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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

Mini-Vacation, T-Mobile Induced (#536)

I'm thrilled to be flying to Nashville tomorrow for the American Christian Fiction Writers Conference.

It's going to be so much fun to meet some of my blogging author friends like Robin Lee Hatcher and Jeanne Damoff, and to sit under the teaching of the lovely Deb Raney. I'll have a chance to pitch my novel to agents and editors, and to get to know in person all the wonderful people in this group of writers.

Since the hotel charges for Internet in the guest rooms, and I refuse to cough up the ten bucks a day because of a firmly-held principle-of-the-thing, I won't be taking my laptop.

So while I've never taken a formal blog vacation until now, I guess I'm officially signing off until (most likely) September 19.

I wish you all a wonderful rest of the week!

---

Stormy Weather (#537)

I popped in on Mom today, for a shorter visit than usual, but every bit as revelatory.

She wanted to talk about the men who take care of her, several of whom are nursing students from Kenya.

"Michael says he's just in the United States to get his education," she said. "But he doesn't want to live here. He plans to go back to Kenya after he gets a degree."

Then she told me about Moses and Brian, very lovely and kind men, as well.

"And then there's Ephraim," she said. "He plans to return to Tsunami."

"You mean he's from Thailand?"

"Katy, he's black."

"What are you saying, Mom? Is he from Indonesia?"

"No."

"Malaysia?"

"What part of Tsunami don't you understand?"

"I'm thinking you mean Sudan."

"If I'd meant Sudan, I would have said so."

I tried again. "How about Somalia?"

"Wrong again. It's Tsunami."

"Mom, a tsunami is a giant wall of water. You know, a great big one hit Thailand right after Christmas and killed a gazillion people, remember?"

"I don't know anything about that," she said. "All I know is that Ephraim's going back to Tsunami."

So there.

---

Smile And Say Cheese! (#538)

All our beautiful children will be home tonight to celebrate their dear, old dad's birthday. It's the first time we'll be together again in this house since Kevin (the baby, boo-hoo...) moved out a couple months ago. We're excited.

I needed to make a run to pick up a luscious dessert to go with the yummy three-cheese manicotti I made for Doug. I intended to get a cake or a pie, and told him so.

"I know how much you love cheesecake, but I didn't figure you'd want it with the cheese-intensive main dish."

He didn't miss a beat. "I want cheesecake."

"With cheese manicotti? Are you sure? Because I want you to be happy..." I leaned in and gave him a good-bye kiss, just to let him know for sure how much his happiness means to me.

"Oh, yeah. I'm sure. Cheese manicotti and cheesecake..." He kissed me back, with feeling. "And for a pre-dinner snack, I want cheese cubes."

"Cheese cubes? I gotta tell you," I said, in my very cheesiest voice, "on a special day like your birthday, I thought you'd go straight to the cans of squirty cheese..."

"Whoa, BABY," he said. "Now you're talking."

He's a simple man.

---

Age After Age (#539)

"It's a good thing I like old folks."

I take perverse pleasure in teasing my husband on his birthday. If he doesn't enjoy it, at least he's come to expect it.

"Hey," Doug says, "I'm not THAT old..."

"You're right," I say, "but if fifty-three is just a spring chicken, you should know that I just found a spring chicken's box of sandwich bags in the fridge."

"Oh...I guess I did that."

My point exactly.

Happy Birthday, babe.

---

Chip Off The Old Mom! (#540)

Here's the email I received from my daughter Carrie this morning. I think she should be a blogger and share this stuff with the world. I've been a good example for her, haven't I?

"Okay, so I'm walking through the parking lot, about to go into the basement level at work. I see one of my coworkers, Dan, a little ahead of me. I'm sucking in all the fresh air I can get and enjoying the beautiful morning because I know I'll be trapped in the hospital all day.

"I get to the basement and I notice that Dan is far ahead of me now. He obviously has way longer legs than I do. So, I'm walking through the ground level of the hospital and I'm tired because I walk this same mile every morning--why does it take sooo long to get to those west elevators????

"I see Dan waaaay up the hallway and I'm mad because I know we're going to the same floor and I know how long it takes to get an elevator to come back to the ground floor. I realize he'll probably get one and then I'll have to wait wait wait. So, I finally make it to the elevators and lo and behold Dan is standing there, one leg in, one leg out of the elevator talking to somebody.

"Please wait!! I think to myself. But then the elevator starts making this awful noise. This horrible, loud, "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE" noise. I figured that the door had been open too long, and it was mad. But, it was still open--so I went for it.

"Right as I was about to walk through, it started closing. No biggie, I think. I took chemistry. I know that my body will break the line of photons going across the entrance of the elevator, therefore reopening the door so that I can make it up to my floor in a timely fashion. People do it aaaall the time.

"So, I step through anyway. But why did the door keep shutting?? And why did I find myself standing there, stuck between two doors?? And why was I saying "Oh my, oh my, oh my" like some freak show?? I was able to edge myself out, after what seemed like an eternity (by the way, Dan was just standing there with his mouth open, quite funny)--but backwards, not forwards!!!

"So, then I'm standing outside the elevator!!! It was gone!! I look to my left and see a doctor walking by. His laughs are still haunting my mind.

'All I could think about was the movie "Guess Who". Ashton Kutcher was in the elevator after quitting his job. He was talking to himself and hitting the walls and acting a fool. The security cameras caught it all and the security officers were having a hay-day watching it, making bets on what he'd do next.

"I thought about the security cameras that are outside and in the elevator and I thought about some of the officers I know who were, more than likely, having the time of their lives as they saw me wedged between the doors saying "oh my, oh my, oh my."

"Wow. Just another thing to add to my embarassing-moments list. Haha!"

That girl is a piece of work!

---

I’m Gonna Jump Down, Turn Around, Touch The Ground, And Praise My Lord! (#541)

You may have noticed if you've read here for very long that I revert to several themes over and over, even though I promise not to. I mean well, but far too many of my stories still end up referencing panties and other articles of underwear.

I realize now that undies have served as something of a foil for one of the central issues of my rather damaged psyche. Let's just say I have gastrointestinal and other physiological difficulties pertaining to my personal plumbing and leave it at that.

If I described my problems to you in detail, you wouldn't believe me, and as a writer, I'm nothing without my credibility.

Because my body has problems that can't be fixed without the kind of surgery people would rather die than endure, I must take my personal hygiene thrills where I can get them. So, Doug and I recently replaced the crummy 1 1/2 gallon toilets in our house with Toto brand Australian-made toilets.

Those puppies aren't cheap, but I've always felt they were worth every dime. They still only use 1 1/2 gallons of water per flush, but combine water pressure with air pressure to get the job done. No more flushing twice just to process a wad of toilet paper--a modern miracle in this day and age.

Until today, I praised my Totos to anyone who would listen, coercing people in Kansas City to head out to Pyramid Plumbing so they could see the amazing demonstration of enormous baking potatoes being flushed by Aussie toities. (If you home schoolers are looking for a fun field trip for the kiddies, don't miss this!)

Today, all my illusions of having optimal toilet conditions went south.

In getting ready to hop in the shower this morning, I'd left my glasses on the counter. I used the toilet, flushed, and exulted with great thanksgiving--as I always do-- at the sound of high combined water and air pressure. Then I turned on the shower and hummed a praise chorus as I waited for the water to get hot.

What made me turn to look back at the toilet, I can't say. But when I did, my very extremely nearsighted eyes saw a big brownish-green blob of...something. Had my Toto toitie failed me entirely?

I bent down for a closer look, and the big blob jumped.

Turns out a Toto can handle the hugest spud Idaho can dig up, but it's still no match for the common frog!

---

And The Words Of The Prophets Are Written On The Subway Wall, Tenement Halls… (#542)

For a truly forward-looking take on current events, read this:

"It was a broiling August afternoon in New Orleans, Louisiana, the Big Easy, the City That Care Forgot. Those who ventured outside moved as if they were swimming in tupelo honey. Those inside paid silent homage to the man who invented air-conditioning as they watched TV "storm teams" warn of a hurricane in the Gulf of Mexico. Nothing surprising there: Hurricanes in August are as much a part of life in this town as hangovers on Ash Wednesday.

But the next day the storm gathered steam and drew a bead on the city. As the whirling maelstrom approached the coast, more than a million people evacuated to higher ground. Some 200,000 remained, however—the car-less, the homeless, the aged and infirm, and those die-hard New Orleanians who look for any excuse to throw a party.

The storm hit Breton Sound with the fury of a nuclear warhead, pushing a deadly storm surge into Lake Pontchartrain. The water crept to the top of the massive berm that holds back the lake and then spilled over. Nearly 80 percent of New Orleans lies below sea level—more than eight feet below in places—so the water poured in. A liquid brown wall washed over the brick ranch homes of Gentilly, over the clapboard houses of the Ninth Ward, over the white-columned porches of the Garden District, until it raced through the bars and strip joints on Bourbon Street like the pale rider of the Apocalypse. As it reached 25 feet (eight meters) over parts of the city, people climbed onto roofs to escape it.

Thousands drowned in the murky brew that was soon contaminated by sewage and industrial waste. Thousands more who survived the flood later perished from dehydration and disease as they waited to be rescued. It took two months to pump the city dry, and by then the Big Easy was buried under a blanket of putrid sediment, a million people were homeless, and 50,000 were dead. It was the worst natural disaster in the history of the United States.

When did this calamity happen? It hasn't—yet. But the doomsday scenario is not far-fetched. The Federal Emergency Management Agency lists a hurricane strike on New Orleans as one of the most dire threats to the nation, up there with a large earthquake in California or a terrorist attack on New York City. Even the Red Cross no longer opens hurricane shelters in the city, claiming the risk to its workers is too great."

Read the whole article, which appeared in 2004 in National Geographic.

That's right. 2004. Unbelievable.

---

Thank God For The United States Military! (#543)

Finally! The United States Cavalry has arrived! The New Orleans Convention Center is, as I write this, being evacuated by huge helicopters belonging to every branch of the military. Geraldo reports that approximately 100 folks every five minutes are being flown out.

Geraldo nearly lost it with passionate anger last night, and I for one am glad he did. He sounded like a modern-day Moses saying, "Let these people go!"

Thank you, God, for this Exodus.

---

Starving For Spiritual Food, Too… (#544)

I just saw a news report from inside a hurricane shelter. The reporter said the number one request of the people staying there, besides food and water, is for Bibles.

Last night, a reporter inside another shelter was asked by the anchor person about the people in the red shirts.

"Those are Red Cross volunteers," the reporter responded.

"And how about the ones in the orange shirts?"

"Those are Scientologists."

Tom Cruise or no Tom Cruise, dear Lord, send those people your Word, which they so desperately need.

---

Fox News Rules! (#545)

If you're not familiar with Shepard Smith, news anchor at Fox, now would be a good time to tune in. I've never been so impressed with any news coverage as I've been with his reporting of hurricane Katrina.

For two days now, Shep has been stationed on an overpass, near Exit 235A off Interstate 10E in New Orleans. He's been communicating to police the fact that the thousands of refugees stranded on this bridge have been given no food, no water, and no direction about where they should go.

He's interviewed scores of people as they dragged themselves through standing water on their way out of the Projects, and finally found themselves--for the first time in days--on dry ground.

Shep has responded to these people with compassion and care, and has provided a credible link between those in desperate need and those with the resources to offer relief.

Shepard Smith is the real deal.

---

This Is Only A Test (#546)

"Mom, would you rather I leave the room?"

It's a question I hear myself asking often--sometimes, in an effort to preserve what remains of my mother's dignity and other times, I suspect, to protect myself from the knowledge of the truth.

"Oh, no, you can stay. She's just the speech therapist, here to ask me a few questions..."

Yeah, I know. That's what scares me, Mom.

"Mary, I'm going to say a series of words, and I want you to repeat them back to me. Here's the first set: Blue, bike, berry."

"Blue, bike, berry."

"Good. Now repeat: garbage, church, sign, picture."

"Garbage, something, something, picture."

The repeat-after-me excercise evolved into a "Follow these directions" exercise, only Mom didn't evolve with it.

"OK, Mary, now I want you to follow these directions: Open your mouth, stick out your tongue, lick your lips, close your mouth."

Mom said, "Open your mouth, stick out your tongue, close your mouth, eat breakfast."

"Well," Kristin said, "eat breakfast was the answer to an earlier question. And I need you to do what I'm saying, to follow these directions: Open your mouth, stick out your tongue, lick your lips, close your mouth."

"Open your mouth..." Mom couldn't get the original command of "repeat after me" out of her mind.

"Mary, don't say it, do it."

Mom opened her mouth and then said, "Stick out your tongue."

"Do it."

Mom stuck out her tongue and then said, "Close your mouth."

"You missed a step. What was it?"

"Oh, yeah," Mom said, "Lick your lips."

"Do it, though. Don't just say it."

To be fair, Mom did great at naming all the people who take care of her, including her five children. She knows what date it is, how old she is, and where everyone's been on vacation lately. She can tell you the name of the Savings and Loan she retired from, why she's in the nursing home, and that Leawood, Kansas, is a suburb of Kansas City, Missouri.

I hope she couldn't feel my torment, though, when she couldn't name one famous American, living or dead. Time became eternity as she sat there in her wheelchair, eyes winced shut, struggling to dream up an answer.

Finally, I tried to bail her out, tried to give her enough of a hint to jog her memory without making it seem like I was the one filling in the blanks.

"Mom," I said, "what about that crazy redhead you used to watch every day on TV, whose best friend was named Ethel?"

She used to love Lucy like there was no tomorrow, but now that tomorrow's here, Lucy's gone.

Several questions later, after she could only come up with seven animals in a sixty second period, Mom thought of the famous American she'd been trying to spit out: Franklin Delano (she said it like D'Eleanor) Roosevelt.

I sat across the room looking at my mom, who seemed in that hour like an unschooled little girl, and my heart filled with wonder at the mystery before me.

As much as I'd love to be somebody's child, I'm the parent now. Not for always, I know. But for today.

I'll be a little girl again myself someday, I know--but not now, not yet.

Not as long as my mother still needs me.

---

Tickled Pink (#76)

A lovely lady named Mimi sits at my mother's table in the nursing home. Some days, she doesn't talk at all, but only nods and smiles when I greet her. Other days, she let's me have it with both barrels.

Today, while we were talking about her fabulous career as a fashion buyer for a ritzy department store, she suddenly changed the subject.

"I love Jesus Christ so much," she said, her eyes misting up.

I've learned to go with the flow when my elders want to talk about something besides purses and shoes--especially when they want to express their love for God.

"Oh, me too," I answered, then waited for her to continue.

"No matter what happens to me," she said, "I live every day for Him."

"That's the best way to live," I said. "You've chosen well."

"And then there's the Blessed Virgin Mary..."

"Well, yes," I said.

"I'm just WILD about her!"

---

Getting My Act Together (#77)

When you spend as much time with old folks in hospitals, doctor's offices, and nursing homes as I do (by my conservative estimate, 67 days so far this year...) you start to figure out a few things. Up until these past few weeks, though, it hadn't sunk in with me how in-shape I'll need to be when I'm an official geezerette.

In the old days, they used to call retirement homes and skilled nursing facilities "rest homes." That was then, baby. From what I've seen, ain't no couch potatoes allowed.

If you imagine that you can start slowing down a little when your kids move out, and then a bit more when your AARP card qualifies you for a 10% discount at Denny's, watch out! By the time you are admitted to the nursing home of your children's choice, you won't have the strength left to keep up with your next-bed neighbor.

Let me warn you, it's a jungle out there.

My mother, who's in a nursing home to receive physical and occupational therapy so that she can go back to her independent-living apartment in a retirement village, sure wishes now she'd taken daily chair-exercise class more seriously. Instead, she pretended she was on an extended vacation in Vegas and concentrated on winning at Bingo.

Who knew one little fall would propel her into such an athletic environment that she'd be expected to endure two hours of sweat-breaking exercise per day?

"To think I only won a lousy 50 cents right before the fall," she says, looking back on her chosen sedentary lifestyle. "Fifty cents won't get you too far if you land in one of these joints. Better to spend an hour walking around the courtyard, building up those quads. Believe me, you're gonna need them where you're going."

And if leg lifts with five-pound weights and learning to scrub under an arm that's strapped to your chest aren't enough, there are plenty of cognitive skills to be brushed up on in the nursing home, too.

In group physical therapy, the wheelchaired patients circled up to play a game of ring toss. At the end, the therapist wanted to declare a winner by asking each player to add up his or her own points.

"How about you, Mary?" she asked. "You've got 100 plus 25 plus 10. What's that total?"

"How should I know?" my mother responded. "My daughter balances my checkbook, and even she has to use a calculator."

"That's right!" another particpant exclaimed. "Nobody can do it without a calculator anymore!"

A third player didn't hesitate to throw her weight around. "At least we used to be able to do it on paper! What do you think this is, the Depression?"

The therapist, aptly recognizing that a mutiny was in her future, awarded each player a prize (a small bag of kettle corn) so that no one's self-esteem would suffer more than anyone else's. I'll tell you, these old folks really know how to work the system.

Today was the piece de resistance, the single most eye-opening nursing-home activity I've yet witnessed, one that will forever be etched in my mind's eye. When I passed the group therapy room, there sat two teams of patients with a net spread between them, playing Wheelchair Volleyball!

Let me just say I hyperventilated for a couple minutes at the sight. I've always felt, from earliest childhood, that every ball I've encountered has a personal vendetta against me. I flinch whenever one is released into the air, because if it's anywhere except firmly in the hands of another, it's out to get me.

I practically ran to my mother's room, craving her solace and protection. "Mom, you know what they're doing over in group therapy? Wheelchair volleyball! I hate volleyball! Remember how horrible I was at it? Is this what I have to look forward to?"

Evidently she's gotten her act together in the two weeks she's been in geezer boot camp, 'cause she didn't cut me any slack. "Oh, grow up," she said. "What's the big deal about a beach ball hitting you in the face? You're a big girl now."

It all goes to prove the truth of what one wise centarian said when asked if he had any tips for longevity. "Not really. But I'll tell you one thing: If I'd known I was going to live to be one hundred, I'd have taken better care of myself."

So I'm going to start working out again, if only to stay ahead of the long-term-care curve. Lucky for me, Walmart's got a clearance rack full of beach balls.

---

The Two Best Days Of My Life! (#78)

I'm afraid I'm becoming prone to severe bouts of unabashed enthusiasm. Believe me, it's scary.

Last week, during the umpteenth week in a row from Somewhere Due Straight South Of Heaven, I had two public outbursts, unforeseen by me and unexplainable to others.

The first occurred on my mother's last day in the hospital, before my sister Bridget and I moved her into the nursing home for therapy. Bridget and I shared a punch card for the hospital lobby's coffee kiosk (not Starbucks, but as good as...) If we succeeded in purchasing ten drinks, we'd receive the eleventh free.

That morning, when I went down for my coffee break, the barista said, "What can I get you?"

"The usual," I said. "And I've got my punch card here somewhere..."

"Great, because today's Double Punch Day."

That's when things got, let's just say, emotionally dicey. And there's no explaining how I reacted at that moment except to say: Feelings happen.

"Double Punch Day? You've got to be kidding!! I'm so excited! This is like the BEST THING that's ever HAPPENNED to me!"

"Whoa..." she said, raising her hand like a plastic-gloved stop sign. "It doesn't take much for you, does it? But, I mean, that's really good if you can be happy with the little things..."

"This isn't a little thing! This is huge! Don't you see what this means?" I held out my card for her perusal. "After this latte, only two more punches and we'll be one punch away from a free drink!"

Later that day, Bridget purchased her drink, earning two more punches on our card. Then Mom got discharged from the hospital, and my enthusiasm for Double Punch Day necessarily waned.

Fast forward three days: My sister Liz called to tell me about the Chocolate Blow-Out Sale at the Russell Stover's Outlet Store.

"Even sugar-free?" I asked.

"Especially sugar-free," she said. "You've got to see it to believe it."

I'd been to the Outlet many times before and gotten some tremendous bargains on just-barely-past-the-holiday Easter candy and heart-shaped boxes of assorted creams. But this was different: This was Russell Stover's First Ever Self-Proclaimed Blow-Out Sale!

I had such a difficult time containing my enthusiasm that I failed entirely.

"Sugar-free peanut butter cups, at a price of six pounds for four dollars?" I said to the ho-hum clerk. "This is the single BEST DAY of my LIFE!"

"You're kidding, right?" she said, looking me straight in the eye as if trying to determine my age and level of dementia. "Your best day? You poor woman..." She scanned and bagged, scanned and bagged, either jaded by too much of a luscious thing or completely oblivious to the confectionary joys all around her.

I stood my ground. "I'm not kidding. This is the VERY best day of my life."

I can't explain my enthusiasm now any more than I could then. All I could do was struggle to the door with my enormous share of Chocolate Paradise, leaving her standing there, slack-jawed and wondering.

---

A Wonderful Plan For Your Life (#79)

If you've lived very long at all, you've figured out by now that Starbucks--like God--loves you, and has a wonderful plan for your life.

I resisted Starbucks' plan for my life for quite a few years, realizing full well that Part One of Their Plan was to charge me $3 or more for the privilege of imbibing a cuppa without refills. I'm a cheapskate, folks. Ask anyone. How Starbucks finally got a hold of me, I still haven't figured out.

A few years back, on a day otherwise innocent of all missteps, my resolve weakened. I'll try one, I thought, if only to see what everyone's yakking about. I'm a writer, I reasoned, and my occupation compels me to observe and report on the human experience.

Humans were drinking Starbucks like there was no tomorrow, so didn't the phenomenon deserve a bit of my attention?

A week later, I tried another. Mmmm....just as delicious as I remembered. Two days later, I happened to be driving by and thought that a large latte would make a lovely meal replacement plan. By the next day, my new diet seemed to be doing the trick, and I'm not such a loser that I'd break a successful diet on day two. That would be just plain wrong.

By day four, I realized that Starbucks' Plan for My Life definitely had a Part Two: Get the chick addicted, so that each and every day of her remaining time on earth she must have her Starbucks or she'll go stark raving mad! Impress upon her that this is no mere drive-by addiction, either. This is a destination addiction. She'll make special trips, going fifteen minutes each way just to score a hit, and her shame will diminish a little more with every cup of joe.

Today, it hit me. I'm already over fifty. My time in this world is growing short, and the old memory ain't what it used to be. In fact, unless Doug reminds me right before I head into Starbucks, sometimes I can't remember my regular drink order. It is complicated, and I do have a lot of other important things on my mind, but still...

"What can I get for you?"

My mind went completely, ridiculously blank.

"Um....ma'am?"

"Okay, I think I know," I answered. "Yes, I'm sure I do! A venti iced two-Splenda...um...oh, yeah, Americano with...let's see, I'm pretty sure it's one shot reg and two shots de...and..."

"Will that be all?"

"Wait, there's more...oh, uh, no water, lots of ice, and room. Yeah, that's it!"

I must have looked really proud of myself, because she stared at me like I'd lost it. I could have shut up right about then, but of course, I didn't.

"How will Starbucks keep the baby boomers' business when we're too senile to remember what we order?"

The barista did not laugh. She did not even smile. In a way, I feel sorry for her. Doesn't she know that someday she, too, will have such a delicate constitution that she'll have to switch to decaf after 9 am? Furthermore, does she really imagine that Generations Y and X have enough members, in Starbucks' economy, to replace the aging boomers?

If Starbucks is going to get $3 per day from now until my kids choose my nursing home, let's hope they've thought through Part Three of the Plan for My Life. Because by then, I--along with millions of my fellow boomers--will be strung out, flat broke, down to my last $2000 of worldly assets, living on Social Security and Medicaid, and--most pathetic of all--shaking and sweating though Starbucks withdrawal.

Or will I?

My guess is that Starbucks needs the boomers at least as much as we need our daily grind. Even now, I'd wager a group of bleeding-heart coffee aficionados are forming a political action committee to lobby for Starbucks benefits for senior citizens. And not only that: I'll bet by the time you and I end up in an old folks home, free-standing Starbucks kiosks will grace every lobby.

Dear Lord in Heaven above, let it be so.

---

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