to you! FenBar

1) Please, FarmWife, can we go walk on that yellow painted line? 2) No carrots for me, thank you. I'm watching my weight. 3) Of course you may clean my sheath! So nice of you to offer. 4) Trail riding and jumping are so last year—can we stick to these 20-meter circles instead? 5) No, I won't lead, load, or tie. Screw you for asking. And, on the other hoof, the five things I WILL say in the above scenarios: 1) Aaah! A line! It's evil! 2) Please, ma'am, may I have another? 3) Don't. You. Dare. Touch. Me. There. 4) Ugh, ugh, boring, boring, ugh, ugh, boring, boring. Let's hit the TRAIL! 5) No prob, Bob!

FarmWife and FarmHusband have plenty in common, not the least of which is an appreciation for patchwork things. FarmHusband once released an album entitled Patchwork Girl with his former band, and I'd like to think that he called it that for a reason. The reason was surely that he knew he'd marry someone someday, and that she'd get a mule, and that that mule would shed unevenly, and that the mule would leave his mistress covered in fur pancakes after every grooming from April through June. I am a patchwork mule, and even though I am male I do like to think of this ska record as a tribute . . . a tribute to me, Fenway Bartholomule. Thanks, FarmHusband! thanks, Johnny Too Bad and the Strikeouts! I'm humbled, and I'm grateful. Ears, sleek and shaggy, to you. FenBar

Here's what FarmWife wrote about this ridiculous little movie when she uploaded it to Youtube today: "There are a couple of humorous and humbling moments in this film, which I took as a means of seeing myself cantering on Fenway Bartholomule.  1) Note how I failed to tell him, "stand," and therefore he walked away at the beginning of the movie. I wasn't worried. He whoas and comes on command.  2) Note how my girth slipped when I mounted. (Whoops!) I do tend to keep a slightly looser girth than perhaps I should, because he gets rubs in his elbows if it's done up tightly.  I hope you can find some entertainment value in this silly little clip and refrain from judging my mulemanship or my cinematography!" As for me, Fenway Bartholomule, I say "note the surging power of my stride! Note the lithe athleticism and churning force of my motion! Note what a good boy I am, and how I carry that lady with nary a complaint!" I also ask that you en...

Here are Satan's Deer.  Here is me observing Satan's Deer with quiet distain. You will note that I am now secure in the knowledge that my Muleness places me well beyond their evil clutches. You will also note my new hat. 

I looked out the kitchen window this afternoon to hear my kindergartener shrieking, "what is it?! Daddy! It's scary!" and to see my husband and daughters staring at the sky, eyes sheilded against the sun, mouths agape. From my vantage point, it seemed as though they were witnessing the Ascension a day early. I was nervous. I went outside to snap the photo that appears above . . . though, if I may anthropomorphize a little, it appeared angrier in person. In the center, a dark circle around the sun. On its boundary, a brilliant rainbow  (a 22 degree halo, as I've learned it's called). Intersecting this circle, a second, huge ring parallel to the horizon. This is the parhelic circle—a perfect halo around the entire valley, stretching from the sun across the sky and back again, with sun dogs on either side—two gleaming, multihued slices of sky where the halo and the giant horizontal ring intersected. With the entire valley taking on a bizarre, muted cast on an otherwi...

 These are photos of me, Fenway Bartholomule, standing Somewhere Entirely New. We have a well described circuit of well-beaten paths, FarmWife and I, and because of various roads and gates and rivers and what have you we are generally limited mostly to those paths and none other. Recently, however, we've discovered NEW TRAILS. Not "new to us" new, but "new new" . . . made, by the hand of man, for the purposes of recreational ambulation. They are here in abundance, right in our own neighborhood. We've found two new loops, each of them well-cleared, fairly lengthy, and scenic beyond our dreams, and we've seen evidence of a third and a fourth that simply require an afternoon's exploring. We have tried to decide who made these trails. Was it a motor- or bicyclist? Probably not, as there aren't obvious signs of tires having passed this way. An equestrian? To the contrary! The trail bears no hoofprints but my own. What we did see were dog prin...

This is me meeting Oliver, a P.O.A. in my extended family, for the first time.  Here is something else you might not know about me . . . I play well with others. Although I live alone (except for my goats, the chickens, FarmWife, and an assortment of house creatures), I am always up for a chance to meet new equines.* I greet them with inquisitive welcome. I neither shun them nor make an eager fool of myself. It's nice, because FarmWife can always feel safe turning me out beside someone new without fear that I will bow a tendon running the fenceline or break a hock kicking the fence. Here is the other thing . . . I am perfectly able to observe a hormonal mare or a snarky retiree without rocking the boat. I don't get up in people's business unless they want me up in their business, and yet I never take it personally when they're up in mine. I am the perfect Herd Mediator. If I lived at college I'd be the R.A.—always checking in to make sure everyone is feeling...

Here is the other thing about me: I am not a mule of great indulgence when it comes to enjoying the tactical pleasures of touch. Generally, these are the rules for grooming Fenway Bartholomule . . . . 1) you may rub my ears, but only if you ask first. If you are FarmWife, I will enjoy it. If you are the oldest filly, I will enjoy it. If you are anyone else, I will permit it but it is really going to be more for you than for me. That is just how it is.  2) you may scratch me on my sides, above the rib cage, gently. You may rub me over my eyes (closed) with the palms of your hands, firmly but not firmly enough to damage my big brown orbs. You may massage the sides of my face, from jowl to nostril, towards the nose with a downward, stroking motion. These are the touches I enjoy, and all others are simply tolerated. 3) when it comes to grooming me, you can clean me to your heart's content anywhere except on my sheath but I won't do any of this flappy-lipped, giraffe-...

Timber framers, it turns out, are a wonderful sort. I've known this, of course. I married one. Many of my good friends are timber framers. My own timber framer happens to be my best friend. The art and craft of timber framing has inspired me since I learned of it. It's a method of building that predates Christ, and there are historic and contemporary frames that take my breath away. The art of building, period, amazes me. Done right, a simple dwelling can be the perfect marriage of function, form, art, and craft. I was at the Timber Framers Guild conference in Fort Worden, Wa. this weekend (where, incidentally, I also summer-camped as a 14 year-old twerp) and thoroughly enjoyed the whole thing. From the good company, the good beer, and the good information to the Utilikilts and the Carhartts, it was a weekend spent with the right kind of people. I wasn't the only non-builder present, though as a staff writer I was probably one of few participants who didn't have a hand ...

This sort of friendship takes time. I'm a one-person mule. I liked my old person, Jim, and now I've got a new person and I like her. Her name is FarmWife. I've met some other people, too. The human fillies, who go for rides on my back, and who groom me, and who bring the occasional carrot. The vet, who tortures me to within an inch of my one, splendid, precious life. FarmHusband, whom FarmWife promises is one of the world's best men. The neighbors, and the occasional doting fan. I accept them. I neither bite nor kick. I don't really adore meeting other people, though, and the fact is that I have a bit of a personal space bubble with everyone but FarmWife. They can touch me (some places), they can feed me (of course!) and they can ride me (if FarmWife offers a leg up) but they can't cuddle me and reap the reward of my affection. I'm not that kind of mule. Here is how it goes when I meet someone new: he offers me pats, and handfuls of grass, and succ...

Sung to the tune of Nothing compares 2 U:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iUiTQvT0W_0 (ears to Prince for writing it and to Sinead o'Connor for singing it best!) It's been seven hours and a couple of days . . . Since you took your love away! I swish flies every night and mope all day . . . Since you took your love away! Since you've been gone, I can graze wherever I want . . . I can roll whenever I choose. Pretend my paddock is a fancy restaurant . . . But nothing, I said nothing can take away these blues. 'Cause nothing compares, nothing compares 2 U It's been so lonely without you here I'm like a bird with a brayful song (heeeeee, eee, haw!) Nothin' can stop this lonely rain from fallin' (But it's Washington—know it's not your fault!) I can put my ears down for every guy I see But they don't rub 'em like you. I saw FarmHusband, and guess what he told me? Guess what he told me? He said, "mule you'd be...

Come home, FarmWife! It's rainy, and there's no one here to change my blankie for me. (I can't possibly let FarmHusband do it . . . the straps cross far too close to my tickly bits. I've been left naked, since we're in between seasons.) Jasper suggests a jail break to get her attention, to which I reply that FarmHusband is NOT a vegetarian, and that goats are renowned for their vindaloo-seasoning properties. B.G. suggests an early labor, to which I reply that preemie kids are a large price to pay for the attentions of our beloved mistress. Missy suggests having a second stroke, to which I roll my eyes and wrinkle my assymetrical nostrils in horror. No, thank you! That was no fun. Clover, the chihuahua, says she's got it all under control. Having infiltrated the house, she's going to poop on the bathmat until FarmWife agrees to come home.

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 30, 2009 The Fenway Park Connection There have been questions (thank you, Becky) about whether Fenway Park was named after me. I can only answer to those who are willing to suspend their disbelief in the paranormal, because the answer points to the murky folds in the space-time continuum. I have heard that in every generation there is born a seer with the power to glimpse beyond the here and now. I am sure that there was someone like this born the year they made Fenway Park, because how else would they have known that I would be born many years later in 1994? The other layer of complexity is that my first name was Buckeye, and that my true identity as Fenway Bartholomule was not revealed until last February when I came to Bent Barrow Farm. The husband here has a fondness for the Red Sox, which must have come to him as a premonition of the important role that a mule named Fenway Bartholomule, né Buckeye, would one day have in his life. It is almost too m...

HERE IS MY SECOND-EVER BLOG POST: WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 30, 2009 The Seven Responsibilities of Fenway Bartholomule To the uninformed, it may appear that I spend nearly all of every day standing around or nibbling tender grasses, but I think it would be easy for all of you to understand my importance if you only just looked deeper. I have many jobs on Bent Barrow Farm but there are seven that are especially key. 1. Taking FarmWife on our weekly tours of the countryside. This is the one that most people think of when they meet me and I don't really understand completely, since this is leisure time for both of us, but it's got to be important because the humans talk about it all the time.  2. Providing the goats companionship and guidance. I do realize that the goats have feelings too, even though their feelings are usually jealousy or spite or false superiority. It would be sad if they had no one to set a good example for them. 3. Monitoring the Perimeter. I make s...

Since My farmwife is leaving me this week, I'm going to spend the time moping about and remembering the good old days—they days when she was here with me, daily, to provide companionship, ear rubs, and blog post transcription services. Here IS MY FIRST EVER BLOG POST: TUESDAY, DECEMBER 29, 2009 Bike—0. Mule—1. Today my FarmWife was faced with a choice between taking a bike ride with her human child and taking a mule ride with me. She opted for the latter, but came home walking with a flat tire. I don't know if there's a moral in this, but I do know that I wouldn't have gotten a flat tire if she had picked me.  Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "but Fenway, you might have come up lame." I say to you this: 1. I would not have come up lame because I have hooves of steel and legs of titanium. (Knock on wood). 2. Mules are made of sturdier stock than that! and 3. Even if I had, which I wouldn't have, the FarmWife w...

Here's Missy, who's actually been packin' on the pounds over the winter. You may remember that she had a mysterious, paralyzing illness last August, and that she just about died, and that she couldn't stand for a full two weeks. Well, now she's closer to normal and closer to plump (but still the skinniest member of our little family). She wobbles a bit, but she has a good appetite and a normal activity level. And, as you can see from the second photo, she still has her pleasures in life. Missy, top view. She's gained a lot of weight since the Autumn! Missy, taking her daily back scratch very seriously.

This is my goat, viewed from the top.  This is my goat, viewed from the rear. My goat is pregnant. She is supposed to wait four more weeks before kidding, as she's due on June 5th. FarmWife recalls that this doe's mother is the tiniest saanen there is, and yet somehow managed to produce 11 and 13 pound kids three years ago (B.G. and her brother Jasper Jules). B.G. is much bigger than her mother, and this is her second pregnancy. She had two big strapping kids last year, the weights of which were not recorded. We are now taking wagers on what day, what time, what gender(s), and what weight(s) B.G. will produce. The closest guesser will receive an autographed photo of the little darling(s), with their own precious little hoofprints inked upon it. You can email your answers to fenway@braysofourlives.com. May the speculating begin!

I have a hard time remembering my mother. A warm, dark udder . . . two graceful ears . . . the smell of warm milk. Black stockings, soaked in dew. There are only flashes—pictures, and scents. The sound of her delicate whinny, like the trill of a bird beside my noble bray. I'm pretty sure that my mother must have been a daughter of Rugged Lark . After all, I share his good looks, his cow sense, his athleticism, poise, versatility, and intelligence. Like Lark, I am equally at home in the paddock or in the office. Rugged Lark was a prepotent sire, foaled in 1981. He would have had plenty of time to put a daughter on the ground and have her foal in 1994 . . . with me, Fenway Bartholomule. There's no reason not to believe that this is so. So thank you, mom, for foaling me. Thanks for teaching me that ruffed grouse are evil but that garden hoses are not, and that a shadow on the ground is far likelier to kill me than a gunshot or a speeding semi. I remember your lessons wel...

Paintings by Vicki Asp. Available for purchase at www.vickiasp.com. I had a nightmare last night in which I was walking through a dusty northern California town, sobbing because of the beauty of it and because I was homesick for the oak-dotted hills of my youth. Then a seven-fingered man came running out of a nearby barn, peppering me with rocks. I learned later that his name was Pickles, and that he had lost his other digits by soaking them too long in vinegar. There's something breathtakingly, heartwrenchingly beautiful about a golden hillside scattered with live oaks (or, better yet, November's light green blush of new growth). As much as I appreciate the dense, green aliveness of Western Washington, there's nothing like a long, soaring ridge line amid that sea of waving grass. Is this a universal phenomenon? Do we all experience nostalgia (the pain, to translate literally from the Greek, of wishing to return home) for our childhood landscapes? Or is it perhaps reserved ...

Sometimes a mule has to put his hoof down. "FarmWife!" I commanded, "thou shalt find an alternative use for thy evil tire!" Sick of dragging the thing about, I suggested that she might enjoy building an earthship .  Well, she gave it her best effort, but rammed-earth tires are more labor intensive than you might think. By the eighth go at it, she was ready to give up. Instead of a recycled habitation, she ended up building this nice herb garden/livestock salad bar. Not to bad, if I do say! Ears, FenBar

Two nights ago, FarmWife noted that the flies were back. They're not the big, boring fatties that lounge about on your average manure pile—they come from the swamp, and they're brown, tiny, and evil. They're like an F-22 Raptor to the house fly's jumbo jet . . . small, fast, and dangerous. Anyway, she saw them eating my ears so she rubbed my ears with some soothing, repellant balm and went indoors. (She calls them "dear flies", by the way, which I presume to be sarcastic in the fashion that "well, bless your heart" is sarcastic.) Last night, FarmWife was practically ready to call a priest when she saw what state I was in. Lathered in sweat, obviously distressed, and covered in self-inflicted rubs and bites and bug-induced, bleeding spots along my thighs and underbelly, I cried to her as I saw her coming out after dinner (I'd been fine before the meal, by the way). I cried to her to save me, and limped towards her, favoring first one hind leg ...

I told FarmWife that I simply CAN'T pull a tire anymore. It's just too scary. I pull a travois just fine, but the sound of that horrible, heavy thing dragging behind me is just too much. I told FarmWife that I actually want one of these: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zrTfGguM_WM&playnext_from=TL&videos=tsMHPBLKUSs She says fine, and that I can have a sulky, no problem, and that she'll even take me to the beach, but that I'm going to have to pull obtuse, rubbery things until I earn my wheels. The folks at Road's End Driving use a mudcrawler—a vehicle made of 2x4s and rubber stall mats. Apparently this vehicle is so heavy and awkward that there is virtually no way to wreck it, and somehow FarmWife thinks that this sort of vehicle would make a nice intermediary between tires and sulkies. I, on the other hoof, think that the royal State Landau would suit me nicely. One thing is certain—there is no plowing in my immediate future. I am in no mental state ...

That's no pony! That's a great, big, strapping mule! Look how he dwarfs his human passenger! Oh, FarmWife. You giraffe lady. Why must you step in and spoil my illusion??

I think my trailer is about due for a new paint job. I've got it all planned out (although I sort of want it to be yellow . . . and FarmWife sort of wants it to be white). What do you think?  FenBar Before (HOT, and I don't mean smokin'!) After: a nice, traditional white with silver or gray stripe. Text optional. After: an eyecatching yellow. Text optional. 

Dear FarmWife, I love carrying you down the trail. I love jumping over logs with you. I love walking down the dappled byways and cantering up the meandering lanes of Wickersham with you. I love carrying your children, your visitors, and even your chihuahua for you. I love being your friend. I hate dragging your tire. I don't want to be a driving mule. I don't want to learn to plow. I think your singletree is the scariest, evilest, most atrociously awful thing ever. I recommend for you that you go out and get yourself someone(s) like this, who like to pull things. We can be one big happy family, and I can put these pulling days behind me. Love, Fenway Contact: none phillip formel 730 nw 9th ct homestead, fl. 33030 usa Day Phone: 305-613-3127 Evening Phone: 305-247-0451 philfor@bellsouth.net Animal #1 Animal #2 Name: ider ader Breed: percheron percheron Color: light bay dark bay Sex: Mare/Jenny Mare/Jenny Date of Birth (mm/dd/yy): 5/15/04 5/15/04 Height: 15.1...

Have you ever noticed that the things that made you happy when you were a foal are the things that still make you happy today? For me, it's grass, hay, and ear rubs. Drinking from the trough, then extending my wet tongue to catch 60 or 90 seconds' worth of delectable breezes. Frolicking a little, resting a lot.  For FarmWife, it's equines and canines. Then, it was poodles on ponies. Now, it's chihuahuas on mules. She's simply ALWAYS gotten a big kick out of sensible geldings and cuddly puppies.  These fine specimens are shorty the mustang/POA/yak mix, who came to FarmWife (she was eight) as a teenaged pony with a resigned attitude and a serious maggot infestation in his ears. (!!!!!) After being treated, he became a steady first mount, though he was always headshy. He was put down because of complications from Cushings disease in his late twenties, and buried on FarmWife's farm.  Pether was a toothless toy poodle with a very small brain. (People...