Personal blog of christian
writer & fallible mom
Katy McKenna Raymond
in Kansas City, Missouri
Read more Katy at...
LateBoomer.net
Most Recent Posts
- Not For The Faint Of Heart
- New Math
- International House Of…..Watch Out!
- Have Yourself A Merry Little Colonoscopy!
- Spell Check
- You Are Not Alone
- Don’t Know Much About The Big Three
- Why, Oh Why Didn’t I Take Home Ec?
- Really, Really Fun While It Lasts!
- In Defense Of Good Old-Fashioned Books
- Things I’ve Said That I’m Happy Someone Else Didn’t Say First, One In An Ongoing Series Of Several
- Do Depression Meds Work For This?
- The T-Shirt Off Our Backs
- For The Fallible Record
- Long Time, No Blog
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E me at katy @ ngenius.com
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Yesterday, Doug and I celebrated our 24th wedding anniversary in the best way possible. Together. The highlight of our day was the purchase of a one-and-one-half seat recliner, narrower than a love seat, but wide enough for two smallish adults to cuddle up in. One year ago, I would have needed the one-and-one-half seater for my one-and-one-half sized seat. But I digress. It'll take 8-10 weeks for the recliner to be delivered, since it is being custom upholstered with a tapestry fabric depicting a scene of a French sidewalk cafe. Who knows? Maybe for our 25th, we'll go to Paris. In the meantime, we'll learn to relax, maybe check out some travel videos, and just enjoy being. Together.(No Title)
We bought a new fake Christmas tree this season. The old one had the kind of branches you have to spend a gazillion hours poking into their very specific color-coded holes. By the time you are done, you are doubting your Christianity. And that's before you plug in the burned-out lights. We told the sales guy we wanted the kind of tree with hinged branches, which, after the festivities, you merely fold upward like praying hands before lugging the spruce back down to the basement. He was out of that particular style, and tried to convince us of the merits of the pokey-branch type. He had one himself, he explained, and it only took three hours to assemble it...he was about twenty-one years old. "That tree won't work for us," I explained. "We don't have that many good years left." If we have regrets after death, as I believe we will (perhaps only temporary regrets for those of us fortunate enough to find ourselves in heaven), it might be useful to imagine while on earth what form those regrets might take. It occurs to me that most of my regrets in eternity may center around my casual expenditure of that which eternity has effectively put to an end: time. When you know you're looking back on more than half your time on earth, it starts getting easier to give up pokey-branch Christmas trees.(No Title)
To correspond with the swearing-in of President George W. Bush, my son composed his own inaugural address, to keep on file, "in case it becomes necessary." And after reading it, I had to admit, there's no virtue in being unprepared. So I ran out to the after-inauguration sales and picked up a fetching mother-of-the-president ball gown, 75% off. Size 2. In case it becomes necessary. Wow... he's good.(No Title)
Recently, my cousin Josephine gave me a beautiful pair of gold earrings, based on a design by a Scottish architect named MacIntosh, during the Arts and Crafts period. MacIntosh is hugely popular over there, and his work somewhat corresponds to that of Frank Lloyd Wright in this country. I am wild about these earrings, and didn't remove them for the first couple of months I owned them! I received so many compliments on them, why take them off? The other day, an old friend was just staring and staring at them, clearly in awe of their beauty. When I went home and looked in the mirror, there was a big chunk of Dial soap stuck in the sleek design. I still wear them every day, but now I check myself out a little better before leaving the house.(No Title)
Having seven girl cousins who were born and bred in Scotland is a novelty, and would be altogether fun if not for the fact that here I am a middle-aged woman and, "I hardly knew ye.." This past summer, all that began to change. My husband, Doug, and I, new and ardent converts to traditional Irish music, decided to go to the old country and absorb the culture. Absorb it we did, and got to know a whole slew of relatives into the bargain. We stayed only a couple of days with my cousin Mary in Denny, Scotland. But, as a result, she and her sister Josephine and their husbands came to the U.S. for the first time ever, and stayed with us in October. They met, finally, all of their American cousins, and were the guests of honor at parties and reunions and sightseeing excursions galore. In a way, they are still the guests of honor. A family get-together doesn't pass without bringing up the crisp memories of those fleeting autumn days. I'd thought I'd include some excerpts of my New Year's letter to Mary and Jo. In it, I mention both religion and politics, so read no further if you were hoping rather for sex and money. Dear Mary and Jo, I hope you had enjoyable and memorable holidays, but you, not being Americans, missed the simultaneous thrill of an unresolved election and the embarassment of an entire election "machine" run by people who can't count! Yesterday, though, made up for it in the minds of us Republicans, as the Bushes moved in and the Clintons moved out. Sometime yesterday morning, Bill and Hillary were seen dancing "their last dance" in the foyer of the White House. If true, it's the most innocent thing that's happened there in eight years. While we don't know yet if Bush is a great man, we are reasonably certain that he is a good man, and for that we are breathing a sigh of relief. Greatness is a revealed trait, often unable to manifest itself until trying circumstances arise, and so we shall have to wait. Goodness, on the other hand, is obvious to all. It's just that some people don't value it too highly. And so they vote Democrat. I'm kidding. Really. Our holidays were fun in spite of it all, and even full of fresh resolve to do more and be better. On Christmas Day, while we were all sitting around the table, my 70-year old mother announced she'd made two New Year's resolutions. All of our mouths dropped open, since we'd never heard her resolve anything before! "The first one is to go to church more often," she said, but then came the caveat. "Of course, I went to Mass with Liz and John last night, and in the middle of it, I leaned over to them and said, 'I hate this!'" (You know, she is a convert to Catholicism, and I'm not sure she ever took to it wholeheartedly.) Then came her second resolution, to our collective baited breath. "And I've decided to have more fun." Well, this we've got to see! And I hope we do--whenever she's on the verge of having fun, something pulls her back from the edge. She either talks herself out of it, or doesn't feel well, or something. Anyway, she was serious about this "fun" thing, so we are trying to help her follow through. I suggested if she'd just go to a "fun" church, she could kill two birds, but no one found me amusing. Our oldest son Scott (the one you didn't get to meet) had not noticed my newest appliance, the one Josephine installed, the clothesline, until about a week ago. He was eating at the kitchen table, looked out and said, "What is that?" "A clothesline," I answered. "What is it for?" he queried. You get the idea of the level on which we sometimes converse. I told him I intend to leave it up for the duration of my time on earth, to which he could only respond, "Why?" A college education ain't what it used to be. Our sweet daughter Carrie is finishing out her first year at "------- Christian University," but has been dismayed since arriving there in August and finding out that she, herself, is not a Christian. Surprise, surprise! We had not anticipated this denominational bugaboo, innocents that we are, but it has been an unacceptable environment for her to remain in for the long term. Next fall, she will transfer to Kansas State University, where a number of her friends attend, and where no one cares enough to define for you the exact address of your eternal destination. Thank God for public schools! Hmmm...I never thought I'd say that. At my niece Shaylyn's first birthday party last night, my sister Mary Baillie was telling us the dream she'd had the night before. She dreamed our whole family (my mom, siblings, spouses, children, cat and our dog Bono) hopped on a plane and went to see the cousins in Scotland, and guess where we stayed? With Mary and Frank! In the dream, you lived in a castle, on acres and acres of voluptuous countryside. I told Mary that your house wasn't large, and you probably couldn't handle a big crowd, at least not for the month-long visit indicated by her dream, but she could not be dissuaded. "I never have dreams that are so clear, so life-like!" she exclaimed. "I think it must be a sign from God." A bonafide religious experience, wouldn't you say? Thank you so much for the Scottish calendar! It is the same style your mom used to send my dad back in the fifties--I love that era. I will frame the prints after the year ends, and auld acquaintance shall not be forgot. Wishing you, your hubbies, your sisters and all your children a wonderful New Year, with the high hope of us staying as close as sisters! I love you very much. Katy(No Title)
OK, this whole thing with not capitalizing those words which were clearly meant by God to be capitalized (like God) is just not working for me. I've cummingsized my writing for the last time, and I'm growing up and acting like a 34-year-old woman. Even if I am 47. There's something I've waited three decades to put down on paper, and now I feel the freedom to go for it: E. E. Cummings! That was fun.(No Title)
i remember visiting my father one day when scott was a two-year-old. i couldn't wait to tell my dad about the latest, greatest thing the baby had accomplished. (hmmm, i should have written it down, since i'm struggling 19 years hence to know what it was.) "daddy," i enthused, "it's a milestone!" "Milestone! the kid's not even in kindergarten yet!" i hadn't realized until tonight what made him knee-jerk like that. his first son never made it to kindergarten, much less to age sixteen. he was born with heart disease, died after open-heart surgery at age four, never really had any milestones. only millstones. dad, i hope you understand why i kept marking milestones in my children's lives. i hope you know how often i stop and remember ours.(No Title)
i dreamed of my dad again last night. the two of us, sitting in his family room, watching M.A.S.H. -- hot lips houlihan was up to her antics, and dad and i were content to snicker together, getting it. he's been gone seventeen years, and i'm almost past conjuring an easy mental picture now, except in dreams, where he is instant and constant and in the moment. he is still 62-years-old, and won't live to be 79 in my imagination or anywhere else, for that matter. why are the dreams so current, so fresh, so real-time? why hasn't it sunk in to my subconscious yet that he's not here? why don't i get it? dreaming is living not in time, but in eternity. maybe i haven't processed "seventeen years since his death" because he hasn't. maybe i can't imagine him older because he isn't. if timelessness is fair, he is ageless in a strong, youthful way. i may stop counting the anniversaries, and start looking forward to the reunion. and the dreams. and getting it.(No Title)
"mom," said scott, "i think you might get pretty good at blogging if you keep at it. you could really leverage some proactive methodologies, exploit value-added intellectual capital, and monetize dynamic eyeballs." sigh. if only i were an aggressive self-starter.(No Title)
it's a bittersweet and proud occasion when your oldest child turns sixteen. it feels great just to see him get that far, in one piece, unscathed-- at least to the casual observor. you're pleased he has a few semi-solid plans for his future, forward thinking boy that he is, even if they do revolve around a macintosh computer, a girl named haley, and some new sport he calls "surfing." how he's going to surf, i can't imagine. we live in missouri. he wants pizza for his birthday dinner, but it doesn't seem like enough somehow. doesn't he understand about milestones? he's my firstborn, for God's sake! so we throw him a surprise party he doesn't ask for or anticipate, but which he thoroughly enjoys. when your only daughter, the middle child, turns sixteen, you give her the "sweet sixteen" party she's been talking about since she was eleven. many sixteen-year-old girls haven't been "sweet" since they were, well, eleven-- but your girl is different. and today, all the reasons why you think so come dancing back into mind. maybe it is the dancing--- and the singing, and the theatrics, and all the hundred ways she shows her uninhibited joy. and almost shows you how she feels. some small, or not so small, part of her is guarded. you know it's being held back for someone else, and you have to wonder... will he be at the party? two days ago, my baby boy turned sixteen. it was a wednesday, so the party was postponed for the sake of partygoers too conscientious to forego their homework. we gave kevin a nice camera, since he'd been vainly wishing to take our very nice camera on any number of excursions. kev's the kind of son who, when loading the first roll of film, turns to me and says, "can the first picture i take be of you, mom?" top that. an hour ago, at 3 a.m., my oldest son took the youngest to meet up with a youth group headed for snowboarding in colorado--a fourteen hour drive. you keep thinking the angst brought on by teenagers and cars and highways and icy roads and danger signs will lessen--or maybe it will take its leave altogether. but it never does, ever. this ski trip is his birthday present, and he's really excited. yeah. me, too. what's wrong? my husband asks, when i climb back into bed, the lights off, the house silent. "nothing." so i turn away from nothing, toward him. but i can still hear, in the nothing, a blaring bass guitarist, an irish dancer in hard shoes, and a skateboarder taking down the basement. and i fall back to sleep, relieved that "nothing" still makes so much noise. and dream of three sixteen-year-olds, and all their milestones.(No Title)
"where are we going, and why am i in this handbasket?"(No Title)
they don't come back at nighttime like they used to. they don't even necessarily come back when they need fed, or bandaged or sung to sleep. they return randomly, on their own terms, without invitation or insistence on my part. they have no particular needs or demands upon arrival, but i (foolishly) have expectations. i hope they'll rush into my arms to be sheltered, for a moment, from whatever it is they escape. they are escaping something, aren't they? something against which i provide the only earthly reprieve? for today, though, i do nothing but wait, and those furtive activities associated with waiting: cooking, cleaning and counting the hours. tomorrow, my grown-up children fly home.(No Title)
I've been thinking a lot about truth, the absolute kind. I'm sure there is some out there, and I'm pretty sure it's a limited amount. Some days, though, it's hard to pick it out in a crowd.(No Title)
Today is my very first best friend's birthday. We were five years old when we laid eyes on each other, in Mrs. Pendergast's afternoon kindergarten class. Mary Beth was playing with the three-story doll house, which dwarfed her, and I was overwhelmed by her tinyness. I was a fragile girl myself, but being the oldest child in my family, I felt big. Mary Beth was the baby of five children, and looked and acted the part. We wore sturdy, navy blue, Catholic jumpers, starched white blouses, and impossibly cumbersome black-and-white saddle oxfords. Mary Beth's miniscule body was lost in these symbols of sameness, but her sparkling expression was anything but uniform. I thought she was delightfully different. Suddenly, this little living doll was tip-toeing toward me, happily interrupting my project involving a huge sheet of manilla paper and a virgin box of eight perfect crayons. And there, trailing around, behind and beside her left clod-hopper was a 24-inch long shoelace, which threatened to be her undoing. And then, she spoke. "Can you tie my shoe for me?" Could I? Interruptions like these were to become the essence of our childhood union. Best friends like Mary Beth are forever calling when you're doing your homework, or coming over when you're supposed to be washing the dishes. She'll want to exchange gifts when you're supposed to be at Christmas Eve Mass, and talk about boys while you're watching Ozzie and Harriet. When she's grown older and less self-absorbed, she begs you to dump your English pen-pal and start writing to her big brother Vinnie, who's in Vietnam, so he won't be lonely. A first best friend doesn't happen often, but she happens with an unmistakeable audacity. Happy 47th Birthday, Mary Beth! You can interrupt me anytime.(No Title)
I find these truths to be self-evident...but, then again, I could be wrong.
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