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.

Blogger Cup of Jo (do you read her?) has an ongoing series called “A Week of Outfits” in which she showcases different women and what they wore for a week.

I find these posts equal parts eyerollingly exasperating because:

1) I seriously doubt the women wore all these outfits in one week
2) The clothes are often (though not always) outrageously expensive
3) Is anyone seriously this put-together?

and charmingly addictive because:

1) Wallowing in envy, on occasion, is rather pleasurable.
2) The women’s creativity and confidence are kind of inspiring, in a back-handed, can’t-touch-this sort of way.
3) Wouldn’t it be awesome to be so stylish that I’d get showcased on someone’s blog, can you even imagine?

Hang on a sec.

I have a blog, yes?
I am a woman, yes?
I wear clothes, yes?

 Oh my word, I QUALIFY.

So here you go, my own merry little version of… 

A Week of Outfits: Jennifer Murch (squee!)

(clears throat)

Jennifer, a stay-at-home mother of four, usually never goes anywhere so wearing presentable clothes is kind of hit or miss. However, this summer she’s volunteering with an organization that has An Actual Dress Code which means looking presentable is one of her job requirements. Of course, “presentable” has different connotations for different people — there’s a good chance that many people wouldn’t be caught dead in the chothes she wears. (But then again, she might not be caught dead in the clothes other people are wearing either, so moving on.) To learn about Jennifer’s trick for making the most of her piddly clothing budget, the one piece of clothing that makes her feel put together even when she’s not, a great way to get rid of old clothing (and find “new” ones), and the one item she’ll never wear, read on…

(Oooo, this is fun!!!!)

Tank top: Target, probably; Ratty sports bra: Walmart?; Running shorts: from a grab pile; Flip-flops: considered buying good ones from Zappos but in the end I couldn’t justify the cost and went with these from some store in town…Walmart maybe?

“Because our home here is half private residence and half hostel, I’ve taken to sleeping in actual clothes. It makes going running in the morning easier, too — just swap the black tank for a neon spandex, don’t-I-feel-like-an-athlete shirt, put on sneakers (and socks) and away I go. This is also my uniform — shorts and a tank; I have several of each — for cleaning the house. I often sweep and mop (what with all the dust, this is a near-daily activity) after breakfast so I can have the whole day to enjoy the clean floors, but then I get all hot and sweaty so I have to shower…again. (Here, I average about three showers a day: once after running/cleaning, once around suppertime to cool off, and once before bed. It makes for a lot of laundry!)”

Jeans: hand-me-downs from my mother; black tee: no idea; brown sandals: Supershoes; Camera bag: Xhilaration, stolen (with permission) from my brother; hobo handbag: LeDonne, a requested birthday gift from my husband

“I adore black. It’s the one color I can’t get enough of (well, that and grey, though I suspect grey brings out my burgioning crop of grey hair and should probably be avoided, but I never do). And if I wear all black — in wintertime, oh, sweet wintertime!, my favorite thing to wear is black sweater, black jeans, black belt, black boots — it makes messing up in the matching department nigh well impossible. My favorite black tee of all time came from Costco, the Kirkland brand. It was cotton, fitted, long at the waist, and thick enough that I didn’t need to wear it with an undershirt. Which reminds me, what is it with all the t-shirts being made from such filmy-thin material that you have to wear a second shirt underneath just to not feel naked? Anyway, that t-shirt is nearly in tatters now. I periodically check the Costco shirt tables but no luck so far.”

Shirt: Target; Capri jeans: purchased years ago from some store

“When I was soaking the dishcloths in the sink out back, I splashed the front of that shirt with a bit of bleach. But then I decided the spot of white, dead-center, just looked like I had a piece of lint and since that’s sort of forgiveable, I wear the shirt anyway. As for the capris, they’re too big at the waist, so I have to wear a belt. Which stinks. And I don’t really like capris, but oh well. They’re a step up from jean shorts (modesty-wise re The Dress Code), so there’s that.”

“Some people clutch pearls; I clutch a thermal coffee mug. The band of rubber has long since disappeared, and the slidey-top gets gunked up with bits of dried coffee, but the lid never falls off. Plus, it has a measured pour-in-mouth spout — enough for easy drinking, not so much I burn my upper lip. It’s the little things.”

Shirt: Costco; Pants: clothing swap; Arm candy: my womb

“A couple weeks before we left for Puerto Rico, a friend from church invited a bunch of women to her house for an Earth Day clothing swap. When I arrived, there were mountains of clothes all over the place — skirts in one pile, jeans in another, t-shirts, shoes, jewelry, hats, dresses, maternity, and so on. We tried on clothes any free place we could find (after a bit I stopped running off to the bathroom and just stripped whenever I found something that might fit). I got rid of a bunch of stuff and made off with a nice little new-to-me selection. The pants are way too big for me — the belt makes them bunch up around the waist all fuddy-duddy-like — but they’re airy and feel good against my skin in the heat.”

“Several years ago, fed up with bras that never quite fit, I finally made a trip to Victoria’s Secret to get measured. I was so impressed with how wonderfully the bras fit, that I bought three ($!$!$!, gulp). But it was so worth it. For the first time in my life I had a bra that didn’t move around whenever I did. Just putting one on made me feel put together, secure and comfortable in my own skin. Even if my other clothes didn’t fit perfectly (and they rarely do), at least the bra did. That evening, elated and pumped over my new-found booby confidence, I resolved that I would take my girls for a fitting when they turned eighteen. There is no reason for them to go as long as I did without a good bra.”

Dress: Gift and Thrift

“When our agency gave us smartphones for our work, I was a little worried that I might get hooked and suddenly develop a pressing need to have one of my very own when I returned home. Turns out — hallelujah — I can’t wait to be done with the silly thing. It’s such a time suck (example, the other night I actually spent time trying to make my own emojis), I’ve never quite figured out how to navigate it, and I absolutely hate always being available to everyone. I’m tethered to the computer enough as it is — no need to weigh myself down with one more thing. (My husband, however, is totally sold on it. Though I admit it does make sense for him to have one, what with his work and all. So I guess we didn’t escape completely unscathed….)”

“The agency we’re working for doesn’t allow sleeveless shirts (or shorts shorter than knee-length) so when I go out I have to wear another shirt over top this dress. Without the sweater, I look five-months pregnant. With the sweater, I look like a cardboard box with legs.

“I wore these sandals to a meeting at FEMA headquarters. At the door, the guard took one look at me and said, Flip-flops aren’t allowed. These aren’t flip-flops, I said. Those aren’t flip-flops, the women I was with echoed. The guard hedged, eying my feet warily, before finally waving me in, whew. I guess my agency isn’t the only one who takes their dresscode seriously? (The next time I went to the FEMA headquarters, I wore heels.)”

Pants: that clothing swap I mentioned; Shirt: haven’t a clue, sorry; Sandals (i.e., my “heels”): Gift and Thrift; Hair tie (on wrist): Target 

“Are bell-bottoms in again? I can never keep the fashion straight — skinny jeans, low-waisted jeans, high-waisted jeans (which I’ll never wear, mark my words), and just a couple weeks ago I saw a teenager with the tight-rolled jeans, eek! — and really, I don’t care all that much. The pants were free, durable, slimming, and, aside from being far too big in the waist, comfortable.

“It’s way too hot to wear jewelry here, but I often sport a spare black hair tie on my wrist. I usually start out the day with my hair down but then the wind whips it into my eyes and it clings to my face sweat (which is unbelievably annoying, almost panic inducing) and up the hair goes.”

“Even though most everything I wear is either purchased at a run-of-the-mill store or thrifted or gifted, I do, on occasion (too frequently on occasion, my husband would say) shell out the big bucks: one hundred dollars for a pair of boots, a 60-dollar pair of leggings (gasp), Eddie Bauer jeans (they fit the best and last forever). However, with a budget of 125 dollars per month for a family of six, big-ticket items of that sort are few and far between (not far enough between, my husband would say).

“My trick? Ignore my children’s rags and tatters until it’s no longer morally feasible (it helps that homeschooling and country-living somewhat remove us from social expectations), and then, under the guise of turning them into responsible adults, declare them in charge of acquiring their own clothing once they turn sixteen.

“Responsibility is good, I tell them, and this is true! (But it’s also true that if they buy their own clothes then I’ll have more money to spend on me.)”

Shout-out to my kids for (begrudgingly) taking the photos!

This same time, years previous: my beef obsession, glazed lemon zucchini cake, a new friend, corn crepecakes, the quotidian (8.6.12), why I am recuperating, all things ‘reenie.