It’s yet another rainy day, sigh. The skies have pressed down dark and unyielding for days now. Saturday afternoon I caved under the pressure and took to the sofa where I languished away the hours. Each day since has been a battle in which I struggle to think up meaningful activities and then do them in hopes of Making It Through.

They’re calling for sun on Friday. I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.

Pre-lunch, we watched the first episode of Cosmos, a TV series that a friend from church loaned to us. It’s a well-done series (though I supposed I should withhold judgement until I actually see the whole series). My youngest was actually moved to tears over the mistreatment of Bruno, and all the children got their minds sufficiently blown. Afterwards, when I asked the kids if they wanted boiled potatoes mixed in with their tuna salad and then got mad at them for their rudely-voiced opinions, my older son said, “Mom, in the grand scheme of things, does this really matter?”

We won the lice war. At least, she’s been clear for nearly a week. Once the sun comes out, I’ll do one more round of washing of sheets and blankets, yet another head check, and call it good.

It was the weirdest thing, though. She had a pretty fierce case—I’m not even going to tell you how many lice I pulled out of her head and stuck on masking tape because you would be very, very disturbed—but no one else in our family had them. We share hairbrushes, towels, bedding, hats, everything, and yet the rest of us remained perfectly clear. If lice are supposed to be so contagious, what’s up with that?

Also, we still don’t know how she got them. Best we can guess, she contracted them at camp several months ago.

I ate rice for breakfast (and then I ate it again for lunch). It’s just sausage links that I sliced open to make bulk sausage that I then fried up in bacon grease with onions and peppers before adding leftover brown and white rice and some cooked peas. I ate it while standing at the kitchen sink watching my daughter canter Isaac in the upper pasture.

In other food, we finished up the chocolate peanut butter cake leftover from the birthday party at the barn. I have a big bowl of cut up butternuts waiting to go into the oven once the granola finishes baking. This pumpkin pie-that-isn’t is calling my name. But where to find maple cookies for the crust?

Also, the donut party is this weekend. Or it will be, if it ever stops raining.

Ha. You didn’t think we’d make it through a whole blog post without a picture of a horse did you?

Here’s the thing. I find it exhilarating to watch my older daughter fly through the field on the back of a horse. The pounding hooves and streaming tail: there’s something both primal and magical about it. Freedom and power and speed…

I don’t know. Whatever it is, it makes me happy.

I finished Still Alice, a book about a woman who gets early onset Alzheimer’s. It’s eye-opening and terrifying. What a horrible disease. Now I’m reading Half Broke Horses, the sequel to The Glass Castle.

And we finished up yet another family read aloud: The Giver. Not sure what to start next. Any suggestions?

This same time, years previous: three vignettes: my husband, puzzling it out, and going up.

This same time, years previous: roasted red pepper soup, old-fashioned brown sugar cookies, the dogwood wild runner, my answer, why it ain’t happening, anticipating the mothballs, and potential.  

This is Isaac. He will be living with us for the winter.

Normally, Isaac lives and works at a camp for disabled people, which happens to be the same camp that my daughter volunteers for. This is the same camp where she was volunteering when she got hooked up with the farm where she now works. So, first she gleaned a job and now a horse. Moral of story: volunteering pays!

Actually, that’s not the moral. There is no moral. It’s just a story.

Anyway, a month or so ago, our neighbor (and one of the lead volunteers at the camp) stopped me as I was passing her house on my way home from my morning run. We have this horse at the camp and he’s getting sick of going in circles around the ring, she said. He needs someone to ride him. Would your daughter like to take him and ride him this winter?

Privately, my husband and I discussed the factors: electric fence installment, sufficient pasture space, large animal on the property. Within minutes (if not seconds) we agreed it was a not-to-be-missed opportunity. We told our daughter. She hit the roof.

Somehow, in all the conversation about Isaac, I got the idea that he was old, as in almost-dead old. I pictured him as a crotchety, rundown horse, slow moving and placid. So when my daughter walked him into the yard last night, I was caught off-guard.

Isaac was clearly not old, run-down, or placid. He was gorgeous and enormous. When I expressed my surprise to my neighbor, she said, “Oh, no. Isaac’s not old. He’s in his prime!”

After walking him around the perimeter of the field—a home-tour, if you will—my daughter removed the halter. Isaac tore around the pasture, kicking his heels and freaking me out because it looked like he’d run straight into the fence.

Because he belongs to the camp, they provide his feed, vet and farrier services, and tack. Our children can ride him (we’ve signed the paperwork) but not anyone else. And actually, only my older daughter has complete access to Isaac. She’ll teach the other children to ride, sure, but Isaac is her responsibility and privilege.

Last night before bed, I stepped out on the deck. I shone a flashlight down through the field. Isaac’s eyes glowed green. I shut the light off. He snorted and stamped. In the thick dark, the horse noises seemed quite close.

There’s a horse in our yard, people. This is weird.

This same time, years previous: home, party on, the quotidian (10.10.11). what we came up with, green soup with ginger, and happy pappy-style cornbread.