Snow My Goodness!

An innocent email I received in February from my good friend and "shoe dealer" Susan Dittrich came back to bite me in the hiney this weekend.

Customarily, I would refer to Susan as a drug dealer, since shoes are my drug of choice, but I don't want to sully her reputation any, she being sweet, nice, and kind. And, she has good taste in shoes and is single-handedly responsible for contributing to my delinquency.

The email asked, very innocently, if I would like to be a contestant in the 2011 Barrister's Bowl, a fundraiser for 12&12, a very worthy charitable organization that assists people with substance abuse issues in the Tulsa area. I said, "Sure!" without asking any questions about what I was signing on for.

Mistake! Big mistake...

The Barrister's Bowl is a competition amongst attorneys who select a subject from a bowl labeled "person," "place," or "thing," and then each victim (I mean, contestant), must speak for three to five minutes extemporaneously and humorously on said topic.

Now, never mind that I am not even an attorney for pity's sake. Never mind that half of the attorneys I know hate my guts and the other half are so stunned by my charm and good looks that they like me in spite of their better judgment.

I received my list of topics on Tuesday before the Saturday event, but I was too busy at work to even look at the list until Friday. I wracked my brain trying to come up with funny stories or jokes about each topic under the "Thing" category. Of course, there were topics I liked much better than the others, and I began praying fervently that I would select one of the primo topics and stay away from the less exciting ones like "pajama jeans" and "gas prices."

So Saturday night, after ample applications of antiperspirant and multiple trips to the bathroom to clear my body of all fluids, I sat nervous as a cat on a hot tin roof at the Oklahoma Jazz Hall of Fame while one after another contestant went up to discover their fate. I had one glass of pinot noir to loosen up and a couple of bites of the complimentary heavy hors d'oeuvres and said one last prayer.

I was number four in the lineup. I went up to the stage, stirred the topics around in the bowl and came out with - holy mackerel! - "Snowmaggedon 2011," one of the topics I prayed I would get. Whoever said that there isn't a Jesus up in heaven hanging on our every word is just plain wrong.

So, here is my story of Snowmaggedon 2011. I'm not sure it accurately reflects all that I said Saturday evening, because in my sweat-induced panic while on stage, I can barely remember ANYTHING I said.

I know I started out by telling the crowd that they'd been ripped off, because the invitation said 12 attorneys would be competing for the coveted Barrister's Bowl. And, I admitted that I am not, nor will I ever be, an attorney. I said that if it weren't for 12&12's reputation as a most worthwhile charity, I would insist that the sponsorship of the Alexander Family Foundation (the organization that ended up with me as their contestant) must be returned immediately.

Then I launched into my story of Snowmaggedon 2011, which is completely true because (a) I am NOT an attorney and I always tell the truth and (b) I went back and checked Facebook for all facts in evidence beginning January 31, 2011, the day before Snowmaggedon began.

See? I could be an attorney. I simply choose not to be.

Here is my status update from precisely 9:18 p.m. on Monday, January 31st before the snowstorm hit: "Grant completed and delivered to Pryor...check. Grocery store...check. Gas station...check. Candles and flashlights working...check. Work boxed up and brought home...check. Library books for the kids...check. Liquor store...CHECK. Hey, the last one is absolutely necessary if I'm going to be cooped up with the kids for three days. You gotta give me that one!"

I made fun of the blue hairs that were clogging the aisles of the grocery stores and one of the judges, who had a beautiful salt-and-pepper hairdo, gonged me and told me to watch it talking about blue hairs.

On February 1, at exactly 11:54 a.m., my Facebook status stated, "Cleaning house and watching the snow drift. I am caught up on laundry and dishes. If you wanted to get into our house, you wouldn't be able to. There are thigh-high drifts on both porches."

Later that evening at precisely 10:57 p.m., I stated, "The news just said that Claremore received 20 inches of snow. I believe it! It's encroaching on the house!" We had three foot drifts in places because Dwayne, our house engineer, measured.

This is the part of the story where I began picking on my poor husband, Dwayne, who is an engineer and cannot stand to be stranded anywhere for any length of time. I think we were, at that point, on Fistfight #38 between our two hooligans. He claimed that he needed to get to work in Tulsa, where he had some sort of a proposal due later in the week. I wasn't quite sure I believed him.

On Wednesday, February 2, at 8:53 a.m., I changed my status to: "Watching my silly husband trying to get out of our driveway. He must go to work! Now, he's enlisted the help of our sweet neighbor, Gene, to try to help him get unstuck. So much for 4WD. Fancy 4WD pickup truck, allow me to introduce you to 20 inches of drifting snow!"

After the truck was unstuck, Dwayne came inside, muttering obscenities under his breath. I wondered to myself how long it would take him to remember that he has a four-wheeler that could knock enough snow down to help him get out of the driveway.

An hour later, he was in the garage starting it up, and I was commending myself for having the ability to Vulcan-mind-meld my husband after 16 years of marriage.

Then, this status update at 11:15 a.m.: "Troubles abound...now the 4-wheeler needs a jump!" The battery had died in the sub-freezing temperatures. While utilizing his blue truck to jump the four-wheeler, his eye spied our old green 2001 Chevy Silverado pickup truck.

Then, this: "2:45 p.m. driveway update: He is in the cul-de-sac! He is using his old green truck to back up and pull forward numerous times until he can get a path established. Sometimes, you have to get out the not-so-fancy tools to get the job done. Snow: 1, Dwayne: 1. Now, to get to the end of Oakridge and out onto Blue Starr Drive!"

At 4:50 p.m., my status revealed: "I've not seen Dwayne since 2:45. Either he's down the street using the green truck to plow other people's driveways, or he's long gone and left me hanging with these two kids! Help!"

Then at 8:06 p.m., I wrote: "He came back. Hallelujah! I am baking him apple cinnamon bread with a streusel topping to show my appreciation. Love you, honey! And, thank you for filling my life with laughter. I've had great fun watching you today."

And that, my friends, is how the Henderson's survived Snowmaggedon 2011.

I Miss Her...

Another Mother's Day has come and gone, and with it, the reminder that my mother is no longer here with me. I fancy the notion that she's watching me, lounging on a cloud or in a beautiful flower-filled gazebo. Truth be told, I don't have the first clue what she's doing. Heaven is such a wonderful place, I'm sure she doesn't have the time nor the inclination to worry much about what's happening here on earth.

On Friday, I set a huge pot of red geraniums on her grave. I like to put fresh flowers out for her and I pray the whole way home that no one helps themselves to her flowers. When I go back out to collect them, I take the flowers home and either plant them in my garden or enjoy them on my patio all summer long...and each time I look at them, I think of her.

As mothers go, I had one of the best. She was loving and kind. Funny and irreverent. Led my Girl Scout Troop and had homemade cookies waiting on my sister and I when we got home from school. She gave great advice and told her children they could do anything they wanted to do. She demonstrated that precept by doing amazing things she'd taught herself how to do. Best of all, she was the best grandmother in the world.

Most of my life, my mother wrestled with chronic illness...but only those closest to her ever knew it. She never let it interfere with her enjoyment of life. I respected and admired her greatly.

My friend, Carol, sent me the following in an email this weekend, and I'd like to share it here, because it sums up exactly how I feel:

MOTHER'S DAY FOR THE MOTHERLESS DAUGHTER

My mom used to dance in the mornings.

A happy, shameless jig in her PJs right there out in the driveway as my dad drove us off to school. She'd dance and wave and grin and I could feel the love well up from my toes to my nose. It spilled out of me - this being someone's daughter. Loved. Cherished. Celebrated.

She's been dead now 18 years to the day since I turned 18.

Time passes and with it go the birthdays, anniversaries, new babies, first steps, preschool orientations, international moves, new jobs, hair color changes. And each milestone is a mile more in the road that we don't walk together.

I am the motherless daughter.

If you are, too, can I take your hand?

Let the part of you that never got to grow up with a mom weep if she needs to. You are beautiful and loved and not a single tear falls to the ground uncherished by the Father God who holds us both.

"You keep track of all my sorrrows.
You have collected all my tears in your bottle.
You have recorded each one in your book."
Psalm 56:8

You are your mother's daughter, created in your Father God's image. And nothing can break that.

- by Lisa-Jo

Thank you, Lisa-Jo. I couldn't have said it better myself!

And, Momma, wherever you are and whatever you are doing right now, I love you and I miss you. I thank God every day that you are my mother.