Friday’s post was our 100th. The shameless self-promotion continues. Hey, we only reach 100 once.
If you haven’t read Lyrical Interlude and the comments—and logged your own story of “lyricosis,” now’s your chance. It’s good for a smile to start the week.
Speaking of smiles, here’s what Ella had to say about the 100th post:
Enough said. And enough with the fanfare.
newshound, as seen at Nordstrom
Time to craft a story or play fetch, which is in a lot of ways the same thing.
The year is 1986. I’m walking through the mall with one of my favorite cousins. A Sade song pipes into the common space.
“No need to ask cause it’s cool for Loretta,” my cousin sings at the top of her lungs. “Coooool for Lorettaaaaa!”
The year is 1992. I’m sardined into a friend’s late-80s Honda Accord.
There are four of us girls in the car and at least half of my friend’s earthly belongings. Honda makes a sweet second closet.
We’re listening to a classic rock station. “Come on, baby,” my friend sings at the top of her lungs. “Don’t feel the rebirth!”
The year is 2011. A couple weeks ago to be exact. Life in the Fast Lane by the Eagles plays on the truck radio. I’ve only heard this song 6,500 times. The first time when I was maybe eight.
off broadway at Vintage Vinyl
Some of the older kids at the pool where we hung out were obsessed with the song. They played it repeatedly over the loudspeaker, dropping quarter after quarter, alternating between the jukebox and the foosball table.
We younger ones staked out our spots at the corners of the foosball table, our chins hovering just above the surface to watch the games.
Swack! Block. Zip! Slide. Za-ping! And goal. Life in the fast lane. Surely make you lose your mind.
What a great song, I thought as I sang alone in the truck at the top of my lungs. Think I’ll post a line on Facebook.
“They had one thing in common, they were good and bad.”
Reveled in my coolness until a few hours later when a friend (or two) informed me those were not the words. I Googled it to be sure. Gasp. I’d been singing it wrong for more than 30 years.
In my mind, I’d camped on what one friend termed moral dualism, the conflict between good and evil that rages in the world and inside us. All the while the Eagles had something else in mind. Something more Hotel California.
Blueberry Hill
Musicians would do well to enunciate. Or sing cleaner lyrics. Ones that make sense to people who aren’t cocaine dealers.
Life in the Fast Lane? The Eagles’ lyrics work in the context of the song’s story. Drug addiction, outrageous parties, nasty reputations as cruel dudes.
But in the context of real life, where most of us reside, my line is miles better.
I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do. Romans 7:15 NIV
Go Cards!
Exit the fast lane for Seven Bridges Road. Watch for shots from Busch Stadium along the way in the video link.
What’s your favorite lyrical mishap?
Come on. Share a bit!
My husband did, but we don’t live on a farm now. Or even in a rural area. We live in St. Louis. Before that we lived in Chicago. And we’re moving to Wichita.
So what am I doing on a blog called Rural Women Rock?
And, get this, a staggering 80 percent of our nation’s land is rural.
Rural spreads way beyond the Corn Belt. It exists in every state of the Union. So do its values: hard work, family, community, love of God and country.
milk can
For 85 years, my husband’s family operated a dairy farm in south central Missouri. At one point, they had 1,600 acres and 200 milking cows.
All that changed the gut-wrenching day in 1993 when the dairy cows were sold. There was no other choice. There was no way for the dairy farm to continue.
A portion of land remains in the family. My in-laws still farm some livestock and crops in addition to their day jobs. To live rural is to live resourceful.
One year, I traveled the Midwest on puddle jumpers for my employer at the time. My assignment? Get a firsthand glimpse of Farming, USA.
The sheer vastness of cropland left me stunned. Rows and rows, fields and fields of corn and soybeans, wheat and barley. A giant patchwork quilt of farms.
hay rake
America’s cropland is exquisite. The dirt in the South where I was raised is the dramatic red earth of Tara. But in Iowa, the dirt is chocolate cake. Fluffy, dark, rich. Nothing else like it in the world.
A quote from the EPA: “The United States is blessed with more arable land than any other nation on earth.”
Did you read that? We’re blessed.
Only about one-fifth of our arable land is used for crop production and one-fourth for grazing livestock. Farmers make this small percentage go a long, long way.
And Audubon ain’t got nothing on rural. Nature thrives in rural.
Have you ever seen a flock of wild turkeys float freely down a dirt road, bouncing like a bunch of walking pillows?
Or watched a wolf’s shadow sweep across your truck’s headlights on the way back to your cabin?
Have you witnessed the timeless words of The Holly and the Ivy come to life in a field before your eyes? Oh, the rising of the sun and the running of the deer.
I have, and I was just visiting.
This is the land of spacious skies and amber waves of grain. The fruited plain, bountiful, free. It is our forgotten heritage as Americans.
The U.S. farmer is the most productive in the history of the world.
Food is more affordable in the United States than in any other developed country in the world.
There is a definite trend toward fewer farms producing an increasing share of agricultural products in this country.
In spite of many challenges, U.S. agriculture is uniquely positioned to provide for the food and fiber needs of a growing world community.
Not to mention the food is delicious. Blue plate. Meat plus three. My mother-in-law makes a powerful concoction she’s understatedly dubbed cheese potatoes. Now that is how the west was won.
Women who live rural, just like women who live metro, support their families and communities in ways too numerous to count.
Theirs is a sisterhood of endurance through hardship. Perseverance with grace in times of boom and in times when there’s no other choice but to sell the cows.
hay bale at sunset
Chances are, most Americans will never live rural or set foot on a working farm.
Most of us are are far removed from the technology and commitment it takes to run the most productive farms in human history and meet the demands of the world’s table.
I’m on a blog today called Rural Women Rock because they do.
Who they are, what they do, where they live matters to America and to the world. Daily we reap the benefit of their harvest. We live in a house they built. And for that, we are truly blessed.
The LORD will indeed give what is good,
and our land will yield its harvest. Psalm 85:12 NIV
My mother used to tell me not to save my clothes. Go ahead and wear your best today, she’d say. Guest blogger Karla Foster explains how the same applies to the marshmallows.
jet puffed
Rummaging through my pantry, I came across a bag of marshmallows. I almost returned it to the back corner, but decided to bring it into the light instead.
Expiration June 2009. Oops.
Apparently, one day in 2008 I thought it might be nice to make Rice Krispies Treats. How many times since then had my hand brushed across the marshmallows looking for another ingredient?
I’d think to myself, “I should make something with these.” Then in the same breath, “No, I should save them.”
Not now. No time. Save for later. As I stared at the marshmallows now in our trash, I thought about what was missed because of my excuses.
as seen at Good Works, www.goodworksfurniture4u.com
The marshmallows could have been a quick dessert for a family in need. A greeting to a new neighbor. A snack for a friend’s kids. Or even a sweet reward for lots of us working out at the gym.
Recently, a member of our Sunday school class entered the hospital in a life and death battle. This only gives me more pause to consider that I am not guaranteed a later. There is just today. There is just now to do what God is calling me to do.
Why wait? And for goodness sake, don’t save the marshmallows.
Do not withhold good from those who deserve it
when it’s in your power to help them.
If you can help your neighbor now, don’t say,
“Come back tomorrow, and then I’ll help you.” Proverbs 3:27-28 NLT
The Winans’ voices are smoother than s’mores. This song is an oldie—even older than Karla’s marshmallows, but such a goodie. Take a listen now to Tomorrow.
guest blogger Karla Foster
Karla Foster and her husband Bill are dear friends of ours.
Besides teaching Bible study and apologetics classes with Bill, whipping folks into shape as an aerobics instructor, and making the occasional pan of Rice Krispies Treats, Karla enjoys a successful career in IT sales.
Oh, and she’s a Tarheel, which never hurts on this blog.
I hate cancer. You do too? Funny how things come together in social media.
Inspired by And Cuisine for All, our masthead went pink this month to support Breast Cancer Awareness. Then I noticed the Versatile Blogger button on Life is a Bowl of Kibble and discovered Jeffrey Miskell who designed it. Decided I needed a button too. Asked around my blogging friends, tapped into picnik.com and voila! Created my first button-badge-image widget.
Introducing Pink October. A small, defiant fist raised in the face of cancer.
I invite you to use this button in your social media this month. Copy and paste it on your blog or website to honor survivors, those battling cancer, and those who’ve lost loved ones in the fight. Pray for an end to all cancers.
I’m serious. It’s free for the taking. Grab it here, use at will, and pass it on.
In all these things we are more than conquerors through Him who loved us. Romans 8:37 NIV
Back to the story. I spy a space along the curb where I can duck my truck to let the other car pass. I’ve almost nosed into the space when I feel a soft thump.
I jump out to take a look. Oh, dear. The back end of my truck scraped the front bumper of a very nice SUV parked along the curb.
banking kisses
Those additional few feet or so of truck are my nemesis. My husband says I must love our bank because I keep “kissing” the guide poles at the drive-up ATM.
I don’t even feel it when it happens. I wouldn’t know it happens except for the tell-tale yellow scratch marks.
But there I was standing in front of the scrape on the very nice SUV knowing for sure who done it this time.
I docked the truck far away from all other vehicles and ran back to the scene of the crime. The owner, another parent, had returned and was pulling away from the curb. I waved for her to stop.
In the extras on Gone Baby Gone, director Ben Affleck makes a profound remark. I know you’re skeptical, but hang with me for a minute.
“The right thing is really difficult to do because it has consequences that are unpleasant oftentimes,” said Affleck. “Otherwise everyone would do it.”
The other parent hadn’t seen the scrape mark. If her husband had found it first, they would have assumed it was her fault. I could have bolted that day without admitting guilt. But people, this was a no-brainer.
no trucks
Not saying I always do the right thing. And please don’t congratulate me for doing it this once. No, no, nooo. I fail. I fail. I fail. As do we all.
There was no question I hit the SUV. Needed to make it right. Golden rule. Black and white. Not a shade of gray for miles.
A little more than $800 later (told you it was a very nice SUV), you can see why Affleck’s remark is profound.
Be the person who does the right thing. Do it though it costs you. Do it even if, especially if, you’re the only one.
For the whole law can be summed up in this one command: “Love your neighbor as yourself.” Galatians 5:14 NLT
One of the best bits of parenting advice I’ve ever received came from a salon stylist in Nashville.
I’d known her for the length of my spa mani-pedi. Long enough to glean a jewel of wisdom.
She’d been through a lot in her life. Divorce, moves, changes, children.
Before settling down as a stylist, she ran a country restaurant. Woman after my own heart. Regulars called her Miss Ruby, not her real name.
We got to talking about our kids as the paint dried. She told me about her son who’s older than mine. He sounded adventurous. Recently tried sky diving.
I told her about my son’s daredevil tendencies. How they show up in his climbing antics, his inventions, his stories, and his wardrobe choices.
From across the manicure table, Miss Ruby looked me straight in the eye and said in no uncertain terms, “You let him be his own little person.”
Bingo. Exactly what I needed to hear.
backyard siege
What Miss Ruby didn’t know is that if I like you, I personality type you. I have also been known to do your colors and identify your fashion style, but that’s another post.
Using “Nurture by Nature,” written by Myers-Briggs experts Paul D. Tieger and Barbara Barron-Tieger, I’ve already guessed my son’s personality type.
So far it appears I’ve typed him correctly. Even if I’m wrong, his father and I will be wise to heed Miss Ruby’s advice.
We’d probably all be wise to heed Miss Ruby’s advice when dealing with the different characters in our lives.
So he wants to wear clothes that don’t match? Head-to-toe camo to school? Stripe on stripe?
Tell long, involved stories about the new Star Wars movie he will make when he grows up? Create “newspapers” and hawk them to neighbors for $19.99?
Describe in detail armament he will design when he joins the United States military? Stage a battlefield in my backyard with lawn care implements and vacuum cleaner attachments to reenact a siege?
ruby slipper detail, as seen at Nordstrom
Let him be his own person, she said.
Much obliged, Miss Ruby. I believe your nickname has you pegged.
Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies. Proverbs 31:10 KJV
Cool song and fantastic video for this post. Watch the toys build music city as the Kaiser Chiefs sing Ruby.
Uncertainty is no place to call home. Relocation is no picnic either.
As many of you have guessed, we’re moving this show to Wichita.
The man and his wife. The boy and the dog. The MacBook Pro (God rest your soul, Steve Jobs) and the blog.
There’s relief in making a decision. There’s also apprehension, excitement, hope and loss.
Responses have rolled in from across the blogosphere.
Here’s the Diehl is wondering what’s the deal through tears. Mine and hers. With strains of Green Acres playing in the background.
The would-be stand up comedian asked if I know Kansas is not in North Carolina.
A lifelong friend assured me she always wants the best for me. How comforting, humbling and cool is that? Makes me want to break out in Count Your Blessings. Then cry some more.
Another lifelong friend wrote the most amazing sunset she’d ever seen was in Kansas. Suggested My Antonia by Willa Cather. Done.
arch base
Ms. Moderation dubbed me Carolina Cowgirl, a title I adore. If the blogging thing doesn’t work out, there’s always rodeo. Or clogging.
Pinke Post wasted no time doing what she does so well. Connecting me with her people on the ground in Wichita. The woman is a rock star.
And Cuisine For All sent sage advice. Don’t worry. Take time to absorb the changes. You’ll be fine, she wrote. She’s ventured far from her homeland. She should know.
Traveling With the Jones has logged enough miles to know too. Told me to embrace change. Enjoy the ride. And just think of all the new material for posts!
My faithful friend who shall remain anonymous assured me Cowtown is not in Kansas because it’s in Texas.
And a fellow Southerner in exile in the Midwest told me you can raise a southern gentleman in Kansas. “It’s about values,” she said. “The expectations we have for and of them, saying ma’am and sir and being able to shuck an oyster.”
There are many other words of treasured wisdom, prayer and encouragement. Read more on Tuesday’s post. Add your own if you like.
under the arch
One more here, in the gentle eloquence of Via Peregrini:
Our souls are quite particular in where they find their homes. Yet, sometimes, they find in the new, the unexpected, something for which they’ve longed and you’ll discover that you can’t imagine life without that place, for that time.
Our years in St. Louis have taught us the history of westward expansion. Thomas Jefferson’s Louisiana Purchase in 1803. Lewis and Clark pushing across North America in the spirit of discovery.
Those who followed their path west were filled with dreams. Pioneers, farmers, soldiers, cowboys, gold miners, gangsters, hippies, writers, artists, entertainers. None of them had the luxury—the blessing—of toting a virtual community along. None until this latest crop.
We’re headed west. I hope you’ll join us for the adventure.
Send me Your light and Your faithful care,
let them lead me;
let them bring me to Your holy mountain,
to the place where You dwell. Psalm 43:3 NIV
Vivien Leigh as Scarlett O’Hara, image from fanpop.com
“Where?” I said.
“Wichita,” said my husband. And so it began.
The small successful company where my husband works has been acquired by a big successful company headquartered in Wichita. And they’ve offered him a job he really wants to do. In Wichita.
All right. To my Midwestern friends, please excuse the sarcasm.
The Midwest is a mighty fine place and I understand why you like it, especially if you were raised here, went to school here, or got married here. That’s precisely why I like The South.
I’ve been very open about my desire to move back to The South and raise a Carolina boy who grows up to attend a fabulous University in an enchanted place called the Triangle. Wichita doesn’t fit into that plan.
Back in August when I posted Welcome to the Wild West, I boldly wrote: To the west, young woman, as far as this horse will take you.
That was figurative. I didn’t mean to actually go west.
Wichita doesn’t have a J Crew store. According to Wikipedia the city’s nickname is Cowtown, although my husband disagrees. He says Dodge City is Cowtown. Can you feel my pain?
However, we visited Wichita to discover the people are kind and welcoming. The schools and houses are great. And I’d have a chance to become a real cowgirl.
My husband is excited about the job. His mentors are positive. Lots of people move, they say. We shouldn’t worry about our son. He’ll adjust to it fine.
“Did you tell them it’s not your son you’re concerned about?” I said as my head fell to my keyboard. Crash!
We’ve relocated twice before. Vowed never again to follow companies around the country for jobs in states that don’t have ina at the end.
East coast, please. Thirteen original colonies, south by southeast. Lakefronts are beautiful, but they’re not beaches. I miss my family, my ocean, my people.
When my husband first mentioned Kansas, it took all my strength to pull my hair up into a ponytail and run to the mall. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times: Where else does a Gen X girl go when in flight?
surprise lilies
As I brushed and gathered the locks, silver strands shined through winking at me like tinsel. I’m an adult. Have to act like one. Be thankful he has a job.
So does blogger girl put on the brave Midwestern face? Spit and shine her attitude? Think of this as a new adventure?
Or does she kindly, with the sweetest tea accent she can muster, decline the invitation to dance, hike up her hoop skirt, and get back to where she once belonged, bless her heart?
Gotta love a good cliff-hanger.
Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go. Joshua 1:9 NIV
Wasn’t planning to post today. This is too good not to share.
Rode my bike to run errands this morning. Stopped by a favorite Chinese restaurant for lunch.
This week has been stressful. Changes are afoot. Biking and solitary dining on Chinese food were in order.
Must say I don’t believe in luck. There are no coincidences. Yes, I remember the episode with the four-leaf clover. But who put it there in the first place?
Nothing, no matter how good or bad, is outside God’s control and knowledge. God loves us and is always working around us to redeem us. He holds our very lives in His hands.
There are days I struggle with this. I don’t understand. It is beyond me. How could God be in control? What is He doing?
Then I catch a glimpse of His care. He reminds me of His goodness in simple ways I can understand. No big production. No thunderbolts. Just small, quiet moments to comprehend the incomprehensible.
At the end of my meal, the token fortune cookie appeared on the table with the bill. Look what was inside.
in the palm of my hand
Something wonderful is about to happen to you.
Many things already have.
Look around. Be open to see the good in your life. And remember who put it there.
The LORD gives strength to his people;
the LORD blesses his people with peace. Psalm 29:11 NIV
Aaron Shust sings My Hope is in You. Lord, may it be so for me too. Amen.
