Blog of christian writer & fallible mom Katy McKenna Raymond in Kansas City

Cozy Mystery Writer? (#1074)

I think I’ve mentioned here that my mother is reinventing herself. Or, I should say, I’m reinventing my mother.

I can’t remember when or why Mom stopped carrying a wallet in her purse, but let me tell you, those were the good old days. At some point, she must have decided the wallet weighed her down too much, probably when she went through a rash of compression fractures in her back.

Who knows? Since I was the one who took her to get a gazillion cortisone shots in various vertebrae over a few years there, I may have even suggested she ditch the dead weight. (I carried her purse.) It’s too many details for me to remember now. Water under the proverbial identity theft bridge, let’s call it.

Anyway, for a couple years, my mother had in her purse free floating ID cards, credit cards, Medicare and Blue Cross cards, and even her Social Security card. They all treaded dirty Kleenex in there with a tube of Chapstix, ancient bingo markers, and a coin purse embroidered with a slot machine made out of gaudy beads.

Finally, during one of her many hospital admissions, the clerk asked to see her medical cards. Mom couldn’t produce them to save her life, so I shoved one hand over and over into the fearful abyss of her purse, like a scuba diver short on air, until I came up with them. The clerk gave me a knowing look, fished around in her drawer, and handed over a substantial rubber band.

“Try this,” she said.

I gathered every card from the mire, banded them together, held them up for Mom’s approval, and said, “Behold, the power of elastic.”

Mom loved her knew “wallet.” Very simple, very easy. Of course, it was very simple and very easy to lose the whole packet at once, too. Or for the darned thing to be swiped. Either way. Because I’m a bit dramatic, I automatically jumped ahead to “swiped.”

Around six weeks ago, it came to my attention that Mom could no longer locate in her purse the banded set of cards. And so began another dark night of my soul—though Mom didn’t lose any sleep—during which I devoted half my waking hours and most of my nightmares to recreating her identity.

If you’ve had to replace a Social Security card recently, you know what I’m talking about. The entire process is now designed to ferret out illegals. I do believe the standard form is in Spanish, not that it matters. Even if it was English I was dealing with, the instructions are largely incomprehensible to anyone who doesn’t read the IRS tax code for enjoyment.

Let’s just say the SS wants LOTS of proof of the “Who’s your daddy?” sort before they’ll issue you a card. Cough up those original birth certificates and State IDs with picture, people! Mom said, “Why can’t they use my Ameristar card to prove who I am? My name’s on it…”

You see what I’m dealing with here, right? When you lose everything at once, you’ve got more than cancelling your credit cards to worry about. Every card-issuing institution wants proof of your identity in the forms of all the other stuff you lost at the same time. Yeah. It’s like that.

Amazingly, we made the most progress by going to the DMV first. Since she’d had a valid driver’s license which they could pull up in their system, they used their computer file on her to verify that yes, she really was the person she claimed to be, only having an even worse hair day than last time.

I told Mom—after we’d made grueling trips to the bank, the DMV, and the SS office—that we would miraculously find her old ID cards as soon as her new ones were ensconced in the wallet I bought her. That’s just the way life works, right?

Saturday evening, my sister dropped her back at her assisted living apartment after an afternoon of riverboat gambling. Mary KNOWS that Mom’s wallet with her new ID was zipped into her purse that night. Sunday morning, my sister Liz picked Mom up for brunch for Liz’s birthday. AMAZINGLY, Mom pulled out the rubber-banded set of cards from her purse like they’d never been missing at all! But, I’m sure you’ve guessed, her new wallet was gone.

“Someone at the facility is messing with you,” I told Mom last night, when I went to her apartment to search for the wallet. “They’re trying to see if you’re with the program. If you don’t report these incidents, they’ll ramp up their efforts and wipe out your bank account in one fell debit-card swoop.”

“You’re writing another novel, aren’t you?”

“I’m finishing the first one, Mom. I don’t know what you mean…”

“I see what’s going on here. You’re looking for a story. Well, there’s no story here. What if my old cards with the rubber band were in my purse this whole time?”

“Mom, you and Mary and I searched your purse dozens of times before I decided to spend the rest of my life getting you new cards. The old cards weren’t in your purse until sometime between 8:30 last night and 10:30 this morning. Someone sneaked in here while you were sleeping, unzipped your purse, replaced the cards they’d stolen from you weeks ago to ‘test’ you and then tiptoed out with your new wall—”

“Listen to yourself, Katy. You’re making all this up. Isn’t that what novelists do? You’re writing a—”

“Mom! Explain to me where you new wallet is and how the old cards got back in your purse.”

“I don’t know about the wallet. But I told you already that I FOUND the old cards.”

“You found them?” OK, I must have missed this part of her true confessions. “Where?”

“In my PURSE, Silly.”

Oh. Yeah.

“You can go home now,” she said, disgusted. “Case closed. Seems to me like you’ve got some typing to do.”

Posted by Katy on 03/26/07
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Quaking (#1073)

I haven’t blogged much during Lent, but people. If you’d just this morning finished reading Lisa Samson’s Quaker Summer, you’d have to blog about it, too.

Quaker Summer is the story of Heather Curridge, who—for many years—has exhibited more courage in the mall, plunking down huge chunks of change for stuff she and her hubby and son don’t really need or want, than she has anywhere else.

But all that changes when circumstances force her hand. Heather finds herself face-to-face with “the least of these,” the homeless, the addicted, the criminal. Slowly—and to the great consternation of the mothers at her son’s privileged Christian school, who just want her to head up the next tea—Heather begins spending more and more time with people whose needs will never be quenched, if what Jesus says about the poor being always with us is true.

Spiritual claustrophobic that I am, I kept hoping she’d find a permanent way out of God’s calling, that she could just go back to her house on the hill at the end of the day (or at least, at the end of the book!) and really find some lasting satisfaction in that Jacuzi of hers.

Here are the notes I wrote to myself as God spoke to me through this novel:

“Am I really making a difference, giving back, or proving somehow that I have a social conscience if I drive farther to drink my lattes in an artsy district in the city, rather than hand over my four bucks down in the suburbs? Sure, those joints are inhabited by patrons decidedly different from me, but is my heart truly changed by briefly mixing it up with the less fortunate? Or am I then not only out the cost of the latte, but the extra gasoline to drive that far, too?”

And later, this:

“Do I think I’ve done a good work—good enough, in fact, to absolve me of additional good works for perhaps months into the future!—if I merely take a ‘tour’ of a ministry in the inner city, just to see what God’s up to there? And if, after the tour, I write a big, fat check, Jesus WILL end up saying to me at the end of my luxurious life, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant’—won’t He?”

Won’t He? I don’t know anymore, people. I’ve done something dangerous, reading Quaker Summer. If you’re feeling like taking a risk, go thou and do likewise.

If you’d rather play it safe all the days of your Christian life, run the other way. Now. Before Lisa Samson writes another amazing book like this one.

Either way, don’t say you haven’t been warned.

Posted by Katy on 03/22/07
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Cards (#1072)

For nearly every cliche, there’s an equal and opposite cliche.

Take, for instance, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” Nice sentiment to latch onto if you’re about to leave behind a love interest in favor of a trip around the world, wouldn’t you say?

Sure, you would. But before long that spot in your subconscious where you store cliches until the moment they’re most needed will bring this gem to mind: “Out of sight, out of mind.”

Oh-oh. Better rethink those travel plans.

Today I’m contemplating cliches with card-playing references. Not one to play poker or bridge myself, I still seem to recall something about “holding your cards close to the vest.” And then there’s the perennial advice to “not show all your cards at once.”

The card cliche that rings the most true (and useful!) to me, though, is “Play the hand you’ve been dealt.” I’ve made such excellent use of this motto throughout the course of my own medical history, in fact, that I’ve become something of a role model to health-catastrophe newbies in my ever-widening sphere of influence.

You can stop imagining my rear end expanding NOW. Thank you. :)

A couple in our Sunday School recently went through the husband’s harrowing 6-way heart bypass surgery. Lynett turned out to be a real champ in caring for Fred’s many needs during the weeks following their crisis, but as a result, she’s been a little…spacey.

She’s coordinating a group of us to go see the Dead Sea Scrolls, on exhibit here in KC for only a few more weeks. She called the other night and Doug told her that we couldn’t make it, so I was surprised when she called again yesterday.

“I’m trying to get a head count,” she said.

“Um…what did Doug say when you two talked?” I asked.

“Oh, my gosh! I totally spaced out that I’ve already talked to him! I am so sorry…”

“Lynett, I happen to know you’ve always been goofy. But here’s the deal: Now, for more than a limited time only, you are entitled to Play the Hand You’ve Been Dealt.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, all innocent like Medical Virgins everywhere.

“Heart surgery, baby. Lay those cards on the table. Go ahead and be your usual spaced-out self, but take advantage of Fred’s surgery to make your ongoing deficits socially acceptable. Starting today.”

“And ending….when?”

Honestly, Lynett is SUCH a nice girl.

“Never, Lynett. Ending never. Fred’s surgery and his long recovery—during which you will put all the other details of life on the back burner to serve his needs like the faithful wife you are—will officially be your one-way ticket to Space Island. From now on, no one will question if you lose your grip on pesky details or skimp on logic. You’re home free!”

“You think?”

Yes, I think. That’s precisely why we’re having this conversation!

“Lynett, have you had a hysterectomy?”

“Yes, back in 1991, but I hardly see how that—”

“Do you vacuum?”

“Katy, of course I vacuum. What kind of a woman do you think—”

“If you’d played the Hysterectomy Card starting the DAY you had surgery, when your doctor gave you instructions not to vacuum or do any heavy lifting for at least six weeks, you’d have trained your husband and children. These days, you wouldn’t even know where to locate the Hoover’s ‘on’ switch. You’d have never vacuumed again.”

“What do you mean, never? What about when the six weeks ended?”

“Lynett, husbands and kids don’t keep track of stuff like WEEKS. With Fred, kind of like with the Lord, six weeks is as a thousand years. If he’d taken over the vacuuming in 1991, and you asked him today how long he’d been performing the duty and how the vacuuming ball came to be in his court, I guarantee you he’d be clueless.”

“Why, I never,” she said. “I suppose there are Childbirth Cards I could have played 25 years ago?”

“Girl, girl. Let’s not cry about lost games. Think about the straight flush of Menopause Cards you’re clutching in your hot little fist, all yours for the playing today. It’s not too late to get your piece of the action.”

“But what about Fred?” she asked. “What if he gets wise and tries to play the By-Pass Card? What if he says he can’t figure out his medications and needs me to dole them out to him? What if he says he can’t get his diabetes under control unless I fix him three meals and three small snacks per day? I’m not sure I can—”

“Of course, you can’t, honey. No woman could be expected to keep up with all that. Especially not you. And do you know why?”

“Um….because I’ve just played the…?”

“That’s right, Lynett. The Space Cadet Card.”

I heard her sigh then, a happy, contented sigh. “Thank you, Katy. You’ve made my day. I mean, my six weeks. I mean…the rest of my natural life.”

If she hung up the phone, turned to Fred, and said, “That Katy is a real card,” I’ll know my work here is done.

Posted by Katy on 03/15/07
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National Archives, Personal Treasure (#1071)

Another item the British Embassy is hitting me up for—which they did not request on my original application—is proof of the exact date my father became a citizen of the United States.

I suspect they don’t require this of everyone who applies for a British passport based on being a British citizen by descent. Somewhere around the time my father became a citizen, the US laws changed so that a new citizen did not have to renounce their former citizenship. If Dad had renounced his British citizenship to become an American, I would not be able to get my British.

This little bit of extra red tape resulted in me discovering that we have, right here in Kansas City and only fifteen minutes from my home, a National Archives. There are only eleven of these in the US, and it is in these archives that citizenship papers are stored. I called one day last week, and within an hour the VERY helpful archivist, Marilyn, had found my father’s paperwork.

I’d never seen these papers in my life, of course. I cried at my father’s signature on the bottom of the original, because, well…the handwriting of my dead people always makes me weep.

He must have filled out this final application for citizenship after March in 1955, and before October of the same year. He lists my mother and his three children (Patrick, Katy, and Elizabeth) as all residing with him. By the time he was awarded his citizenship in December, though, Patrick—at age four—had died. The custom was that once the application was filed, no information was updated, though of course, everything in our lives by then was forever changed.

Archivist Marilyn could not believe that I’d never seen the only copy of Dad’s actual citizenship certificate (this was the application), which he would have been given on that momentous day.

“Most new citizens at that time would have framed the certificate and hung it on the wall,” she said.

There’s only one place it could be, and that’s the one remaining Rubbermaid tote filled with the epemera my sister Bridget and I did not have time to go through when we closed Mom’s house down nearly five years ago. It’s in the closet in Mom’s apartment and soon, I will attack it. Who knows what goodies I’ll turn up?

In the meantime, though, I showed Mom the certified copy of the paperwork I received from the National Archives, and she loved it. She looked at the names of the two witnesses Dad had sign for him that day, fellows he worked with at the First National Bank downtown. Mom remembered the blokes, after all these years.

“I couldn’t go with him that day,” she said, not needing to remind me that neither she nor my father knew how to drive a car. “I’m sure he walked over to the courthouse on his lunch hour. All I remember is when he got off the bus that night, he marched down the block waving an American flag and saying, with his thick brogue, ‘I am now an American cit-i-zen!’”

And you know what? Although I was barely two at the time, I remember that evening, too. It’s the very first memory, in fact, embedded in my consciousness.

About the framed citizenship document that should have been hanging on the wall? I don’t think so, Marilyn. I’d remember something as precious as that. The classiest thing on our walls hung beside the green-topped chrome kitchen table, within my father’s easy reach: A carton-sized plastic dispenser of Lucky Strike ciggies.

When I told Marilyn that, by the way, she was clearly unimpressed.

Posted by Katy on 03/14/07
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Still Not Too Late (#1070)

I got some editing of my novel done at Barnes & Noble today. Yes, really!

While strolling through the children’s section, I spied a little girl, maybe six years old, in a plaid Catholic school uniform. Honestly, it felt like looking in the mirror approximately 47 years ago. Except for the age thing, we could have been twins—auburn hair, scrawny legs, missing teeth, freckled nose.

I took her for a younger version of myself: a student, a book lover, a reader, probably a storyteller, too. She wanted nothing more than to be there, among her favorite tales, her unhurried mother by her side.

I kept walking and then, over my shoulder and already nearly a part of my past, the child spoke words that immediately entered my heart.

“We still have a lot of time, don’t we, Mommy?”

I stopped on the carpet’s well-worn path, my breath catching in my chest until the young mother’s voice answered, “Yes.”

I smiled and, just for a moment, reveled in the magical world-without-end of that little girl, a miniature me.

I still have time.

Posted by Katy on 03/07/07
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Citizen Kate (#1069)

Some of you will remember that one of my goals is to (please dear God, let it be before I DIE!) acquire my British and Irish citizenships.

I started this crazy process five years ago. FIVE YEARS. Maybe it’s the Daughters-of-the-American-Revolution rebellious side of me, I don’t know. But, folks, bureaucracy and I, we just don’t get along.

A year ago, leading up to the fabulous trip Doug and I took to Ireland and Scotland, I submitted what I thought was every piece of paper God ever made, all notarized, to the British Embassy. I hoped, hoped, hoped to receive back in the post—before we left for the Old Country in April—my coveted British passport.

I am, you see, entitled. My father was born in Scotland, which makes me a Scottish citizen by descent. I’m also entitled to my Irish passport and citizenship, because my grandfather was born in Ireland. However, as with so many things in this world, the burden of proof rests with, you guessed it…me.

Me and a whole bunch of bureaus, that is.

When you try to establish your lineage, you’re forever writing agencies requesting “long forms.” Long-form birth certificates, death certificates, marriage certificates, and on and on. Long-form certs must contain more pertinent information than short-forms, but I wouldn’t know. I doubt that I’ve ever seen a long-form up close and personal, no matter how many times I’ve requested—and paid—for them.

So, last year, on the day before we left for Ireland, my passport request was denied. Several items were missing, apparently, including my own “long form” birth certificate.

“The certificate you enclosed was issued in 2002,” the British Embassy bureaucrat informed me, “which is more than three months after your date of birth.”

Ya think????

I called the State of Missouri’s Department of Vital Records today. It took nearly a full year after that glaring rejection for me to work up the vitality to try again. I told the very helpful agent that I must have received the incorrect certificates back in 2002, when I requested the long-forms in a letter.

“Did you use a yellow highlighter to mark the words ‘long form’ in your original request?” she asked.

“Umm…no,” I said.

“Did you mark the words ‘long form’ with stars on both sides?”

“You’re kidding, right? That would also be ‘no.’”

“Underline them or bold type them?”

“Didn’t happen. I’m sorry. I learned to write a business letter in approximately 1964. I typed a simple, straightforward letter including the magic words ‘long-form’, and accompanied it with a big fat check. When did that stop being enough?”

“Circle them, point arrows at them, type them in caps, or stick a post-it note on them?”

“NOOOooooo!!!!!”

“It’s been more than a year since you received your short-form birth certificates. We cannot exchange them for long-forms now. Nor can we refund the substantial chunk of change you handed over with that perfect specimen of a letter you wrote…”

“How exactly do you expect me to handle this? I need those long forms to get my British passport!”

“You’ll have to request them in writing, and enclose $15 for each certified copy of the long-form that you require.”

“But how shall I word my request? I’m afraid I’ve become quite useless in the way I communicate…”

“Don’t worry, ma’am. The words themselves aren’t important. Just make sure you use a yellow highlighter to draw attention to them.”

“And—”

“And stars, bold, caps, underlining, and arrows.”

I couldn’t help myself. “What about italics?”

“Now, ma’am. No need to get testy.”

If only I could give up bureaucracies for Lent.

Posted by Katy on 03/05/07
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Personal blog of christian writer & fallible mom Katy McKenna Raymond in Kansas City, Missouri Katy is represented by Greg Johnson at WordServe Literary Read more Katy at LateBoomer.net Follow Katy on Twitter Follow Katy on Facebook 123 Recent Posts Try Becoming Brenda Starr Off Beat Scattered That’s It So I’ve Finally Signed With An Agent. Now What? The Spoon Sciatica Sweetheart A Woman’s Train of Thought Has No Caboose However much we own, we are all still living on borrowed time After all, when restaurants shrink portions, they don’t shrink prices. As with everything in life, balance is key. Slow down, you move too fast… Yeah, I know. I have issues. Search Advanced Search Syndicate Login E me at katy @ ngenius.com	Cozy Mystery Writer? (#1074) I think I’ve mentioned here that my mother is reinventing herself. Or, I should say, I’m reinventing my mother. I can’t remember when or why Mom stopped carrying a wallet in her purse, but let me tell you, those were the good old days. At some point, she must have decided the wallet weighed her down too much, probably when she went through a rash of compression fractures in her back. Who knows? Since I was the one who took her to get a gazillion cortisone shots in various vertebrae over a few years there, I may have even suggested she ditch the dead weight. (I carried her purse.) It’s too many details for me to remember now. Water under the proverbial identity theft bridge, let’s call it. Anyway, for a couple years, my mother had in her purse free floating ID cards, credit cards, Medicare and Blue Cross cards, and even her Social Security card. They all treaded dirty Kleenex in there with a tube of Chapstix, ancient bingo markers, and a coin purse embroidered with a slot machine made out of gaudy beads. Finally, during one of her many hospital admissions, the clerk asked to see her medical cards. Mom couldn’t produce them to save her life, so I shoved one hand over and over into the fearful abyss of her purse, like a scuba diver short on air, until I came up with them. The clerk gave me a knowing look, fished around in her drawer, and handed over a substantial rubber band. “Try this,” she said. I gathered every card from the mire, banded them together, held them up for Mom’s approval, and said, “Behold, the power of elastic.” Mom loved her knew “wallet.” Very simple, very easy. Of course, it was very simple and very easy to lose the whole packet at once, too. Or for the darned thing to be swiped. Either way. Because I’m a bit dramatic, I automatically jumped ahead to “swiped.” Around six weeks ago, it came to my attention that Mom could no longer locate in her purse the banded set of cards. And so began another dark night of my soul—though Mom didn’t lose any sleep—during which I devoted half my waking hours and most of my nightmares to recreating her identity. If you’ve had to replace a Social Security card recently, you know what I’m talking about. The entire process is now designed to ferret out illegals. I do believe the standard form is in Spanish, not that it matters. Even if it was English I was dealing with, the instructions are largely incomprehensible to anyone who doesn’t read the IRS tax code for enjoyment. Let’s just say the SS wants LOTS of proof of the “Who’s your daddy?” sort before they’ll issue you a card. Cough up those original birth certificates and State IDs with picture, people! Mom said, “Why can’t they use my Ameristar card to prove who I am? My name’s on it…” You see what I’m dealing with here, right? When you lose everything at once, you’ve got more than cancelling your credit cards to worry about. Every card-issuing institution wants proof of your identity in the forms of all the other stuff you lost at the same time. Yeah. It’s like that. Amazingly, we made the most progress by going to the DMV first. Since she’d had a valid driver’s license which they could pull up in their system, they used their computer file on her to verify that yes, she really was the person she claimed to be, only having an even worse hair day than last time. I told Mom—after we’d made grueling trips to the bank, the DMV, and the SS office—that we would miraculously find her old ID cards as soon as her new ones were ensconced in the wallet I bought her. That’s just the way life works, right? Saturday evening, my sister dropped her back at her assisted living apartment after an afternoon of riverboat gambling. Mary KNOWS that Mom’s wallet with her new ID was zipped into her purse that night. Sunday morning, my sister Liz picked Mom up for brunch for Liz’s birthday. AMAZINGLY, Mom pulled out the rubber-banded set of cards from her purse like they’d never been missing at all! But, I’m sure you’ve guessed, her new wallet was gone. “Someone at the facility is messing with you,” I told Mom last night, when I went to her apartment to search for the wallet. “They’re trying to see if you’re with the program. If you don’t report these incidents, they’ll ramp up their efforts and wipe out your bank account in one fell debit-card swoop.” “You’re writing another novel, aren’t you?” “I’m finishing the first one, Mom. I don’t know what you mean…” “I see what’s going on here. You’re looking for a story. Well, there’s no story here. What if my old cards with the rubber band were in my purse this whole time?” “Mom, you and Mary and I searched your purse dozens of times before I decided to spend the rest of my life getting you new cards. The old cards weren’t in your purse until sometime between 8:30 last night and 10:30 this morning. Someone sneaked in here while you were sleeping, unzipped your purse, replaced the cards they’d stolen from you weeks ago to ‘test’ you and then tiptoed out with your new wall—” “Listen to yourself, Katy. You’re making all this up. Isn’t that what novelists do? You’re writing a—” “Mom! Explain to me where you new wallet is and how the old cards got back in your purse.” “I don’t know about the wallet. But I told you already that I FOUND the old cards.” “You found them?” OK, I must have missed this part of her true confessions. “Where?” “In my PURSE, Silly.” Oh. Yeah. “You can go home now,” she said, disgusted. “Case closed. Seems to me like you’ve got some typing to do.” Posted by Katy on 03/26/07 Permalink Quaking (#1073) I haven’t blogged much during Lent, but people. If you’d just this morning finished reading Lisa Samson’s Quaker Summer, you’d have to blog about it, too. Quaker Summer is the story of Heather Curridge, who—for many years—has exhibited more courage in the mall, plunking down huge chunks of change for stuff she and her hubby and son don’t really need or want, than she has anywhere else. But all that changes when circumstances force her hand. Heather finds herself face-to-face with “the least of these,” the homeless, the addicted, the criminal. Slowly—and to the great consternation of the mothers at her son’s privileged Christian school, who just want her to head up the next tea—Heather begins spending more and more time with people whose needs will never be quenched, if what Jesus says about the poor being always with us is true. Spiritual claustrophobic that I am, I kept hoping she’d find a permanent way out of God’s calling, that she could just go back to her house on the hill at the end of the day (or at least, at the end of the book!) and really find some lasting satisfaction in that Jacuzi of hers. Here are the notes I wrote to myself as God spoke to me through this novel: “Am I really making a difference, giving back, or proving somehow that I have a social conscience if I drive farther to drink my lattes in an artsy district in the city, rather than hand over my four bucks down in the suburbs? Sure, those joints are inhabited by patrons decidedly different from me, but is my heart truly changed by briefly mixing it up with the less fortunate? Or am I then not only out the cost of the latte, but the extra gasoline to drive that far, too?” And later, this: “Do I think I’ve done a good work—good enough, in fact, to absolve me of additional good works for perhaps months into the future!—if I merely take a ‘tour’ of a ministry in the inner city, just to see what God’s up to there? And if, after the tour, I write a big, fat check, Jesus WILL end up saying to me at the end of my luxurious life, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant’—won’t He?” Won’t He? I don’t know anymore, people. I’ve done something dangerous, reading Quaker Summer. If you’re feeling like taking a risk, go thou and do likewise. If you’d rather play it safe all the days of your Christian life, run the other way. Now. Before Lisa Samson writes another amazing book like this one. Either way, don’t say you haven’t been warned. Posted by Katy on 03/22/07 Permalink Cards (#1072) For nearly every cliche, there’s an equal and opposite cliche. Take, for instance, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” Nice sentiment to latch onto if you’re about to leave behind a love interest in favor of a trip around the world, wouldn’t you say? Sure, you would. But before long that spot in your subconscious where you store cliches until the moment they’re most needed will bring this gem to mind: “Out of sight, out of mind.” Oh-oh. Better rethink those travel plans. Today I’m contemplating cliches with card-playing references. Not one to play poker or bridge myself, I still seem to recall something about “holding your cards close to the vest.” And then there’s the perennial advice to “not show all your cards at once.” The card cliche that rings the most true (and useful!) to me, though, is “Play the hand you’ve been dealt.” I’ve made such excellent use of this motto throughout the course of my own medical history, in fact, that I’ve become something of a role model to health-catastrophe newbies in my ever-widening sphere of influence. You can stop imagining my rear end expanding NOW. Thank you. :) A couple in our Sunday School recently went through the husband’s harrowing 6-way heart bypass surgery. Lynett turned out to be a real champ in caring for Fred’s many needs during the weeks following their crisis, but as a result, she’s been a little…spacey. She’s coordinating a group of us to go see the Dead Sea Scrolls, on exhibit here in KC for only a few more weeks. She called the other night and Doug told her that we couldn’t make it, so I was surprised when she called again yesterday. “I’m trying to get a head count,” she said. “Um…what did Doug say when you two talked?” I asked. “Oh, my gosh! I totally spaced out that I’ve already talked to him! I am so sorry…” “Lynett, I happen to know you’ve always been goofy. But here’s the deal: Now, for more than a limited time only, you are entitled to Play the Hand You’ve Been Dealt.” “What do you mean?” she asked, all innocent like Medical Virgins everywhere. “Heart surgery, baby. Lay those cards on the table. Go ahead and be your usual spaced-out self, but take advantage of Fred’s surgery to make your ongoing deficits socially acceptable. Starting today.” “And ending….when?” Honestly, Lynett is SUCH a nice girl. “Never, Lynett. Ending never. Fred’s surgery and his long recovery—during which you will put all the other details of life on the back burner to serve his needs like the faithful wife you are—will officially be your one-way ticket to Space Island. From now on, no one will question if you lose your grip on pesky details or skimp on logic. You’re home free!” “You think?” Yes, I think. That’s precisely why we’re having this conversation! “Lynett, have you had a hysterectomy?” “Yes, back in 1991, but I hardly see how that—” “Do you vacuum?” “Katy, of course I vacuum. What kind of a woman do you think—” “If you’d played the Hysterectomy Card starting the DAY you had surgery, when your doctor gave you instructions not to vacuum or do any heavy lifting for at least six weeks, you’d have trained your husband and children. These days, you wouldn’t even know where to locate the Hoover’s ‘on’ switch. You’d have never vacuumed again.” “What do you mean, never? What about when the six weeks ended?” “Lynett, husbands and kids don’t keep track of stuff like WEEKS. With Fred, kind of like with the Lord, six weeks is as a thousand years. If he’d taken over the vacuuming in 1991, and you asked him today how long he’d been performing the duty and how the vacuuming ball came to be in his court, I guarantee you he’d be clueless.” “Why, I never,” she said. “I suppose there are Childbirth Cards I could have played 25 years ago?” “Girl, girl. Let’s not cry about lost games. Think about the straight flush of Menopause Cards you’re clutching in your hot little fist, all yours for the playing today. It’s not too late to get your piece of the action.” “But what about Fred?” she asked. “What if he gets wise and tries to play the By-Pass Card? What if he says he can’t figure out his medications and needs me to dole them out to him? What if he says he can’t get his diabetes under control unless I fix him three meals and three small snacks per day? I’m not sure I can—” “Of course, you can’t, honey. No woman could be expected to keep up with all that. Especially not you. And do you know why?” “Um….because I’ve just played the…?” “That’s right, Lynett. The Space Cadet Card.” I heard her sigh then, a happy, contented sigh. “Thank you, Katy. You’ve made my day. I mean, my six weeks. I mean…the rest of my natural life.” If she hung up the phone, turned to Fred, and said, “That Katy is a real card,” I’ll know my work here is done. Posted by Katy on 03/15/07 Permalink National Archives, Personal Treasure (#1071) Another item the British Embassy is hitting me up for—which they did not request on my original application—is proof of the exact date my father became a citizen of the United States. I suspect they don’t require this of everyone who applies for a British passport based on being a British citizen by descent. Somewhere around the time my father became a citizen, the US laws changed so that a new citizen did not have to renounce their former citizenship. If Dad had renounced his British citizenship to become an American, I would not be able to get my British. This little bit of extra red tape resulted in me discovering that we have, right here in Kansas City and only fifteen minutes from my home, a National Archives. There are only eleven of these in the US, and it is in these archives that citizenship papers are stored. I called one day last week, and within an hour the VERY helpful archivist, Marilyn, had found my father’s paperwork. I’d never seen these papers in my life, of course. I cried at my father’s signature on the bottom of the original, because, well…the handwriting of my dead people always makes me weep. He must have filled out this final application for citizenship after March in 1955, and before October of the same year. He lists my mother and his three children (Patrick, Katy, and Elizabeth) as all residing with him. By the time he was awarded his citizenship in December, though, Patrick—at age four—had died. The custom was that once the application was filed, no information was updated, though of course, everything in our lives by then was forever changed. Archivist Marilyn could not believe that I’d never seen the only copy of Dad’s actual citizenship certificate (this was the application), which he would have been given on that momentous day. “Most new citizens at that time would have framed the certificate and hung it on the wall,” she said. There’s only one place it could be, and that’s the one remaining Rubbermaid tote filled with the epemera my sister Bridget and I did not have time to go through when we closed Mom’s house down nearly five years ago. It’s in the closet in Mom’s apartment and soon, I will attack it. Who knows what goodies I’ll turn up? In the meantime, though, I showed Mom the certified copy of the paperwork I received from the National Archives, and she loved it. She looked at the names of the two witnesses Dad had sign for him that day, fellows he worked with at the First National Bank downtown. Mom remembered the blokes, after all these years. “I couldn’t go with him that day,” she said, not needing to remind me that neither she nor my father knew how to drive a car. “I’m sure he walked over to the courthouse on his lunch hour. All I remember is when he got off the bus that night, he marched down the block waving an American flag and saying, with his thick brogue, ‘I am now an American cit-i-zen!’” And you know what? Although I was barely two at the time, I remember that evening, too. It’s the very first memory, in fact, embedded in my consciousness. About the framed citizenship document that should have been hanging on the wall? I don’t think so, Marilyn. I’d remember something as precious as that. The classiest thing on our walls hung beside the green-topped chrome kitchen table, within my father’s easy reach: A carton-sized plastic dispenser of Lucky Strike ciggies. When I told Marilyn that, by the way, she was clearly unimpressed. Posted by Katy on 03/14/07 Permalink Still Not Too Late (#1070) I got some editing of my novel done at Barnes & Noble today. Yes, really! While strolling through the children’s section, I spied a little girl, maybe six years old, in a plaid Catholic school uniform. Honestly, it felt like looking in the mirror approximately 47 years ago. Except for the age thing, we could have been twins—auburn hair, scrawny legs, missing teeth, freckled nose. I took her for a younger version of myself: a student, a book lover, a reader, probably a storyteller, too. She wanted nothing more than to be there, among her favorite tales, her unhurried mother by her side. I kept walking and then, over my shoulder and already nearly a part of my past, the child spoke words that immediately entered my heart. “We still have a lot of time, don’t we, Mommy?” I stopped on the carpet’s well-worn path, my breath catching in my chest until the young mother’s voice answered, “Yes.” I smiled and, just for a moment, reveled in the magical world-without-end of that little girl, a miniature me. I still have time. Posted by Katy on 03/07/07 Permalink Citizen Kate (#1069) Some of you will remember that one of my goals is to (please dear God, let it be before I DIE!) acquire my British and Irish citizenships. I started this crazy process five years ago. FIVE YEARS. Maybe it’s the Daughters-of-the-American-Revolution rebellious side of me, I don’t know. But, folks, bureaucracy and I, we just don’t get along. A year ago, leading up to the fabulous trip Doug and I took to Ireland and Scotland, I submitted what I thought was every piece of paper God ever made, all notarized, to the British Embassy. I hoped, hoped, hoped to receive back in the post—before we left for the Old Country in April—my coveted British passport. I am, you see, entitled. My father was born in Scotland, which makes me a Scottish citizen by descent. I’m also entitled to my Irish passport and citizenship, because my grandfather was born in Ireland. However, as with so many things in this world, the burden of proof rests with, you guessed it…me. Me and a whole bunch of bureaus, that is. When you try to establish your lineage, you’re forever writing agencies requesting “long forms.” Long-form birth certificates, death certificates, marriage certificates, and on and on. Long-form certs must contain more pertinent information than short-forms, but I wouldn’t know. I doubt that I’ve ever seen a long-form up close and personal, no matter how many times I’ve requested—and paid—for them. So, last year, on the day before we left for Ireland, my passport request was denied. Several items were missing, apparently, including my own “long form” birth certificate. “The certificate you enclosed was issued in 2002,” the British Embassy bureaucrat informed me, “which is more than three months after your date of birth.” Ya think???? I called the State of Missouri’s Department of Vital Records today. It took nearly a full year after that glaring rejection for me to work up the vitality to try again. I told the very helpful agent that I must have received the incorrect certificates back in 2002, when I requested the long-forms in a letter. “Did you use a yellow highlighter to mark the words ‘long form’ in your original request?” she asked. “Umm…no,” I said. “Did you mark the words ‘long form’ with stars on both sides?” “You’re kidding, right? That would also be ‘no.’” “Underline them or bold type them?” “Didn’t happen. I’m sorry. I learned to write a business letter in approximately 1964. I typed a simple, straightforward letter including the magic words ‘long-form’, and accompanied it with a big fat check. When did that stop being enough?” “Circle them, point arrows at them, type them in caps, or stick a post-it note on them?” “NOOOooooo!!!!!” “It’s been more than a year since you received your short-form birth certificates. We cannot exchange them for long-forms now. Nor can we refund the substantial chunk of change you handed over with that perfect specimen of a letter you wrote…” “How exactly do you expect me to handle this? I need those long forms to get my British passport!” “You’ll have to request them in writing, and enclose $15 for each certified copy of the long-form that you require.” “But how shall I word my request? I’m afraid I’ve become quite useless in the way I communicate…” “Don’t worry, ma’am. The words themselves aren’t important. Just make sure you use a yellow highlighter to draw attention to them.” “And—” “And stars, bold, caps, underlining, and arrows.” I couldn’t help myself. “What about italics?” “Now, ma’am. No need to get testy.” If only I could give up bureaucracies for Lent. Posted by Katy on 03/05/07 Permalink Page 1 of 1 pages


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Personal blog of christianwriter & fallible momKaty McKenna Raymondin Kansas City, Missouri

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