http://www.fallible.com I find these truths to be self-evident. But, then again, I could be wrong. en katy@ngenius.com 2011-11-11T16:05:54+00:00 http://www.fallible.com/index.php/fallible/soul-train/ One hundred years ago tonight, King Pattengale sat down at his makeshift desk and by coach lamp penned a penny postcard to his six-year-old son, Carl. Carl had a collection of these postcards from his daddy, who worked on the railroad and had to be away from home more than Carl liked. He kept them in a wooden box, tied together with a piece of twine, and took them out whenever he missed his pa. But the one that was written on this date was his favorite for his whole life long. “Do you see the date on this card?” read the cursive script. “11/11/11. Carl, that date won’t happen again for one hundred years! Imagine that…” Carl did imagine. And he showed me the postcard only once, more than forty years ago. He was no young man by then, and his father, of course, was long dead. He read the card aloud to me and his eyes twinkled like they must have when he was a lad, mesmerized again by the magical thought of the one hundred years—slow moving in his youth but speeding by in old age—between 1911 and 2011. “I won’t be alive when that date comes around the next time,” he said. “But you will.” Years still moved slowly for me back then, but now I know, from personal experience, that it couldn’t have been true for him. What seemed like an eternity to me seemed to him like nothing more than the blink of an eye—and yet he knew he wouldn’t see the day that was so quickly approaching. So I smiled an I-believe-in-magic smile and took the postcard from his open hand. I held it to my face and inhaled the lingering fragrance of the sleeper train and the rail yard and even, I think, my great-grandfather himself. And the scent of the little boy who became the man sitting next to me, my grandfather. And I promised myself right then that on some distant 11/11/11 that I couldn’t imagine ever actually arriving, I would gather my grandfather’s people around me and celebrate his good life, his kind love, and the magic of passing it on. I still have his postcard. Now that the long-imagined day has arrived, I will sit down and pen cards, perhaps to my own sweet grandchildren. I’ll tell them this date won’t come again for a hundred years, but I won’t have to tell them to believe in magic. They’ll see it twinkling in my eyes. Katy 2011-11-11T16:05:54+00:00 http://www.fallible.com/index.php/fallible/live-out-your-dream-and-discard-the-box/ I’ve been embarking on my annual decluttering, and let me just say it ain’t pretty. This morning, I questioned myself thoroughly about why (besides purely sentimental reasons) I cling to stuff like I do. I came up with three main reasons. Most of the junk I’m holding onto represents the person I used to be (but likely won’t be again…), the person I wish I was (but likely won’t become), or the person I am now (but really shouldn’t be). Decluttering is about more than pitching stuff. It’s about choosing my purpose again today. So I immersed myself in my closet, grasping first at straws and then at substance. I quickly found at least a dozen items of clothing, three pairs of scuzzy (as opposed to fuzzy) houseslippers, a computer bag that would only work if I wore a suit (which won’t happen in this lifetime), and some ragged underwear to feed the lust of the trash bin. And then I spotted it, there on the shelf behind my questionable purses: The sweet wooden box I inherited from Grandma forty years ago. I reached for it, thinking I’d stored inside the beautiful beaded gloves, circa 1945, given to me by a lady who lived to be one hundred years old. Instead, a single sheet of torn and yellowed newsprint and beyond that, only emptiness. No other treasures to compete for my attention. I unfolded the sheet and gasped when I read the title, for I now remembered stashing it here, a younger me hoping a future me would still cherish the message. This article originally appeared in the Kansas City Star on February 27, 1986. Here are Erma’s words to me all that time ago, and yes, again today: “Live Out Your Dream And Discard The Box” by Erma Bombeck When I slit open the envelope, a photocopy of a check for $5 fell out. The note with it was simple and direct: “I made this from my poem titled ‘Youth.’ Thanks for encouraging me.” Five bucks! What can you buy with $5 these days? A pint of designer ice cream? One rose? A home-furnishings magazine? A pair of pantyhose? Four gallons of gas? If you’re Sarah, who lives in Louisiana, it can buy euphoria, with side orders of pride, hope, self-esteem and the discovery that someone was willing to put a price on your talent. There are a lot of Sarahs out there—women who keep their dreams in a private little box hidden from the rest of the world. Occasionally they take the lid off and look at it just to know it’s still there and then get on with the business of living. It takes a lot of courage to show your dream to others. They might laugh. They might not understand. Worse, they might take it out of the box and drop it, and where would you get another one? Dreams are fragile. Some people, in desperation, give up on dreams. The clean house one day and decide: “This is ridiculous! I’m acting like a small child who refuses to give up a favorite toy.” So they toss out the contents of the box—the short story, the idea for a business, the college degree, the job they would love to have, the child they want, the trip they would like to take. Then there are a few, such as Sarah, who are willing to take a risk. They take the dream out of the box, put it on and start living it. They lay bare their ego to discover whether they are equal to the dream. Dreams have only one owner at a time. That’s why dreamers are lonely. No one can help them with the struggle. No one can ease the pain of failure. There are some things they have to do themselves. Winning is not what they’re all about. What is special about them is that they are dreamers who put it on the line. They had the courage to admit that what they wanted was just beyond their reach, but if they wanted it badly enough, anything was possible. They gambled. And for the risk, they were all rewarded with a legacy for others to follow. For some it was a trail that was blazed, an attitude that was changed, a place in history, a thought, a life that was touched. That’s the difference between them and those who never take their dreams out of the box. They leave nothing.   Katy 2011-10-21T22:22:10+00:00 http://www.fallible.com/index.php/fallible/tears-in-a-bottle/ I’ve always treasured the Bible verse about God collecting our tears in a bottle, but it never meant as much to me as when I lost my first baby boy to miscarriage in 1978. That long ago but still remembered night, I held my son—perfectly formed at 14 weeks—in the palm of my hand and my husband and I baptized him with our tears. In the days afterward, as I lay in bed recovering, I wrote down my thoughts about all the things God counts, including the drops that fall from our eyes. Doug set the poem to music, and he’s even sung it at a couple of funerals, but today, I’m offering the words to you, as a small comfort over your own lost loves.                                                                 Our Tears                     God has given them a number:                     The leaves upon the trees,                     The hairs upon our heads,                     The grains of sand around the seas….                     God has counted each of these:                     The little birds that fall,                     The lilies as they bloom,                     The blades of grass as they grow tall…                     But most of all, I think He counts                     The tears His children shed,                     The heartaches and the sorrows,                     Until to His throne we’re led…                     There He’ll give us each a crown,                     Each tear will be a gem,                     The bottles will be emptied,                     And we’ll never cry again.   Katy 2011-10-02T17:17:08+00:00 http://www.fallible.com/index.php/fallible/from-the-young-mom-i-once-was-to-you/ Twenty-five years ago, I had three darling little kids. Scott at age seven, Carrie age four, and Kevin only eighteen months old. One day, as serendipity would have it, all of the kids dissolved into a crying and wailing fit at the same time—-gathered around and clinging to my legs. In that moment, I didn’t know if I would survive raising children to adulthood. I was so overwhelmed with the enormity of the task that I did the only thing I could. I wrote a poem. If you find yourself surrounded by little ones today, this is for you.               Little children at my feet               A hundred daily needs to meet               O when I’m yearning to be free…               Let the children come to me.               Places that I’m dreaming of               The ocean wide, the sky above               But then one climbs upon my knee…               Let the children come to me.               One tugs gently at my skirt               A healing kiss for tiny hurt               There’s no where I would rather be…               Let the children come to me.               For once a King upon a throne               Gave up all that was His own               He said with great humility…               Let the children come to me.               So may I bring them one by one               To meet the King, Your only Son               And in Your kindness, may it be               That all my children come to Thee. Katy 2011-09-08T12:48:42+00:00 http://www.fallible.com/index.php/fallible/cant_help_myself/ “We need to sing,” said Garrison Keillor, and no one in the audience could argue with his logic. It was less than one week after September 11, 2001, and Keillor was in Kansas City for a book signing and excerpt-reading event at the Uptown Theater. Many of the hundreds of people gathered to hear him had likely not ventured far from home in the past few days, but for Garrison Keillor, exceptions were made. There was a sadness hovering over the crowd, though. A reticence. We wanted to laugh at his Wobegon tales, forget the present and reminisce over an innocent past, but we couldn’t remember how. There was even, I felt, a mild distrust of each other in that theater, as if we feared the stranger right next to us—yes, the mild-mannered Lutheran woman in the jean jumper—might be a likely threat. “We need to sing,” he said, and led us to stand to our feet and hold our neighbors’ hands. “Oh beautiful, for spacious skies,” he began, in a singing voice as rich and mellow and believable as the one he used to speak. One by one, members of the audience joined in, until the room was filled with a unity of heart and sound. There were no power-point slides to cue the more obscure verses, and as we moved past the second verse, soon only Keillor was left singing once again. He knew every word, and sang every verse strong and unencumbered. It was the second song that surprised us, since it was neither patriotic nor religious. It was romantic. “Wise men say, only fools rush in. But I can’t help falling in love with you.” Utter fools have rushed in, killing people we can’t help being in love with… “Shall I stay? Would it be a sin? If I can’t help falling in love with you.” But we’re still here. Not going anywhere. Can’t help it that we’re in this thing together… “Take my hand. Take my whole life, too. For I can’t help falling in love with you.” We—each of us, all of us—looked into strangers’ faces in that theater, scanned eyes for signs of love, and found them. And we couldn’t help ourselves. Never mind what we were facing, we just couldn’t help falling in love. Katy 2011-08-31T10:00:17+00:00 http://www.fallible.com/index.php/fallible/what-a-difference-ten-years-makes/ I’ve been blogging since way before most people had heard of blogging, and sometimes I like to look at what was happening in my life during this month one, five, or ten years ago. Wow! I found a fallible entry from ten years ago this month that blew me away. Little did I know that literally within days of me writing this, my mother’s health would begin its steady and precipitous decline. Little did I know that Doug and I would not get to enjoy any time between raising our kids to adulthood and becoming caregivers for both our moms. I had high hopes, though, didn’t I? And I still do, though the past decade bore absolutely no resemblance to what I’d foreseen. Here’s what I wrote back then: “I’m starting to think that the Final Exam in Successful Marriage isn’t really about finances, or in-laws, or hormone replacement therapy, like they tell us. Shrinking retirement accounts and itty-bitty-bladder syndrome, we can get through. Male-patterned baldness won’t kill us, even if it’s mine. I’m starting to think the test is in the nest. Being members of the sandwich generation used to frighten me. You know, the period in a middle-aged couple’s life when their kids and their parents are all needy at the same time. But guess what happened while our independent moms neglected to need us? The kids moved out! The big stuff really has made us strong over the course of these past 25 years, but it’s the little stuff—-the little people—-who’ve made us fun. We’ve got a few years left with our youngest son, and we won’t be hurrying him from the nest before it’s time. But we won’t try to stop him when he’s fit to fly, either. In the meantime, we’ve become returning students of each other, Doug and I. We’re facing pop quizzes daily, examining the teacher’s text for insight into the coming chapters, and worrying just a little about the unavoidable essay questions. The semester may be just beginning, but we’re determined to pass the Empty Nest Test with flying colors.” Have you ever imagined that a period of your life was going to go a certain direction, and then gotten blind-sided by the hard, cold facts? Or is it just me? And tell me, am I the absolute worse prognosticator you’ve ever heard of, or what? :) Katy 2011-08-24T01:27:15+00:00 http://www.fallible.com/index.php/fallible/the-next-best-thing-to-robert-redford/ Today, my friends, Robert Redford turns 75 years old. To celebrate, I’m breaking out a recipe that is at least 35 years old, if not 40. My mom made this a million times and we never tired of it. I’ll give you the recipe exactly as she’s written it. It does not get better!           The Next Best Thing To Robert Redford 1 cup flour 1/2 cup softened butter 1 cup finely chopped nuts 8 oz cream cheese 8 oz Cool Whip 1 cup powdered sugar 1 box instant chocolate pudding 1 box instant vanilla pudding 3 cups milk grated chocolate for garnish Cut flour into butter with a pastry blender until mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Mix in nuts. Press into the bottom of a 9 x 13 pan. Bake in a 350 oven for 30 minutes. Cool. Mix together cream cheese, 1 cup of the Cool Whip, and powdered sugar. Spread over cooled crust. In a large bowl, combine choc pudd mix, van pudd mix, and milk. Stir until thickened. When thick, pour over first 2 layers. Cover with remaining Cool Whip and garnish with chocolate. This will keep, covered, for up to 2 weeks in refrigerator, or may be frozen. Trust me, this WILL NOT keep up to 2 weeks in refrigerator!! Enjoy! Katy 2011-08-18T23:18:35+00:00 http://www.fallible.com/index.php/fallible/the-memory-keepers-daughter/ Patrick, Katy, Liz McKenna I wrote this essay when my mother was still alive, when she’d already verbally passed the “Matriarch of the Family” torch to me, when I’d begun to feel the full weight—and privilege—of preserving the memory of her losses. My brother, Patrick Joseph McKenna, would be sixty years old today, if only he’d somehow lived past the age of four. It’s in his honor I wrote this, and in my mother’s and father’s and grandparents’, too. For the longer I live, the more I think that remembrance may itself be the greater part of honor. ———————————————————————————————— I worry sometimes that when I’m dead, no one will remember my brother. It’s a quiet worry, not one that I’ve ever expressed in words until now. But I guess I’ve carried it in my heart all my life. Dad, Patrick, Katy, Mom Do you feel surprised when you open your containers of Christmas ornaments each year? I’m always shocked at the gasps of joy and stray tears of nostalgia that escape me when I see the treasures my children made for me during their school years. They are my most precious decorations. But there, among these keepsakes, is one I weep over season after season. It’s a tiny red and ivory knit stocking, no bigger than a baby’s sock, with a printed Santa and the words “Baby’s First Christmas.” Mom, Patrick I can’t help how I feel when I hang it on my tree. I can’t help thinking of my parents celebrating Christmas 1951 with their three-month-old firstborn child, unaware that he’d only ever spend three more Christmases on this earth. I can’t help it that I’ve already asked my sweet daughter to become the caretaker for Patrick’s stocking someday. I’ve already asked my daughter to not forget. Patrick, Katy, Papoo Because, you see, my mother now remembers less about her little boy than I do. I repeat back to her the stories she’s told me about his short life, and she shakes her head. “Did I tell you that, really? It was so long ago, like another lifetime…” It didn’t used to be like this. In one way, my mother’s whole life has revolved around the loss of this one dear son. But now, so much has faded in focus for her, and so I have become, of my own volition, The Memory Keeper’s Daughter. I know that Patrick’s name will someday—perhaps with the passage of only one more generation—be little more than a brief line in a family tree. A line with no branches descending beneath it. Someday, perhaps one of my own grandchildren will take up an interest in family history and ask about the little boy without a story. Patrick, Katy Will the Baby’s First Christmas stocking hang on a tree somewhere for generations to come? Or will the threads finally disintegrate like a mother’s fragile mind? I think I know the truth, but it’s hard to face it. There are some things I’ll take with me to the grave, but I can still hope my brother’s memory isn’t one of them. Katy 2011-08-09T18:59:14+00:00 http://www.fallible.com/index.php/fallible/where-have-all-the-years-gone/ Mom died 5 months ago today, and while I don’t typically navigate the 7th of the month without unbridled emotion, today I’ve skated through. In fact, I decided to pay my respects to Mom by posting a love poem Dad wrote for her on the occasion of their 28th wedding anniversary, in 1978. They only had 33 years together before his far-too-early death, and among my most favorite possessions are the letters and poems he dedicated to her. “Where have all the years gone, have they merely flown away, But oh what joy they’ve left behind to fill each passing day. Where have all the tears gone, for oft-times they were shed, Some in sorrow, most in joy, like on the day we wed. Where has all our love gone, sure it’s very plain to see That I love you more than ever and I know that you love me. Where have all the years gone, each one of twenty-eight, Each a priceless cultured pearl on that elusive string of fate. Where has all our trust gone, from the housetops you can shout My trust has grown still greater, of that there is no doubt. For some the past is all but forgotten but love’s a wonderful thing, It makes those years fond memories, and for us the angels sing.” I know, Mom and Dad, that the songs of the angels must sound even sweeter when you’re in God’s eternal presence. All my love to both of you, forever. Katy 2011-08-06T22:15:50+00:00 http://www.fallible.com/index.php/fallible/fun-with-kiki-cullen/ I decided, just for fun, to post the opening scene of a novel I wrote. I used to post excerpts from works-in-progress, but those bits never resulted in a completed manuscript. This one did. I still get a kick out of my main character, Kiki Cullen: My car hydroplaned through the radio station’s parking lot thanks to a hyperactive sprinkler system, skidding to a halt a fraction of an inch from the Employee of the Month sign. I gasped at the near miss and then beamed at the shiny pole, which bore a rectangle’s worth of affirmation. It would be a shame to dent the back of a sign I desperately hoped to be parked in front of someday. No time to wax wistful now, though. The manufactured rain created an arc like a crystal rainbow over the front end of my car, where I sat just long enough to gather my computer bag, my purse, and the umbrella that was wedged under the passenger seat. Why was I late again? Oh, yeah. Copious numbers of cratered orange barrels and so many tipped construction cones that it looked like scores of drivers had bowled perfect strikes with their SUVs. And now? A show to host with no prep time at all. Worse, I’d missed Sweet Talk, the semi-regular pastry-laden meeting during which any broadcasting career might be shaped, sliced, filled, or even turned into a burnt offering. I shoved the car door open, snapped the umbrella up like a parachute, and splattered my way onto the puddled concrete. I ran around to the other side of the Employee of the Month sign for another look at that name. No mistake. The seams of my umbrella nearly split with pride and I allowed myself a moment’s sopping satisfaction, but I couldn’t very well stand there and gloat. I sprinted for the building, regretting my choice of stilettos more with every triangle-toed slosh. When I finally threw open the station’s side door, my show’s call screener greeted me—a girl I must say seemed a tad testy even though she was perfectly dry. She bit her lip and glanced down to observe her old-fashioned watch’s sweep second hand do its sweeping thing. “Four minutes, thirty-seven seconds.” “Plenty of time,” I said, impersonating an optimist. We set off walking. I gulped stale smoke in the narrow hallway leading to the studio, struggling to keep up with her. A long line of former bigwigs crowded the walls, framed and hung, suspended on black velvet cords—almost by their necks, if you asked me. They alternately scowled and glared, and I could have sworn one winked as I skittered through the mostly-dead-executive gauntlet. We stopped in the coatroom just long enough for me to ditch my umbrella and the raincoat I made a habit of toting—but never wearing—in October. Autumn’s melancholy outbursts of precipitation mirrored my mood in a soothing way. Like a friend who empathizes with your blue funk by sharing her own tale of woe. “You weren’t at the meeting.” She looked me up and down with a stricter appraisal than usual, and a hint of disappointment. “What happened?” I shrugged and huffed, the huffing being not so much with exasperation as with inhalation deprivation. Short legs are so overrated. “Doesn’t matter now. Catch me up on today.” “It matters. Gillespie’s watching you.” A timer went off in her pocket. A back-up system for her never-fails second hand. “Four mins, five secs.” “Watching? I thought we were still doing radio.” I shouldn’t tease her, but sometimes I couldn’t resist. She made a face, not an amused one. “Watching from the control room. That’s what this morning’s Sweet Talk was about.” “What exactly will he be watching for?” While we jogged the final few yards of marble-floored hallway, she held out a document and pointed to a paragraph midway down the page. “It says here, ‘The host’s no-holds-barred attitude during Your Marriage Matters will ultimately make or break the show.’” “My…attitude?” “Yeah, and it gets worse.” She pointed even more pointedly, flipping the page my direction. “Market studies show improved ratings on days following one of your…um…rants. Three minutes straight up.” “The document from corporate used the word rants?” I knew I’d gone mildly hormonal with a few callers in recent weeks, but three days ago the doctor adjusted my meds. Besides, at no time did I think my on-air behavior constituted a bona fide rant. We skidded around the corner and into the studio. She handed over the sheet. Green highlighter blended with a fleck of icing on the page like food coloring on a St. Patrick’s Day cake. “Read it and don’t weep,” she said. “This could go either way.” Gillespie planned to choose one program for much wider distribution across his expanding network of stations. Either Your Marriage Matters would break out, or the following hour’s show would prevail: a knockdown, drag-out, he-said, she-said, liberal-conservative shout-fest. Like that’s what the world needs now. “So what happens to the other show?” “Didn’t say.” Fiona glanced over my shoulder into the control room.  “But you’d better put on your headphones. Gillespie wants to talk.” I shivered, though my blouse had completely shed the sprinkles. “You mean, before I go on?” She gave me one of those looks and nodded. Two minutes and small change. Good thing I could skip out on wardrobe check, hair, and make-up. Radio does have its plusses, but having a pre-show conversation with Gillespie? So not one of them. “By the way,” I said, meeting her eyes. “I missed it, didn’t I?” Her lips curved into the most modest of smiles. “Yeah, Kiki. I really wanted you there.” My heart melted. What would I do without this girl? “You’re the best Employee of the Month ever, Fiona Carmichael.” And then she grinned outright and I hugged her with all my might. Katy 2011-07-20T16:54:47+00:00