Life Imitates Bad 70s Music

One of our goals in moving to Michigan, other than proximity to family, was to be near other homeschooling Catholic families. We’ve met a few already at our parish, but this afternoon was the first opportunity that Mrs Yeoman Farmer (MYF) had to go visit one of them and hang out for several hours.

As I enjoyed a lazy afternoon on the farm (and watched my beloved Seahawks get trounced by the Green Bay Packers), MYF and the kids were having a grand old time visiting the other Catholic homeschooling family (about 7-8 miles or so away from our place). They really hit it off, and our kids really enjoyed playing with their kids. It was proving to be a powerful affirmation of our decision to come here.

And then something particularly remarkable happened. As MYF was packing up and preparing to head on to the nursing home and take the kids to visit her mother, the husband of this family mentioned something.

“Hey, with all the farming you guys do, you’re reminding me of this great website that you should check out,” he said.

“What is it?” MYF says, assuming it’s going to be Joel Salatin or Countryside magazine or something.

“Well,” the husband replies, “It’s called ‘The Yeoman Farmer,’ and…”

MYF burst out laughing, paused for a moment to pick her jaw up off the floor, and blurted out something about that being her husband’s personal blog.

I guess it took several moments of chaotic laughing before they were able to resume a normal conversation. The husband said he’d been reading this blog since last fall, including everything about our moving to Ingham County (MI), but had been holding off on contacting us — I guess out of a desire to protect our privacy. He couldn’t believe that TYF was really…the husband of the woman he was talking with. “Yep,” MYF assured him. “I am Mrs Yeoman Farmer.” That must’ve done it; who else on earth could have used a title like that?

Anyway, MYF called me at the first opportunity to share this incident, and we both had a hearty laugh.

But I couldn’t help thinking, and mentioning, a really bad song from the 1970s. “You know what this is like?” I said. “The Pina Colada Song.”

MYF laughed; though this situation doesn’t fit the details of the song, she knew I was referring to the shock of getting together with someone you already know in a certain context…and then discovering you’ve unwittingly already “met” through the anonymity of media. And then she began singing, “Do you like Pina Coladas? And getting caught in the rain?”

We both laughed again, and talked about how bizarre the whole thing was. And agreed we were really looking forward to having this family over to visit. Soon.

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