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Lay It On Me, Sean! (#470)

Just saw--actually heard--an ad for a company that's new to me: Level Three Communications. From word one, you knew the voiceover was done by Sean Connery, though his face did not appear.

I'm sitting here grinning, almost weeping. Scottish-born Connery was, as my mother used to say, "laying it on thick."

Guys with brogues are funny that way. My own dad's was beginning to thin in 1976--after being in the U.S. for thirty years--when we made a trip back to his homeland. No sooner did he step foot on the old sod than all heaven broke loose. For five weeks, I followed him around, clueless as to his lyrics but mesmerized with the music.

Dad's been gone almost nineteen years already, but Sean Connery just brought him back.

Or else I've died and gone to brogue heaven.

Posted by Katy on 03/23/03
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Watching the News With Dad (#471)

My mom and dad's wedding picture sits on top of the entertainment center. Last night, I watched the president's speech and the coverage from Iraq along with them. Mom's expression never changed from one of girlish innocence, but Dad's eyes took on a look I recognized from living eighteen years with him.

Suddenly, he wasn't an I-just-married-the-best-girl, got-the-world-on-a-string, happy-go-lucky Scottish immigrant. He was the man I knew, the one whose eyes welled up with tears during A Bridge Over The River Kwai and A Bridge Too Far, but who almost laughed when Ali MacGraw died in A Love Story.

The one who spent eight years in a Scottish regiment of the British Army, beginning at the age of seventeen and who, because of it, never graduated from high school. The one whose best friend was gunned down right beside him, the one who fought in both Northern Africa and in Sicily, the one my mother took care of for years during his recurring bouts with malaria.

The one who became an American citizen when I was a little girl, but who was never honored along with American veterans of WWII. The one who didn't expect to be honored.

The one who didn't want to talk about it, who fought to remember it, and who struggled to forget it.

I looked up at the wedding picture once more as anti-aircraft missiles began to explode over Baghdad, and heard my father's proud voice resonate with the one political speech that dominated our home when I was a child.

My eyes filled with his unwept tears, and my face became a bridge the rivers ran over. And I honored him.

"I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears, and sweat. We have before us an ordeal of the most grievous kind. We have before us many, many months of struggle and suffering.

You ask, what is our policy? I say it is to wage war by land, sea, and air. War with all our might and with all the strength God has given us, and to wage war against a monstrous tyranny never surpassed in the dark and lamentable catalogue of human crime. That is our policy.

You ask, what is our aim? I can answer in one word. It is victory. Victory at all costs - Victory in spite of all terrors - Victory, however long and hard the road may be, for without victory there is no survival."

Winston Churchill, from his first speech to the House of Commons after being appointed Prime Minister, May 13, 1940.

Posted by Katy on 03/20/03
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I Need A Cigarette (#472)

The Cheesecake Factory on the Plaza in Kansas City had just opened for lunch. I mean, my girlfriend and I were the very first customers to be ushered into the vast upstairs dining room.

"Smoking, non-smoking, or first available?" the hostess asked.

I slowly looked around for signs of life and found none. She waited, menus in hand, but seemed a tad impatient with my indecisiveness.

"Well," I said to the young woman, careful to look her right in the eye, and trying to be diplomatic. "Aren't they all available?"

She looked at me, unblinking, not getting it. She was a lovely girl, really, but...it's sad, isn't it?

I would never be so insensitive as to mention this here, had the exact same thing not happened six months earlier, in the same spot, with a different hostess.

One thing's certain. The employee training sure is consistent.

Posted by Katy on 03/19/03
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Can You Hear Me Now? Good. (#473)

"So, what have you been doing?"

My 81-year-old mother-in-law had called to talk to Doug, who wasn't home, so we chatted for a few minutes. It's not easy talking to her over the phone, since she's deaf and I can't hear.

"I'm actually working on a deadline," I announced, in my loudest and clearest voice. "I'm editing a novel."

"Oh....." she said. "You're going to be a model...."

The poor woman. First deaf, now completely blind.

"I wish you luck, dear!"

Supportive, though, isn't she?

Posted by Katy on 03/18/03
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Novel Experience (#474)

I hit send last night to email my marked-up version of the full-length novel I was hired to edit two weeks ago. (Let this serve as my excuse for my dearth of blogging!)

Wow! What a great experience this has been. The story is good--really good--and this first-time novelist is to be commended for his imagination, skillful handling of dialogue, and competent plot construction. All he needed was a good editor, which is exactly what every writer needs. I hope I've been that for him.

In the process, I've realized I'm a fairly competent writer, too, and that I'd better be about it. As usual, time's a wastin'.

When you're almost fifty, it wastes a lot faster than it used to.

Posted by Katy on 03/17/03
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Definitely Not A No-Show (#475)

I don't call her my baby woman for nothing.

I've called her that from the first time I laid eyes on her, twenty-one years ago last night. When your only baby girl makes her debut entrance at 10 lbs 5 oz, you've got a half-grown baby woman on your hands.

It's been six weeks since Carrie's been home from college. Her father and I have been sadly lacking for entertainment.

Oh, but she gave a grand performance this weekend, just like she's done since she was two, regaling her parents with all the spontaneous singing (gospel, contemporary worship, American Idol imitations), dancing (Irish and belly) and assorted other pent-up performances she's saved just for us.

I was flat on my back with a migraine for one of her shows and, even with--or because of--all her audacious bawdiness, she cheered me.

I hooted and hollered and laughed my head off at her antics, picturing her--as Steve Martin might his marriageable screen daughter--not quite as the grown woman she is, but more as a...baby woman.

When I had finally exhausted my laughter, she took her bows and then said three true words.

"You missed me."

Oh, yes, baby woman. We missed you.

Posted by Katy on 03/17/03
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Where Was His Mother? (#476)

"This is how Saddam Hussein got his start!"

Even I couldn't believe I'd said it. Screamed it, actually.

"You're comparing me to Saddam Hussein?" asked twelve-year-old Scott, the Voice of Reason. His sense of justice was finely tuned at a young age.

What was I saying, really? That an adolescent Saddam Hussein, like Scott, had defied his mother's authority by ignoring the time limit she'd set for Nintendo? That his propensity for invasion and conquest and brutal dictatorship all started with a joystick?

What was I so afraid of?

I was afraid I couldn't pull it off. Afraid I'd lose my parental edge somewhere between his puberty and his manhood, leaving him to fend for himself, to find his own way--directionless--in a world of a million ways.

I was afraid of growing weary in well-doing.

Scott didn't give up on me that day, though he's never forgotten my outburst. I suspect that now, with us on the very edge of war, he's thought of it more than once.

I wasn't really comparing you to Saddam Hussein, Scott.

I was comparing myself to his mother, and wondering just when it was she'd grown so weary.

Posted by Katy on 03/08/03
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Coffee Break (#477)

"You're frightening me," says my friendly barista, and I must admit she looks genuinely alarmed. "You're changing so fast."

"I'm reinventing myself," I shrug, feeling for all the world like a vote-seeking Democrat. I'm attempting to make light of the situation, and realize too late how insensitive I must seem.

She proceeds to fill my order for a decaf of the day in a china mug, rather than my usual venti fully caffeinated latte with sugar-free vanilla syrup.

"But just yesterday you switched to cappucino from latte," she says. "This is all so abrupt." She sniffles, and is on the brink of tears.

"Don't worry, Lindsay," I say, reaching out to touch her arm. "All the important stuff will stay the same. You'll see."

And then I realize, we were never really talking about coffee at all.

Posted by Katy on 02/26/03
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True Believer (#478)

"I believe in you," he says to the young woman, and kisses her until she agrees to accept his belief.

She's a brand new mother, and a nervous one, inexperienced and unsure of herself, but hopeful. They gaze with adoration at the infant son in her arms, and pray hard.

How will she be able to provide all this child will need? Will she apprehend the grace of God, reach out to grasp what He freely gives, and meet the challenges of motherhood for all the years that stretch before them?

"I believe in you," he says to the thirty-something, exhausted woman.

She struggles to keep up with the demands of three children, their fledgling business, their home, and especially their faith. He helps her with all his strength, but still every move of hers seems dictated by sheer necessity, seldom by choice. She is on automatic pilot for years, she thinks, directed here and there by the crisis du jour, by the need of the hour.

What's to believe?

"I believe in you," he says, to the older, freer woman, the one whose child-raising responsibilities have been largely fulfilled, and whose children have risen up and called her blessed, right to her face.

She is starting over again, and she knows it, and she's afraid. She smiles at him, and nods, but when he turns away, she cries.

"He believes in me," she says to herself, and once again she prays hard to apprehend that for which she has been apprehended by God, reaching to become the woman He's called her to be.

And she thanks God for the unbelieveable gift of a believing husband.

He believes in me.

Posted by Katy on 02/26/03
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Trivial Pursuit, Or Not? (#479)

Any guesses who might have said this, referring to Saddam Hussein?

"Lets imagine the future. What if he fails to comply and we fail to act, or we take some ambiguous third route, which gives him yet more opportunities to develop this program of WMD? He will conclude that the international community has lost its will. He will then conclude that he can go right on and do more to rebuild an arsenal of devastating destruction. And some day, some way, I guarantee you he'll use the arsenal."

Posted by Katy on 02/25/03
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Now That’s A Guinness (#480)

If you ever get the opportunity to hear Os Guinness speak in person, take it. Each word in every sentence is like a piece of a poem--so precisely chosen as to gleam in its apparent effortlessness. A thirty minute presentation delivers more meaning than many people express in a lifetime.

Until you get the chance, I recommend you read "Long Journey Home" and "The Call." I've only just begun them myself, but my intention is to end up with a changed life.

I love it when that happens.

Posted by Katy on 02/24/03
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Drawing a State Line in the Sand (#481)

The snow storm last night wasn't so terrible, but it happened on a Sunday. Apparently, road crews were observing the Sabbath.

Kev did fine on his 30 minute run to school this morning, except for the 10 minute stretch of State Line Road. We live 30 seconds from the State Line that separates Missouri from Kansas. It's a road we travel daily. Kev called from school to say State Line was a horrible mess of snow and ice, and that he was nearly involved in several accidents, as numerous cars careened out of control.

Doug and I ventured out a few hours later, with no problems at all until we hit the State Line. Then we saw how right Kev was. Snow removal trucks drove up and down the road (some on the Kansas side of the middle line, and the others on the Missouri side), all of them with their blades up.

No unsavory elements were being removed from the road. Navigable paths, such as they were, had been created by crawling traffic only. The turning lanes in the very middle of the road (Kansas or Missouri, who can tell?) were so treacherous as to be useless, causing even greater hazard as drivers attempted to turn left without using these lanes.

We commiserated all the way home how neither state's road crews would claim the responsibility for clearing State Line, and how dangerous were the results of municipalities behaving badly. The citizens of both states deserve better.

I've always known there is no middle ground. Now I'm thinking that even if there was, what good would it be if you couldn't drive your car down it?

Posted by Katy on 02/24/03
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Still Crazy (#482)

I was crazy in love with the guy, and I just couldn't help myself.

Still, what kind of a man would calmly deny his fiancee's built-in, ancestral need to have bagpipers play at their wedding? What kind of a man--musical genius that he was even then--seriously thinks that bagpipes screech? What kind of a man?

What kind of a man insists on violins to warm up the wedding congregants (who are, let's be honest, not Italian, but Scottish and Irish) and classical guitar for the bride to walk down the aisle?

The kind who, twenty-six years to the day later, wants me to come with him to historic Weston, Missouri, to take his bagpipes in for a little tune-up, that's what kind.

The kind who sometimes has second thoughts, and valuable ones at that, and relents. The kind who knows we have three grown kids to marry off, and there's a good chance bagpipes will figure in yet, and that I'll cry the tears only bagpipes at weddings can induce, and that he'll love it when I do.

I knew exactly what kind of a man he was, even then. The kind I'd stay so crazy in love with, I wouldn't be able to help myself.

Posted by Katy on 02/19/03
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Separate Checks (#484)

The man and woman laid their drinks side by side on the low counter, removed the lids, and considered the toppings.

Skim milk, whole milk, half and half, sugar, spice, everything nice.

Especially her, he seemed to be thinking.

They made an attractive couple, cleary compatible if appearances count for much. If anything, she was a little out of his league--polished beside his passable, Pendleton next to his Penneys.

"What did you get?" she asked

"Caramel Macchiato," he answered.

And then she bent from the waist until her nose was almost in his steaming brew and inhaled deeply.

"Aahhh..." she sighed, and looked as if she might swoon and fall into his waiting arms, only they weren't waiting.

The man blinked, astonished, but not too much so, considering it was possible she had snorted some of his caffeine, leaving less for him. He slid his cup six inches from her face with one hand and capped it off with the other.

Smiles were exchanged between them then, and words, and they picked up their coffees-to-go and went, unbelievably, their separate ways.

I wondered if he thought often of her after that, if he dreamed of what their lives might have been like if their one chance encounter had involved a little less of her nose and more of, say, her eyes.

I didn't lose any sleep over it, but something made me wish he did.

Posted by Katy on 02/10/03
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Bowled Over (#485)

I own a walnut bowl that's seen better lives. It's been waterlogged so many times its finish is marred beyond repair. I should have pitched it decades ago, but it's not going anywhere as long as I have breath.

It's not a walnut bowl at all. It's my grandmother's voice. She died when I was eighteen, and the bowl passed to me, along with the remembrance of those long and winding drives through the Ozark hills of Missouri and Arkansas when I was a child.

"Pat!" she'd exclaim with delight to my grandfather. "Walnut bowls, just another 1/2 mile up the road. Slow down, fast, or you'll miss it!"

To anyone else, it's a crummy old walnut bowl. To me, it's a voice in the wilderness crying, Slow down, fast, or you'll miss it.