Puddle Run

My birthday

noreply@blogger.com (Bent Barrow Farm) — Sun, 03 Jun 2012 18:00:00 +0000

I woke up on my birthday, sandwiched between a really spectacular husband and a really spectacular dog, and took an inventory of my blessings: three charming daughters, a home of which I am proud, a well-groomed acre exploding with spring, two of the world's best mules, admirable friends, inspiring professional associates, a truly special community, my health, good food, and a disposition leaning more towards joyful than morose. What more could I ask for, except dessert? I got that at the Blue Mountain Grill, where my special day was honored with the world's biggest brownie (a la mode).

Thank you, people of Acme, for being who you are and where you are and what you are to me.

M

Acme PTA

noreply@blogger.com (Bent Barrow Farm) — Wed, 30 May 2012 20:45:00 +0000

I am honored and excited to be the incoming secretary for Acme Elementary's Parent Teacher Association. Aside from vague memories of watching my mom eat brownies in a claustrophobic, windowless room in Piedmont, California, my PTA experiences have been limited to Acme meetings and to the recent Washington State PTA convention in Seatac. My impressions, so far, have been very positive.

Acme Elementary PTA has a vibrant, intelligent, dedicated, and small corps of volunteers or, what WSPTA staff refer to as The Usual Ten. Apparently every PTA has them (though none can possibly be as wonderful as ours). The challenge, this year, is going to be to grow our Usual Ten to twenty regularly-attending members, and then thirty, and then perhaps fifty or more. Wouldn't that be something?

Legends abound of PTA gatherings of yore—gatherings at which parents and teachers filled gymnasiums, packed auditoriums, lined up as far as the eye could see, and filed in to meetings in such numbers as to give fire chiefs apoplexy. I don't know how to recreate this response en masse except to show up, to write vibrant newsletters, to fix our website, and to be a dedicated servant to Acme Elementary students and staff.

I'm grateful to the outgoing officers, who created a growing PTA out of virtually nothing at all, and I'm grateful to Acme Elementary staff and the Mount Baker School District for giving us a school worth supporting.

M

Sounds real and imagined: a poem about tinnitus

noreply@blogger.com (Bent Barrow Farm) — Fri, 25 May 2012 02:24:00 +0000

My lone ear hears a symphony
of two mules, trains, and rain.
The best is yet to come to me,
Bob Dylan once explained.
But here I dwell in paradise
Beside my closest friend.
Our one flat acre, fruitful, lush,
He'll tirelessly tend.
We dwell with mules and goats and dogs,
Precocious daughters three
Who play beside the wilderness
In fields bedecked in green.
My rabbits are aleap with joy!
My fowl scratch and dabble.
My little tigers prowl about
And supervise the rabble.
There's no redundant voice at play,
No song I'd lay to bed,
Save these tuneless, wild noises
Stalking restless through my head.

Air travel vignettes

noreply@blogger.com (Bent Barrow Farm) — Mon, 30 Apr 2012 04:58:00 +0000

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 someone play cribbage, and have to ask what game it is. They are coming from a wedding.

The flight lasts three hours.

In Seattle, I enjoy a salad and juice during a two-hour layover. I walk back to my gate on the heels of a certified genuine rodeo cowboy, complete with boots, hat, sponsor-embroidered shirt, and Canadian National Rodeo Champion jacket. In his hand he holds some tangled assortment of cotton and leather—hard to identify from my angle, but possibly a halter and leadrope. He clanks and clatters as he walks, and when he's passed I think to wonder if he got his spurs past security.

I am looking forward to getting home.

Santa Cruz

noreply@blogger.com (Bent Barrow Farm) — Fri, 27 Apr 2012 20:45:00 +0000

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.

A goodly day

noreply@blogger.com (Bent Barrow Farm) — Fri, 20 Apr 2012 22:05:00 +0000

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 and months leading up to a conference are always full of things to do, and this season has been no exception. We are close to the finish line.

On the subject of family: thank you, Auntie Hannah, for visiting Bent Barrow Farm! We loved seeing you. The children have suggested that we turn our shop attic into a luxurious apartment, complete with kitchen and bathroom, "so that Auntie and Uncle can get away when we fuss but still be nearby." Sounds like a plan to me—now, to get you a jet plane so that you can keep your East Coast jobs.

Third, I've been sulking a bit since Fenway's hock rendered him permanently lame. Since this is supposed to be a blog about happiness, I haven't been much in the mood for blogging! I have a new exciting prospect on the horizon, though: in May, we're getting a 33" miniature mule who can be Fenway's companion in his retirement and a good friend to me and the children. Who knows—perhaps we'll train her to drive!

Spring has sprung, the grass is exploding, and I have a happy song in my heart again. There's so much to be glad about.

Skokomish Farms

noreply@blogger.com (Bent Barrow Farm) — Mon, 02 Apr 2012 02:00:00 +0000

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.

First world problems

noreply@blogger.com (Bent Barrow Farm) — Wed, 28 Mar 2012 20:36:00 +0000

Today's problems:

My eight pound chihuahua is trapped in a ten pound body. No amount of exercise or dieting seems to make her slender again.

My mule is retired and I have fallen in love with the photo and description of a free gelding in West Virginia. West Virginia is very, very, very far from Washington. If he lived closer, I'd already have snuck him into the paddock.

I dream of winning the lottery, but I have never bought a lottery ticket.

I am out of printer ink.

In the grand scheme of things to agonize over, these are not terrible things. I'm distracted by GOOD news, too: we had a BEAUTIFUL weekend; Paisley hasn't had a seizure in weeks; Dylann will get her cast off on Monday; I have my health and my family and my home.

Rejoice!

Book update

noreply@blogger.com (Bent Barrow Farm) — Sun, 18 Mar 2012 20:09:00 +0000

What I've determined about writing a book:

A book does not write itself.

Writing a chapter of a book is not exactly like writing a dozen blog posts. A book chapter requires a sort of continuity of focus that blogging does not require, unless of course you are writing a book for the short-of-attention-span. Maybe that's the sort of book I ought to write.

Writing a book about the joys of riding one's mule is hard to do when one is processing the loss of the joys of riding one's mule due to said mule's being permanently lame.

Writing a book about the children, dogs, cats, husband, rabbits, goats, plants, relatives, neighbors, friends, jobs, hobbies, and delicious meals that make living with a lame mule less sad seems like a marvelous idea.

I haven't given up, but I do think it's going to be a longer process than I thought.

A stumbling block

noreply@blogger.com (Bent Barrow Farm) — Sat, 10 Mar 2012 03:40:00 +0000

Writing about how happy riding makes me is a bit hard when I haven't been riding since October. I haven't been successful in bringing Fenway back into work. As of this week, he's officially retired.

After a winter off for the Great Wet Darkness, I've tried gently reconditioning him. After a month of worsening lameness, I'm faced with this truth: his on-again off-again leg issue is more on than off. His hock, which was out of commission for the entire summer of 2010, has flared up again. He needs further diagnostics and treatment but no matter what he is probably due to be retired from service as a mount for adult riders.

Fenway's veterinarian and I had a heart-to-heart about it and he said what I'd been thinking: Fenway's hock isn't well, and repeating the cortisone injections that give him temporary relief is no substitute for retiring him. He may need the injections to stay comfortable and they may continue to help but the vet and I both know they are not a cure.

I'm wrapping my head around never riding my friend Fenway again. It's not creating a huge lifestyle change for me—after all, I hadn't ridden all winter—but it sure is putting the kibosh on a lot of great dreams. There are so many places we haven't been yet. There are so many things I wanted to do, and I spent so many hours looking forward to a day when my girls would be in school and I could really grow as a rider again.

I've been really crabby lately (sorry, family!) and a mule ride is usually the cure. It's time to shake this funk off one way or another! Time with the livestock will help, and I hope I can go sit in the barn for a while tomorrow. I'm also going to try to enjoy other hobbies—hiking, gardening, shooting, writing—and look for more work. Money can't buy happiness, but it can buy cortisone!

M

What is writing for, anyway?

noreply@blogger.com (Bent Barrow Farm) — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 04:58:00 +0000

I was thinking about why I write, or about what I like about writing, more specifically, and I realized it's like making friends. It connects me to like-minded people. To people who are crazy about animals; who understand dry humor; who see the point in fending for one's self, yet indulge in the conveniences of the modern world; who grieve when a chicken dies; who love their dogs like children; who sweep up dust bison instead of dust bunnies; whose outbuildings are made of salvaged material. It connects me to people who live in the city but yearn for the country, or people who live in the boondocks and yearn for a town like Acme, or people who live right where they want to live but who find me interesting, and want to hear what I have to say. It is as much as an inlet as an outlet. It brings readers into my world, and I love them as friends.

Blogging has prepared me for writing my book, because it has shown me that I do have an audience, and that it's made up of people like me. Maybe they're people who like what I like, and who can laugh when I laugh, cry when I cry, and share my amazement at this life I've stumbled into. Maybe they're people who can understand how this motley crew of people and animals, this logging town, and this little green acre add up to a downright amazing life.

Update #1

noreply@blogger.com (Bent Barrow Farm) — Fri, 17 Feb 2012 05:25:00 +0000

It's been a week since my big "make me do it!" spiel, and I'm tempted to offer excuses: my daughter is broken (her tibia, fractured at school on Friday, is in a full-leg cast until April) ; my work is piling up; my house is a mess.

I am less than ten pages in to the new content of the book and I have about fifty pages selected from among old writing—pages that need some tweaking, but that fit in. I am still excited, though, and I think I can develop a good new habit of working on this project daily.

I have not forgotten my promises.

M

Begin at the beginning. Go on until you reach the end. Stop.

noreply@blogger.com (Bent Barrow Farm) — Thu, 09 Feb 2012 23:12:00 +0000

I decided to write a book last month, which sounded like an easy enough thing to do: I love writing, after all, and I love talking and telling stories about me, about my animals, about my people and my home. Think James Herriot/John Katz/Cleveland Amory/Betty McDonald.

It turns out I have been stymied, ever since, by the questions of how to begin—how to organize—how to transition—how to end. I decided, yesterday, that I'd better begin at any old place (but not necessarily at the beginning) and write a copious abundance of material between now and summer, then face at that time the tremendous hurdle of organization. Trying to organize as I go is like trying to keep my boat dry while I paddle—it causes an immediate and profound absence of progress. I'm going to take my rough outline and shove it, only referring to it again when I have the content in hand.

This, then, is going to become—from now until June—not a blog about my life, but a blog about a book about my life. I will let you know, every day or two, how it's going. If I don't, you can ask me how it's going. You can remind me to finish what I set out to do, which is one of the hardest things in the world for a person prone to procrastination and lapses in focus. You can prod me if you have to, and in fact I'd appreciate it if you would: I know, you see, that I have the talent and the material to write a book. I just don't know that I have the attention span without some outside interference.

I am going to start with a story about a muleback ride, because it is upon muleback that I think best.

M

To My Old Master

noreply@blogger.com (Bent Barrow Farm) — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 22:47:00 +0000

To My Old Master

This letter is worth a read.

The baking dilemma

noreply@blogger.com (Bent Barrow Farm) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 03:44:00 +0000

Photo from tgdaily.com

When we bought 175 pounds of organic wheat and a hand-grinder, I envisioned happy years spent baking freshly-ground bread and boiling tender homemade pasta. Here's the dilemma: my kids won't touch homemade whole wheat bread with a ten foot pole. We've taken to eating our wheat boiled, which is actually really delicious, and buying our bread (Dave's Killer—I wonder how he does it?) at Costco.

I admit that my kids might be balking at my bread's consistency, which is somewhere between that of a shoe and that of a brick (but closer to the brick end of the spectrum). I used to be able to bake a delightful loaf of bread using a combination of white and wheat flour, but as I've pushed further and further into the whole wheat realm I've alienated my diners and lost my touch.

Whole wheat bakers, how do you do it? Do I need to go back to a white/wheat mix? Add eggs? Rise overnight? Knead longer? Something's terribly wrong with my current approach.

I have a wonderful recipe book—The Bread Bible—with which I have had success. Its recipes, for the most part, call for unbleached white flour. I have another wonderful book—The Encyclopedia of Country Living—in which the author states her reluctance to explain the how-tos of whole wheat bread because it is not the sort of thing one can teach in a book. Perhaps I'll look for a third book that strikes a better balance, or perhaps you, dear reader, will have an answer for me.

M

The Shining

noreply@blogger.com (Bent Barrow Farm) — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 20:49:00 +0000

It felt a little like The Shining around here this week—a foot and a half of snow outside, no hope of ever seeing a snow plow on Meredith Lane, and the whole neighborhood glistening like the grounds of the Overlook Hotel. Luckily, we've not yet lost our minds and the most murderous thing I did this week was accidentally shovel a worm in two while setting post piers.

The barn project is temporarily on hold pending an improvement in the weather, but it's still on my mind every day. It could be that I'll fail in conveying to you just how excited I am, but I'll try. Imagine this: I can go out and visit the livestock at any hour of the day or night and stand inside a sheltered, lighted building. My tack and grooming equipment will be readily at hand, under the same roof. The mule and goats will dine upon hay which is stored in the very same building. Our front porch, which has served as our hay and tack repository, will be a vast canvas of blank possibility. (This is my poetic way of describing a room vastly in need of remodeling or, more likely, tearing off and replacing.)

Mr. Puddle Run is back at work after two days off due to impassable roads. He took the F250, as his wonderful little Toyota is up to its eyebrows in the snow. D is here, on day three of school cancellations, and M is in Seattle with her father. Schools there are also closed. The animals are staying comfortable enough, though Clover isn't a huge fan of this cold snap we're having. She likes her snow at 30 degrees and fluffy. 12° F and crisp? Not so much.

Further thoughts on the weather: when it snows, it melts. When it melts, it floods. We're due to get a solid week or more of heavy rains, and I expect this means we can kiss Park Road goodbye (again). Rt. 9 will surely flood just north of the general store, as it always does, and Rt. 9 south will probably wash out but be passable in our bigger truck. That's the general pattern, and I'm glad we have hay and groceries to last a while. I'm not worried about Bent Barrow Farm getting wet: though we border the Samish River one side, we border a deeply-carved railway on the other. The two meet about a half mile north of our property, meaning the railroad serves as an accidental canal in times of flooding.

A state of emergency has officially been declared this morning by the governor of Washington, which makes me grateful for the relative calm in Wickersham. We've had no significant trouble in the grand scheme of things.

Enjoy the weather, whatever yours may be, and take this lesson: always store more hay and food than you think you need.

M

Run, Marnie, run!

noreply@blogger.com (Bent Barrow Farm) — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 20:43:00 +0000

Will there come a day when running is an enjoyable, exhilarating experience? When the challenge is outweighed by the rewards of increased energy, stamina, and strength? Conventional wisdom says that it takes a certain level of fitness before jogging is no longer arduous, painful, and exhausting and that once this fitness threshold is surpassed I can expect a flood of positive feelings along with the wind in my hair. I used to doubt this commonly-held truth, but I feel a new optimism today. I'll tell you why!

I tried to be a runner about ten years ago, and had a happy week or two of pushing through the burning lungs, pounding heart, and aching legs before blowing out a previously injured knee and spending a couple of weeks on crutches. I went to an orthopedic surgeon who recommended surgery (I opted out), said it was the loosest joint he'd ever seen that was still being walked on, and warned me off jogging. Years passed.

Two years ago, after some months of steadily-improving knee health, I ran two miles on a whim. I confess, that's the furthest I've jogged this decade. That's a terrible thing to admit, seeing as our species evolved for a life of daily prolonged cardiovascular effort, but at least I've been hiking, muleback riding, and cycling since. I haven't passed EVERY intervening hour on the couch! Anyway, I ran two miles in average running shoes with no regard whatsoever to my technique, which was at that time heavy on the heel-strike. My knees, which are pretty torn-up (with a completely torn ACL in the right knee, a partially-torn and now recovered MCL in the left knee, and trashed menisci in both), resented me for it. They were stiff, swollen, and bruised for days afterward and I decided jogging wasn't the sport for me. "I'm damaged goods," I told myself. "Barely pasture sound." My knees made a wonderful excuse for a sedentary lifestyle.

Since then, I've been brought over to the "barefoot"* side of things. I jogged a very little in handmade haurachas this summer. (By little, I mean less than half a mile per run). I learned, from a distance-runner friend, that a toe- or midfoot-strike can take a huge amount of concussion off the knees and instead dole it out among the many shock-absorbing joints of the foot and ankle. I read a little about running, watched a few video tutorials, and ran across the lawn with a new focus on my footfall. Most of all, I took inspiration from a friend who has powered through similar knee pain and become an accomplished long-distance trail runner.

It took Mr. Puddle Run's new interest in jogging (he's been going out almost every day for the last few weeks) to get me practicing what I preached, and I finally tried jogging again. I started last week with laps around the pasture. This isn't saying much: my pasture measures merely 170 feet on each side. I ran yesterday, covering two miles total but throwing in some ample walk breaks when my knees got too achey, and I ran again today. It was a little bit easier. I did it in some very simple shoes—no padding, no heel height, no frills—and it felt good.

I'd say my past running troubles have stemmed partly from footwear, partly from poor technique, partly from old injuries, and mostly from laziness and procrastination. I can't promise that I'll keep up with this fitness plan, but I will promise to try. Ask me about it in a week or two, please—I'd really like your encouragement to stick with it!

M

*I don't really mean "bare."I still wear shoes. I try to shop for minimal shoes that allow my foot to function in roughly the same manner, mechanically, as a naked one. I admire those who truly go without footwear but it's not how I'm using the term in this post.

Merry Christmas!

noreply@blogger.com (Bent Barrow Farm) — Mon, 26 Dec 2011 01:57:00 +0000

My thoughts on Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (Bent Barrow Farm) — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 18:03:00 +0000

http://www.wxicof.com/Gifts/Donkeygifts/dxmasboxedcards/xbcards.htm

I love getting gifts, I love giving gifts, I love decorating, I love cooking, and I love singing traditional songs. While I do think that Christmas has become too commercial and too drawn out (the marketing starts at Halloween now? Really?), I do love what it stands for. I love the whole season.

For Christians, the day stands for the birth of Christ. While I don't believe in Christ as God the Son, nor as a man who died for our sins in order to buy us eternal salvation, I do believe that Jesus existed as an historic figure deserving respect and emulation. Factual accounts of his life lead me to believe that he was a social worker, a volunteer, and a charitable man. A doer of good deeds, a teacher and healer, and a revolutionary. A radical, progressive humanist. A passionate activist. I can get behind all that! While Dec. 25 was not necessarily his birthday, its as good a day as any to celebrate Jesus and the spirit of generosity, kindness, compassion, and pacifism we'd like to assume he represented.

For ancient Pagans, Christmas was something else entirely. Its proximity to Solstice is not accidental, and I still love the Pagan traditions of bringing light to the darkest time, of bringing green growth in from the dead winter, and of celebrating warmth and abundance with yuletide carols and bountiful feasts. I like having something warm, bright, and exciting to look forward to in the darkest week of the year, and I'm very comfortable attaching Solstice and Christmas together in my own mind. I celebrate them both, at once. For me, Christmas is a joyful hybrid holiday representing the best of both Pagan and Christian sentiment. The fact that it stretches from Thanksgiving to New Year's Eve, at least, is fine with me.

In the tongue-in-cheek Pastafarian tradition, "Holiday" can be celebrated whenever, however, and for however long one wants. I don't mind celebrating Holiday from Thanksgiving to New Year's, and I don't mind calling it the Christmas season, and I don't mind praying for peace on Earth and goodwill towards men. I don't have to be a Christian to see the beauty in these traditions, and I'm grateful for this opportunity to celebrate.

Merry Christmas!

noreply@blogger.com (Bent Barrow Farm) — Tue, 13 Dec 2011 17:44:00 +0000

I'm just about positive we can't top last year's Christmas gift for these girls of ours, but we expect a merry holiday anyway. Clover, the Christmas chihuahua, turned out to be the BEST dog for our family! I'm so glad the Alternative Humane Society staff saw fit to place her with us, despite (or perhaps because of) our bustling, big family.

To say I was surprised to be given a chance at Clover is an understatement. After all, walking in to the adoptathon on Dec. 17 and saying I had 1) preschoolers, 2) a history of giving up my last two dogs because they had been poor fits for my family, 3) no small-dog experience, and 4) every intention of presenting the pup as a Christmas present, I was expecting to spend some time convincing staff that I actually hadn't lost my mind. Instead, they handed me a wiggling black pup (she was about 10 months old at the time) and said, "you want this one."

"I have three little girls. The youngest is three. Are you sure?" I really had a hard time believing they were going to entrust this darling, fragile puppy to me and my children.

"She will LOVE them," the director told me. And she does! There could not be a better dog for our family, except perhaps Paisley. He's perfect, too.

I feel so lucky to have these two great dogs in my home right now. I haven't felt this settled with my dog family since Mirri died (December 15, 2004). My years of longing have ended.

Truly Taupe

noreply@blogger.com (Bent Barrow Farm) — Fri, 02 Dec 2011 07:01:00 +0000

I love paint samples. I could spend hours holding Svelte Sage against Urban Putty, comparing Macadamia with Sea Salt, and nestling Dromedary Camel into Quietude.

I wonder, sometimes, if it stems from my childhood. When I was eight, my mom married a housepainter. I used to hold his colorwheel sample books, riveted at one end, and fan them for endless hours. I still remember the joyful discovery of one beautiful combination after another, and the way my favorite blue-gray looked against ten of its most complimentary peers.

When I worked, more recently, in the prepress department of a commercial printer, I'd sometimes spend my lunch hour in the breakroom comparing CMYK and spot color samples. It was somehow lacking—perhaps because "2583 M" is so much less romantic than Aubergine.

A Sherwin-Williams employee, seeing the difficulty I was having in choosing a blue, recently offered to loan me his colorwheel, a fanning rainbow, to bring home with me. I was thrilled by his offer, but I declined, choosing Open Seas on the spot. Had I borrowed the wheel, I would have enjoyed it. I might have enjoyed it so much that I'd have had trouble resolving to give it back.

On another related topic, I can't recommend Sherwin-Williams' Harmony paint base highly enough. It has very little odor and no VOCs, and is the only interior paint that I can use without falling ill. I've used it in every room in my house save one, and that one's getting painted this weekend. Painted in Open Seas and Truly Taupe.

the frustration of monaural hearing

noreply@blogger.com (Bent Barrow Farm) — Sat, 26 Nov 2011 01:31:00 +0000

It continually astounds my family that I can pick up a muttered word in another part of the house on an average quiet evening but that I cannot hear someone four feet away shouting, "Marnie! Marnie!" while the tap is running. That I can hear my mule braying from a mile away but that a person speaking to me in a moderately noisy auditorium might as well be a Martian speaking utter gobbledegook. That I can understand you perfectly when we speak face-to-face but that if you approach and speak to me while I'm already in a conversation my brain may completely paint you out of the picture. Why I ignore you when I've been listening to the TV, or the radio, or another person. Why I act as if you don't exist.

I think my brain has learned to shut out sounds that it can't cope with, reducing the confusion of monaural hearing by listening to as little as it can at any one time. Here's an example: when I'm walking with my family and hear a truck passing on the highway a mile away, I suddenly become deaf to words. I only hear the vehicle, and I can't tune back in to what's around me until I identify its location. My brain screams, "truck!" and my thoughts scatter like sheep.

I was looking for online information about clinical research today—hoping, actually, to sneak into some sort of tinnitus study—and I found an article that was, in its own way, cheering. It was published by the National Institute for Rehabilitation Technology, and this is the relevant paragraph:

"The human brain processes the signals from the two ears in a very special, coordinated way. One of the most important of these brain processes is that which cancels background noises so that the person can better discriminate and understand a person's voice that is mixed in with all the background noise (as in a factory, motorboat, party with loud music, etc.). Another of these brain processes enables a person with two good ears, to hear three or four people speaking at the same time - in a place without background noise - and be able to listen to just the one voice that is of interest. EXCEPTIONS to these benefits occur when a person has lost most or all of the hearing in one ear. (1) Unaided, this person understands very little of human speech under either of the conditions just described." (Emphasis mine).

It's true. It's bizarre. It belies the high functioning of my useful ear, which does a pretty good job most of the time, and it's hard to explain. "Why," my loved ones must ask themselves, "can she not hear me? Why, when she's not really that deaf?"

Some good news—a friend of mine who used to be an audiologist tells me that CROS (contralateral routing of signal) systems do help people like me. After talking with her and doing a little research, I really want to try it. Without health insurance I don't think I'll be trying it soon, but it is exciting to think that there might be a way to give my brain a little of the audible stimuli it's been lacking—a way to hear more than one thing at a time again, and maybe get a better picture where that truck is coming from.

I'm thankful for my handy husband

noreply@blogger.com (Bent Barrow Farm) — Fri, 25 Nov 2011 04:13:00 +0000

Among the many, many blessings in my life—kind, imaginative children; sweet, extraordinary pets; a bountiful garden; loving friends; a close-knit community; a place to live in a beautiful corner of the world—I have a husband who is very, very good with his hands (among other things). It amazes me when Mr. Puddle Run turns a pile of scrap lumber into a useful structure, and it amazes me when he goes shopping for a project and knows just what to buy and how to use it. His intellectual and physical aptitude combine to make him a skillful remodeler, which works to make our home tremendously more beautiful, comfortable, and enjoyable than I ever thought it could be. Mr. PR, with virtually no budget, has managed to move walls, lay floors, add storage, hang doors, repair sheetrock, install windows, and so on. I do what I can—painting walls, steadying loads, fetching tools, laying tile—but Mr. PR is the master. He envisions and then executes the building of sound, beautiful things. He does so quickly and affordably, too, which turns his work from craftsmanship into something closer to magic.

Mr. PR and I dream of building a house together someday, and I think we both know that means he will build and I will help. I hope to be a good and useful helper, and to that end I practice when I can.

Thank you, Mr. PR, for making our home better.

M

Hello again

noreply@blogger.com (Bent Barrow Farm) — Wed, 16 Nov 2011 20:12:00 +0000

October was a busy month for me professionally, as I prepared for and then attended a conference in Virginia for my biggest editing client. I've also taken on a few odds and ends—small contract jobs, a teaching position, and a couple of volunteer gigs (editing newsletters for both of my daughters' elementary schools).

I haven't ridden in several months—there was work, and then there was a stone bruise, and then there was a conference, and now there's weather. It's pissing rain outside but I've got a toasty fire.

I've been daydreaming about more land, a barn, a meadowbrook carriage, a new roof, and a Jersey cow, but do you know what? I'm happy. There's always another thing to yearn for, but I'm not restless anymore. Even without my favorite form of decompression—trail riding—I'm loving life.

Part of it might be my children's ages: no one is in diapers, everyone goes to bed on time, and everyone's capable of going on a hike or sleeping in a tent or helping with the chores. We had an active summer as a family, and it promised even better summers to come. Mr. Puddle Run has even agreed that we can take Fenway packing in the mountains after a dry run with backpacks (sans mule). Having a 900 pound bellhop to deal with our luggage makes backcountry camping sound manageable!

Part of it is having rewarding work. I love my job, and I'm good at it. I'm still learning, which feels great, and yet I know what I'm doing. It's wonderful, and if it continues to gain momentum then I can imagine doing this full-time next year when R starts kindergarten.

Part of it is knowing that a big dream—riding a lot, like I once did as a child—is almost within reach. It won't be long until the kids are old enough to let me go for a couple of hours here and there. I don't need to compete, to buy a fancy warmblood, or to take a lot of lessons, but I do need to ride often enough to keep fatty in shape. It's not like riding a motorcycle, where you dust it off and cruise down the coast when you get a free weekend. I fantasize daily about having my mule fit enough for a truly ambitious ride, but that takes a commitment of time that I just can't make right now.

Part of it is being happy in my marriage—my husband is amazing, and we're better together now than we've ever been. He and I have both changed a lot since we met, but we're changing in a complimentary fashion. We're growing together, not apart. He's happy in his work, I'm happy in mine, and we're happy together. He compliments me. My weaknesses are his strengths.

I wouldn't turn my nose up at a barn or a Jersey cow, but I've got a lot to be thankful for already this Thanksgiving.

M

Learning to read

noreply@blogger.com (Bent Barrow Farm) — Sat, 22 Oct 2011 00:16:00 +0000

D is learning to read.

I remember the revelation of learning to read myself—to really read, cover to cover, and understand. It happened on the front steps of my house in Piedmont, Calif., where I lived from ages four to eight. It was a book about a bear of some sort—a firefighter bear, perhaps?—and was in a set of three stories bound together. I have a picture stored in memory—the book in my lap, the sunlight, the dappled shade. My elementary school stood right on the other side of Linda Avenue.

I remember another book I had as a child which had in it the story of three little ponies—a black, a grey, and a chestnut—who go to town and dress up as humans, or perhaps they were humans who dressed as ponies. It was bound in a single volume along with a story about a hippo and I remember I always wanted to read about the creepy ponies in creepy masks and my mom always wanted to read about the happy hippo with the pleasant adventures.

. . . five minutes passing . . .

Another revelation, this one via Google: I've found a description of the book. Apparently someone else has seen the same edition, as this blogger has described the very set I've been trying to remember. I now recall the happy hippo was named Veronica, as referenced in this blog post:

http://www.vintagechildrensbooksmykidloves.com/2009/01/three-little-horses.html. The book was Three Little Horses, by Piet Worm, and I might not be the first adult to note that it has a touch of a fetish vibe. The protagonist hides, dressed as a tree, until he can lure the three little innocents away and doll them up like voluptuous women.

Maybe I'm wrong, and maybe it's a sweet story. Perhaps it should be enjoyed for its simple beauty, by a child, as I once enjoyed it.