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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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(No Title) (#787)

It's at least ten degrees below normal temperature this morning, and I've got to say, that's my very favorite temperature. If God happens to throw in a brisk breeze and a fine, Scottish mist, so much the better. It's the kind of morning that makes me pour a second cup of coffee (actually, any morning makes me do that), unplug my laptop and head out to the front porch. At my house, there's no great distinction between the front porch and the back, since you can't see a neighbor's property from any vantage point, unless it's mid-winter and the trees are bereft. But it's more sociable to sit on the front porch, don't you think? To anticipate a car meandering up the long road to the house, to welcome a long-lost or long-awaited friend, to serve iced lemonade to a thirsty stranger. Of course, if someone were really coming up the road, I'd have enough time to run inside, clean the whole house, and whip up a five-course meal, all before the doorbell rings. Occasionally, though, it's completely satisfying just to picture myself accomplishing any number of gratifying social interchanges, without any of them actually happening. And all in the privacy of my very own bathrobe.

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(No Title) (#788)

I have been suffering a veritable dearth of creativity. Don't you just hate dearths?

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(No Title) (#789)

Doug was frantically putting together the graphic elements for a slide presentation for a corporate client. He'd had weeks to come up with something, but efficiently condensed that adequate amount of time into one all-nighter. "Ooooh, I like it," I drooled, hovering over the computer screen and attempting to assuage any lingering doubts of The Sleepless One. "Uh, well, I think I may have lifted a couple of design ideas from this other guy's website…" "That's why God gives other guys ideas." Did I say that?

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(No Title) (#790)

"You're not a baby-snatcher or a killer, are you?" The thirty-something blonde was hostess to an upscale garage sale, which was just getting underway. She wanted to retreat to her basement to retrieve some more dispensables. "Uh…no?" I answered, feeling somewhat guilty in spite of my utter innocence. She was the seller, after all, and I merely the prospective sellee. A complete stranger. Then she motioned to the newborn girl sleeping in the infant seat on the garage floor, and asked if I would keep an eye on her. Things are getting weirder.

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(No Title) (#791)

I don't think there's a better way for me to embrace multiculturalism than to hang some wallpaper. We rolled on lots of flat off-white paint when we built this house seven years ago, and, with time, it's become even flatter and offer. Where's the culture in that? And since we don't live in Johnson County, Kansas, where the rules state that everything, inside and out, must be in shades of beige, we're branching out. It all started when we purchased that one-and-a-half-seat recliner for our anniversary. Did I mention that it is upholstered with a tapestry depicting a French sidewalk café scene? Cool, huh? Such dimension, such depth, such…flat paint! Then my three great kids got me three stools for the breakfast bar-with rusted, curved, iron legs and wooden seats, and a decidedly European flair. Finally, I found myself attracted to and acquiring all these accoutrements with a grape motif-again, echoing this unmistakable leaning toward things French and Italian and booze-intensive-clearly a cultural leap. And then, it was as if I heard the audible voice of God-leading, directing... commanding? "Hang wallpaper!" Who am I to argue? We chose a paper that makes the walls look ancient, almost like stone, and quite continental. The effect makes me want to light some of those candles that drip colored wax down the outside of straw-covered wine bottles, and serve meatball sandwiches. The hangers are here today, a father and son team. As it turns out, the older man is from Scotland, very near the town where my Dad is from. Do you see where all this is going? Multiculturalism, thy name is wallpaper.

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(No Title) (#792)

Of course, I was tempted. Wouldn't you be? I'd been desperate to use the public facilities at the local Tires Plus store. After squatting, not sitting, on the commode, for as many seconds as it took to start feeling the burn in my thigh muscles, I grabbed for the loose roll of toilet paper. It promptly dropped and rolled across the grimy floor as if on fire. I was left to drip-dry, while contemplating how the heck I was going to get out of there communicable-disease-free. Ah, the lavatory, I thought. It will be equipped with water, soap and paper towels, all the comforts of home. Reaching instinctively for the faucet handle, I stopped cold. In front of me was the grossest, filthiest, most despicably grunge-intensive sink I have ever beheld. But I must, I thought, I need to wash my hands! I reached out again, tentatively at first, but with steely resolve. So determined was I to be cleansed that I practically threw myself into the waiting arms of the temptor. And then I saw the sign. A sign from God? "Please Do Not Lean On The Sink. Thank You. The Management." If I leaned, or perhaps even if I touched, the precariously attached sink was as likely to roll across the floor as the toilet paper had been. I backed away, slowly. Obediently. I had to wonder later, though, whether the guy responsible for cleaning the Tires Plus bathroom thought the sign said, "Please Do Not Clean On The Sink." Behold, the power of Please.

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(No Title) (#793)

I'd never been to a funeral for a former Catholic priest, and chances are, you haven't either. Much less a former Catholic priest who'd been married for 24 years and had two grown sons. It's a little strange being lifelong friends with a guy like that. First he's your church pastor, then he's your high school religion teacher and counselor, always he's your spiritual shepherd. When you're twenty-one and he's thirty-three and you need him to be much more grounded and stable than you are, he decides to leave the priesthood and seek happiness with a girl your age. Is he crazy, or what? As it turns out, what. Eight priests con-celebrated the funeral mass last night. I must say I was afraid that the Catholic Church might, through word or deed, lay hold to some "prior claim" to Bruce and his life. I was worried, for his wife's sake, that the old Catholic slogan, "Thou art a priest forever, according the the order of Melchisadech," might rear its head, throwing her and all of those assembled into a theological tailspin. I needn't have fretted. The priest who spoke, who had been friends with Bruce since they were both thirteen and attending the "high school for future priests," talked about Bruce's integrity and the intense soul-searching that accompanied all his major life decisions. "The best decision Bruce ever, ever made," said the good Father, "was to marry Mary." The congregation let out a collective sigh. It was what we knew to be the truth about Bruce, in our hearts. But we needed it to be said aloud, once more, by another priest. In honor of his death, and in honor of her life.

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(No Title) (#794)

Doug was secretly bidding on the freshwater pearls from Tivol's Jewelry, while I was secretly bidding on the golf day for four at a local country club. I think there were even husbands and wives sneaking around and unwittingly bidding against each other for the same item, which could be why "silent auctions" were invented in the first place. Doug found out about the golf day before the bidding was over, and he was so excited he upped the ante one more time himself, and won the bid. I didn't know about the pearls until the end of the evening, when we went to redeem our purchases. He opened the box, knelt down on one knee, and placed the strand around my neck right there in front of God and everybody. I'm not sure I heard applause, but I know I heard fireworks. The necklace was a bonafide bargain, but even if we'd paid retail, it couldn't have compared with my jewel of a husband-my very own "pearl of great price."

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(No Title) (#795)

"Excuse me," said Susan, when we literally bumped into each other at a silent auction the other night. We whirled to face each other, and I greeted her by name. It's been a year or so since we've seen each other, and she was clearly stumped. "Oh…," came a glimmer of recognition, "it's you!" I assured her it was, and she went on, "It's your…your…your hair! You've cut your hair-it's so cute!" "Well, yeah, I did cut my hair, and I let it go back to its natural color…but I also lost 62 pounds, and getting my hair cut was definitely easier!" Pride is a sin, I know, but false humility's just as bad, right? Besides, I just couldn't let Great Clips get all the credit.

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(No Title) (#796)

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."

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(No Title) (#797)

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.

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(No Title) (#798)

"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.

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(No Title) (#799)

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?

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(No Title) (#800)

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.

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(No Title) (#801)

"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.

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