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
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.
Syndicate
E me at katy @ ngenius.com
Incoherent Ramblings Of An Intermittent Blogger (#881)
I’m glad we all enjoyed first a guest-blogging fest here at fallible, then a Dave Barry celebration, and finally a two-part chat with the inimitable Mary DeMuth, because you know what? I’m pooped.
That must be it. What else could explain the phenomenon which I christened in my early years of posting as “a veritable dearth of blogging”?
Last night I dreamed of nearly everyone I’ve ever known, and some I’ve only known in passing or on the tube. These types of dreams always signal exhaustion for me. When it comes to dreams, more is not necessarily merrier, although I had some downright pleasant company last night.
Lots of authors: Deb Raney and her entire enormous family (Deb’s the only one I’ve met in real life) prevailed upon me to save their bloomin’ blueberry plants in some kind of freak Kansas hail storm.
Colleen Coble, Kristin Billerbeck, Diann Hunt, and Denise Hunter (authors, all) involved me in some of their shenanigans, too. They weren’t just critique partners in my dream. I’m pretty sure they were survivalists.
Simon Cowell fell in love with me, as usual. It happens at least once during every American Idol season, the poor guy. I know he prefers darker skinned girls with long dark wavy hair and brown eyes, but hey. He can’t help himself, evidently. Neither can Kiefer Sutherland, although I wonder how he can spare the time for romance when there are only 24 hours in every day.
For once, I didn’t dream of my mother. I haven’t been writing much about her lately, but that doesn’t mean stuff isn’t happening.
She fell again yesterday, but apparently is not injured. Just to catch you up, her recent falls have occurred on August 6, October 8, December 10, January 8, and February 1. Is there a scary pattern emerging here, or is it just me? I admit I’m not too great with numbers.
In fact, I’ve royally messed up our personal checkbook. The only good thing about that is that it could have been the business books, in which case I guess it’s called “cooking,” something Doug’s been wishing I’d do more of.
But my ear hurts. Bad, or maybe even badly, depending on your personal preference. I want you to be happy.
My head hurts, too, really bad, or possibly really badly. I just don’t know any more. I have swollen optic nerves, which is kind of chronic with me, and so, so annoying. They have to be monitored continually to make sure I don’t have any blind spots in my field of vision. And then there are the MRIs and spinal taps.
OK. I’m grouchy. And tired. And in pain. And I have nothing profound, fascinating, or entertaining to say. Now I must shower and be on my way to my third doctor appointment in a week’s time.
Please remember that no matter how grouchy I am, I love you very, very much.
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If You Thought The First Part Was Fun, Read Part Deux! (#880)
Mary DeMuth and I finish our IM session with a bit of a meltdown, but not before Mary reveals the heart behind her latest book, “Building the Christian Home You Never Had.” Enjoy!
Katy: I’ve wondered: What do you think about telling your children the stupid stuff you did in your youth? Or, for that matter, yesterday? Like if they ask whether you did drugs, and which ones….
Mary: I have a chapter in the book about that. So go read it. No, seriously…
Katy: I AM reading it, you silly jeune fille! But please tempt my readers a little bit with a nugget so they’ll go out and buy it, too.
Mary: I will tell my kids stuff as God leads. A typical rule of thumb is to tell your kids things you did when they are the same age you were when you did it. But, with some sensitive things, you may need to refrain.
Katy: Only if they ask, or if their situation warrants it?
Mary: Usually situational. And keeping in mind the nature of each child, you may end up telling one child one thing at one age, and another child at a different age. I call it telling cautionary tales. Learn from my stupidity…that sort of thing. That way I’m not coming across as the perfect Pollyanna Parent and I’m trusting my children with my honesty.
Katy: I agree. Cautionary tales. I recently told my daughter something and she said how much closer she felt to me because I’d done something so dumb!
Mary: That’s what I’m talking about.
Katy: She’s almost 24, and I’m still revealing things to her about my past.
Mary: That shows that our relationships with our kids go beyond age 18.
Katy: Relationships with kids should continue to get stronger and more real.
Mary: Yeah. And I guess I’m trying to avoid the secret thing. I grew up in a home with secrets, secrets that are still around. It is crazy-making.
Katy: I did, too. I suppose I’ll carry some of my father’s secrets forever, or maybe not. It’s bad when they tell you things and say, “Don’t tell your mother.” Yikes!
Mary: That’s a big burden to bear.
Katy: Yeah. So what are you saying? That you just refuse to bear it? You tell family secrets?
Mary: It’s not that. I just try to parent differently so that there aren’t so many rules and secrets. And, yes, I tell, if God seems to be prompting me.
Katy: How do you encourage your own children to open up to you? And what’s the connection between rules and secrets?
Mary: I didn’t mean we shouldn’t have rules. What I meant was that each dysfunctional home has its strange set of guidelines like: don’t tell about what really goes on behind these walls, stuff like that. If you have a family dynamic like that, you’ll have secrets. But young children aren’t necessarily wired to hold all that together. I encourage my children to open up by being available and by being real myself.
Katy: Looking back, I think I probably asked my kids too many questions that could be answered with yes or no, instead of leading them into a discussion. I’m bad like that.
Mary: Me too. But I’m learning.
Katy: Questions like “Did you have a good day?” “Do you have homework?†“Are your gym socks smelly?â€
Mary: Yes, Mom.
Katy: It’s a form of parental laziness…
Mary: Around the dinner table every night, we ask our kids to share their high and low of the day. It’s a simple way for us to take their temperature emotionally.
Katy: Oooh-la-la! Hot stuff, coming through! OK, Mary, what question do you wish I would ask you right now?
Mary: Ask me how hurting parents can pursue healing.
Katy: Mary, I know you had a lot of hurts in your own childhood, and some of those emotions must have carried over into your parenting years. How can hurting parents pursue healing?
Mary: What a great question!
Katy: I know!
Mary: Well, first, realize that emotional healing takes time and is a bit scary. I liken it to walking into a dark tunnel with Jesus. Most Christians, if I can be so bold, don’t walk into that tunnel.
Katy: I’m scared already. I’m not sure I’ve gone there yet. I’m still afraid of MRI machines.
Mary: Once in there, Jesus shows the movie of our lives and holds us through the pain. The joy comes when we walk THROUGH the tunnel and get to the other side and see the amazing new vista there. But you can’t see the vista without the tunnel. And once Jesus heals you, your relationships start bearing marks of that healing.
Katy: Is this a one-time tunnel trip?
Mary: Nope. There’s more than one tunnel.
Katy: Oh-oh. Like there are more than two shoes that drop?
Mary: It’s like forgiveness. We can breathe prayers of forgiveness, but it’s never a one-time event. It’s a process. A painful one.
Katy: Forgiveness. Yeah. I can forgive the same person for the same offense a hundred times before I finally start to “feel” it.
Mary: But healing is seldom easy. It’s an act of the will. And forgiveness isn’t the same as reconciliation, so you can forgive but still not be in relationship with the person you’ve forgiven. It’s sticky.
Katy: That is so true!
Mary: Speaking of healing, how are those ganglions? Did I spell them right?
Katy: Yes. Ganglion cysts on my fingers. Dangling ganglions. I think the operation on Cyst Number One went swimmingly, thank you.
Mary: Sounds like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon to me.
Katy: Oh, baby! The Dangling Gardens of Ganglion…
Mary: Yes!
Katy: Will you be my IM mentor? And my parenting mentor? Or is it too late for me?
Mary: It’s never too late. (Wow, that sounds like a Jedi giving advice, doesn’t it? Yes, your Yoda I will be.)
Katy: My Yoda, indeed…
Mary: Go Seahawks! I’m from Seattle.
Katy: Yes! Go Seahawks! I’ve never said that before. Wait…is that a football thing? Um, Mary, as my IM mentor, can you tell me—How do I stop this thing?
Mary: You don’t. You’re stuck forever.
Katy: Oh, NOOOOoooooooooo!!!!!!
Mary: Au revoir, mon amie!
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Are You a Pioneer Parent? Part One (#879)
Please join me in welcoming author Mary DeMuth, who’s taking a whirlwind blog tour talking about her latest book, “Building the Christian Family You Never Had: A Practical Guide for Pioneer Parents.” We conducted this interview via Skypes instant messaging service, with Mary in France and me here in Kansas City, pretending like I have a CLUE how to IM. Hope you enjoy the book banter as much as Mary and I did!
Katy: Mary, Mary? Are you there?
Mary: Oui.
Katy: You should have heard me gasp when I saw your “oui”! I’m actually IMing!
Mary: It’s amazing, isn’t it?
Katy: Shock and awe! You know what attempting to learn all this new technology reminds me of? When you come home from the hospital with your first new baby…
Mary: And you have to sit on one of those doughnuts???
Katy: For eight months…
Mary: Ewww…
Katy: No, really. You pull into your driveway and your next-door neighbor runs out of his house…
Mary: Naked?
Katy: Almost as bad. He wants to see your new baby and immediately chides you for not having a hat on him…
Mary: Oh, yeah.
Katy: And it’s 105 flippin’ degrees outside and you’re thinking a HAT? And from that day on, you feel like a horrible parent. And that (just like with IMing) you REALLY don’t know what you’re doing.
Mary: I understand that.
Katy: What should a new mom do who starts out with no good role models for parenting and a scary next door neighbor?
Mary: Shoot the neighbor. (laughing)
Katy: Doug wouldn’t let me. He’s a pacifist…
Mary: Oh. Too bad.
Katy: Or I would have shot HIM by now! I’m nice, though. I believe in showing mercy to pacifists.
Mary: Then, the next best thing is prayer.
Katy: OK, how does that work when you’re a parent and all hormonal at the same time?
Mary: Hormonal prayer is the best, really.
Katy: Hormonal prayer, huh? Lots of groanings too deep for words, I guess. And of course I’m talking about at age 52, not just age 25…
Mary: If you suddenly become dyslexic, you could be 25!
Katy: Hallelujah! Turn back that French clock for me, baby!
Mary: Will do. That’s what I’m here for.
Katy: Really. A new parent starting from scratch. Crummy role models in her past…it’s all too much, isn’t it?
Mary: Sometimes it feels that way. Part of why I wrote the book was so parents like me (a pioneer parent) wouldn’t feel so alone.
Katy: Did you look to friends in the faith to show you how it’s done? Books like “The Strong Willed Child?†And what is a Pioneer Parent, anyway?
Mary: That’s so many questions at once! Yes, I looked to friends. I watched parents obsessively. I read one million books. A pioneer parent is someone who doesn’t want to duplicate the home he/she was raised in.
Katy: Why the heck not? Dysfunction Backwards R Us!
Mary: Yeah, I’m all about perpetrating all the muck! Maybe we should form a “Crummy Parents Group.”
Katy: I got awfully comfortable with all those crazy people…It’s hard to break away to start your own family unit, isn’t it? How do you even attempt it?
Mary: We are all enmeshed with our families, but God wants us to rise above our circumstances. If He desires that, then He will provide a way to do that.
Katy: OK. So you and your hubby begin pioneer parenting with prayer. Then what? Do you pray without ceasing for about 30 years? Do your knees hold up OK?
Mary: We need surgery.
Katy: I know a good ortho doc.
Mary: I bet.
Katy: My kids are all grown now and doing great with the Lord. It’s a relief, and I don’t know quite how it happened…except for God was with us.
Mary: God has to clean our insides because a lot of parenting flows from our hearts. Like when Jesus talked about the Pharisees and used the metaphor of a cup. He called them dirty cups. The outside was clean but the inside, well—let’s just say they didn’t use Dawn.
Katy: White-washed sepulchres, eh? I have to admit, sometimes I found myself as a parent doing the “right thing,” but not being the right person…
Mary: There’s a problem.
Katy: I fought more with myself than I ever fought with the kids…
Mary: Did you win?
Katy: God is winning, bless His heart…I’m afraid it’s the nature of being Scots-Irish to beat yourself up coming and going. Very violent sort, we are.
Mary: I’m like that, too. Beating myself up. I wrote the book to offer grace. So what pressing questions do you have for me, Miss Katy?
Katy: What? These aren’t pressing questions?
Mary: No, these are pressing, in an ironing sort of way…
Katy: OK, do any of your kids beat themselves up like you tend to do with yourself? How do you guide them into a better way?
Mary: My firstborn does. Don’t all firstborns do that? I try to offer her a lot of grace and talk with her about Jesus setting us free. I love her no matter what. Coming to France has been good for her. She’s not getting straight A’s anymore, and it’s beautiful to see her cope with that well.
Katy: I remember your kids struggled when you first moved to France….
Mary: OH! And howdy.
Katy: And it seems like they’ve made great adjustments…
Mary: And they still are. Yesterday my son Aidan was in tears because his mean, mean teacher ripped out his work from his notebook and made him recopy it.
But they are all functionally fluent now and are doing much better.
Katy: You talk in your book about kids having a safe place. How do you make your Christian home into that place?
Mary: A safe place…By helping my kids know they are loved NO MATTER WHAT. Beyond that, we try to foster a home of grace where my kids can fail and still know we love them. We’re big into AUTHENTICITY at our house. We want our kids to share the ups and downs.
Katy: Authenticity…hmmm. Let’s come back to that idea in a minute. Mary, compare your first and second books for us.
Mary: One has a picture of the beach, the other of some sort of hiking family.
Katy: That’s pathetic on so many levels.
Mary: Seriously, the first book I wrote in conjunction with Hearts at Home Ministries. It’s a devotional for moms. I wanted, though, to write a devotional that wasn’t foofy. I’m tired of books for women that seem dumbed down. So I wrote one I would want to read. There are sixty devotional thingies.
Katy: Thingies, huh?
Mary: The second book—the one we’re discussing today—is about how to parent when you’ve had no example growing up.
Katy: Will it bother you if people start to look to you as an expert on parenting? Like Mary DeMuth the Foof Expert?
Mary: Yes TOTALLY. I told my agent I didn’t want to write parenting books, but he forced me to. By the way, the thread of similarity between the books is that both are authentic.
Katy: Your agent saw something in you. And here’s that word again—authentic. By authentic, do you mean honest?
Mary: Yes, honest. Real. True. And the real truth is, my agent saw craziness in me…
Katy: Back when we were Jesus Freaks, we talked about being “transparent.†Is authenticity the postmodern way to say that?
Mary: Oui.
Katy: Did your agent force you to write at gunpoint? If so, Doug could not be an agent.
Mary: He did, but now he works for Time Warner, so no more guns.
Join us again tomorrow for Part Two of Pioneer Parenting with Mary DeMuth!
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I Am NOT Making This Up!!! (#878)
I’ve had a migraine for nine days running, but did I let a little thing like that stop me from hearing Dave Barry in person today?
What kind of woman do you think I am?
He gave a hilarious presentation at the so-called “business luncheon” sponsored by UMB Bank, Rainy Day Books, and KMBZ radio here in Kansas City. I say “so-called” because, while this group may sometimes be thrilled to tears by speakers on subjects as compelling as investing in viaticals—whatever THOSE are—today these same normally stalwart individuals were choking back their chicken with guffaws of glee.
Dave’s on a book tour to promote “Dave Barry’s Money Secrets Like: Why Is There A Giant Eyeball On The Dollar?”
Afterwards, while all the “business people” had to hurry back to their claustrophobic cubicles or corner offices, Doug and I (self-employed loafers that we are) got into a nice short line to get our books signed. Doug handed me both of our copies, so that he could stand to the side and try to snap a pic of Dave and me.
Have I mentioned how much I love my husband?
But then I got to the front of the line, shook hands with Dave, and proceeded to show him this keepsake hand-written postcard he sent me ten years ago. Back then, I’d found a headline I thought he would enjoy, since he collects such things and writes about them. It said, “Net Bank Bucks Stock Sag.” I’d also enclosed a copy of an article he wrote, published face-to-face in the Kansas City Star Magazine with one of my own humor articles.
I was shocked when I received a note back from him. In case you can’t read the words, it says, “Katy, Thanks. That headline bucked my stock sag for sure. From your fellow published writer, Dave Barry.”
Today, Dave looked at my framed postcard and his internal editor kicked in. “Look. I spelled headline with a ‘d’ on the end. Do you want me to fix it?”
“I’d never even noticed!” I said. “And no, I want it just the way it is.”
We laughed and chatted and I totally forgot to look over at Doug so that he could take our picture. So he took a couple of pics that turned out looking like, frankly, no one I’d ever seen before. How would I ever be able to prove to you my loyal and expectant readers that yes, I really HAD gotten my pic snapped with the Man?
Doug and I went down twelve flights to the lobby of the newly-renovated and gorgeous Hilton President Hotel and looked at the digital pics and used the restrooms and I was sad but not too sad because migraine notwithstanding, people, I had a plan.
“Babe,” I said, “we’re going back up.”
I had a feeling that the line would be subsiding, and I was right. We got back up to the twelfth floor just as the last person handed over his book to be autographed.
“Could I get a picture with you, Dave?” I asked, as boldly as I’ve done anything ever. “My blog audience demands it.”
“Sure!” he said, and then he and I posed and grinned like goofballs.
“This is the VERY happiest day of my life!” I said, and honestly in that moment, I sincerely meant it. Even now, I wouldn’t take it back.
“That’s a dangerous thing to say in front of your husband,” Dave said.
“Well,” I answered, “I mean, he’s nice and all, but…”
And then my two favorite guys and I laughed all together and I’m telling you what, that was the most luscious business-luncheon chicken I’ve ever had.
UPDATE OF UNUSUAL SIZE!!! Dave Barry’s blog links to this one! He says I’m a relatively sane Kansas City blogger. See, Doug has nothing to worry about. Obviously, Dave doesn’t know me THAT well…. :)
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You Do The Math (#877)
My mother, God bless her, is the matriarch of a sufficient number of direct descendents and their spouses to confuse anyone.
Besides her own five children and their spouses, she has fourteen grandchildren and their spouses, and now four great-grandchildren. And to think she herself was an only child!
Today, my sister Mary and her son Adam visited Mom, and took along Adam’s two-year-old daughter, Ashley. Adam never married Ashley’s mom, and now Ashley’s mom has moved down the pike and found herself another guy to father her second child.
Ashley’s half-brother was born a few weeks ago, and I think Mom’s been mulling over this latest development ever since.
So today, Mom put her question to her grandson straight, without attempting to sanitize or legitimize the situation one little bit.
“Adam, is that new baby yours?”
“No, Grandma. He’s not mine.”
She only hesitated a beat before asking, “Well, is he half yours?”
Because you know, if he was, she’d need to add him to her birthday card list!
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Bedfellows (#876)
You’ve all heard the expression “in bed with.” Right?
As in, “The sugar industry is in bed with the big pharmaceutical companies. Without widespread (pun intended) consumption of copious amounts of sugar, there would be no need for adult-onset diabetes medications. Cancer rates would fall, heart disease would be curtailed, and blah-blah-blah-blah-blah.”
(OK, now that I’ve got my little 2006 plug for a sugar-free diet worked in to today’s entry, I’ll move on.)
The phrase “in bed with” never fails to bring certain movies to mind, too, my hands-down favorite being “Planes, Trains, and Automobiles.” I’m sorry, but the scene in which Steve Martin and John Candy wake up entangled in each other’s arms gets me every single time. Right now, I have the biggest dumb grin on my face just thinking about it.
And I suppose there are something like a gazillibillitrillijillion songs about beds. Back when John Denver was enormously popular, we loved to sing along to “Grandma’s Feather Bed,” in which he and all his cousins played havoc. I still thank God for that country boy.
If we cross over to the musical side in which it’s so dark there’s nothing left but to go utterly black, who can forget Cher’s classic downer, in which she sings the profound but totally depressing lyric “Sooner or later, we all sleep alone”?
What I want to talk about today is the bedfellows in my own life, the ones I didn’t invite in, which would be all of them except my husband. You should know that unless I’m asleep, I’ve never been unfaithful to Doug. I’m not sure that came out quite right, but bear with me.
My problem with bedfellows is that I have so many of them, and they’re all positively dreamy—or in most cases, downright nightmarish.
I’ve dreamed of being in bed with unlikely sorts several times this past week alone. You probably think I’m talking about Mel Gibson or Russell Crowe or Harrison Ford, but that reveals more about you than it does about me, don’t you think?
No, my friends, it’s not that sinful…umm, I mean simple.
Last night, I dreamed of sharing a quadruple-sized hospital bed with three elderly women. They were full of old-lady complaints like arthritis and bursitis and phlebitis and yes, even a touch of pleurosy and a big-toeful of gout for good measure.
I, on the other hand, had been hospitalized for stark exhaustion, but deemed “only mostly dead” by a nurse who looked suspiciously like Billy Crystal. Because I had no alarming symptoms like the old gals whined about, I was assigned to their bed. Nurse Billy was just a tad overworked and underpaid, and hoped I’d help him out with the biddies.
All night long, they’d take turns jabbing me with their bony elbows and kicking me with their gouty toes. “I need a sip of water!” “Bring me another pink pill!” “Take me to the toilet!” “Stop hogging the blanket!”
I’d rub my eyes and yawn and say, “You don’t understand. I’m here because I’m physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted. Besides, I take care of my own mother, and she’s about all I can handle right now. Don’t you have any daughters? Really, ladies, I need some sleep…”
Then they’d take turns chiding and accusing me.
“We don’t think it’s fair that your mother gets all the attention and you won’t lift a finger for us.”
“I agree with Millie. What makes your mom so special? My toe hurts!”
“I hear you fill up the water bottle your mother keeps on her nightstand every time you’re there. And here I am, dying of thirst.”
“Yeah, isn’t there something in the Bible about if you give a cup of water to a stranger you’ll manage, by the skin of your teeth, to hang on to your heavenly reward? What’s the matter? I’m not strange enough for you?”
I awakened in a cold sweat this morning, my pajamas drenched with the effort of juggling demanding old ladies all night, ladies for whom I don’t have the slightest amount of personal responsibility. I headed straight for my computer to tell you about it before I’d even had my coffee, that’s how much the dream affected me.
Now that I’ve finished my tale, I have to say the whole time I’ve been typing, I’ve been humming a happy little golden oldie.
“Sooner or later, we all sleep alone.”
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What’s In A Name? (#875)
Thirty-nine years ago, I was finally given the vote.
My mom had taken a taxi to the hospital during a raging snowstorm, in order to give birth to my baby sister, Bridget. She travelled alone that day.
My father, who was recovering from the heart attack he’d had a couple months earlier, was forbidden by his doctor to go with her because the whole mess might cause him “too much excitement.”
It’s weird, I guess, but because of my family dynamics, I’ve felt responsible for my mother from a very young age—eight, to be exact. But by that day all those many wintry days ago, I’d already achieved the ripe old age of thirteen.
I stayed home with my three younger siblings, trying to keep them and my dad calm while Mom labored and delivered a couple of blizzardy miles away.
I still remember how proud I felt of her and her pluck when she called home within minutes of the new baby’s birth.
“You get to vote on the name,” she said. “Shall we name her Valerie Jane, Bridget Maureen, or Bridget Colleen?”
I relayed the choices to the family, and tallied their responses.
“It’s unanimous,” I told Mom. “We all vote for Bridget Colleen.”
I still don’t know if that’s the name she would have chosen if left to her own particular taste, but she was more than happy to go along with majority rule. Which is kind of amazing, really, when I consider what a thing she has for names.
“If I ever have girl triplets,” she used to tell me as she neared the end of her child-bearing years, “I’m going to name them Valerie, Victoria, and Veronica.”
Lately, she’s raised objections when one of her grandchildren or great-grandchildren receives a name she isn’t fond of. My niece’s son, Cash, was already baptized and my mother still sent his mom and dad a letter listing her choices for alternative names.
The thing is, she’s always preferred rather traditional names—until now.
“I was awake all night trying to think of the perfect name for my beautician’s new little girl,” she told me yesterday. “The baby was born on Christmas and they still haven’t named her.”
“What did you decide?” I asked.
“Welcome Day.”
“So, Mom, are you saying that the baby’s last name is Day?”
“No. I’m saying her name should be Welcome Day.”
I’d love to say she was kidding, but that would be a blatant lie. She was as serious as death.
Later last night, when I told my sister Mary this story, she said, “Mom told me she’d picked the perfect name, too, only it was a different name. I’m not sure you want to know what she said.”
“Go ahead, Mary. I can take it.”
“Miracle Baby.”
I can still remember the thrill I felt when my mother gave me the all-important vote those many years ago. These days, though, my vote carries a weight of responsiblity for her well-being that I couldn’t begin to imagine then.
And the saddest part is that Mom’s vote doesn’t count for much of anything at all.
Welcome Day, indeed.
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I’m Going To Need A Much Larger Recepticle To Contain My Excitement! (#874)
I know this is only Thursday, making it still one whole week until Wednesday rolls around again, but I have to tell you what Doug and I have planned for next Wednesday!
We are not only getting to eat lunch at the newly and lavishly renovated historic Hilton President Hotel in downtown Kansas City, but guess who will provide the coffee-spewing entertainment?
Dave Barry! He’s promoting his new book, “Dave Barry’s Money Secrets Like: Why Is There A Giant Eyeball On The Dollar Bill?”
I used to read serious personal finance books, but that was pre-2000, back when we all looked like geniuses, even me.
These days, Dave’s Money Secrets will make me laugh, which has been scientifically proven to be excellent for the heart and the immune system, and which sure beats the heck out of crying all the way to the bank, don’t you think?
I love Dave Barry. I even have a handwritten postcard he sent me (in response to fan mail, not just randomly) about ten years ago, framed on my desk.
And my only one-degree-of-separation experience with the gorgeous old hotel, which has been closed for decades until recently because it had fallen into such disrepair and disrepute, is that my sons and their friends have broken into it through secret passageways and explored reams of aged pigeon poop under cover of night.
They’ve got the photographs to prove it, which might have valuable historical significance for which they could expect serious financial remuneration or jail time now that the grand old dame has made a comeback.
Barring that, I suppose the poop might come in awfully handy if I ever decide to write Katy Raymond’s Bird Flu Secrets.
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The End Of The Spear (#873)
I am a chicken-hearted Christian when it comes to tales of persecution, martyrdom, and the like.
I want to believe that the Lord would grant me the grace to endure such a fate if it came to that, and to remain true to His name until the end, but let’s just say I’ve never willingly put myself in a situation that might test the purposes of the Almighty.
So, you might not be shocked to learn that I’ve never read the 1961 Christian classic by Elisabeth Elliot, Through the Gates of Splendor. In her memoir, she tells the story of the five missionary men (her husband Jim included) who were speared to death by the Waodani tribe in Equador.
I lose enough sleep concocting my own fictional versions of end-times torture, thank you very much, in which I always star as the most terrorized Christian in the kingdom. I don’t need to read anything else that might give me nightmares!
And yet…and yet. A new film about to be released tells the rest of the story, the amazing events and relationships that have developed among the tribal members and the families of the martyred in the ensuing decades. It’s called The End of the Spear.
If you visit the site, I think you’ll find the link called Path of the Spear particularly compelling. I know I did.
I’m gathering my courage, folks. I think I need to see this film. I think I need to grow in my understanding of and appreciation for those who lay it all on the line for the love of Christ.
The story of redemption begins and ends with Jesus, I know. But it’s clear that He allows others to be a part of His beautiful redemptive purposes, and that five mere men can change the lives and hearts of thousands, if only they remain undeterred by the end of the spear.
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What If? (#872)
I’ve been reading various articles today about the ongoing aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, and they’ve all prompted me to think more seriously about our personal responsibility to achieve and maintain at least a minimum level of disaster preparedness.
So here’s my question: Do you have three days worth of food, water, fuel, medicine, first-aid supplies, batteries, flashlights and any other stuff you might need to “shelter in place” in case of an emergency? Three days is, of course, the amount of time FEMA guidelines specify, using the rationale that they’d need at least that long to get to you to offer further assistance.
That’s just the first step in being ready and able to take care of yourselves, but it’s an important first step that no one should exempt themselves from, especially since we now know that bail-outs don’t always occur on a timely basis—if ever.
I became sold on the idea of each family having its own emergency preparedness plan in the months leading up to Y2K, and I haven’t backed down since. We’re not survivalists by any means, but we could take care of the basic needs of our own extended family and quite a few others for a period of months if need be.
Who knows if the bird flu will strike, or another terrorist attack will ever come our way?
No one, of course. But the bigger question is, do you know what you’d do if they did?
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Read The New Testament In 90 Days! An Update… (#871)
Thanks to the inspiration of many of you, perhaps most especially Robin Lee Hatcher, I took the bait again this year.
Only instead of the Read Through the Bible in One Year challenge (which I always start and never finish), the ante has been upped considerably. Now there’s an even more ambitious reading schedule out there, and its participants are dedicated to read the entire Bible in 90 days.
Doug and I decided to bite off a much smaller chunk, but we’re getting so motivated by our progress in the NT, that we might spend the rest of the year in the Old.
As of last night, we’ve finished the books of Matthew and Mark, and Dr. Luke awaits. It’s been great, you guys! I’m noticing things I’d never keyed into before, and the Holy Spirit is calling things to my attention that need…um…my attention.
Reading the Bible in a disciplined way is kind of like going on a diet. We start out wholeheartedly, writing out our goals for how much we plan to lose in the next month, week, day, and hour.
But then we step on the scale after the first hour, and if we’re not miraculously skinny, we give up. The thing is, if we got right on that bandwagon again (even and especially after “cheating”), in a month’s time we could look back on wonderful success and fabulous progress. In a year’s time, we could be changed people entirely.
The trick with weightloss, as with Bible reading, is to keep on starting over when you feel like you’ve failed. Because eventually, you’ll get the hang of it, and you’ll regret the years you let those feelings of failure hold you back.
If you’ve been thinking about getting more committed to Bible reading, don’t wait! Just jump right in with whatever you can do—three chapters per day will get you through the NT in three months.
After that, who knows? Even the “begats” might start to look good!
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The Birthday Present (#870)
Anyone who has endured many years with a December birthday will tell it to you like it is if you’re brave enough to handle the truth.
In a best-case scenario, your friends and family pony up your presents on Christmas. It sort of seems like you’re getting more than everyone else, and they want it to seem that way to you, if only for the ten seconds it takes to put the highly-recyclable birthday gift bags into a different pile than the Christmas gift bags.
They hold the birthday present until the very end of the opening event, and make a bit of a presentation of it, saying something like, “And this—this is for your birthday!” like you’d forgotten you have one of those and should be very, very grateful that in the dizzy confusion of the celebratory rigamarole, they alone remembered.
“There!” they seem to be thinking, eyes all aglow with even more love than they had for you a couple of minutes ago when you were merely a common Christmas gift recipient. “How special do you feel now? I thought of you not just once on Jesus’s birthday, but twice! Why, if two more people give you your present today instead of four days from now on your real birthday, you should feel just as special as the baby Savior did when the three wise men showed up!”
That’s the best case.
In the middle, we have the folks who insist on giving you your own little spotlight on the right day, or at least on a day other than Christmas, more as an act of charity than anything else. Lucky for these people—who include my husband and kids—I’m all about charity.
I graciously allow them to pretend to be thrilled about yet another occasion—much too soon after the one just past and too near to the one up ahead—spent with nutty relatives. I let them complain about how they’re “so broke” after giving Christmas gifts to everyone and their mother, and don’t say anything which would make them feel guilty for making that comment right before they hand me a present they can’t afford.
The worst-cast late December birthday technique of all is the “drag it out” birthday. I’ve developed this method into such an art form, for the sake of sparing unenthusiastic and exhausted loved ones the emotional and financial expense of yet another party, that my December 29 birthday didn’t offically end until…well, yesterday.
My mother, you see, just can’t let it go. But neither can she do it on the right day, or even in the right month. Or even in the correct year. She’s just too pooped to party, and I don’t blame her one bit.
Instead, she puts if off, but holds my $100 hostage until I make all the arrangements organizing my hubby and kids on a day when she’s feeling OK, the weather’s holding, the ice has melted, no one has a contagious infection, she slept well the night before, and her blood sugar’s behaving itself.
So, yesterday was the big day. I called Mom at two to remind her. “How are you feeling? Are we still on for today?”
“I’m fine. I thought we could go to that place that’s only on the Plaza, except for the one that’s out this way.”
“Um…do you mean the Cheesecake Factory?” The only reason I can think of this is that I know my son Scott and his wife Brooke gave her a gift certificate for Christmas.
“That’s it! And I thought I’d call Scott and…what’s that girl’s name again?”
“Brooke…”
“Yes. Scott and Brooke, to see if they’d like to come.”
“Mom, I’ve already invited them. They’re coming, and Kevin will be there…”
“Yes, but that’s different. Kevin’s a member of the family.”
“OK, Mom. They’re meeting us there. And Doug and I will pick you up. We’ll leave your apartment at 2:40. Does that sound good?”
“Just fine. I’ll be ready and I’ll see you then.”
She wouldn’t have seen me then if I hadn’t awakened her, but I can accurately say that I saw her then—way more of her than I wanted to see. In fact, when I opened her apartment door, I could see her feet at the end of her bed in the next room.
And down around her feet? Her panties.
“Stay here,” I warned Doug, before we crossed the threshold. “She’s in bed, and she’s not dressed.”
I went into her bedroom and announced my arrival. “Mom!”
She opened her eyes. “What?”
“Do you still want to go to the restaurant for my birthday?”
“Yes,” she said, “but I forgot all about it.”
“Mom, I just talked to you 40 minutes ago…”
“Where’s Doug?” she asked, which was a little bit encouraging because just the day before, she told my sister Mary she couldn’t remember my husband’s name.
“He’s out in the hall. I told him to wait out there because you’re not wearing your panties.”
She looked down at her ankles, saw them twisted up down there, and said, “Of course I am!”
And of course, she was, only she was wearing them instead of socks.
I got her all dressed and combed and wheeled out of there, and we had a lovely time. She’s still holding my $100 hostage, though. I told her I wanted it in a card, and I wanted her to write me a “love note.”
She said, “Good luck! I’ll be dead before that happens!” It’s not that she doesn’t love me, it’s that writing is a huge struggle for her these days.
So I didn’t get a gift from Mom, exactly, unless you count the incomparable gift of the present. And believe me, when you’re called upon to drag out your birthday nigh unto forever, you come to value the present with your Mom every bit as much as the predictable past and way more than the uncertain future.
Yes, even when the present is pantyless.
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Mama Katy’s Blog (#869)
(And now…ahem…this from guest blogger Michael O’Connor.)
OK, let’s get one thing straight right away. I’m not falling for any of this cyst-on-the-wrist or painful-zinger-on-my-ring-finger nonsense that Katy has put us through all week.
No sir.
Just like you I’ve seen the badly typed messages and stock photo hands on keyboard in short entries from her “supposed†recovery bed. I’ve got to hand it to Katy. Like an expert illusionist, those were both very nice touches of misdirection. But I’m not buying any of it.
Have we been praying for her? I expect most of us have. We’re a decent sort, we readers of Katy’s warm, homespun brand of scribbling. We show up daily at the Raymond kitchen window, smell the fresh-baked apple pie of literacy wafting through the blogosphere, and we salivate at the possibilities.
Do we grab a slice before it cools? Do we taint the experience with a deft but selfish sleight of hand? Never. We wait our turn like everyone else. We are nothing if not civilized in our covetousness of more stories.
“Won’t you come in and set a spell?†asks Mama Katy. “I’ve got some biscuits in the oven and country gravy bubbling on the stove. Won’t you come in? What would you like to hear today?â€
Could we ever feel more welcome in a place not our own?
Ah, but we are fools for her cultural cuisine—every one of us willing to put off that trip to the dry cleaner’s, that organizing of the 2005 receipt-filled income tax shoebox, that list of Thank You notes we owe for the consumer gluttony we filled up on at Christmas time. For a brief moment each day we take a breath from our daily schedule, our monotonous moments of pedestrian existence.
And for what?
To find out if Jessica is going to have Thad’s baby even though she’s really in love with Thad’s brother, Skip, who himself is a closeted homosexual in deep denial and having a torrid, if dishonest, affair with Jessica’s mother, Hannah, who is not really Jessica’s mother at all but due to a remarkable sex change operation in 1987 is actually her long-lost father, Hank?
Nothing so sweaty or trivial, I’m afraid.
We approach Mama Katy’s window on the world with one simple, reverent expectation: small but ample portions of her elegantly ordinary life served up steamed, baked, broiled, poached, braised, basted, broasted, candied, roasted, carved and toasted, sesameed and fricasseed, carbonated, marinated, minced, blintzed, sliced, diced, deviled, beveled, and hickory smoked.
We are nothing if not devoted connoisseurs of her bloginary art.
And where is she today? What thanks do we get for our explicit acts of crazed devotion?
She gives us the slip, takes a week at Disneyworld, Club Med or some other exotic destination with her Marginal Manâ„¢ in tow. Would I deny our dear Katy this moment in the sun? Would I keep her chained to that splendid Macintosh keyboard of hers with no time out for spiritual rejuvenation? That would be inhumane. And totally unnecessary with the advent of satellite-savvy security ankle bracelets.
Does she level with us? Does she say, “Hey you bums, shut your ever-complaining pie-holes. Nobody pays me to produce literary diamonds day after day, week after week . . . so give me a BREAK! I’m headed to the Alps for a relaxing few days of downhill skiing. Then I’m taking in the Alito hearings and after that I’m gonna try to clear up this ‘Bush lied’ stuff once and for all. And don’t nobody try to use my cell number neither. I’m out of range. Can ya hear me NOW????â€
My final point in this rant—and I can hear the sighs of relief in 37 languages—is what she does with this space in the Bermuda Triangle of her absence. Does she write 5 or 6 posts in advance and assign some low-lever Fallible lackey to hit the “send†button once a day? Does she put out a “gone fishin’†sign and simply close up shop, thereby sparing us the pain of checking in for our daily dose of disappointment?
Or does she pull a devious page from The Blogger’s Bag of Silly Tricks: How to Fool the Rubes and Keep the Traffic Coming in the Event of Physical or Emotional Meltdown?
I think all you dedicated readers who have suffered in silence this week know the answer. Katy calls in every favor she’s owed from every million-selling or Pulitzer Prize nominated author she knows personally or once cleaned carpets for. She begs us to cover her beat and promises it will be a rewarding experience. No money, she sobs, but she can offer us links. LINKS! Hey, I don’t mind getting paid in links, I just want them to come from Jimmy Dean, okay?
Yeah, sure, the writing has been brilliant, the masses lose tears faster than congressmen are shedding Jack Abramoff-related donations, and blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. There’s only one problem. While all of us substitute bloggers this week are eminently fallible—none of us are Katy.
So listen. When she gets back next week from her jungle expedition through Outer Bellybuttonia and she goes into her routine of thanking everyone for filling in for her during the trying time when she could barely lift her hand to scratch her nose—let alone type a few lousy words—when she starts tap dancing like that . . . DON’T LET HER OFF THE HOOK. Tell her the truth. Tell her how miserable you’ve been all week listening to us. Let her know she made excellent choices, but who wants sardines on their Ritz when they’re used to caviar?
Accept no substitutes, people . . . or I promise you next time it’ll be a month with guest bloggers. Yell it out loud and long. Shout it from the mountain tops:
“I WANT MY MAMA KATY’S BLOG!!!!!!!!!!!â€
Fallibians of the world, unite!
Thank you for your kind attention. My work here is done.
Michael is the author of Sermon On The Mound. He blogs (mcuh more often than Katy’s Marginal ManTM) at Gentlemen Prefer Blogs. He and his wife Sally also minister through song, and can be reached through their websites, Improbable People and Songs4God. More than any of these links, though, he prefers Jimmy Dean’s.
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Getting Ahead Of The Game (#868)
(Nancy Moser, who lives just ten minutes away from Katy, is today’s guest blogger on fallible. Nancy is also Katy’s dear, dear friend.)
As the year changed over, I vowed that this would be the year I would get ahead of the game—whatever that game might be.
I was tired of procrastinating. I was tired of feeling the pressure of should-dos. I was tried of being tired. So . . . my solution was to be a female Boy Scout, and be prepared. Ahead of time. A little at a time.
The first test occurred during the first week as I made preparations for a small, annual writer’s retreat at my home. The need to be domestic and clean and cook assailed me. Unfortunately, neither attribute is one of my attributes, unless I’m in the mood, and I’ve long ago realized those moods can easily leapfrog months. Or years.
But this year, with my new resolution in tow, I vowed that I would get ahead of the game and get the entire thing under control. D-day (done-day) was Thursday, when the first author would arrive.
Sunday: New Year’s Day. The day of all things good and new and unattainable. I psyched myself to do it right this year.
However, as the day wore on and I hadn’t actually done anything beyond think about doing something, I ended up feeling very much like Scarlett O’Hara: I’ll do it tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow was Monday. Always a good day to start things—like a new life based on organization, cleanliness, godliness, and all other capital-V virtues.
Monday: I looked at my to-do list and divided the house into battle zones: basement, main floor, top floor. It mentally helped. A little. I remembered in the past, drawing squares in the carpet of my kids’ bedrooms with a finger, telling them to “clean up this square” in an attempt to make the chaos seem more manageable to them (only recently did my twenty-something kids tell me they merely used to move everything to the next square.) This could have been a helpful memory until I realized the first floor of my house is mostly wood and Magic Marker squares wouldn’t be a good idea.
I did collect dirty dishes from all three floors and filled the dishwasher.
I forgot to turn it on.
Tuesday: Feeling guilty for yesterday, I used the early morning hours to go through cookbooks, make a menu, and write a grocery list. Feeling extremely fruitful, I even recopied the list according to sections in the grocery store: Produce, Dairy, and the Fat-Sugar-Chemical aisle. Knowing this was above and beyond any “getting ahead of the game” scenario I ever aspired to, I decided I deserved my own show on HGTV. I felt smug and done for the day.
However, when my home-from-college daughter informed me she expected me to stock her up before she headed back to school, I was shoved into actually
getting into the car and buying the groceries. It took two carts. As we pulled into the garage and I realized there was no dear-hubby present to help unload, I considered claiming a bad back. Never mind. It turned out to be easier to just buck it up and do it.
Then a miracle happened. Because Daughter and I were hungry after being enticed by the food in the Fat-Sugar-Chemical aisle, I made lunch. And since that
started the beginnings of a mess, I began to cook menu items that could be frozen until the weekend. Adrenalin kicked in. Four hours later I had made sweet & sour chicken, Runzas, muffins, crumb cookies, and a huge mess. I wondered if Merry Maids had a 911 number because Daughter had conveniently gone out with friends.
I cleaned up and collapsed on the couch. I fell asleep to Law & Order reruns.
Wednesday: The basement beckoned. As I vacuumed, I noticed the path in the carpet that the cats had made to their Poo-Room. How dare they? I decided to force them into a new path by pulling out a bar stool two inches, relocating a potted plant, and moving a footstool in the direct line of their padding little feet. I took a break and waited for a cat to run the gauntlet. They did, and I felt momentarily victorious, until I realized a new path would be pressed into the carpet.
I also realized, as I vacuumed the stairway, that the felines were not the only guilty party. Looking down upon my work, I saw my own footprints in the plush. Because there was no solution, and because my back hurt, I retired to the couch and watched Law & Order reruns.
Thursday-D-Day: I wallowed in the fact the wood floor could not leave track marks like the carpet, but grieved that it did promote dust bunnies. I did my best rounding them up before proceeding to the second floor where bathrooms and the need for clean sheets beckoned. I momentarily tried to remember who’d slept in the guest room last to determine if they might be deemed “clean enough” for the new guest. I tossed the horrid notion of leaving the sheets as is, pretending they were fresh (which would surely come back to bite me) and made my mother proud by making everything fresh and new—including hospital corners.
While cleaning a tub I ran out of foaming bath cleaner and was forced to resort to elbow grease. I reminded myself that I’d wanted to try one of those fancy, disposable, toilet cleaner doo-hickeys. Too late now.
It was nearly time to leave for the airport. I was sweaty and wanted a nap. If I ignored the need for makeup, I could probably slip in ten minutes of rest. I closed my eyes (to afternoon Law & Order reruns) and was nearly asleep when a kitty jumped on my chest. No wonder the carpet showed marks.
From my position on the couch I noticed the entry light had cobwebs. The cat jumped to safety as I stood to take care of it.
And the windows needed washing . . .
Hopefully, no one would be tempted to look through them.
And my roots needed touching up . . .
If I combed my hair just right or wore a hat . . .
I left for the airport (I was out of gas and had to stop and fill up) and the weekend began. The house was filled with writer friends, who brought their coats, suitcases, and laptops, which made me realize no one was looking at the house anyway. We were too busy talking and being.
The fellowship was awesome, the food edible, and the time flew. As they left until next year, I vowed to add something to my “get ahead of the game” scenario: don’t worry so much about anything because my friends don’t care about kitty tracks, they accept whatever level of scrubbed tub I can manage, and they’d settle for McDonald’s if that’s what I wanted to serve.
They love me and I love them and our time together is what’s important. Knowing that is truly getting ahead of the game.
Nancy Moser is the author of thirteen novels including “The Sister Circle” and “Time Lottery.” Her newest book is “Crossroads.”
Check out her websites at www.nancymoser.com and www.sistercircles.com.
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Playing Possum (#866)
(Please welcome fallible’s guest blogger, Deb Raney. If you’ve never seen the movie “A Vow to Cherish,” based on Deb’s book, do! I bawled my head off.)
I live with my husband and teenage daughter in a sleepy little Kansas town. We like it sleepy. But we had a little excitement at our house a few weeks ago—the kind of thing that will probably make it into a novel someday.
This particular incident involved the police. Let me tell you, when they finally drove away from our house, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. They had caught the perpetrator and hauled him away in the back of the patrol car—the trunk, to be precise.
It happened like this… Our daughter went out the back door around 8 p.m. to feed our two cats. Frosty and Cleo have the run of the backyard, but these cats prefer to hang out on the deck where they can keep an eye on the activities in our kitchen, and squeak their paws across the window if they think we’ve forgotten their chow time.
Our daughter hadn’t been gone two minutes, when the sliding door flew open and Tavia shot into the kitchen and pronounced as only a teenage drama queen can: “There. Is. A. HUMONGOUS. Possum. Out. There!â€
I put on a brave face and went out to investigate, with Tavia hanging onto my shirttail. Staring up at us from under the gas grill at the bottom of the steps was the biggest opossum I have ever laid eyes on. And I’ve seen a few in my day.
He sat there glaring at us, a true ROUS (Rodent Of Unusual Size, for those of you unfamiliar with the The Princess Bride). It gave me the willies!
I stomped on the deck and commanded him to “git!†He responded by glaring a little longer, then casually waddling underneath the deck where I could hear him munching on bits of cat food that had fallen through the boards of the deck.
Our kitten, Cleo, was nowhere to be found, and our older cat was pacing nervously. I went inside to google “opossum†and was relieved to discover that, while cat food is high on the opossum’s list of delicacies, cats themselves are not.
Sure enough, when we looked out a few minutes later, there sat Cleo. The stupid possum was under the grill again, staring at the cats. Again, he ignored our efforts to shoo him from the yard.
Finally, I took action and did what any self-respecting small town girl would do. I called the police. Of course, being in a small town, the police department keeps regular business hours and they were closed for the day. But the recording said they could be reached by calling 911.
Praying I wouldn’t get chewed out for…I was going to say “crying wolf,†but maybe “playing possum†is more apropos…I dialed those three numbers one always hopes one will never need. I immediately informed the 911 dispatcher that this wasn’t a real emergency, but could they tell me who to call for animal control?
“That would be the local police,†she said. “We’ll be happy to send them right out.â€
Sigh of relief. Within minutes a patrol car cruised up our street and parked in front of our house. The muscular young officer strode to our door armed with a heavy-duty flashlight. We opened the side gate and ushered him into the backyard. My daughter and I scrambled onto the deck and clung to each other while we watched the chase that ensued.
The officer managed to lure the critter out from under the deck, but when he tried to capture it, the opossum took off running. It raced around the perimeter of the fenced-in backyard, with the cop on foot in hot pursuit. This cop was slender and in fine physical shape, but he was no match for the roly-poly possum!
Finally the animal went through the gate we hadn’t had the presence of mind to close, and darted across the front yard. The cop was getting a workout, but he managed to stay close on Mr. Possum’s tail.
By now, of course, porch lights are flipping on up and down the street and the neighbors have started to peer from behind curtains, wondering, I’m sure, what heinous crime the Raneys have committed that warrants a nighttime visit from law enforcement.
Finally the officer herded the possum up onto our front porch. It was the stunning blow. The possum was so fat he promptly got stuck between the rails of the porch. The cop calmly grabbed its long rat-like tail and hauled it up in triumph (barehanded!) Carrying Mr. Opossum upside down by the tail, the officer transported him to the back of the patrol car where he popped the trunk, stuffed in the culprit and slammed the lid shut.
The policeman’s parting words as he drove off to release the possum “a few miles outside of town†were “Thanks a lot, folks.†We pondered for a while the oddity of him thanking us before deciding we must have provided some much needed excitement in the life of a small-town cop.
Deborah Raney’s first novel, A Vow to Cherish, was the inspiration for World Wide Pictures’ film of the same title. It will be re-released this spring, the ten-year anniversary of its first publication. Deb’s novels have won the RITA Award, the National Readers Choice Award, and Playing by Heart was a Christy Award finalist. Her newest release is Over the Waters. Visit her Web site at http://www.deborahraney.com.
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