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Personal blog of christian
writer & fallible mom
Katy McKenna Raymond
in Kansas City, Missouri

Katy is represented by
Greg Johnson at
WordServe Literary

Read more Katy at
LateBoomer.net

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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.

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E me at katy @ ngenius.com

(No Title) (#727)

I've been thinking about a snapshot that exists somewhere, somewhere, not only in the recesses of my childhood memories, but also in the even deeper recesses of a forgotten dresser drawer or a long abandoned cardboard box. In the picture, the child is all of three years old, with clear blue eyes and wispy auburn hair, rather frail and lost looking in an enormous upholstered chair. Her legs stick straight out in front of her, unbending, the soles of her tiny feet pointing at the photographer as if to say "Hey, look at me!" She is the only child that day at her grandparent's lake house, and her grandpa is capturing the moment. Beside her on the chair is an enormous cooky tin filled with old buttons and beads, glistening treasures to the small girl's imagination. Even though they were of little value then, in the fifties, collectors would clamor for them now. As much as she is thrilled by reaching into the tin to choose her next favorite button, her greatest pleasure comes from the huge length of them she methodically strings together and displays, out in front of her, like a winding road to somewhere, somewhere. "I learned that you should feel when writing, not like Lord Byron on a mountain top, but like a child stringing beads in kindergarten--happy, absorbed and quietly putting one bead on after another." Brenda Ueland I've been thinking about that snapshot, and remembering why she smiles.

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(No Title) (#728)

Our safe deposit box up at the bank contains a modest collection of gold and silver coins, mostly from the 1800's. When we began a program of acquiring these coins, it was psychologically difficult to shell out, say, $1000, for a coin with a face value of $20. But as similar coins disappear into vaults and scarcity sets in, the face value becomes less and less a part of the equation. Eventually, market conditions prevail, the price of precious metals goes up, and collectors are able to realize a healthy profit on their investments. The one thing the salespeople always tell us is that no matter how dismal markets might become, the value of our coins can never drop below face value. No matter what, our investment can never go to zero. Sometimes I wonder about myself, and hope I always deliver to my readers-even of my humble blog-bits of writing that give them a positive return on their investment of time and energy. If nothing else, I sure hope you'll take me at face value, and maybe think you got a heck of a deal.

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(No Title) (#729)

I'm seriously looking at some Master's degree programs right now, but each one seems to have a drawback. Most of the ones I see advertised in the Kansas City Star are targeting students who wish to pursue an MBA. I'm not much of a businessperson, so that's out. To fill the void, I may just take up balancing my checkbook. Some of the Master's programs require at least partial residency, and I have to admit that sounds like fun. What could be better than receiving a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Nonfiction from a hoity-toity university in New England, especially if they force you to stay there and enjoy food that someone else cooks and stay in a room so small it couldn't possibly take more than three minutes to clean? I've been through worse. Still, my marriage contract includes a prior "residency requirement" which I signed up for twenty-five years ago and won't be reneging on in this lifetime. The one thing all these Master's programs have in common is that you have to get a Bachelor's degree first. It's always something.

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(No Title) (#730)

Writing is lonely, they, the alone ones, say. Still, aloneness, Taken apart, Is all oneness. All oneness with those whose Fingers stretch to feel the Unfelt And whose minds strain for words To bring the alone ones Together once again. Out of all oneness. Back to aloneness.

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(No Title) (#731)

Toward morning, I dreamed of attending a huge party at the home of a lady acquaintance of mine. This lady possesses little, and if she isn't poverty-stricken, she behaves as if she is. Her furnishings could be called shabby-chic, without the chic. Still, the quiet crowd seemed to be enjoying the modest refreshments she had laid out, and chatting among themselves. "She doesn't have a lot to offer," one commented sincerely, "but isn't it nice how she's sacrificed to put this party together?" "I'll bet she gave her last dime to pull it off," the other added, kindly. About then, I needed to use the restroom, and had noticed someone else heading up the stairs to the guest bath. Having frequented this home on many occasions, I knew there was another bathroom in the unfinished basement, and made my way down the stairs. The light is probably burned out, I thought, since no one ever comes down here, but I don't need it anyway. The only room I need is the first one I'll come to. I used the facilities, turned away, and put my foot on the first step before being overcome by curiosity. What else is down here? I wondered. Probably a lifetime's collection of trash in need of a good dumpster… I pulled a frayed string dangling from the ceiling, and was surprised when a bright light instantly illuminated the depths. There, lining both sides of the narrow hall, lay shop after shop of antique stores, all with glass picture windows, and all with padlocks. The hall of shops continued far past where the foundation of the house should have ended, or perhaps the house itself had been built much skimpier than the foundation would have permitted. Suffice it to say, the basement was enormous, and overflowing with fabulous treasures: original Monets and Renoirs, jewels from the Russian czars, antique furniture from England and France, all intertwined with the aged cobwebs of disbelief. My friend imagines her treasures are worth nothing, I thought, while upstairs her guests subsist on leftovers. And the locks on these rooms are not meant to keep the thieves and the curious away. She's actually afraid that if the doors were opened, all her old stuff might fall out and hurt someone. ------------------------------------------------------ Doug just walked by my desk, knowing nothing of my dream, hugged my shoulders and whispered, "You have so much to give…" It was only a dream, I know. But it happened toward morning, just before awakening.

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(No Title) (#732)

Have you ever stopped to consider your own mortality? I stopped once, and didn't start moving again for about thirty years. I've felt ill enough for my entire adult life that I've been forced into a condition of habitual mortality consideration. Believe me, it's overrated. But I'm well now, reborn for the second glorious time. Fully alive for what feels like the first time. The rampant morbid thoughts have all died down. When I throw I load of laundry into the wash, I don't automatically enter the cycle of "I need to get this caught up in case I die." When I'm making a lasagne, I don't feel compelled to make five, so a few meals will be in the freezer for my family "in case I die." Come to think of it, I rarely end any thought at all with the words "in case I die." I've come to see, in my new life these last couple of years, that there are only two reasons for considering one's mortality. The first is to know where you're going after you die. And the second is to know what you're doing before you die. Don't get me wrong. I still consider. I just don't stop to consider.

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(No Title) (#733)

So, after finishing number one in my Psych class of 177, I still haven't figured out whether I'm anal-retentive or passive-aggressive or obsessive-compulsive. I'll let you be the judge. This morning, I compiled my customary after-Christmas, before-New Year's list of every conceivable to-do item I've been neglecting for what seems like the better part of my natural life. The items don't have to be crossed off by New Year's, you understand-it's just that the list must be created this week. I have upwards of forever to complete the tasks. The list itself makes me uneasy, though, before I ever tackle task one. It includes items as mundane as "schedule scan of ovarian cyst" and as brief as "file." The first one should be scarier, but it's not. The list makes me feel alternately heavy, light, burdened, freed, confused and clear headed. Mostly, it makes me feel woefully behind. I came up with 42 things to do in about sixty seconds flat, and then I stopped. I was feeling pretty inadequate as a human being in general, and as a supposedly mature middle-aged woman in particular, when Doug got a look at my list. "Are these in order of importance?" he asked. "Because I think this one needs to be number one." He pointed to where I'd clearly written, "Work on quilt," and read aloud, "Work on guilt." Sigh. If only it was that easy…oh, well, just in case, I'm adding it to my list.

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(No Title) (#734)

And another thing-- Time was when a reader could pick up a newspaper and get the who, what, where, when and why all presented in the first short paragraph, something like this: Mrs. Katy Raymond, 48, of Belton, MO, has fallen into a serious disagreement with her 22-year-old son, Scott Raymond, of Lawrence, KS. It all began around noon on Saturday, when the younger Raymond responded to his mother's recent blog with a comment of his own. Now they have entered an embittered battle, the consequences of which could affect both the quality and quantity of the Christmas presents exchanged two weeks from now. [Until recent years, the rest of the story would have referred to the mother as Mrs. Raymond, and to the son as either Scott or Mr. Raymond, or even Raymond. Then, not too very long ago, Mrs. Raymond became a Ms. whether she objected or not. Now things have gotten even worse, and the final paragraph might currently appear something like this:] Within just a few days, Raymond will receive a Linguistics degree from the University of Kansas, and yet Raymond persists in arguing over and over again about English usage questions that Raymond finds elementary. "I haven't lived this long for nothing," says Raymond, "and I intend to gain the upper hand." "We'll see," says Raymond, "but I'm gonna' have the final word."

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(No Title) (#735)

I'm winding up a semester of full-time college, and I'm about to turn 48. I like to average about 13 years between semesters, but that's another subject. Let me share what I've learned this time around: My vocabulary and syntactic abilities are not sophisticated enough to handle the delicate balancing act that is multiculturalism. Political correctness has suffered a similar fate at my hand. I was even good-naturedly accused by a professor of making a sexist comment in Psych class, which thrilled me no end. I didn't know I had it in me. In addition, I make a crummy feminist, and hold the women's movement singularly responsible for the butchering of the English language. How else could it have happened that a simple phrase such as "if a student avoids math, he is reducing his ability..." be convoluted into the awkward "if a student avoids math, he or she is reducing his or her ability..." and then finally multiplied into the bizarre "if a student avoids math, they are reducing their ability..." Call me culturally insensitive, but I remain attached to the original method of conveying this idea. Any reader but the most obtuse understands that a student is either male or female, and that "he" is the most concise way to deliver that thought. It seems odd to me that, with all the disparities that exist between me and the student of today, I'm the one who's labelled "non-traditional."

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(No Title) (#736)

I did it! I hit my 50,029 word count this morning at 11:40 central time. I'm thrilled, and thank you for your support!

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(No Title) (#737)

Several of you have asked what happened after the first shoe dropped, as excerpted several entries below. Here is a partial answer: When the second shoe dropped, we gasped in fear, and it was the last breath we took or sound we made for several seconds. My eyes asked hers a lifetime of questions, though, like what is happening, who could it be, and what should we do now? Diana sprang noiselessly from the bed, leaped across the room and turned the lock on the bedroom door. She lifted her desk chair and easily wedged it under the doorknob. I wondered then if she'd rehearsed an eventuality like this, for once she took action, she never stopped to question the effectiveness of her procedures. She flew back to the bed, where I sat huddled by myself, and flung her arm under it until she found the object of our hope. She grabbed the fire escape ladder, and yanked on my paralyzed arm until I submitted to her leading me on tiptoe across the room to her private bath. "Now!" she hissed. "We're getting out of here!" As we scurried into the bathroom and locked this second barricade, knowing full well that the thin doors and elementary hardware would be child's play to an experienced criminal, we heard him trying the locks on the first door, and then banging and murmuring in muffled tones, and finally trying to beat the door down. I pictured Diana's family practicing their fire drill, and wondered if they'd ever thought they'd have to use it in a real fire or, worse, to flee a predator. She threw open the double-hung window, attached one end of the ladder over the ledge, and let the rest of it fall toward the welcoming ground, two stories below. And then, as she was directing me to climb onto the toilet and over the ledge, she reached one hand into the tissue box and pulled out the scariest knife I've ever seen. The last thing I remember before we hit the ground running was hearing a man's voice crying out Diana's name. She kept running like she hadn't heard a thing.

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(No Title) (#738)

I've told you something about Erin's family, the fictional Murphys. Her best friend, Diana, is part of the Bright family, but on Thanksgiving, she wasn't too happy about it. Here's what happened: All the Brights really wanted was a Thanksgiving that was Norman Rockwellian. What they would end up with was one that was George Orwellian. Luckily, it was just the four of them. No other guests were invited, and none would have wanted to witness the spectacle-the charade-that was a typical holiday at the Brights. The "tradition of the candy corn" was one that had been established early in the Bright household, one of the few such traditions that had really taken hold, and not disintegrated in the face of changing relationships and altered circumstances. After grace is said over the Thanksgiving meal, and before the first bite is taken-but not before Peter Bright has two full glasses of white wine-a dish of candy corn is passed around the table. Each time a family member takes a piece, he or she expresses one thing, or person, for which he is thankful. Sometimes, it's an inside joke, sometimes something profoundly meaningful that everyone in the group is already aware of but wants to hear again anyway, sometimes a small, almost insignificant detail of life. Usually, it's an inane bit of trivia about something that happened just yesterday, or even worse, this morning, such as "thanks for the way Mom never spills the gravy on the way to the table," or "thanks for helping Dad make the money to buy all these great pies." This Thanksgiving, though, became a bonafide candy corn fiasco. Mrs. Bright always started the candy dish around, both because of tradition and more importantly, because she was the only one who could get the ball rolling and make the rest of them feel more comfortable about the process. She usually began with something lighthearted, or comical. "I want to thank each of you for being less of a turkey this year than the one we are about to devour," she said, as she demurely removed one morsel from the dish and placed it in her mouth. As everyone groaned, she passed the dish to Peter. "Amanda, I want to thank you for figuring out that God made Sam's Club so that you wouldn't have to spoil Thanksgiving by messing up the kitchen…" Mr. Bright popped a piece of candy corn, looking very pleased with himself. "Give me that!" Jack laughed, as he grabbed the dish from his father's hand. "I would like to say how thankful I am that we're all so close, and getting even closer." He looked too long into Diana's eyes, as he turned to her and offered her the candy. "Jack, I'd like to personally thank you for not pushing your luck," Diana said, without blinking or smiling. She didn't return his gaze as she spoke, but rather stared straight ahead at an enormous cabbage rose on the wallpaper beyond the people. Diana handed the dish to her mother, who tried to interject a little levity back into the rapidly disintegrating situation. "Diana," she said, "I'd like to thank you for always seeing the cheerful side of every situation." The dish moved on. "Jack," Mr. Bright said, "I'd like to thank you for always being considerate of your little sister's feelings. Not all brothers are like that, you know." The dish passed hands. "Dad," Jack gave it another go, "I'd like to say thank you. Everything I learned about women, I learned from you." The dish hurried onward, more frantically now. Diana grabbed it, and began waving it like a flag around the table. "Dad," she hissed, "I'd be grateful if you'd get a clue. And Mom, I'll be thankful when you open your eyes. And Jack, you'll have my undying gratitude if you just shut up!" With that, she flung the crystal candy dish, crashing it against the window across the room, and causing the shattered fragments to splinter into as many pieces as the candy corn, that would now never be matched with a family member's thanks. Traditions are made to be broken.

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(No Title) (#739)

"When in doubt, have a man come through the door with a gun in his hand." Raymond Chandler. I'm sitting at 43,500 words with five days remaining, and lots of doubts. Anybody got a guy?

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(No Title) (#740)

Mullah Omar, considered by the Taliban to be the supreme leader of all Muslims, was about to admit defeat. He had agreed to withdraw the Taliban, head into the hills, and surrender Kandahar, the last Afghan city still under Taliban control. But now, he's had a prophetic dream which has changed everything. "I have had a dream in which I am in charge for the rest of my life." Yeah. Me, too.

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(No Title) (#741)

I just gotta' tell ya'--my novel's up to 32,000 words, and I am pumped. I did 4,000 with a freakin' migraine today, so I'm starting to believe I can beat this thing! Remember, National Novel Writing Month is ALL about word count, and ONLY word count. I'm not editing as I go--that's why God made December.

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