Down the Aisle

My cousin got married last weekend in one of the most beautiful, elaborate weddings I’ve been to. This, of course, coming from someone who used a pair of tree pruners to cut branches off her favorite tree at the farm to create her wedding bouquet. So when my cousin, Joan, asked Caroline to be the flower girl I’ll admit I was a bit apprehensive. 

A lot of coaching and bribery goes into getting a three-year-old down the seemingly endless aisle of an enormous Catholic church. At the rehearsal, I picked a place to sit during the wedding and kept reminding Caroline that when she got to the alter, she needed to take a left, then another left, and I’d be sitting in the pew waiting for her. This is confusing for someone who doesn’t know left from right.   

So, during rehearsal, I found a statue of a saint that she could identify, walk to, and there she would find me. It happened to be a Saint with a dog, cat, and mouse at his feet, which confused me greatly, but Caroline thought it was absolutely wonderful. We decided that I’d sit next to St. Martin de Porres, patron saint of people of mixed race, barbers, veterinarians and more. I have a real knack for getting Caroline into situations where she only asks a lot of questions, and this saint selection was one of those situations. I instructed her to not worry about St. Martin de Porres’ physical traits and pets, just focus on the puppy and kitty and getting down the aisle. 

The rehearsal itself gave me confidence that she knew what she needed to do, when and how. But could she walk a quarter mile down the aisle in a fluffy white dress with hundreds of strangers looking at her? Time would tell. 

We arrived at the downtown Indianapolis church Saturday afternoon just in time to get dressed in a dark, quiet corner. Once the fluffy white dress was on, Caroline was a magnet for attention and that really bothered her. Every time someone would say hello or tell her she looked beautiful, she hid behind me. My confidence that she would make it down the aisle was waning.  

We tried to stay out of the way as parents of the bride and groom welcomed guests. We sat by the Holy water font and Caroline asked why everyone was washing their face when they came in the church. Of course, we didn’t have time to go into a full explanation, so I quickly told her they probably had a snack on the way to the church and they needed to clean up. She begged me to carry one of her horses down the aisle with her. I figured that if it got her to her destination, we could do that. So with her petite rose bouquet, she also held a brown pulling horse figurine in her tiny hands. 

The gorgeous bride arrived, and Caroline was quite intrigued that she had a group of princesses behind her holding up her train so it did not drag the ground. All of a sudden, mere minutes before she was supposed to walk down the aisle, Caroline had a mini-breakdown that her flower girl dress did not also have a train. She began walking around with her knees bent, looking behind herself, hoping it would make her dress drag on the marble floors. “Great,” I thought to myself. “She’s going to walk down this aisle appearing to be crippled just so her dress will drag the floor, and everyone is going to wonder why Joan asked a toddler with a mobility problem to be the flower girl.” 

Some clenched-jaw instruction convinced Caroline to stand up straight and tall just in time for her debut. 

The grand doors opened, and I whispered to Caroline that I’d meet her at the puppy and kitty. 

Do you know when honey gets crystallized and thick and you can’t get it to drip out of the jar? 
That’s how slowly Caroline walked down the aisle. 
Do you know when you’re late and a train stops over the tracks, only inching along for twelve agonizing minutes? 
That’s how slowly Caroline walked down the aisle. 
She actually walked so slowly, and carefully, down that endless aisle that the pianist had to play her song a second time. 

But she made it down the aisle. No tears, no turn arounds or panicked yells for mommy. I became the proudest mother in the world, and I was sitting in Saint Mary’s Catholic Church! 

In the thirty minutes that followed, Caroline asked a series of questions which included but was not limited to:

• Why did the Priest show up in a white bathrobe?
• Why did Uncle Rex, who was seated behind us, have his eyes shut when we weren’t saying a prayer?
• Why didn’t I bring her cold milk for doing a good job?
• Why couldn’t she lay down on the kneeler inside the pew?

I’m so thankful it wasn’t a full Catholic mass. 

We made it through the rehearsal, wedding, and reception without any catastrophes, and when you’re dealing with a three-nager, that seems to be a major accomplishment. On the way home I looked in the rearview mirror to see a sleeping toddler in a puffy white dress with barbeque sauce down the front of it, holding her brown horse. 

I guess it is true: 

You can take the girl off the farm, but never the farm out of the girl.

As a side note, my sweet niece Marlee wore this dress at our wedding on August 10, 2013. You may have read about her here. 

And six years later to the day, Caroline Jean fit into it perfectly. 

The Travel Journalist

I’ve had many aspirations over the years, and in my mid-twenties I loved the idea of being a travel journalist. At that time the only thing I had to spend money on was a mortgage for a small home in Greens Fork, dog food, gas to the airport and airline tickets. I traveled often during that phase of life, always with a Nikon camera and journal.

In my mid-thirties I travel with a lot of dry Cheerios, plastic grocery bags for any sort of urgent disposal and a smartphone that typically always runs at 23% battery. 

We went to Kansas last weekend, and I often get asked how long it takes us to travel to the family ranch. We’ve made it there in anywhere from 10 to 12 to 24 (the unbelievable Christmas trip of 2016) hours. This trip was fun because we made the voyage for a family wedding in which Caroline was a flower girl.

Facebook Caroline

Real Life Caroline

She cleans up pretty well for a tot who prefers mud over make-up. She did wonderfully in her dress and fancy shoes, but once we got back to the ranch she found mud and actually lost a shoe in the muck. It was good to have her back. 

Traveling with two under three has its own challenges, but nothing that prohibits me from suiting up to go again; we have airline tickets bought for June. This trip I introduced Caroline to the I Spy game and that was a big hit. Except she would tell me the color she wanted to find, already having her item spotted. It somewhat defeats the purpose of the game, but certainly doesn’t ruin the fun. We found the same orange ink pen clipped to Dad’s visor six times in thirty minutes.

Somewhere in Illinois we passed three school buses full of children and would you believe none of them were on electronics? They actually waved to us as we passed by and this was definitely a trip highlight for a toddler. She asked me where they were going and I told her probably a field trip. This started the “Why” game that lasted until St. Louis. I’ve never been so glad to see the arch. 

It was outside Columbia, Missouri that we stopped in the pouring rain for double diaper changes. I’ve mastered the art of in-truck changes for little Cyrus while he’s still small. Caroline is still curious about this process, but this particular change almost knocked both she and I out. So there I was: a belly-laughing, half-naked 9-month old across my lap, a 2 ½-year-old gagging out the window with the rain coming in our truck and a mess up to my elbows…literally. I wrapped it all up and asked Caroline to sit back so I could throw the mess out the window. Cody was still inside the truck stop, and I’d have him throw it in the trash upon his return. I tossed the 45-pound diaper out of the back seat window of our truck, and then looked across to see a man at pump five watching in disbelief. I wanted to explain myself and that I wasn’t littering, I was trying to save my daughter from throwing up on her brother, but I didn’t have the energy to do so. I just rolled up the window and hoped Cody would return before the judgy guy left. 

We stayed in a beautiful hotel in old town Wichita that was previously a cannery in the 1920s. Both kids slept well and filled up on all the junk food and toys that travel with grandparents they see four times a year. The grandparent’s room was like walking into the aftermath had a tornado hit a toy store and candy store in one swipe. There was a lot of candy wrappers and miscellaneous parts to toys we’ll probably never see again. 

I forgot my razor and had to get one at the front desk. Talk about a massacre. Despite my best efforts, I went to the wedding wearing a leopard print dress and my legs looked like I had to kill the actual animal I was wearing. 

The wedding was beautiful, the flower girls were cute as can be and the reception was a ball. We got a family photo that didn’t show my legs, both kids were well behaved and as I write this column, we’re sitting in traffic on the west side of St. Louis. We should hopefully be home by the time the blog goes live on Wednesday.  I consider all of these things signs of another good trip west. 

I don’t travel much with the Nikon anymore because it just won’t fit in the diaper bag. And I never did see my writing in the magazines they stuff in the airplane seat backs, but sometimes I get into the local Nettle Creek Gazette, so that is something. 

When A Good-Hearted Woman Marries a Good-Timing Man

Maybe last week's blog was a bit premature; we hadn't yet been married a year when I wrote it.
Nothing much changed to affect the accuracy of the things in which I journaled.
I gagged Saturday morning cleaning the bathroom and Cody's starched jeans still adorn our bedroom floor.

"Are those your jeans?" I asked (again). 

"Why do you keep asking me that??"

This is where I post a happy photo before lose my head: 

Since last August I've been asked surprisingly often why we didn't post wedding photos or an album onto social media.
Frankly: We didn't want to.
Cody and I don't enjoy looking at photos of ourselves and it's strange to think of promoting our day of sacred vows in that very public, impersonal way.
We have two photos of ourselves in our home: both were very kind wedding gifts.

The other day I saw where someone posted their wedding video to Facebook.
What a very personal event to share with 3,000 folks, 560 of whom you actually know.
I couldn't bring myself to watch it, though I'm sure it was an incredible day for that couple.
We just didn't get an invite.
I'd post our wedding video, but our videographer never gave us our wedding video.
Just kidding.
I'd never share that amazing day with strangers.
Though, I'm very serious when I say we never got our video back from the videographer...

I do think Cody and I experienced some interesting things in 24 hours of wedding that may be blog-worthy.
Our wedding will never be on Pinterest.
There will never be a movie or book written about our story.
But our wedding day was remarkable, and it encompassed so much our of heritage.
My hope today is that you'll see some of that - and perhaps incorporate ideas into your own life.

Life's Good Stuff: Pass It On.

Grandma's Dress

Preparing for the wedding, Grandma said she was “too old” to go shopping and try to fit into a new dress. So that afternoon, we raided the old closets in her farmhouse. When I saw the dress she’s wearing, I knew it was the one: it matched our colors of ivory and white perfectly. 
Grandma Jean smiled and said, “I haven’t worn that dress in such a lonnnnnng time…since the day your Mother married your Dad.”
Thirty-five years later, she still wore it well.

All Things Green 

We kept the flowers and centerpieces simple, remembering the strong sense of heritage and appreciation for things that get better with age. Both ferns and The Growing Tree were incorporated throughout everything.

Have you read about The Growing Tree?

Harvest Jar

Unity candle? Not us. Cody's family brought Kansas wheat to the wedding that weekend and my Uncle Steve brought us corn directly from Granddad and Grandma's home farm. Rather than light a unity candle, we combined the two crops, symbolizing our passion for production agriculture, the love for the (very different land) on which we were raised on and those places that we still consider "home".
I actually saw this idea at a wedding a photographed two years ago - Happy Anniversary to the Shepherds!

All Your Mama's Love

Cody's grandmother Barbara Laflin married us. What a remarkable service. The closest I've ever come to meeting Jesus was the day I met Mama, or Barb Laflin. 
Words can't describe the power in her faith.

A Wish Come True

It was a few months before our wedding day and I was having a glass of wine with momma at BSG.
We were discussing music for the wedding.
"If you could have anyone sing at your wedding, who would it be?"
"Anyone?" I asked.
"Yep," she responded, sipping her perfect soft red from Oliver.
"Ryan Wotherspoon......Hands down."
"Well....let's get him. Or try, at least."

Having beautiful music at the wedding was one of our favorite details. Ryan beautifully incorporated family favorites into our ceremony and made a few songs so personal to Cody and I.

Ryan sang the Lord's Prayer - among other songs - during our ceremony:

You can buy Ryan's album here. 

Surely Goodness and Mercy

Sadly, I had no Bowman grandparents alive to see Cody and I wed. But there is certain verbiage that runs through a family. These words span generations and create a familiarity that covers time. 

On the Bowman side, the words that have traveled decades and generations come from Psalms 23:6. We sing the chorus of Surely Goodness and Mercy at every gathering of my large Bowman family: reunions or funerals. The music and harmony bring a certain peace to my heart. We included that verse in our ceremony, though few folks - outside of our Bowman family - understood the meaning. 

To read what the other side of my family lives by, Read This. 

A Photo (Really) Is Worth A Thousand Words

That cliche is right. 
I believe it to be so important that you know, understand and like your photographer.

If we didn't have that - by the incredible Christine Boake - this shot of Dad's medicine cabinet would not have been documented. 
For years I've left dad notes in his medicine cabinet. My dear friend - and idol - Christine Boake knew this, and documented these from-daughter-to-father loves notes in this photo. I'll keep this forever. 
Dad will, too. 

The Story of Us

We made our programs worth reading, just in case anyone did. 
They showed the humor behind each of the (forced) participants of our wedding party. 

Two-Steppin'

We danced to Wade Bowen's "Who I Am" - 

When we dated, Cody would twirl me around my living room floor in Greens Fork, with this song on repeat. 

It was as this song played, that we fell in love. 

It was a month later when we truly found the other and realized that 

"Good Hearted Woman (In Love With A Good Timing Man)" may have been written about us. 

Or Chris & Sharee. 

Or Phil & Linda. 

So following our obligatory first dance, Cody & I two-stepped with our parents to our inherited  theme song:

As much as I appreciate the focus that folks put into weddings these days,

I'm here to tell gals yet to wed:

No wedding day will be perfect. 

I overslept. 

My parents barely spoke to me the day of our wedding due to emotion. 

We forgot to have a receiving line at the church. 

Cousin Josh twirled me around the wet dance floor only for me to face plant in my dress. 

We have no photo of the 5 Bowmans. 

At the reception, a dear family friend greeted me by giving me the biggest bear hug - from behind.....While I held a glass of Malbec...the entire front of my dress was stained red most of the night. 

We ran out out of cups. 

We have no wedding cake left, due to 2 a.m. hunger. Cody bought me a DQ ice-cream cake on our first anniversary, instead. 

We forgot to invite three very important families. 

But - Ya know what?

The wedding went on. 

Life went on. 

It was just one day, not a lifetime - which is what lies before us. 

Thank goodness. 

And We dance through this world -

hand in hand. 

Photography by Christine Boake and Urban Prairie at Bowman Superior Genetics.

Part One: Better With Age

Following a Memorial Day weekend spent out of town for a wedding, I came home to an alarming site:
Granola bars scattered across the kitchen floor. 
A Bonnie Mohr print that was once on a tripod, laying face down in the middle of the living room floor. 

And worst of all: My beloved fern in pieces across the dining room. 

Confused and quite freaked out, I spotted the bandit still inside our home, laying under the kitchen table...DEAD. 
But before dying, of course, it left droppings all throughout our house that sat empty for three days. 
A Starling. 
In our home. 
Reeking havoc. 
And demolishing my fern. 
I removed the disgusting bird (while crying and gagging simultaneously) with pliers and bleached the place down. 
Our home looked better, but the fern was a mess. It was as though the dirty bird nested there all weekend. I was sick. 
Sick over a house plant, you ask?

This fern isn't just any house plant. 

It is a symbol of things that 
get better with age. 

When I was a young girl, we visited Bob and Ula Marie House at Wonder View Farm. The names may ring a bell - or maybe not. They were the couple that sold Momma and Dad their (our) first Shorthorn cows. Rosewood was one of the great ones that came from the House family and Wonder View Farm, and today her story lives on at BSG.

Driving down their lane that evening was like stepping back in time. A beautiful, well-maintained yard. A full garden. No weeds in site. A modest white farmhouse which stood with great pride. While the guys went to the barn, I remember that Ula Marie invited Momma and I inside their home to exchange some information for our Home Extension Club. Momma was a fairly young member, and Ula Marie was quite active. As we entered the home, I couldn't help but notice dozens of ferns in the back entry way. Ferns of all sizes, in several different pots. Momma raved over them, and that's when Ula Marie told us about the profound significance of these ferns. 

Bob (who, as I write this, is 85-years-old) had a great-grandmother who maintained a fern at her homestead and would give "starts" of that fern to family members. She would separate the roots and place them into a new planter to begin, or "start", a whole new fern. 
Pieces of that original fern were passed down through the generations and the original plant spanned homes, families and decades. 
In 1951 Bob married Ula Marie, and Ula Marie was given her own "start" to the family fern.
The array of ferns that I observed as a young girl in the House Homestead was just a small sampling of how much that fern had reproduced - and thrived - over the years. 
I was amazed by it. 

Weathered by time, change, location, atmosphere, various owners and more - these ferns remained a testament to the power of all things that are able to stand the test of time and get better with age.  

As a young girl, the story of that family fern certainly remained in the back of my mind. Because of the symbolism they held for family and time-tested durability, ferns became my favorite plants, and I've used them widely as a homeowner over the last six years. Each time I bought - or buy - a fern, with gratitude I think of Bob and Ula Marie House and the "start" they gave my own family in terms of Shorthorn cattle. 

Aspiring to have a wedding day - and marriage - where even the smallest details hold great meaning, at our wedding last August we had nothing at the alter but ferns. 
My bouquet was made of ferns and The Growing Tree. 

BowSankey Wedding Flowers Getting Watered

As a wedding gift, Bob and Ula Marie gave Cody and I our very own "start" to the family fern. A gesture of heritage, dedication, durability and things that get better with age. 

Soooo.....It was our "start" that I found in the middle of the floor Sunday night. Perhaps you now understand why I'm nursing this plant back to life after the bird of death has demolished it.

In a world where few things actually improve over time, I find myself holding onto this darn heritage house plant with the hope that I can give someone else another "start" as Bob and Ula Marie gave my parents in cattle and Cody and I in marriage. 

Few things get better with age. 

But oh, some things do. 

Your friends
Your favorite song
Your favorite pair of jeans and boots
Love you give and receive
Your judgement
Your 401K plan
Your confidence
Your breeding program and legacy
Your antiques
Clint Eastwood and Sam Elliott
And let us not forget the The Wine.

Look around you. 
What things in your life can - or do - get better with age?
Do you appreciate them as you should?
How can you preserve them?
How can you make them better for the next?
Or Protect them?
Or Pass them on for the next generations?

I encourage you to be the kind of person who enjoys the things that get better with age. 

Because quite frankly, you're not getting any younger. 

This is the first of a two part series. 

Read tomorrow for the second half of Better With Age!

My Mom ≠ My Best Friend

This entry is not going to be popular. Still, I write.

A social media post made weeks back inspired this Wednesday. It was by a talented gal who has a lot going on in her early 20-something life. It was a grateful tribute to her mom who is her partner in crime and remained her very best friend in this world. What would she do with out her? She claimed to have the best friend in the world in her mother. 

I didn't argue or disagree with the post (though she's not had the pleasure of meeting Linda). I did read it and immediately feel sorry for the gal. What a disappointment.

You see, while I think my mom is one of best out there, I also say this with confidence: 

My Mom has never been my best friend - and for good reason. 

Do you each remember that one kid you went to school with, the one with the prettiest mom? 

The mother stood out because she looked younger than the rest of the moms in the class and she dressed to fit that role, too. She was the Mom who asked about the latest gossip in the school and knew exactly who was dating who. She was completely invested in her child's life. So much so that the two lives seemed to merge every once in a while. She was incredibly fun and forgiving, mostly because her parenting style was "Been there, done that. Wouldn't mind doing it again." 

Yeah, I remember that mom, too. 
It wasn't mine. 

Mine knew who was dating who only after I told her, but my information usually wasn't accurate because sometimes I lost track of those things, myself. 
Mine was invested in my life. But also her marriage to Dad. And the life of her two other children. And keeping a home. And a farm. And being devoted to her home extension club. 
Mine forgave me only after I had learned the lesson. And for some reason I had the tendency to learn the hard way?...

The point is, I was raised by a mom who knew where to draw the line between being our parent and being our friend. And while that was a tough concept to understand (/respect) a decade ago, it's one for which I am incredibly grateful. I'm better for having one less "friend" and one more strong parent.

There are several reasons why, when parents become best friends, damage can occur. I blogged months ago that "fathers teach us confidence and mothers teach us compassion." But darn it, mothers teach us confidence, too. 

Best friends can't be role models. Think of that best friend whom you wanted to model yourself after - wasn't there just a little bit of envy? Wasn't there just little part of you that wished you were more like them, rather than yourself? We can't teach our daughters confidence when the very model they're designed to emulate is viewed as competition in their eyes - or visa versa. With today's diluted values, overshadowed by wacky media, mothers are made to be older versions of their children, rather than experienced models in which to follow. 

Lindsay and her Mom

Lindsay and her Mom

Pretty much the only difference in the pairs is less hair in the bottom two. 

And, Momma and I have never showed up to the same club wearing the same Express cami. 

EVER.

But it isn't just mothers who can steer us wrong by trying to be our best friend. Not long ago a had a conversation with a friend where I asked, "What happened to him?" I was referring to a bright kid who seemed to have lost his way sometime between high school and ten years later. The friend's honest response: "I am not joking one bit when I say that downfall of this kid was that his dad wanted to be his friend. Not his parent. He didn't have guidance, he had someone who wanted to run the course with him. It ruined him. He never grew up because he didn't know what grown up looked like." I was taken back, but not surprised at all.

Another reason why I'm grateful Momma never tried to be my best friend:
Best friends don't give the most sound advice. 
Best friends want to see you happy. They tell you things to prevent tears. They exercise caution with their words and cushion reality with cotton ball adjectives so they don't hurt feelings. 
Parents give sound advice because your happiness validates their role. 
Parents expect tears and slamming doors and silence and not being the most liked person. And they're OK with that. Their popularity with you isn't the goal at hand.  
They give great advice because they don't want you living in their basement for the next 15 years. 
And also because the content of their Christmas letter to high school friends depends greatly on how happy their kids are. No one wants to read about little Jill who got released out of juvi early for the second winter in a row. She's an all-star, for sure. 

I remember quite vividly a time when Momma taught me this lesson far before anyone else could. We were in GAP at the Muncie Mall. I took a pair of size 6 jeans to the dressing room and from the knee up I had to literally work...them...up..my thigh...and...past...my...hips...(think back to the wedding dress disaster). I knew they were tight. But didn't guys my age like tight jeans on girls?
I walked out to show Momma and she made me turn around. 
Her first question: Will you feel comfortable wearing those in front of friends and family?

Darn her sensibility!!!
She wasn't there to be a friend; she was (is) my voice of reason.
She also had to peel said jeans off of me. That also made her handy to have around that day. 
I know good and well that had I taken any of my friends to the mall that day, I would have bought those jeans. And probably a second pair. 

My Momma has never been my best friend.
And do you know why?
She never had the time,
Because she's always invested her time and efforts into being one heck of a mom.

Two weeks before our wedding I met Momma at the local jeweler to get her opinion on bridesmaids' gifts. While looking through the Pandora bracelets and charms I picked up one that I made me smile. I pulled it from the grey cushion and showed it to her. It was a reversible charm that read "Best Friend" on one side and "Best Mom" on the other.
Her response, after getting out her bifocals out to read it: "That's pretty.......but it's not really us?"

She was right.

And I am grateful.

"Suck it in...More."