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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) (#817)

I've got to say we love our new Select Comfort queen-sized dual-control air mattress. We're able, just as they advertise, to choose our individual levels of softness and firmness. When one of us tosses and turns, therefore, the other is rarely disturbed, but remains blissfully unaware of the partner's turmoil. When the body's pressure points become aggravated by some whisper of imperfection on the mattress's part, a touch of an individual button corrects the difficulty, and individual repose is restored. Our old, conventional double-sized box spring mattress has been banished to the basement. Here in the midwest, having a bed in the basement is a sound strategy, being in "Tornado Alley" as we are. Our old, conventional bed, which began its life when we were newlyweds, has come upon hard times. In fact, it became so impossible to sleep at any edge of the perimeter, because of our constantly seeking out the center as a young couple, that we were forced to sleep "stuck in the middle with you," whether we felt that strongly about each other or not. For some unexplainable reason, it is the outside edges that have acquired the bumps, lumps, sprung springs and pokey things. The only place that feels comfortable is the two feet in the center, where we slept, together. But, you know, eventually you've just got to get some rest. You get tired of saying, "Honey, wake up, you're having a bad dream," and "Can't you just lie still for a few minutes, until I get to sleep?" You're not sure you want to keep meeting in the middle. Still, I have to say, I'm looking forward to tornado season.

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(No Title) (#818)

"Why are you staring at me?" she demands to know, self-consciously, like she's imagining a zit on the end of her nose. Maybe there is one--or something stuck in her teeth, or a price tag hanging on, or a major "frump" thing happening. I wouldn't know--I don't see it. "It's a habit, Carrie," I say. "I've been staring now for a very long time." Take a picture, they say. It lasts longer. But it's not true. Sure, a snapshot of a three-year-old who dressed herself records the mismatched knee socks and the cowboy boots worn with the frilly Easter dress. A camcorder chronicles a little girl on a virgin bike ride, and a teen-aged Irish dancer winning a competition. But it's the subtleties I'm after--the nuances of flashing eyes, not flashing bulbs. The inflections in her body language that a camera cannot detect, the almost imperceptible changes in the tone of her voice when she looks the way she looks. It's Carrie I'm after, and always have been, and always will be. "Why are you staring at me?" she demands to know. It's a habit, Carrie. It's just a life-long habit.

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(No Title) (#819)

OMG! Fallible.com is, albeit it briefly, a blog of note! Look quickly--it won't last. But sometimes the really quick stuff is the really fun stuff!

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(No Title) (#820)

Nineteen years ago tonight, I brought forth into this world a 10 lb. 5 oz. baby girl. We had planned to name a daughter "Brittany Rose," but somehow we had imagined a girl of that name to be a beatific blonde. Our daughter was a brunette bruiser, so we named her Carrie Kathleen. We did not realize that often brunette bruisers become beatific blondes, and so it was with Carrie. We humans don't get many chances to produce something of eternal value. My husband and I were given three such opportunities--gifts, really--and we seized upon them with all the grace and love God made available. Every earthly accomplishment fades into nothingness next to the joy of raising a wonderful daughter to womanhood. In the novel "We Were the Mulvaneys" by Joyce Carol Oates, the mother of the teen-aged girl says that having boys is great, but "my only daughter is my gift to the world." Carrie, I couldn't give the world a better gift than the one I received nineteen years ago tonight.

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(No Title) (#821)

You know how geezers sometimes say they still have the first dollar they ever made? Not only does my husband not have that infamous first buck, he doesn't even have the ones he made last week! A couple of nights ago, he went to listen to an Irish traditional music "session" at Border's. This informal group of musicians meets every other Wednesday for a regular paid gig. Doug likes to go, and always takes his pennywhistles, just in case, even though he only knows maybe a dozen tunes out of a gazillion possible. He was happy when they asked him what he wanted to play, and was able to join them on a number of tunes. But the twinkle in his eye when he showed me his share of the night's kitty--$5--was astonishing. Sometimes, you have to take your thrills where you can get them. He took his straight into the living room, disassembled a framed print of Celtic musicians, and added his five dollar bill to the mat of the picture. "It's the first time I've been paid for an Irish music gig," he said. Dollars come and dollars go, but even for an "old" guy, firsts are always exciting.

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(No Title) (#822)

When Doug and I purchased our "starter" home back in 1979, we were in the high energy years. Back then, home improvement meant anything, including sweat, which would increase the value of our home. We didn't have any money, but we worked hard to landscape the property, update the kitchen and modernize the baths. Anything to build up equity (as cheaply as possible) so we could "move up" later in life. In 1990, we moved into our "middle" house. It was located, located, located in an up-and-coming neighborhood in the 'burbs. Suddenly home improvement meant upgrading our automobiles to reflect our new status, whether we could afford to or not. No one had a rusted old "boat" like our Cutlass parked in their driveway--I think there was actually a home-owner's association rule against it. So we went the minivan route like the neighbors, and even kept the car's color sedate to coordinate with the almost-comatose-looking neutrals of the houses. We still didn't have any money, and even less energy, but we worked hard to add those "designer" touches which would support an exaggerated resale value. Finally, we built what may be our last house in 1994. We can see a couple neighbor's houses (the only couple neighbors we have) in the winter when there are no leaves. In the summer, we see no one's land but our own. I'd love it if we had our youthful energy back, but I wouldn't use it to do much landscaping. Unless it was to paint that old Cutlass purple and make a funky piece of yard-art out of it. Now we're not worried about resale value and sweat equity. Now our idea of home improvement is anything which requires less maintenance than it did before, with no loss of function. To that end, yesterday we impulsively ripped out the shower door in the master bath. For six years, I had hidden from my husband my loathing for that scum-magnet, but the truth will eventually out. Now I have a beautiful lace shower curtain, and the most hopeless, thankless, worthless cleaning job in the history of housekeeping is no more. That's home improvement!

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(No Title) (#823)

It must be admitted that I was confused, caught off guard. Maybe it was the disorientation of just having driven through a blizzard to arrive at my son Scott's new apartment, where he has set up housekeeping (right!) with a couple other guys. From total white-out to dim candlelight, our senses were jolted by the sights and sounds of three twenty-one-year-olds putting the finishing touches on the tossing of a salad and the heating of a lasagne. They juggled items in and out of the oven, recycling them through the fire in order to keep everything at serving temperature until the other honored parents arrived. They worked utensil-free, but in proud possession of several virgin potholders, the innocence of which my kitchen hasn't beheld lo these 24 years. I kissed the boys hello and hurried past them into the living room, where I joined the others in ooohing and aaaahing over the imaginative furnishings and expressive decor. After all had arrived, I figured we would be filing through the kitchen, filling our plates and moving again to the living room, since there was no dining room table, per se. And that one of the boys would suggest that we, their beloved family members, would precede them in line. These are the vain thoughts that frequently fill an aging mother's head. But, no. Without so much as a "soup's on" or a "come and get it," the guys were side-by-side at the counter, with their backs to us, loading their salad plates and diving into the lasagne headlong. I must have clenched my eyes tightly against the disappointment, for I did not see what happened next. All I remember is the sound of his voice. "Here's your salad, Mom. What can I get you to drink?" The heart of a mother is often clouded with blizzard-like conditions, and frequently lit with only the remains of a dimly burning wick. But when the eyes of my heart are opened, my son shines through.

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(No Title) (#824)

I was wrapped in an afghan, talking to my friend from my chilly bedroom in Kansas City, feeling kind of cozy, and entertaining thoughts of starting yet another winter fire. And then she had to ruin it by telling me she was sitting on her porch in Orlando, swatting at those darned bugs! Bugs, in February! Peggy is the loveliest of friends, the kind you might talk to once a month for a while, and then maybe an entire year passes, and neither of you knows where it went. "When did we last talk?" you ask, mystified. Then she tells you her daughter is five months pregnant, and you sheepishly ask if she's married. "Katy, she got married a year ago! Didn't you get the invitation?" And then we laugh at our incompetencies, and commiserate about the almost empty nest, and giggle about the years just ahead filled with in-laws and grandbabies and old-fashioned mortgage-burning parties. And for a few wrinkle-free moments we are kids again, carefree, excited about every little thing on the horizon, joyful. It's fascinating to be a kid again with Peggy, a girl I didn't even meet until we were in our late thirties. When I'm with Peggy, I'm the youngest I'll ever be.

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(No Title) (#825)

Yesterday, Doug and I celebrated our 24th wedding anniversary in the best way possible. Together. The highlight of our day was the purchase of a one-and-one-half seat recliner, narrower than a love seat, but wide enough for two smallish adults to cuddle up in. One year ago, I would have needed the one-and-one-half seater for my one-and-one-half sized seat. But I digress. It'll take 8-10 weeks for the recliner to be delivered, since it is being custom upholstered with a tapestry fabric depicting a scene of a French sidewalk cafe. Who knows? Maybe for our 25th, we'll go to Paris. In the meantime, we'll learn to relax, maybe check out some travel videos, and just enjoy being. Together.

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(No Title) (#826)

We bought a new fake Christmas tree this season. The old one had the kind of branches you have to spend a gazillion hours poking into their very specific color-coded holes. By the time you are done, you are doubting your Christianity. And that's before you plug in the burned-out lights. We told the sales guy we wanted the kind of tree with hinged branches, which, after the festivities, you merely fold upward like praying hands before lugging the spruce back down to the basement. He was out of that particular style, and tried to convince us of the merits of the pokey-branch type. He had one himself, he explained, and it only took three hours to assemble it...he was about twenty-one years old. "That tree won't work for us," I explained. "We don't have that many good years left." If we have regrets after death, as I believe we will (perhaps only temporary regrets for those of us fortunate enough to find ourselves in heaven), it might be useful to imagine while on earth what form those regrets might take. It occurs to me that most of my regrets in eternity may center around my casual expenditure of that which eternity has effectively put to an end: time. When you know you're looking back on more than half your time on earth, it starts getting easier to give up pokey-branch Christmas trees.

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(No Title) (#827)

To correspond with the swearing-in of President George W. Bush, my son composed his own inaugural address, to keep on file, "in case it becomes necessary." And after reading it, I had to admit, there's no virtue in being unprepared. So I ran out to the after-inauguration sales and picked up a fetching mother-of-the-president ball gown, 75% off. Size 2. In case it becomes necessary. Wow... he's good.

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(No Title) (#828)

Recently, my cousin Josephine gave me a beautiful pair of gold earrings, based on a design by a Scottish architect named MacIntosh, during the Arts and Crafts period. MacIntosh is hugely popular over there, and his work somewhat corresponds to that of Frank Lloyd Wright in this country. I am wild about these earrings, and didn't remove them for the first couple of months I owned them! I received so many compliments on them, why take them off? The other day, an old friend was just staring and staring at them, clearly in awe of their beauty. When I went home and looked in the mirror, there was a big chunk of Dial soap stuck in the sleek design. I still wear them every day, but now I check myself out a little better before leaving the house.

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(No Title) (#829)

Having seven girl cousins who were born and bred in Scotland is a novelty, and would be altogether fun if not for the fact that here I am a middle-aged woman and, "I hardly knew ye.." This past summer, all that began to change. My husband, Doug, and I, new and ardent converts to traditional Irish music, decided to go to the old country and absorb the culture. Absorb it we did, and got to know a whole slew of relatives into the bargain. We stayed only a couple of days with my cousin Mary in Denny, Scotland. But, as a result, she and her sister Josephine and their husbands came to the U.S. for the first time ever, and stayed with us in October. They met, finally, all of their American cousins, and were the guests of honor at parties and reunions and sightseeing excursions galore. In a way, they are still the guests of honor. A family get-together doesn't pass without bringing up the crisp memories of those fleeting autumn days. I'd thought I'd include some excerpts of my New Year's letter to Mary and Jo. In it, I mention both religion and politics, so read no further if you were hoping rather for sex and money. Dear Mary and Jo, I hope you had enjoyable and memorable holidays, but you, not being Americans, missed the simultaneous thrill of an unresolved election and the embarassment of an entire election "machine" run by people who can't count! Yesterday, though, made up for it in the minds of us Republicans, as the Bushes moved in and the Clintons moved out. Sometime yesterday morning, Bill and Hillary were seen dancing "their last dance" in the foyer of the White House. If true, it's the most innocent thing that's happened there in eight years. While we don't know yet if Bush is a great man, we are reasonably certain that he is a good man, and for that we are breathing a sigh of relief. Greatness is a revealed trait, often unable to manifest itself until trying circumstances arise, and so we shall have to wait. Goodness, on the other hand, is obvious to all. It's just that some people don't value it too highly. And so they vote Democrat. I'm kidding. Really. Our holidays were fun in spite of it all, and even full of fresh resolve to do more and be better. On Christmas Day, while we were all sitting around the table, my 70-year old mother announced she'd made two New Year's resolutions. All of our mouths dropped open, since we'd never heard her resolve anything before! "The first one is to go to church more often," she said, but then came the caveat. "Of course, I went to Mass with Liz and John last night, and in the middle of it, I leaned over to them and said, 'I hate this!'" (You know, she is a convert to Catholicism, and I'm not sure she ever took to it wholeheartedly.) Then came her second resolution, to our collective baited breath. "And I've decided to have more fun." Well, this we've got to see! And I hope we do--whenever she's on the verge of having fun, something pulls her back from the edge. She either talks herself out of it, or doesn't feel well, or something. Anyway, she was serious about this "fun" thing, so we are trying to help her follow through. I suggested if she'd just go to a "fun" church, she could kill two birds, but no one found me amusing. Our oldest son Scott (the one you didn't get to meet) had not noticed my newest appliance, the one Josephine installed, the clothesline, until about a week ago. He was eating at the kitchen table, looked out and said, "What is that?" "A clothesline," I answered. "What is it for?" he queried. You get the idea of the level on which we sometimes converse. I told him I intend to leave it up for the duration of my time on earth, to which he could only respond, "Why?" A college education ain't what it used to be. Our sweet daughter Carrie is finishing out her first year at "------- Christian University," but has been dismayed since arriving there in August and finding out that she, herself, is not a Christian. Surprise, surprise! We had not anticipated this denominational bugaboo, innocents that we are, but it has been an unacceptable environment for her to remain in for the long term. Next fall, she will transfer to Kansas State University, where a number of her friends attend, and where no one cares enough to define for you the exact address of your eternal destination. Thank God for public schools! Hmmm...I never thought I'd say that. At my niece Shaylyn's first birthday party last night, my sister Mary Baillie was telling us the dream she'd had the night before. She dreamed our whole family (my mom, siblings, spouses, children, cat and our dog Bono) hopped on a plane and went to see the cousins in Scotland, and guess where we stayed? With Mary and Frank! In the dream, you lived in a castle, on acres and acres of voluptuous countryside. I told Mary that your house wasn't large, and you probably couldn't handle a big crowd, at least not for the month-long visit indicated by her dream, but she could not be dissuaded. "I never have dreams that are so clear, so life-like!" she exclaimed. "I think it must be a sign from God." A bonafide religious experience, wouldn't you say? Thank you so much for the Scottish calendar! It is the same style your mom used to send my dad back in the fifties--I love that era. I will frame the prints after the year ends, and auld acquaintance shall not be forgot. Wishing you, your hubbies, your sisters and all your children a wonderful New Year, with the high hope of us staying as close as sisters! I love you very much. Katy

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(No Title) (#830)

OK, this whole thing with not capitalizing those words which were clearly meant by God to be capitalized (like God) is just not working for me. I've cummingsized my writing for the last time, and I'm growing up and acting like a 34-year-old woman. Even if I am 47. There's something I've waited three decades to put down on paper, and now I feel the freedom to go for it: E. E. Cummings! That was fun.

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(No Title) (#831)

i remember visiting my father one day when scott was a two-year-old. i couldn't wait to tell my dad about the latest, greatest thing the baby had accomplished. (hmmm, i should have written it down, since i'm struggling 19 years hence to know what it was.) "daddy," i enthused, "it's a milestone!" "Milestone! the kid's not even in kindergarten yet!" i hadn't realized until tonight what made him knee-jerk like that. his first son never made it to kindergarten, much less to age sixteen. he was born with heart disease, died after open-heart surgery at age four, never really had any milestones. only millstones. dad, i hope you understand why i kept marking milestones in my children's lives. i hope you know how often i stop and remember ours.

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