Personal blog of christian
writer & fallible mom
Katy McKenna Raymond
in Kansas City, Missouri
Katy is represented by
Rachelle Gardner at
WordServe Literary
Read more Katy at
LateBoomer.net
Recent Posts
- Soul Train
- Live Out Your Dream And Discard The Box
- Tears In A Bottle
- From The Young Mom I Once Was, To You
- I Can’t Help Falling
- What A Difference Ten Years Makes
- The Next Best Thing To Robert Redford
- The Memory Keeper’s Daughter
- Where Have All The Years Gone
- Fun With Kiki Cullen
- Stuck On Mom
- Ten Years Later, Our Girls From Northern Ireland Remembered
- The Thrift of Grief
- Job Security
- The Party’s Over
Syndicate
E me at katy @ ngenius.com
(No Title)
Carrie's finishing her freshman year of college with a two-week chorale tour of six states. Between performances, they took a day off to enjoy Disney World. "Mom, I just had to call you from the Magic Kingdom!" "Carrie, I've just got to tell you, you're our Magic Kingdom…" "I love you, too, Mom."(No Title)
If you've never had a friend like Bruce, you're really missing someone. I was a fourteen-year-old kid when we first met, in the eighth grade at St. Elizabeth's, where he was the new priest. The next year, I was a freshman at an all-girls academy and Bruce had taken a position as religion teacher. He gave me the first "C" of my young life, and I figured out he must know something about God that I didn't. I decided to find out. His office was always open, or if it wasn't, I could slip a note under his door, knowing all my adolescent concerns would be kept between the two of us. Back then, if I said, "Keep the faith, baby," I knew he would. When I graduated and started to drift away from the Lord, he was there. "If you're doing stuff you couldn't tell your mother, you're living a lie," he said. And so I turned my life around, I repented, because of Bruce. If I'd never had a friend like Bruce, I would have really missed someone. But I didn't miss him, until now. Yesterday, he died.(No Title)
"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine…" I counted the hardback books carefully, aloud, for the sake of the reluctant, suspicious homeowner and her 40-year-old daughter, the sponsors of a garage sale they were beginning to regret. The elderly woman regretted she'd been in the house when the daughter quoted me a price of 50 cents per book. The daughter regretted the day she was born. "Mother, you didn't have the books priced," the daughter hissed, while I was still perusing the stacks, "so I told the lady 50 cents…" The daughter's attempt at self-defense was feeble enough to make her wish she'd gone to law school when she had the chance. "50 cents? What were you thinking? Most of those still have the original price tags on them! Most of them have never been read!" So I finished shopping, took my books to the table, and started counting. I've never counted to ten to try to calm my anger, or counted to ten to deter my children from leading lives of crime. But how I hoped counting to ten would diffuse the time bomb in that garage! No sooner did I hand over a five-dollar bill than my elder blurted out, "Well, young lady, I hope you know you're getting a real bargain." It was the lecture I deserved, the one I'd been waiting for, delivered with a full measure of alacrity. It hit its mark. "Would you like to buy the books back?" She shook her head slowly, and then turned to shoot daggers at her poor, hapless daughter. As I walked away, I swear I heard two women, grinding their teeth, counting to ten.(No Title)
Kevin just started playing tennis with the school team. When we're driving home after a match, if he's lost, I find it's better not to talk. It's crucial not to say something encouraging like, "Kev, I thought you looked really good out there today..." He's been sick with a sinus infection, though, and he's on medicine, and I know he's not playing his best because of it. "I'm sorry you're not feeling well," I ventured hesitantly, like someone treading on thin ice on a hot afternoon. "Yeah," he sarcasticated, "well, I'm sorry that I suck." See what I mean?(No Title)
I had almost finished my Starbucks iced latte, made with half-and-half and sugar-free vanilla syrup. Doug had barely sipped his full-sugared raspberry mocha chip frappucino. I had so thoroughly enjoyed mine that I was becoming jealous that he had so much left still to enjoy. I wanted more. "Lord, multiply it!" It was the caffeine praying. Sshluuuuurrrrrrp......schoooooop! And the straw fell silent. I stared at the cup, waiting, till the sugar-free truth sank in. "He's not multiplying it." God is in control, and this is good for me.(No Title)
"Why are you crying, hon?" Doug wants to know. Isn't it obvious? I'm peeling potatoes. I know, I know. It should read "onions," right? While it's true that generations of hormonal women have hidden behind layers of onion, only the potato will cut it for me. An onion is merely a disguise, a mask to protect the cook from revealing the true source of her tears. An onion is always on reserve in the fridge for when the emotions hit the fan, so it can be said, "Oh, I'm fine, really. It's just this darned onion." A potato, on the other hand, is no mere mask, and it stubbornly refuses to be used to divert observers from the truth. A potato doesn't hide anything, but each slice of the knife brings honest feelings closer to the surface. It's important to state right off that a so-called "vegetable peeler" will not achieve the desired results when one is in need of therapy. A vegetable peeler is for a woman afraid of getting down to the root of her difficulty. It is nothing more than an insipid blade flanked by two guard rails. A paring knife, by contrast, is short and sharp. In the peeling of a potato, the knife is drawn across the vegetable toward the cook in a motion designed to cause the cook to regularly consider her own mortality. If I'm starting to feel a little sorry for myself, or depressed or volatile, I whip out a paring knife and 10 lbs. of potatoes and go to town. I might think about my ancestors, the McKennas, and how thrilled they would have been for a potato to call their own, and my heart swells with gratitude. Who would have dreamed the McKennas would ever have it this good? Why, my potatoes aren't blackened or blighted or scarce! Just lightly salted with tears. Forget onions! If you need a good cry, there's nothing like a close encounter with a raw potato.(No Title)
"This is a really good cut for the shape of your face," enthused the stylist, as she finished my hair and we walked toward the front desk. For some sick, egocentric reason, I felt compelled to tell her I'd just finished losing 62 pounds, so she'd understand why I wanted a shorter, younger style. "Really!" she exclaimed, which is precisely the sort of response I revel in. She added something else, but since I'm completely deaf in one ear, it escaped me. Then she tallied up the receipt for 16-year-old Kevin and me and said, "That'll be $10 and $12." "No," I corrected her, "he's an adult..." "Oh, I know," (by now she seemed just slightly confused) "but I thought you were a senior..." A SENIOR?!? I whipped out two twelves so fast her head spun. Poor Kevin bore the brunt of my indignation all the way home, until we finally put 10 and 12 together and realized she had heard only the "62"--as in "years old," rather than "pounds lost." The only thing worse than the blind leading the blind is the deaf heeding the deaf.(No Title)
Shaylyn recently had her first birthday. She doesn't say much, but she communicates exquisitely. On Easter, she interrupted her mom and me to deliver a succinct message. "Aaannngh," she said. Cyndi looked her in the eye and answered, "I know, Shaylyn, but you're just going to have to wait. Brendan and Logan aren't being too nice right now, but give them a couple minutes. They'll come around. You'll see." Shaylyn turned and walked away, satisfied. "You knew what she was saying?" I asked. (It's been a while since I've had a baby. I've lost my touch.) "Of course. She was tattling on her brother and sister." Throughout the afternoon, Shaylyn continued to make adequate use of "aaanngh," "aawaangh," "aa-hangha," etc. Though the meanings were varied and expansive, the nuances of sound were so delicate that only her mother could act as interpretor. Lord, is it OK that I sound a lot like Shaylyn when I try to tell you how I feel? I groan and growl and spit out single, sometimes nonsensical syllables like an infant. "Eeeeeek, God!" "Help, Jesus!" "Ouch, Lord!" "Aaanngh, Father..." Still, somehow, You always leave me satisfied. You always understand.(No Title)
My neighborhood McDonald's offered US$.29 hamburgers and US$.39 cheeseburgers all day yesterday, for one day only, in commemoration of "Tax Day." Since I found myself short of both time and money, I decided to take them up on it. We've worked hard all year, we deserve a break today. Right? My 16-year-old son, Kevin, and I got in line in the drive thru at 5:45. After ten minutes, and by which time we were trapped into single file by a tunnel of cement wall from which no exit was possible, I began to doubt my plan. After eleven minutes, I thoroughly questioned my sanity. We spent twenty-three minutes stuck in a fast-food bureaucratic morass, and ultimately were entitled to acquire a maximum of five hamburgers. I only paid US$2.09, inlcuding tax, but my time is worth something, isn't it? "Mom, it's OK," Kevin said, in a kind attempt to assuage my indignation. "Next time we'll remember." And to think, after all that, not even the calories are deductible.(No Title)
One of these days I'm going to stop feeding the mouth that bites me.(No Title)
Of my many natural talents, the one I've been most successful in developing into a bonafide skillset is "valuing trappings over substance." One Easter, I treasured my basket filled with foil-wrapped fancies more than the devouring of the contents themselves. Months later, the icon was still lovingly enthroned on my bedside table, untouched by human hands. The crunchy rustle of tinfoil one dark midnight jerked me awake, sure that a miniature sibling was stealing my stash. I snapped on the light to find myself alone. Just me and the roaches. A number of my "trappings over substance" escapades have involved the acquisition of a-whole-lot-of-assembly-required excercise equipment. If I thought writing the checks was almost substance enough, wouldn't having the actual machines in my home certify my svelteness? No, I grew ever fluffier, while Doug maintained his youthful figure by wrangling apparatus parts for 24 years. Where's the justice? Musical instruments have played into my passions, as well. When I got a beginner's guitar, I insisted I needed an accessorized "gig" bag. I was positive gigs were in my future. I did have the wherewithall to learn upwards of three chords, but the substance of those pesky callouses on my fingers made me revert back to trappings, after all. No gigs. But from those who know me, giggles. Or are those snickers? Today is Good Friday, the day we remember One who did not share my weaknesses, but who died because He forgave them. In Isaiah, the Scripture quotes God as saying, "I will not give My glory to another." But then the New Testament tells us that Jesus freely laid His glory aside, to take on the form of a man, to be born, to die and to rise from the dead on our behalf. Jesus had all the heavenly "trappings" imaginable: thrones, crowns, jewels, palaces. He enjoyed oneness with the Father and the Holy Spirit, and the undying worship of legions of angels. Could He have needed anything else? I'm surprised again each time I think how He gave up the trappings of glory to obtain the substance of a relationship with me. Surprised again by the substance of His love.(No Title)
"I get enough excercise pushing my luck."(No Title)
Weather forecasts are more precise than ever, but just as inaccurate. Today, in Denver, they've had a huge snow storm, which closed down the airport for the first time in six years. When I was a kid, the weatherman would have called this storm a "blizzard." Now it's "blizzard-like conditions." Is that more exact, or just more annoying? Last night, the weather guy was trying to keep Kansas City and the surrounding towns apprised of a severe thunderstorm situation, and possible accompanying tornado. Typical stuff for us in April. Until this year, we were always advised to "take cover" or "seek shelter" in the southeast corners of our basements, or in a closet or other room without windows in the center of the house. Starting this spring, the instructions have been revised to "take your tornado precautions now." Uh, were we supposed to have a plan? My sister lives in Warrensburg, MO, where the tornado finally hit ground and took out 250 buildings over an eight-mile long section of town. The weather guy was reporting that they had 30 full minutes to prepare before they could expect the storm to hit. ("Alma, it'll arrive in your town at 5:15; Holden, 5:20; Lamar, 5:25, Warrensburg, 5:30, etc.") He showed his map of Warrensburg, and then told his producer to "take it down to street level," so he could point his cursor at main roads on the map and make their street names pop up. Cool. It would have been really cool if they'd had that 30 minutes to "take your tornado precautions now." The tornado touched ground in five minutes flat. I've decided I don't need to waste time watching the nutty weatherperson "take it down to street level" when I should be taking precautions on the lower level.(No Title)
My husband thinks a blogger ought to blog daily, for the sake of those readers who are checking in regularly. I maintain that a blogger should blog when she has something to say. Thanks for checking, though.(No Title)
Whenever I'm tempted to go out and get a "real job," I know something's not right. For me, a real job is what I do when I want to avoid my real life. My own personal life (and here I'm speaking of those parts of me which are distinct from my responsibilities to my husband and kids and mother and siblings and friends and neighbors, if that's possible) just does not thrive when subjected to the constraints of the traditional workplace. The last time I tried an office job, I found out I have cubiclephobia. At first, four of us had cubes facing each other, since the nature of our jobs required communication over the low walls of the cubes. But then the boss starting touring the floor, listening for snickers and giggles, or any other indication that we might be happy with our situation. When he found it, the walls went up, and the desks were rearranged to take full advantage of staring at gray space. Katy has left the building. When you've been conditioned your whole life to "get a real job," it's a full-time job convincing yourself you're an OK person without one. But the pay's great.
