It might seem a funny place for an 18-wheeler, but I wouldn't be surprised to see one at Doris Henson's funeral.
When friends die, the memories that drift through our minds somehow distill into warm and pleasant vignettes. Today, a few involvements with the Henson family are particularly striking.
Our earliest recollections of Doris reach back 19 years to First Baptist Church, where she devoted herself to the children in the nursery. Our son Barrett, a baby then, was one of her little charges.
Several years later Barrett brought us an enthusiastic report about Doris' husband, Allen. "Mom! Dad! I just saw Mr. Henson driving an 18-wheeler!" This seemed incredible, since the Hensons had a very small car. And Mr. Henson didn't quite seem the type for a big rig.
"How do you know it was Mr. Henson?" we questioned. "Well, I saw him! Then he grinned and waved at me! It had to be Mr. Henson!"
No amount of adult logic can change a 10-year-old's mind. All we could do was go to Mr. Henson himself for a ruling. No, he confessed, he didn't drive 18-wheelers. But even that didn't convince the little boy who knew what he had seen. Mr. Henson drove an 18-wheeler–in spite of his flat denial.
This story continued to spawn occasional jokes, even after Mr. Henson's death. An 18-wheeler would pass, and one of us would remark, "Barrett, see if that's Mr. Henson. Is he waving?"
I also recall being with the Hensons and having a spirited discussion on the pronunciation of words. One focal point was "copse," a small grove of trees. Was it pronounced with a long "o" (as in "she copes well") or a short "o" (as in "cops and robbers")?
The dictionary was unequivocal: short "o." Still, the long "o" crowd wasn't any more persuaded than our son had been about the 18-wheeler. They knew what they had heard all of their lives, and that was sufficient. Even now, we occasionally defer to the long "o"–and laugh.
At Doris' funeral, we'll be on the lookout for something no one else will notice. Behind a small copse of trees near the church, there's likely to be a well-concealed 18-wheeler, engine gently rumbling. And in the cab, who else but Mr. Henson, waving and grinning just like he did the day our son saw him?
One who invested so much of herself into the lives of children deserves to be escorted through the portals of heaven by a band of angels. But in this case, I won't be surprised if Doris has another escort–that cheerful fellow beckoning from his rumbling 18-wheeler.
No, I won't be surprised at all, even to hear him call out, "Hurry up, Doris! I've been waiting for you a long time! Let's go home!"
Copyright 2001 James McAlister
Recent Comments