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.

Be Careful With "I Will Never..." Edicts

This post originally appeared on September 5, 2008. Since then, the minivan has moved on to greener pastures.

Have you ever said, "I will never __________________ (fill in the blank with appropriate activity) and then had to eat your words later?

Take the following, for example: You say, "I will never bungee jump." So one day, in the early fall, you're walking down the midway at the Tulsa State Fair, minding your own business, when the bungee cords literally sing out your name, begging you to strap them on, and then, before you know it, you're catapulting into the cosmos wondering what the hell just happened because you swore you'd never do what you've just done.

Sound familiar to you? Me, too.

When I was about 20, circa the late 1980s, minivans were all the rage. Every suburban housewife, it seemed, had the box-shaped Dodge Caravan or Chevrolet Safari. And each one I passed was literally stuffed to the gills with children, dogs, and the usual household bric-a-brac. And they had huge windows through which you could literally see everything inside of them, unless of course, you were fortunate enough to be driving behind the rare one with tinted windows. They reminded me of rolling aquariums without the water.

To my 20-year-old sensibilities, these eight-passenger contraptions were an abomination of the highest order and the most un-cool form of transportation since my Poppy's El Camino or my parents Chevrolet Impala station wagon.

One evening, as I was driving down the road with a college friend in tow, we came upon a minivan full of screaming, cavorting eight-year-olds fresh from a soccer game pressing their faces up against the glass at us in the most disgusting manner and urging us to honk the horn of my car by pumping their arms up and down in the universal sign language of cross-country truck drivers.

Here's how the conversation went from there:

Me: "Lord God Almighty, don't they equip those things with seatbelts?

Friend: "I wouldn't know. My Mom drives a BMW."

Me: "Let's speed up and get away from them."

Friend: "Good idea. The longer I watch, the more sorry I feel for that poor woman driving."

Me: "I wonder how many of those little monsters are hers?"

Friend: "Talk about birth control!"

Me: "God as my witness, I will never drive a minivan."

UH-OH...Fastforward to 2008. God must have a great sense of humor, because today, if you pass me on the streets of Claremore, you will be shocked and appalled to note that I am behind the wheel of...a minivan.

Yes, the very thing I eschewed, I now own.

The absurdity is not lost on me. Nor the fact that my minivan, though still boxy and utterly practical, has been styled to look like an SUV.

Two small favors I do take some solace in are: (1) my children are always seat-belted in, and (2) there are only two children in the van most of the time. There are still nose and mouthprints on the sideglass where my little cherubs make faces at the passersby. I'm positive the 20-something set pities me as I cruise by.

Irony is a cruel bitch.

Did You See "Parenthood" Last Night?

Last night, millions of viewers watched Adam and Kristina Braverman tell their young son, Max, that he has Asperger's Syndrome on NBC's hit show "Parenthood."

I was one of them. And I was profoundly moved by the way these three actors used their talent, skill, and humanity to bring the subject of autism spectrum disorders, specifically Asperger's Syndrome, into the public forum.

At the end of the last episode, of which I only caught the tail-end, Max overhears his Uncle Crosby say that Max has Asperger's. Last night's episode begins with Adam and Kristina seated in the living room, answering Max's burning question, "What is Asperger's?" And even though the show is a complete work of fiction, the producers accurately depicted exactly how difficult it is to have this conversation with a child.

Because they are justifiably angry with Crosby (who is a complete buffoon, by the way), Adam and Kristina screw up royally. Adam calls the condition a "disorder." Kristina is barely able to contain herself and bursts into tears. A bewildered and upset Max retreats to his room. Disturbed by their epic fail, Adam and Kristina seek advice and counsel from a therapist, who gives them a script to use in the next discussion with Max. Adam and Kristina don't agree about the way the script is worded and Adam takes matters into his own hands, planning a Father-Son bonding trip to an amusement park where he promises Max may ride a certain roller-coaster as many times as he wants to. When the ride is closed down for maintenance shortly after Adam and Max are seated, Max has a meltdown, running away from Adam and screaming at the top of his lungs.

The show ends with a calmer Adam and Kristina sitting with Max at their kitchen table and discussing Max's unique strengths and deficits. They tell Max they are proud of him and tell him he's "a rock star."

This episode resonated with me because I've had this same discussion with my son, Jared. One summer evening before Jared started fourth grade, I broached the subject as we were lying in my bed after reading a bedtime story. I had noticed in third grade that the disparity between Jared and his peers was becoming more and more pronounced. Jared had expressed to me his frustration and hurt with the way the other children were treating him. It is a sad commentary on our society that any behaviors that are outside the norm are immediately shunned, like a form of social Darwinism where vestigial traits are cut off and discarded: "Conform or be cut off." I suppose that it has been that way for years and I've not noticed it much.

Faced with the dilemma of being silent on the subject and waiting for one of our own personal "Crosbys" to tell Jared versus telling him in my own time and manner so that he could be properly educated about it, I chose the latter. I began by telling him that all people have unique strengths and weaknesses. I pointed out that my weakness was my inability to understand mathematics, something that is well-known to friends and family alike, including Jared. He waits for his father to get home to help him with his math homework. Even by the third grade, Jared had long since surpassed my mathematical ability.



I told Jared that most people, like me, don't have a name or a diagnosis for what we have going on. I explained that he is lucky, because his condition does have a diagnosis. I told him that he has Asperger's Syndrome and explained in a way that he could understand that the condition manifests itself as a communication disorder, where the affected person has difficulty reading non-verbal cues and understanding the point-of-view of other people, which hampers the person's ability to function in social situations.

He had many questions for me and he cried softly, worried that something was wrong with him. I explained that nothing is "wrong" with him, that he is perfect just the way that he is, and that all of the deficits I talked about were things he could train his brain to do. I reminded him that his father and I are here to help him. We ended by talking about all of the cool things his Asperger's brain can do and what a privilege it is for me to see the world through his eyes. And I meant every word of it, because while my son's brain is neuroatypical, it is simultaneously stunningly beautiful and amazing.



I left the conversation thankful that I had anticipated his questions and thought through my answers. Most of all, I was thankful to be able to tell my child the truth, without sugar-coating it. Being able to compassionately tell the truth to someone you love is one of the foundational elements of healthy human relationships, and it is a skill I intend to pass on to my children.



Thank you, NBC and "Parenthood," for having the courage to tackle the issue of Asperger's Syndrome with such compassion and humanity. My prayer is that it will lead to greater understanding and acceptance of all individuals on the autism spectrum in the community.

Straightjacket, Please!

After months of kvetching about my lack of reliable transportation, I have put on my "big girl panties" and am preparing (tonight) to sell my Uplander mini-van, which just so happens to have been my dear, departed mother's vehicle. I purchased it from Dad after Mom flew home to the angels.

He said he didn't want it anymore because it didn't have enough legroom. I know better.

On Friday, I went to an area dealership and promptly fell in love with another car. Which brings me to today's bout of existential angst. In order to purchase the new vehicle, I have to get rid of the old vehicle, which I thought I was no longer in love with until I began cleaning it out today.

I started at the back end of the car, where the first aid kit resided amongst discarded juice boxes, a copy of Junie B. Jones First Grader, assorted candy wrappers, broken crayons, and countless fur-covered peanut M&Ms and sticky pistachio hulls. To say that my hands encountered the most disgusting morass of vile childhood trash is an understatement. I washed from the elbows to the tips of my fingers after I was done.

As I worked my way forward, to the front of the car, and the glove compartment in particular, I found the vehicle delivery paperwork signed in my mother's beautiful scrolled handwriting, her own version of a first aid kit, and all of the original tags and stickers from the day she bought the car, all lovingly stowed away for me to find just now. It was like discovering a time capsule and recognizing that a little part of her still existed somewhere on God's green earth.

I had to resist the urge to lift the paperwork to my nose and sniff deeply of its fibers to catch one last whiff of her...something I caught myself doing frequently in the days after she passed. The human heart just doesn't understand loss. And, even four years later, when I've supposedly made so much progress with my grief, I find that my heart is still incapable of understanding.

And so, I go to the dealership this afternoon with a heavy heart, knowing that I am absolutely doing the right thing, that my mother is looking down on me and wishing me every happiness in the world, including having a new car that isn't hellbent on killing me.

But when I hand those keys over, I know I will be sad, because even though I never really liked the car much, I will be giving away my last tie to her. I won't be able to put my hands on the places where her hands rested on the steering wheel. And, I won't be able to have my one-sided conversations with her because it was the one place I felt closest to her. How is it that I can hate the mechanics of the van but also love it so much because of who owned it?

Did I mention that I need serious therapy?

I am sure I will work all of this out on my own this evening. And, I will pray that the family who purchases this car loves it as much as the original owner. Because this Chevrolet Uplander mini-van deserves to be loved that much.

And I am not capable. Not anymore.

A Tale of Woe For Tuesday

I own a mini-van. I realize I could stop this post right here.

I mean, really, who wants to drive a mini-van? Even as a young girl, I found them hideous and unsightly. And now, I drive one. Piteous, isn't it?

Alas, I have children. They cannot drive. Therefore, I am forced to act as their chauffeur. Which explains why I own said damnable mini-van. Having a family means you have to have a family roadster.

I am in the market to trade in this family roadster and move up to a mid-sized SUV with seating for 8. Think GMC Acadia or Honda Pilot.

And, I would already have one if:

(1) At exactly the moment the odometer on my mini-van clicked over to 100,000 miles, the transmission promptly chose to stop working, forcing us to purchase and have installed a $2,200 rebuilt transmission that - GET THIS! - is only warrantied for another 24,000 miles.

Thank you, sir, I'll have another...

(2) Inexplicably, while driving to Rotary the other day with a very nice man in my car who I was innocently taking there as my guest, the Antilock Braking System (ABS) decides to fry out and I barely get the damn thing stopped as I skid to a stop at a yellow light. I don't know who was more mortified - him or me, as we both watched our collective lives flash before our eyes. This man almost died for a slice of slimy lasagna!

Oh, it gets EVEN BETTER...

(3) I explain to my Dear Husband that the van brakes are kaput over dinner the next night. The poor man wants to go out right then and drive the hunk of junk just to replicate the soul-snatching experience of skidding through intersections that I experienced just the day before. We promptly drop the car off at Robertson's Tire, where they diagnose the wheel bearings as being shot. Apparently, the ABS system is attached to the wheel bearings in Chevrolet Uplander mini-vans. There's some information you'll need for your next round of Trivial Pursuit!

A mere $275 later, I have my car back in time for the weekend.

(4) On Saturday, while on a trip to Tulsa to return some jeans that didn't fit my growing corn-fed son, the "Service ABS System" light returns to mock me with its red glowing eyes. This morning, on the way to school, I barely get the thing stopped as the brakes slip yet again!

Dear God in Heaven, who loves me, and Whom I love dearly, I just want to trade this car in. I would prefer not to tow it to the dealership, as it does not help the trade-in value when one does that. Plus, I really don't look any better riding in a tow truck than I do riding in this steel gray rattletrap that is hell-bent to take my life with its brake slippage. All this to say, I NEED A NEW CAR NOW!

Hugs and kisses with sugar on top,

ClareMom

Brownie Pie

For Thanksgiving 2009, my Aunt Lesta, Uncle Mike, and cousin Shelly decided, on the spur of the moment, to get in the car and drive up from Katy, Texas to our house in Claremore to celebrate the holiday. Just a few months later, they were back (with Shelly's daughter, Paige) for Grandma Remke's funeral and then a few weeks after that, they were back for my Great Aunt Isabelle's 80th Birthday Party.

On one of those three visits (and I can't remember exactly which one), I made Brownie Pie. I had two pie shells that needed to be used and I had all of the ingredients for my yummy homemade brownies, so I thought, "What the heck? I'll make a Brownie Pie."



Don't ask me how I thought to combine brownies and pie, because I can't remember that, either.

It doesn't pay to get old. Trust me.

This strange dessert apparently made quite an impression, because Aunt Lesta recently asked for the recipe. And, I've been really busy around this place after the holidays. She's moved from asking to reminding to begging. Hounding is surely next.

So, my sweet Aunt Lesta, sister of my beloved mother, what follows is my Brownie Pie recipe. Please note that this recipe (minus the pie crust) also makes a fine pan of regular old brownies, too, crispy around the edges and moist and chewy toward the center.

Begin with two sticks of sweet cream (unsalted) butter (1/2 pound). Add two and a half cups of packed light brown sugar and six one-ounce bars of chocolate - three unsweetened and three semi-sweet.



Microwave these just until the chocolate is melted. Stir together well. Preheat your oven to 325 degrees.

Meanwhile, crack four eggs into a separate bowl and whisk them together.



Unroll a Pillsbury pie crust and place in a pie plate. Crimp the corners.



Add two teaspoons of vanilla extract and the eggs to the chocolate mixture, stirring quickly to combine. Be sure to stir quickly or you could end up with scrambled eggs.



Next, add two cups of all-purpose flour and 1/2 teaspoon of salt. Mix well.



Place chocolate brownie mixture into the raw pie shell. Bake at 325 degrees for 35 to 40 minutes, or until set.



Allow to cool completely on a wire rack and serve with ice cream or Cool Whip.



To make brownies instead, pour brownie mixture into a greased 9x13-inch Pyrex pan and bake 40 minutes at 325 degrees.

Rich and decadent - two words you will surely use to describe this dessert. Enjoy, Aunt Lesta!