This same time, years previous: the quotidian (8.14.17), spaghetti with vodka cream tomato sauce, grilled trout with bacon, Friday snark, totally worth it.

Wednesday morning, I took the three younger kids to a horse farm on the outskirts of Ponce so my older daughter could ride.

This opportunity came about via a member of our church. Daniel used to ride horses when he was younger, so he appreciated my older daughter’s interest in riding. When my daughter turned 17, he and his wife — it was her idea, he said — stopped by with a gift of a brand new bridle and reins (!!!), and then this last week Daniel connected us to this farm. On Sunday after church, we followed him and his wife out to the farm so we’d know where it was, and then he sent me the owner’s phone number. Call her to schedule a time, he said.

It felt a little awkward, cold-calling a stranger to see if we could come over (Were they truly okay with a bunch of strangers showing up on their doorstep? I didn’t want to be a bother! Were we taking advantage?), but Daniel had insisted that this was totally okay — it was all arranged, he said — so I shelved my qualms and made the call. The owner was bubbly and warm; she’d meet us at 9 the next morning.

The owner briefly showed us around the farm — we were introduced to the dogs, the pig, the sheep, and we peered down at the small river that, during Maria, had swollen to such a size that it had gouged out a fair chunk of her land — before leading us behind one of the barns where two of the hired men had two horses (she owns about twenty and boards another dozen or so) saddled up and ready to go.

My older daughter hopped right on and took off.

For my nervous younger son, the hired men kept the horse on a lead and took turns running back and forth across the field until he was comfortable enough to ride by himself.

After a bit, one of the men — he seemed to be in charge so I’ll call him the manager — brought out another horse, this one a Paso Fino. He rode the horse up the drive, her legs shooting up and down like pistons, the staccato tah-tah-tah-tah of her hooves striking the concrete sounding just like a train clickety-clacking over the rails (like this). The other Sunday, he proudly told me later, he’d competed with this horse, and they’d won, too.

In the field, they kept the mare on a lead while my daughter rode, but once in the ring, they set her free.

Only the manager and the owner rode this horse, the manager told me, openly impressed with her easy confidence, and this was the first time a female had ever ridden her.

They brought out another Paso Fino then, this one a stallion, the son of a world champion and grandson of the infamous Terremoto de Manizales of Columbia.

“This is like a wine tasting, but with horses,” I joked.

To me, the horse seemed frightfully high strung, but my daughter didn’t appear fazed so I took my cues from her and played it cool.

After a few minutes, they opened the gate and my daughter took the horse down to the wooden boardwalk, or resonance board, that is used to amplify the hoofbeats. (Check out this clip, starting at the 30-second mark.) The horse kept walking sideways, its rear listing to the right.

What am I doing wrong? she wailed. Nothing, the manager assured her. It’s just that he hasn’t been ridden much in the last couple years. But it helped a little when they told her to tug the reins from side to side.

After she dismounted, they demonstrated how to work a horse to correct an imbalance: pull the neck to the right (watch out he doesn’t bite your leg!) and then release, over and over again. 

Afterwards, we walked through the stalls, admiring the horses and holding kittens.

And then, as if an entire morning of riding horses wasn’t gift enough, the farm owner pulled out ham sandwiches and cold drinks, and we stood around visiting for another half hour in the breezy, open-air patio.

The end.

This same time, years previous: tomato bread pudding with caramelized onions and sausage, on getting lucky, the quotidian (8.11.14), the quotidian (8.12.13), goodbye, there’s that, sanitation and me.

For my husband, Mondays are stressful.

A new week means a new group of volunteers and, no matter how skilled the workers, this means my husband usually spends Mondays getting tugged hither and yon, explaining, demonstrating, instructing, and answering question after question after question after question after— You get the point.

It’s no one’s fault, of course. This is just the nature of the job. With new workers, there is always a period of adjustment as the volunteers learn how the agency (and us, as project leaders) functions, what the house plans are, and where the tools are kept and how they work. They’re adjusting to the heat, to new sleeping arrangements, and a new diet. They’re familiarizing themselves with the streets and the stores. They’re meeting the homeowner and any local people who show up at the jobsite (and puzzling through the Spanish), and getting to know the other volunteers. So naturally, it takes time — time to figure out the job and time to learn how to work together as a team.

On the outside, my husband appears jovial and patient (I think he does, anyway, though maybe some of the volunteers would say otherwise?), but on the inside he’s stressed and worried, frazzled to his core. I don’t know how this will go, he tells me privately, ominously.

It used to be, I’d get all sorts of fretful, listening to him stew. Oh dear, I’d think. The week is already ruined and it’s hardly even started, oh dear, oh dear, oh DEAR. But now, three solid months into this gig, I know better. Now when my husband sings the blues, I just smile and remind him, It’s Monday. Tomorrow will be better. And usually, it is.

Monday morning this week, I drove over to the jobsite to check in on everyone, show my brother-in-law where to go (he’d just arrived, two days late, thanks to a canceled flight), take a few photos, and touch base with my husband.

That last goal — to touch base with my husband — was laughably futile. No sooner did he manage to extricate himself from the goings-on and come over to talk to me then someone would approach him with a question and off he’d go.

I watched from afar as he managed, directed and explained…

“Yeah, the nail gun shuts off after awhile…”
To his brother, “I know you didn’t get to see the safety video yet, but make sure you wear glasses when making cuts, okay?”
To someone else, “Hey! Where’s your glasses!”
“Here, hand that to me through the window.”
“That tool is in the trailer — go look in there until you find it. I could have someone show you where it is, but it’s better if you have to search for it. That way you’ll learn where everything is kept.”

…and then, the situation resolved, he’d stand there, looking around, observing, assessing, calculating, planning.

And then I’d do a little reminder wave — yoohoo, over here, hon — and he’d snap to and scurry over, all apologies. But wouldn’t you know, I’d only just start talking before he’d spy yet another situation and rocket off, to wrestle with a tool, perhaps, or poke his finger in an electrical box, or help move a ladder. It was like trying to have a conversation with a ping-pong ball. Eventually I gave up and just settled for photographing the guy.

Right before I left, I managed to catch him alone outside the house.

“It looks really good,” I said. 

“Huh? What does?”

“It — this. It looks good.” I gestured expansively. “Everyone’s working. They’re doing stuff. This is great.”

“Yeah, but I’m not getting anything done.”

I threw back my head and hooted. “Oh, honey! How many times do we have to go over this? This is your job. Making other people work is exactly what you’re supposed to do.”

“Yeah, well,” he sighed heavily. “I guess…”

So every Monday, this is the routine: my husband despairs, I lecture him, he still feels rotten, and then the rest of the week happens and on Friday he comes home with a slightly startled, dazed look on his face and says, slowly, carefully, as though he hardly dares to believe it might be true, “You know, I think we actually accomplished some stuff this week.”

And I just grin. Sure you did, honey. Sure you did.

This same time, years previous: fresh peach pie, pile it on, the quotidian (8.8.16), the quotidian (8.10.15), best banana bread, crunchy dill pickles, elf biscuits, a bout of snarky.