Thanks to insane traffic, our nine-hour drive to Framingham stretched to nearly twelve, so it was dusk when we arrived at our daughter’s house, a small cottage directly beside the farm. She stepped out the door and we both immediately burst into tears and hugged and hugged and hugged. Four-plus months in a completely new place is a pretty long time to go without seeing family and friends, and it’s the longest I’ve ever gone without seeing one of my children.

She gave us a tour of the farm then, introducing us to each of the horses (she knows them all by name, like they’re people), showing us the Big-Ass fans in the arena and opening the garage door-like windows. In the feed room, she explained the feed charts (I understood not a word), and turned on the heating lights so we could stand under them. 

We left then for our hotel in Framingham so she could get to bed (she had to be at work at 5:30 the following morning), and then came back first thing the next day to watch her riding lesson.

When training, the horses wear ear protection to muffle noise and help them focus.

Here are two little videos from a recent lesson (not the one we watched, but with the same instructor). I find the instructor to be as interesting as my daughter’s riding. She cracks me up!

Her instructors kept asking us if we could see her improvement and we were like, Um, yeah? I mean, it seemed like she’s working hard and the horse’s feet keep doing weird things, but really, we had no idea what we were seeing.

(Tell me again how an equestrian was birthed from my body?)

Still, it was fun to just be in the space where she spends her days, watching her tack up and hose off her horse (and then towel dry him!), and put the little booties on their feet, and lunge them in the hot walker arena.

where she stores her gear

In the round pen inside the hot walker.

We walked with her when she walked down to the paddocks to turn out a horse. As soon as she released him, he went nuts, bucking and kicking and riling up the other horses and so, naturally, my daughter went in to be WITH him.

She grabbed his halter and clucked and purred at him, and calmly — no, nonchalantly — held her ground until he settled.

I never wrote about it here, but a couple months ago a horse rolled on my daughter. She called to tell me (actually, she texted me a photo of a saddled horse with the caption “another one bites the dust” and then I, panicked, called her) and I asked, “Are you alright?” and she said, “Yeah, I got back on and he’s not even limping or anything” to which I roared, “I DON’T CARE ABOUT THE FREAKING HORSE, I’M TALKING ABOUT YOU.” Later she sent us the footage from the arena security cameras: my daughter cantering smoothly and then the horse gliding forward and down, rolling to the right and then coming back up and standing there, and my daughter popping up and going to the horse. The whole thing took all of two seconds, maybe three. It was graceful. Elegant, almost. She was fine — just a purple egg on her leg (thank goodness he hadn’t rolled on her knee) that changed color rather prettily over the next few weeks. 

So this is why, when I see my daughter handling horses like a boss, I’m impressed.  

While my daughter did her horsely duties, my husband and I strolled through the state forest trails at the back of the property, and then took the kids into town to get lunch at Waverly Market, an Italian deli that’s nearly a hundred years old: the 99-year-old grandma was behind the cash register; the son made our subs and prepared our cappuccinos with exceptional focus and care; the granddaughter helped us figure out what we wanted to eat. We split a couple subs and tried the cannolis (I was surprised to find that I didn’t really care for them). 

Back at the farm, my husband worked on my daughter’s car, the kids played with the farm dogs, and I read on the porch while, at the other end of the porch, a group of women met with a therapist about managing fear and anxiety about riding. 

My daughter’s work completed, she quickly packed her stuff and then we all piled into the van and headed north on the next leg of the journey.

This same time, years previous: cherry picking, Korean beef, the quotidian (6.22.15), weigh in, please, beets, and more beets, spaghetti with fresh herbs and fried eggs, driving lessons.

Whenever our family goes on trips, it’s to see family, or for a day trips, like to the DC zoo. OR we swing in the other direction and move to places like Guatemala and Puerto Rico to work (and then occasionally trek about). But then our older daughter moved to Massachusetts and one thing led to another and before we knew it, we’d mapped out at honest-to-goodness road trip, our family’s first!

(And then our older son bailed on us and went to Hawaii instead, but more on that later.) 

Usually a travel hater, I was uncharacteristically excited for this trip. I was eager to see my daughter, and I had a fun plan, complete with booked tickets for a touristy outing, hotel reservations, and a ungodly amount of snacks. I google-mapped the heck out of stuff (and somehow still managed to never know where I was), and emailed with family and friends re travel tips and home visits. As we collected supplies, I piled them behind the living room sofa: the box of homecanned goods and Costco socks and GoT DVDs for my older daughter, bags of homemade granola for our breakfasts, plastic bowls, a huge bag of reading material (that I hardly touched), etc. 

Pre-trip, cleaning out my bag. Apparently, I mostly haul around junk.

But the biggest reason I was excited, though, was because for the first time maybe ever, money was not a stresser. Thanks to the pandemic, kids moving out, and random goodies from the produce farm and the bakery, plus our own beef and milk, I’d managed to squirrel away a good-sized chunk from our grocery budget each month. We still had to play it smart — no fine dining or room service — but if we had to pay for any surprise fees, or screwed up and found ourselves at a hotel with 55 dollar valet parking (oops), or wanted to buy fancy coffee, we could. The not-pinched feeling was totally new to me. So this is how people go on vacations, I thought. What fun!

In the week leading up, we readied the property, emptied the fridge, cleaned the van. My husband and the kids tightened up the dog kennel (i.e. electrified it because Danny Boy likes to jump fences), and we arranged for animal care (thanks, family!).

This particular set-up was not parent-approved and thus removed.

My son ordered tech stuff and the Spiderman movies — he reports that he watched the first one two-and-three-forths times and the second one two times; by the end, he was reciting the lines along with the actors — and spent hours scheming ways to transform the van into a lux entertainment studio.

And then Friday morning came and we were off!

This same time, years previous: Novia Scotia oatcakes, one morning, all before lunch, the quotidian (6.19.17), puff!, the quotidian (6.20.16), sinking in, in recovery, magic custard cake, refried beans.

More frequent coronavirus diary posts mean one thing: CHANGE.

When we were shutting down, there was so much to sort through and process that I posted almost weekly. And now it’s that way again, but in reverse.

GLORY BE.

***

Last Friday night, my parents hosted an outdoor concert at their place.

My dad built a stage. My mom made a million cookies and borrowed coffee makers and mugs. They put up signs for parking and seating. There was a bonfire and twinkle lights. 

And then the people came.

Lots and lots of people.

It was the biggest crowd of mostly maskless people — they requested unvaccinated people wear masks — I’d been in since the pandemic started sixteen months ago. 

And it was lovely.

***

And then the next day my younger daughter and I went to Costco where we were met at the doorway by this sign.

We promptly ripped off our masks and, grinning maniacally, waltzed into the store. My daughter took off to get her own stuff and then, minutes later, came racing back: There’s samples, Mom!!!

AND THERE WERE.

The sample carts had plexiglass walls affixed to their tops, with a little hole at the bottom through which they’d slip individual paper bags of samples.

There was a sign telling people to wait until they were out of the store to eat the samples, so I dutifully carried around my little bag for a bit and then I was like, Wait, I’m not wearing a mask so whether or not I put food in my mouth is irrevelant — that sign is for the masked unvaccinated. And then I chowed down.

***

After his second vaccine, my younger son had just a slightly sore arm. In other words, he was the only one in our family to have zero side effects. LUCKY.

***

Whoop-whoop!

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (6.10.19), the quotidian 6.11.18), pulling the pin, a photo book, the quotidian (6.10.13), sheet shortcake, fresh tomatillo salsa.