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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) (#652)

So I'm watching Kansas City's KCTV 5's Five O'Clock show. It's amazing how few minutes it takes till you're pretty sure it's a "no news" day. By 5:10, the reporter was doing a story on "space cleaners." A space cleaner, for the uninitiated, is a professional who enters your home (or workplace, I suppose) and performs a series of rituals to rid the area of bad vibes, unwanted ghosts, etc. First off, the reporter says, the practitioner sets up a makeshift altar with candles and incense. Then she moves through the building room by room, waving what appears to be a wand over furniture, walls, windows and doors while chanting appropriate incantations. The homeowner follows the mystic around, but says nothing, though from the approving look on her face, she is quite satisfied with a job well done. "I guarantee my work," says the mystic. "But of all my dozens of clients, no one's ever asked for her money back." There are only 200 known space cleaners in the United States, so we are indeed fortunate to have attracted one to our fair city. Her fee? Four hundred bucks. Almost makes a person wish for a "news" day.

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(No Title) (#653)

My new email friend Pastor Dave says that no matter how many funerals he conducts, the one thing he wishes is that he'd known the deceased better. He's in good company. I've sat through services where the minister kept calling the dearly departed by the wrong first name. And not just a little bit wrong, either. Not just "Bill" when it should have been "Bob." That kind of mistake causes the congregants to merely snicker, proud of themselves for being intimate friends with Bob. No, I'm talking "Horatio" when it should have been "Malcolm"--the kind of error that reduces a roomful of mourners into a puddling mass of hysterics. If the truth be known, of course, most of the gigglers and weepers don't know Malcolm very well, either. If the deceased had only been known better by the minister, we think, there would be an air of authenticity about the event that would comfort us--almost as if we'd taken the time to know the fellow ourselves. We could nod, and smile through tears, and feel more heartbroken than we are, thankful that the minister did his job and reached out while the poor guy was still alive. Attending a funeral gives me pause to examine what's true about my relationships, and to change what's false. Sometimes, I think, it's even better if the minister doesn't know the deceased at all. If I knew him, really knew him, it should be enough. And if I didn't, well, the minister's friendship with him might turn out to be an undeserved comfort. Maybe it's better if I have to squirm a little.

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(No Title) (#654)

Is it just me, or is anyone else suddenly smitten with blue and white woven cotton nightdresses, preferably with embroidered flowers on the bodice? I have purchased two now--one sleeveless and one with long poet's sleeves. Wearing them is pure inspiration. If it's just me, though, I'm OK with that.

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(No Title) (#655)

"Forgetting what lies behind, and pressing forward," is Good Advice, don't you think? Of course it is. It's straight from the Scripture. But I'm starting to think it means to hope in God's mercy, forgiveness and forgetfulness as it pertains to my sin, not to my story. The Bible tells me that my lawless deeds, He will remember no more. I might as well not dwell on them, either. Going through life, though, there's a tendency to keep important, essential stories swept under the carpet. Whole episodes of family history can be lost to the dictates of "I don't want to talk about it," "I don't want to go there," and "I don't remember." Maybe I'll never shout certain stories from the rooftops--or then again, I might. Still, I'm opening the ancient books again, opening the sealed boxes, opening the yellowed envelopes, allowing myself to be opened by them. The stories inside frighten me almost as much as I remember. I am at first a little frail girl again, then an insecure teenager, confronted with truths about myself and others that are disturbing, that I still can't fully embrace. But the stories also make me laugh and love more deeply than I would, than I could, if I kept them packed away forever. So I read, and write. Remember, and yes, forget. And close a few boxes on some items I, too, am not courageous enough to bring to the light. They'll be waiting for someone else, someday. Someone who's been prepared for such a time as this.

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(No Title) (#656)

I sit at my tiny table at Starbuck's, turn on my keyboard, and take my much-anticipated first sip of Latte Breve with Sugar-Free Vanilla Syrup. Before I write one word, I notice a businesswoman, dressed in a perfect outfit for early fall, poised intently over her laptop, typing away. It is clear from my first impression that she types 80 words per minute, with no errors. There is no cup on her table. Does she really come in here only to work, and not to imbibe? I take another sip and feel ashamed. I write several words in a row without stopping either to sip or to glance again at the ambition personified and seated on my left. When I finally hazard a peek, it is as before. Have I mentioned the artistic precision of her coiffure, the sensible beauty of her shoes, and the chip-free condition of her manicure? And that she has no zits? Rarely have I observed a woman so dedicated to her pursuit, so unrivaled in her ability to concentrate surrounded by the most intoxicating aromas on earth. She is undeterred from advancing her accomplishments, undistracted by my glaring deficit of comparable professionalism, determined only to type. After composing several halfway decent paragraphs myself, I slink out of the shop, sure she has outperformed me, and that she knows it. And then I wonder: Might she have been similarly in awe of me, typing away with what must have looked to her like supreme confidence, every time she looked my way? Who's to say she wasn't mystified by my flight of fingers, transfixed by my expressive engagement, and inspired by my Casual Tuesday apparel? Turning around, I head back in for another go at it.

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(No Title) (#657)

What would possess a 72-year-old woman to store a plastic diaper pail in her basement for several lifetimes? Does she have some latent hope of opening a day care center? Doesn't she know the whole world switched to disposeables in the 1970s? She knows. But what does it matter? In the fall of 1955, on her fifth wedding anniversary, she buried her four-year-old son. In the stopped-clock days that followed, she pressed his young life carefully into the container, filling it with his favorite books, his red leather cowboy boots, photographs, a baby book, and a bound collection of sympathy cards. Then she hid it from her sight, sent it into the far corner of the depths, where it could not kill her often. It has fallen to us, her children, to make decisions about her house: the depths, the heights, and everything in between. "What about Patrick's things?" I ask. "Do you want them moved to your new place?" "No," she says. "It was a long time ago. Another life." And so this legacy becomes my inheritance. I am his sister. It is the first time I have handled these things, or even known of their existence. They are crumbling, faded, yellowed, though brand new to me. I touch each one with care, read every word through tears. Some of the envelopes are sealed tight, appear unread, unopened. Am I the only one to ever have laid eyes upon these words? Were there days when my mother could not endure the kind thoughts of those who loved her, when she put the letters aside to deal with later, in another life? While she tried so desperately to forget, I've been waiting my whole life to remember. It is the first time I've really grieved for him, for my parents, for all of us. I'm grateful to the writers, the friends and relatives (many long dead) who reached out to my mother, my father, and to me. Even if my parents couldn't read every word, I have, and the comfort meant for them has passed to me. It was a long time ago, another life, my mother says. And so it is. But somehow, even after all this time, it's become my life, too. I am his sister.

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(No Title) (#658)

"Be careful," I say to my seventeen-year-old son as he walks out the door, a huge cardboard carton in his arms. I am distracted, as mothers often are, and give my instructions in the mindless, absent, robotic way that mothers often do. "Yeah," he says, and I go back to my reading as the door slams shut. We are emptying my mother's house, piece by piece, memory by memory, dividing the valuable, discarding the dispensable and, hopefully, discerning the difference. I have come upon a fascinating letter, written by my grandfather to my mother, his only child. The letter is perhaps thirty years old, maybe older, but I have the distinct sense that I am the first to ever read it. The creases in the paper are sharp, as if Mom never refolded it to put it back in its envelope, as if she'd never opened the envelope at all. It has fallen to me to read it, though, as my mother has mixed the pertinent in with the impertinent, and it all must be sorted, for posterity's sake. The letter contains my grandfather's wishes for how my mother should handle his home and possessions after his death. He is specific, direct and intimidating in his directions. Since we dealt with his effects twenty-six years ago, this correspondence has no value beyond the sentimental. Suffice it that the details were handled at that time, and well, if I remember correctly. Suddenly, the words leap off the page, and Grandpa's voice inhabits them. I hit the ceiling. "What was Kevin carrying just now?" I ask, panicking. "The Haviland china." It's shocking how immediate, how present, the words of the dearly long-departed can be. "The antique French Haviland china is very valuable. Hire professionals if you must move it!" I feel disobedient on my mother's behalf, as if several generations of our family have perpetrated some disrespect or dishonor upon Grandpa's final hopes. Kev comes back in the house, having successfully completed the transfer of wealth. I heave a sigh, then laugh out loud, and hand him twenty bucks. He's now a professional mover, I tell myself. And the guilt passes.

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(No Title) (#659)

I'm sitting here looking out on my vast yard, made green again by the latter rains. The profusion of rabbits amazes me. (The squirrels used to outnumber them, but no more.) The rabbits travel alone, hopracing a half-acre at a time, then furtively crashing into the expanse of trees. As soon as one exits my field of vision, the next one enters it, until they seem to be criss-crossing the lawn like race cars on a video game. Suddenly, they disappear, and a huge blond dog takes center stage. He gallops to an empty spot, stops, looks, listens, sniffs, and lurches off again. "Look at that crazy dog," I say. "What is he doing?" "Chasing rabbit," Doug says. The hapless dog finally wanders off, and the rabbits come back out to play. And I'm sitting here wondering: Am I more like the ditzy dog, who chases but has never caught a thing in his life, or the rabbits, who spend all their effort avoiding being caught? To chase, or to be chased. That is the question.

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(No Title) (#660)

He's lost his place, I thought. Doug had taken his Bible and his mug of coffee to the porch, for a few minutes of calm in the early morning mist. I saw him through the window, saw the cup with the sepia pocketwatch printed on its side, saw his face leaning into the book opened on his lap. Did time stand still? Just then our daughter appeared in a flurry, running late, needing him to help her attach a bike rack to her car, but not asking. He left his open Bible and, unbidden, went to her. The Wind picked up a bit, stirring the pages, gently at first, and then with a rush. Turning them one at a time, five at a time, whole chapters and books at a time, finally dying down and settling at a new page, a new verse. The secondhand on the pocketwatch had gained no ground, nor lost any, either. Doug kissed her and sent her off, picked up the book again, and began to read. He's found his place, I thought, and then found my own book, and sat down in the Breeze of an open window.

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(No Title) (#661)

The handsome, well-dressed, middle-aged man approached me at Barnes and Noble, like so many men before him have, to ask about my Alphasmart portable keyboard. I explained the gadget to him, which only took ten seconds, since it is simple and its description succinct. It is known more for what it doesn't do than what it does, which makes a techno-zero like I am a wonderful spokeswoman. The man, and his wife, were both duly impressed. I asked if he had Internet access, so that he could look up the website for the product. "I don't and I won't," he answered. "But I have a friend who has it, so I'll look it up at his house." Just then my husband joined us, and interjected his gizmo-savvy into our decidedly provincial meeting of the minds. "When you're at their website," Doug began, "take a look at their new model. You'll be able to interface the Alphasmart with your PDA software and--" The three of us looked at him blankly. The man violently shook his head. "He doesn't have a PDA, honey..." I said, though the man hadn't told me so. "But I thought--" Doug started again. "I don't think he wants all that," I said, because I knew. "I want it to do one thing, and do it well," the man said, and he meant it. And then the man turned and walked away, like so many men before him have, but not before saying that I had changed his life forever. And his wife didn't seem to mind a bit.

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(No Title) (#662)

The generation gap used to be a big problem when I was young woman. We felt our mothers were materialistic, while we were idealistic. We felt they were self-absorbed in their conservatism, while we were actively engaged in making the world a better place by casting our virgin votes for George McGovern. Now that I'm of a certain age, I think we exaggerated the gap unnecessarily back then. I think I've been able to reduce the post-modern mother/daughter gap to a simple formula: Young women find panty lines unacceptable. Women my age find them...reassuring. Doesn't that just about sum it up?

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(No Title) (#663)

My husband is a patient man. Really, he is. He's restrained himself as I've hauled home treasures these past couple of months, the keepsakes of my mother's estate. Sometimes, he's even done the heavy lifting. A house divided cannot stand, they say. But my mother's house has been divided six ways and then some. She moved her most essential furnishings into her new small apartment, and the rest has fallen into the hands of her five children and fourteen grandchildren. And still we--her family--remain undivided. I've been unpacking the boxes slowly, more for his sake than for mine. How many alligator handbags from the 30s and 40s should one man have to endure all in one shot? And what's he going to think when he sees the circa 1950 Mixmaster and the unwieldly crates of embroidered pillowcases? A woman can take sentiment too far. Just now he wandered into the kitchen, where the landscape changes hourly as fond possessions trickle up from my stash in the basement. "Do you like my spoon rest?" I ask, as I fondle the ceramic montrosity. It was my mother's, and her mother's before her. He should feel honored. "Well, I wouldn't want it sitting out all the time," he answers, in the tone of a diplomatic hopeful. "Honey," I say, "if you wouldn't want a spoon rest sitting out all the time, you wouldn't want it sitting out at all...right?" I stir the pot of beans, plop the syruppy spoon on the spoon rest, and look up at him, satisfied. "Uh...I love it," he says. And I can just hear my father saying the very same thing.

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(No Title) (#664)

I just found myself giving a bit of encouragement to a fellow writer, one who may not be certain she's up to the literary task she's taking on. "If anyone can do it, you can," I say, in exactly the same enthusiastic tone a writing professor once used with me. In fact, even the words are identical. How is it that I am capable of passing on a message of hope and confidence, but rarely believe a similar message if directed toward me? Maybe I've missed my calling. Are there Christian channellers?

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(No Title) (#665)

"Mom, I hate to have to say this, but you forgot to stab me." My 12-year-old son, Scott, was home from the hospital after an 8-day stay for a burst appendix. I had been given the dubious responsibility of "stabbing" his incision to allow it to drain. Without this procedure, which we repeated four times per day for a full week, Scott's incision would have become infected, and he was battling peritonitis as it was. I had no choice but to do it. Each time, I felt like I was killing him. Each time, he felt like I was killing him. Each time, as I remember it, he screamed and I wept. But that night, half a lifetime ago, he knew what had to happen in order for him to recover, in order for both of us to move forward. I still shudder when I think of it, even when it reminds me of the Scripture: "Faithful are the wounds of a friend."

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(No Title) (#666)

It's 7 a.m. I wake myself up without an alarm, happy not to hear it, since I feel a migraine in the making. I stumble to the kitchen to put on the coffee. Someone has left Mr. Coffee turned on all night, and he's burnt to a crisp. And smells bad, too. I do not swear. I scrub the caked on, crusty residue from the bottom of the pot, and fill it with fresh morning water. It is a new day. I pour the water through the machine, and set the cafafe on its burner, gingerly. The burner is still sizzling from its all-night affair. Looking back, it's possible I didn't set the carafe squarely on its burner. In fact, it might have been about half on, half off. Nevertheless, I move forward. I grind the Starbucks, add it to the filter, slap it shut, turn it on, and go back to bed. It's 7:05 a.m. The coffee pot is finishing its work, and the noise awakens me. I am happy it's not the alarm, since my migraine is building rapidly. I stumble to the kitchen to pour the coffee. Someone has set the carafe onto the burner at such an angle that none--none!--of the brew has landed in the pot. Not one drop of ten cups. I do not swear. I am momentarily relieved when I see how little of the liquid is on the countertop. What am I thinking? If not here, where? It's 7:45 a.m. Sometime today, we may finish mopping up coffee and scooping up slimy grounds from the inner reaches of the silverware drawer. We will certainly break out the shop-vac and suck up what remains of my morning libation from behind the stove. I retire to my bedroom. It's 8 a.m. Doug walks in and serves me a mug of the stuff. Why he chose the mug with the picture of dice on it, I cannot guess. "For such a little mistake," he says, "it sure made an awfully big mess." We laugh, and hug, and forget to swear. God's mercies are still new every morning.

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