BRAYS OF OUR LIVES

FarmWife will be THIS happy to see us all again!  If you love something, set it free. That's what they say, isn't it? With that old adage in mind, I begrudgingly permitted FarmWife's friends and employers to borrow her for this little weekend jaunt she's been on. "Take her," I told them. "If she loves me, she'll come home." Well, let me tell you . . . I heard from FarmWife recently, and she is hustling back to me as fast as her gangly legs can carry her! She's just 100 miles away at this very moment. She's had all sorts of tremendously fun adventures, but she misses we citizens of Bent Barrow Farm. She's coming home. FarmHusband and the human fillies have had occasion to speak to FarmWife on the telephone, and you might say I have too: each time they phone her, my bray rings out. She gets funny looks from strangers when her phone rings, and knowingly bemused ones from her friends. They know that sound. Word from FarmWife is...

http://www.alaskaframedphotography.com/ On a plane bound from San José to Seattle—a Disney-themed plane, with strains of "hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work we go" piping faintly through the speakers—a man and woman sit across the aisle in yellow medical masks. The masks look comfortable, as far as masks go, and are quite a bit more elaborate than the "cover if you're coughing" masks issued in every doctor's office. They pull travel-sized Purell bottles from their bags and then the man pulls out a road-weary package of Oreo cookies. From my vantage point, and without staring, I have trouble determining if the cookie pack is empty or just nearly so. They sit, masked, without eating. They keep their Purell close at hand, but never sanitize a thing. Beside me, an outdoorsy young couple plays cribbage. The two women look to be about 20. They feed each other pretzel chips by hand, and wear what appear to be matching engagement rings. I have never before seen some...

The bull shed at Wilder Ranch State Park. Visiting coastal California fills me with pangs of nostalgic longing. I love these landscapes and their flora, as I think I've shared before: the grasslands, the live oaks, the eucalyptus, the undulating hills. Yesterday, a morning spent at the historic Cowell Lime Works and an afternoon at Wilder Ranch State Park nearly moved me to tears: the beauty, the peace, the perfection of it all! I am so very happy that those two beautiful historic ranches are being preserved, restored, and shared with the public. I really was a bit verklempt for a moment. Luckily, I found three ticks on my pants later in the afternoon. I do love this region, but the nasty buggers helped me remember that I love home, too. It's a different kind of perfect.

FarmWife is a bit of a horse diviner . . . wherever she goes, there they are. Here are a pair of draft horses, upon whom she stumbled during yesterday's tour of historic timber frames in the Santa Cruz area. They were rather bored with her, I think, but not so her with them.

When FArmwife was  Since FarmWife is away at a conference, I figured we could talk about her a bit. She's a half a bubble off plumb, you know. FarmWife was raised in a barn from age 14 to 18. It was a nice barn, and eventually had running water and electricity. Early on, it didn't. FarmWife's bathtub was in a field, her phone was at a post in the woods (under a bucket, which doubled as a stool for comfort while conversing), and her power came from a gas-powered generator with about 50 minutes in the tank. FarmWife and her mother would haggle and bargain over who had to go fuel up the generator during the last commercial break and risk missing the crucial last five minutes of Star Trek: The Next Generation . FarmWife is descended from staggering geniuses, hardy Scotsmen, and the mentally ill. From the geniuses, she got a fair bit of brainfulness. From the Scotsmen, she got a predisposition against throwing anything away ("waste not, want not!"). From the m...

The Fenway 50, #6- Your favorite memory of visiting with people. (For those not in the know, this is the Fenway 50 master list).  Here's a nice photo of the culmination of nearly two solid weeks of visitors: in the summer of 2010 we had three uncles, two aunts, a grand-uncle and grand-aunt, a granny, and assorted other friends and relations staying in tents in my pasture for a week. Then we had two aunts, a grandpa, and four cousins from a separate branch of the human family staying on the lawn for a week. Luckily, our lawn is big enough to make up—at least seasonally—for the lack of a guest room!  Here I am with the second wave of visitors: Back row, from left: FarmWife, me (Fenway Bartholomule), FarmHusband with Robin upon him; Grandpa Tim, Aunt Ena, Aunt Jodi. Front row, from left, Cousin Aidan, Cousin Jackson (obscured), Cousin Nico, Mia, Cousin Kanan, Dylann. 

FarmWife has taken it upon herself to kill about 1000 square feet of lawn, the better for avoiding mowing. I am her loyal and devoted servant in this matter. What I cannot obliterate by overgrazing, I stifle with my abundant leavings. I pile them tidily in the corner of the shed; FarmWife removes them from my presence and spreads them atop cardboard on the offending delectable edibles. She then removes soiled alfalfa stems from yonder goat shed, layering them atop my road apples. She waits. Father time massages them into a rich, black humus. She plants bushes. They thrive. Teamwork is the name of the game, and I am the MVP. Ears, FenBar This is Harriet patrolling some of the soil that I helped build. Let me tell you—the soil is a lot prettier now, two years later, since the addition of a whole lot more mule poop. 

Robin does many things "goodly," and is free with her compliments when she catches others doing things goodly too. I cook goodly, for instance. Her father builds goodly, and Fenway brays goodly for his breakfast. The grass grows goodly in April in these parts! I love the word, and wish to see it in our common lexicon. Here's my litany of excuses regarding this blog: First, I've been busy enjoying the company of 38 chickens, four ducks, and the regular roster of mammal companions. (Luckily, 20 of the fowl are leaving tomorrow and six others are old enough to kick off any day now.) I think a dozen poultry fit nicely on Bent Barrow Farm. Three dozen is simply ridiculous. Second, I've been busy with work and family. Next weekend, I go to Monterey, CA to have a truly spectacular time at the Timber Framers Guild conference. Nowhere in the world will you find a nicer bunch of people (and registrations are still being accepted over at tfguild.org). Of course, the weeks an...

Today, FarmWife rescued her fence from the blackberries (the triffid-like brambles had overgrown so heavily as to snap the wire stays), applied Vaseline to Missy's dried up old boobies (ah, the things we do for love), discovered and treated an abcess in B.G.'s hoof (poor girl feels much better!), and started construction of a mini-mule deflector (i.e. a fence separating alfalfa-strewn goat areas from grass-hay strewn mule areas). The goats now have access to the offending blackberries, and with luck and a bit of steadfast browsing they may just take care of the problem for us. Ears, FB

There is talk in the human abode of getting me a friend: a friend who is the size of a goat, but who is not a goat. A friend whom I shall be required to share with the human children (gladly, of course!). A friend with Muleness. Apparently this friend has already been approached with the idea and has given her brayful and wholehearted approval. She wants to move to Bent Barrow Farm, and how we shall enjoy welcoming her! I will release more details as they solidify, but for now let me just say this: stay tuned for cuteness of extreme magnitude. Ears, Fen Sneak preview:

I catch hardly a glimpse of FarmWife these days, as April is notorious as her busiest time of year. She'll go to a conference at the end of the month, and after that we'll pass our days in merry repose beneath the dappling shade of yonder trees. We'll probably have fruit platters and things. It will be lovely. I DID talk FarmWife into having a spa day this weekend: since Human Auntie Hannah had done up the children's hair and nails, it seemed only fair that I get a currying and a mane trim. Little Dylann looked after my ears, mane, and tail, Little Robin looked after my shoulders, barrel, and hips, and FarmWife curried my topline and picked my hooves. I was beautiful for our Skype call to the Grandparents, which took place outdoors so that I could show them my puffy hock. They offered their condolences and best wishes for a speedy recovery, which were terribly kind things to offer. We talked about France, then, and about baseball and the weather. Ears, Fen

I am looking at a VERY busy weekend, folks: a weekend, that is, to be spent staring at the spot where FarmWife ought to be when she is not terribly busy at her computer or out and about. I want you to know right now that I do love you all, and that if I do not post again until Tuesday or Wednesday then it certainly means nothing at all except that my typist is otherwise occupied. I won't have forgotten you, and I hope with earful earnestness that you shall not forget me, your beloved friend, Fenway Bartholomule.

Here's the original post on the Fenway 50 if you missed it. Here, for #5, is a photo of my second worst "oops" moment. My worst "oops" moment had something to do with whirling and bolting headlong and heedless down the road for a good 55 yards due to the approach of  motorcyclist. There was—thank goodness—no camera. My second worst "oops" moment involved mistaking a ewe for a terrorist.  Here's is some of my original post on the subject: Sheep=growers of bountiful fleece, right? They must be cute, and tender, and clean, and gentle . . . Well, with that association in mind, you can imagine that I was ill prepared for the angry-looking MegaGoat that I encountered at a friend's house yesterday. We rode up, innocently enough, to let the Chicken People's dogs out to pee. They had an astonishing, awful creature in their pasture—a creature about which FarmWife UTTERLY failed to warn me. I'm thinking that it looks like a goat, but angr...

1: this photo was not actually taken today. It was taken two winters ago. 2: FarmWife did a really bad job of photoshopping out the power lines. Forgive me on both counts.  Whether it's the nicer footing (hello, sun!) or the MSM (goodbye, loading doses!), my hock is looking a bit better today. Bray for my continued improvement. Days like this make a mule happy to be alive! The sun is shining, the trough is shimmering, the chooks are stirring up the compost like nobody's business, and the goats and rabbits are sunbathing in their respective paddocks. The only bad thing that happened today was that FarmWife drove 20 miles (round trip) to buy a bale of hay, and when she got it home she found that it was profoundly and deeply moldy. She is rather annoyed, since it was not a cheap bale. (The goat food—alfalfa—costs $19.99 a bale plus tax. The mule food—grass hay—costs $1.50 a bale, straight out of the field. Another reason I am the best, but I don't need to get into that n...

Here's the cupcake encounter I've been dreaming about:

So much has changed since I last wrote column for the Brayer two months ago! I tried to get in shape for camping, and my hock went kablooey again, and I was retired from strenuous activity altogether, and Schneider's Saddlery heard about my hydration woes and sent me this wonderful bucket for wintertime sipping: http://www.sstack.com/water-buckets-waterers/16-gallon-heated-tub/.  Here, anyway, is the column I wrote two months ago. I was so young, so naive, so innocent then!  The Bold and the Brayful A column by Fenway Bartholomule Trips and Sips: thoughts on staying hydrated You may remember that I am good at about a thousand things. Among them: steering my goats hither and thither with assertiveness but without cruelty, turning a little bit of hay into a lot of tummy, summiting precipitous slopes, filling my neighborhood with the joyful noise of my resounding bray, and warming the cockles of my human's heart. I am also terribly good at campi...

Today is my smallest filly's birthday. Our mail order ducklings (who were not birthday presents, but who do serve to make a birthday feel more festive) arrived right on time, but alas! Only two came, as the third breed FarmWife had requested failed to hatch on time. Two ducklings, three daughters? That wouldn't do, so FarmWife and her offspring trundled off to the feedstore for a rouen duckling to add to the buff and cayuga that waited at home. It was buy one, get one free day, and I double-dog-dare you to say no to a free, cute baby animal. There are, therefore, four ducklings in the family: two who hatched yesterday and spent their first arduous 24 hours in the care of the United States Postal Service but who are, nonetheless, bright-eyed and bushy tailed and two who were hatched two weeks ago and who spent the intervening time at the feed store growing burly and beautiful. Meet Dewdrop, the yellow buff; Junebug, the black cayuga; and Pickle and Francis, the stripey rouen...

Eight years ago today, FarmWife and FarmHusband were married at the Peace Abbey in Sherborn while a looming, bronze Ghandi looked on. (Actually, he didn't: they were indoors, he was out.) The guesthouse and chapel in Sherborn are now being relinquished due to financial difficulties, while the mission and programs of the Peace Abbey go on during a relocation to th e  University of Massachusetts Boston this summer .* The slaughterhouse and feedlot escapees who called the Abbey home have moved to Maple Farm Sanctuary . Did YOU win the Mega Millions last week? If so, consider buying the Abbey buildings. It's a pretty amazing place. FarmWife is sad to see it go. Peace, Fen *Thank you, Director Randa, for this correction!

No, she didn't break her leg on the trampoline!  Did anyone get fooled yesterday? Not me. FarmWife is very nice about not playing nasty tricks.  I wanted to update you all on the state of my humans. They're doing terribly interesting things these days!  FarmHusband has become a jogger, and ran in a 5K foot race yesterday despite having some sort of awful flu. He's an admirable and mulish man.  FarmWife is going to meet one of her very favorite online friends later this month . . . S., you know who you are. I only wish I could come along too. FarmWife is also going to visit sunny Monterey, one of the many perks of being an employee of the Timber Framers Guild. They hold their conferences in wonderful places. She promises me that I will be looked after in her absence.  My biggest human filly is nearly done with her sixth grade year, which makes her practically a grownup. She is part of a very prestigious girls' choir, which makes her the secon...

Have you hear of Skokomish Farms ? It's a neat idea, and one I'd consider trying out if I had a lot more money. The thing is, I'd like to do it with 18 families of my choosing rather than with 18 families of perfect strangers. Carabbas, Hugginses, Popes, Joneses, Forests, Jacksons, Hiltons, DuBoises, Harders, Campbells, Merles, Davises, Browns . . . the list goes on. I'm lucky to know a lot of people I'd gladly live near and farm alongside! The concept, an eco-subdivision with green building requirements and an organically-farmed, working agricultural preserve filling most of its 750 acres, appeals to me. Having a darned good farmer involved would be central to the project's success, I think, and having compatible personalities and a true commitment to the values that make this project different than your average development would matter too. I hope this thing works. I want to see how it shakes out.

♫  My ears hear a symphony Of two mules, trains and rain. The best is always yet to come, That's what they explain to me.  ♫ Does that sound like Wickersham or does that sound like Wickersham?! I think Old Bob was trying to tell FarmWife something. 

#4 on the Fenway 50 (search for it at right if you missed the first post) is a photo of a day that impacted my life. Here goes: This is the day that my mini buddy and I moved in with FarmWife. The molly found another  wonderful home, while I stayed on at Bent Barrow Farm. This photo shows just how quickly mules plus Wickersham clay plus rain make mud: the next day, we took delivery on 12 yards of gravel.