by Jim Bradford
The three of us enjoyed our after-dinner conversation so much we completely lost track of time. During one lull in our tableside chat, HK pushed the button on his talking wristwatch. “It’s 6:55 p.m.,” the watch declared. I suddenly came alert. Pearl’s shift ended in five minutes, and I was supposed to have the boy back before she got off work. I immediately called her. Not wanting to start off our first home visit on the wrong foot, I told her we were having so much fun enjoying time together that we hoped she would allow him to stay a bit longer. My offer to bring him home later helped seal the deal.
Soon after Brenda finished kitchen-cleanup duty, we moved our conversation to the den. HK sat on the sofa next to Brenda, holding her hand as they talked for more than two hours. Before I left to take him home, HK hugged Brenda tightly and said, “Brenda, thank you for letting me eat with you and Mr. Bradford. You are the world’s best cook, and you make really good broccoli. I love you.”
“HK, I love you too,” she proclaimed in a voice that betrayed a sizable lump in her throat.
As we left the house, I noticed a familiar twinkle in my wife’s eyes. Invisibly, silently, the small pickpocket had struck again, snatching another unsuspecting heart. Our lives would never be the same.
Interstate traffic was heavy for a December Saturday night, no doubt because it was the holiday party season. Pearl had given me detailed directions, but nighttime driving made me naturally cautious, especially since I was venturing into an unfamiliar part of Nashville. HK was not equipped for navigator duties, so I was on my own.
As we approached the East Nashville area where they lived, I noticed scores of cars that had seen better days lined bumper-to-bumper along the street. People milled around in open areas and on front porches of the James A. Cayce Homes, Nashville’s largest public housing project. The only warmth came from strings of twinkling Christmas lights lining most of the units.
I clenched the steering wheel tighter and accelerated a tad faster as we drove east through the projects for seven city blocks and then south for six more. Finally I reached Electric Avenue, a street lined with small, 1950s-style wood frame houses. I stopped in front of the only white house without any Christmas decorations—just a brightly lit front porch. I could see no window coverings anywhere as I verified the house number. With the inside lights burning brightly, all I could see were cardboard boxes stacked to the ceiling.
“HK, your Christmas decorations aren’t up yet. When does Grammy usually put them out?”
“We don’t really have any Christmas decorations. Grammy says they cost too much and they’re too much trouble.”
“Not even a Christmas tree?”
“No, we’ve never done that.”
“What about Santa Claus? Does he visit your house on Christmas Eve?”
“No, I’ve never met him.”
We got out of the car and walked up the porch steps where Pearl patiently waited. Right away HK began telling her everything about his evening and Brenda’s wonderful food. I clumsily expressed appreciation for her understanding, allowing us a longer visit than expected. But the whole time I was looking past her, through the front door and into a living room filled with more boxes but no evidence of furniture or Christmas. My heart sank as I grasped the sad reality. I could think of nothing else during my return trip to Brentwood.
If Brenda had her way, Christmas would be a year-round celebration at the Bradford house. Instead, she settles for the month of December. She starts planning and organizing our sizable assortment of decorations the day after Thanksgiving. With years of collecting, she has lots of them. Typically it takes an entire week and hours of Christmas music to achieve the desired festive transformation.
My major responsibility each year is erecting our nine-foot Christmas tree in the den. The chore of placing wreaths on the outside doors and hanging lights across the front of the house also falls to me, but the end result of our collective efforts always adds more to the holiday atmosphere than a dozen snowfalls.
I returned home that Saturday night anxious to share my news with Brenda.
“You won’t believe what I discovered when we pulled into their driveway,” I began. “Not only did they not have a tree or any holiday decorations, but HK told me they don’t celebrate Christmas and don’t exchange gifts.”
“You can’t be serious,” she replied. “Did he sound sad or disappointed that they didn’t celebrate Christmas?”
“No, he was just matter-of-fact about it. He said Grammy told him she didn’t have money or time for such things every year.”
Her final words on the subject were short and to the point. “Well, we’ll see about that.”
On Sunday afternoon Brenda swung into action and sent me all over town with detailed lists of Christmas paraphernalia to lug home. Within a week she added two more special friends to our list of handpicked and wrapped gifts. She decorated a small Christmas tree for HK that matched the one in our den and surrounded it with presents. A few days before Christmas, we hosted Pearl and HK for a holiday celebration complete with refreshments, fellowship, and presents for both of them.
CHAPTER 15
“I Just Know Dates”
HK and I made the four-mile trip from Mrs. Winner’s to our house on Harpeth River Drive almost every weekend. Brenda and I anticipated the pure joy he brought with him every time he came. We discovered on these visits that his thirst for knowledge never slowed, and his mind never shifted out of fifth gear except when sleeping.
“Brenda, how long have you lived in this house? Mr. Bradford, where did this (object) come from? What is this? What is it used for?”
During one visit he asked a question that puzzled us both: “Brenda, can I explore your house?” We looked at each other, wondering what “explore” meant to a blind ten-year-old boy.
Brenda hesitantly replied, “Sure, HK, if you’ll be careful and let Mr. Bradford help you.”
“Brenda, you know I will. I’m always careful.”
Apparently his definition of explore was to move slowly and methodically through every room of the house, gently touching each furniture piece and objects on tables, beds, and the floor. He carefully caressed each item and asked specific questions about it. If he picked up any object, he delicately returned it to its original place before slowly moving his left hand to find the next object.
His exploration began in the den, where he gradually worked his way around the room until he was satisfied that he had inventoried everything. Then he moved into the next room in short, synchronized steps like a small robot. Upon reaching the door frame to the next room, he asked, “Whose room is this?”
“This is our daughter Julie’s bedroom.”
“I didn’t think Julie lived here anymore.”
“She doesn’t. It’s still her room when she comes home to visit.”
As before, he used walls and other large pieces of furniture to guide himself as he carefully shuffled around the room’s outer edges. He touched every object as though it was a delicate figurine that could be easily shattered without extra-special care.
Convinced that he was sufficiently familiar with Julie’s bedroom, he found his way back to the door and turned left down the hallway to the next room. This methodical exploration continued for over an hour until he had covered every square inch of the house. Strangely, he repeated this same routine during each of his next five visits. And since that time, he has never asked to go “exploring” again.
With Brenda now smitten and eagerly awaiting time with HK, our weekend visits expanded to include most Saturday and Sunday afternoons. About thirteen months after my first cup of senior coffee, we began a new and exciting chapter of our expanding friendship. Unlike our connection up to this point, this new chapter built HK’s rapport with other adults and children his own age. With Pearl’s blessing, HK began attending church with us.
My family had been active members of the Harpeth Hills Church of Christ in Brentwood for more than twenty-three years. Brenda and I
were convinced that attending church with us would yield many significant benefits for HK. He would have a special event to anticipate every Sunday instead of his usual eight-hour confinement at the restaurant. Pearl would get a bit of relief from the responsibility of keeping him at work, and we would enjoy having a young person accompany us to church, something we’d missed since our girls had left home. It was a win-win idea that would truly be a unique experience for HK.
When we entered the church auditorium with him that first Sunday morning, Brenda and I felt like aliens from outer space. Every head turned, casting a steady gaze on us and our tottering young guest. Some folks, knowing we didn’t yet have grandchildren, gave us looks so curious we could almost see the question marks in their eyes. Others simply gawked at the spectacle of his halting gait.
The young first-time visitor hung on every word uttered during that worship service, absorbing unfamiliar sounds while imagining the peculiar events surrounding him—the singing, the sermon, and the strange voices. He was the perfect gentleman and held my hand most of the time, something he still does today.
One of the closing announcements near the end of the service informed the congregation of an adults-only Christmas brunch to be held the following Sunday after worship. The announcer made it clear that children would attend their regular Sunday school classes while adults would gather for the holiday brunch. Upon hearing this news, HK instantly cocked his head to the right so that his good ear was directed toward the announcer. He did not miss any details.
Later, as we drove out of the parking lot, HK spilled what was on his mind.
“Brenda, can kids attend the brunch next week?” he asked. She glanced at me with a smile as she winked and said, “Well, HK, I think so. Do you like brunches?”
“Yes, Brenda, I just loooove brunches.”
“That’s fine; you can attend the brunch with us.”
“Thank you, Brenda! I just loooove brunches.”
He could talk about nothing else for the rest of that day. During his visit on the following Saturday, he constantly told us how much he anticipated the church’s holiday brunch. He simply could not say enough about it, although he gave it a valiant try. I think he told Brenda more than ten times how much he appreciated being able to attend the church brunch.
“Brenda, thank you for letting me come to the brunch tomorrow. You know I just loooove brunches.”
“HK, you’re welcome, and I’m so glad you can go with us. Mr. Bradford will pick you up in the morning at the restaurant, and we’ll enjoy the holiday brunch together and—”
“Brenda! Brenda!”
“Yes, HK?”
“Brenda, what’s a brunch?”
We looked at each other simultaneously and started howling. He joined in the laughter, even though he had no clue as to the reason for it. Since that experience we have relished many unexpected, untimely, and unintended comments from the once-sheltered young boy. He constantly keeps us in stitches.
As the mother of two grown daughters, Brenda has developed an intuitive sixth sense when it comes to children. After a few months of HK sitting through church and Sunday school classes with us, she sprung another fantastic idea: “I think it would be good for him to be in a Sunday school class with other children rather than sitting in a classroom of adults.” We thought he should join the third-grade class, so we approached a close family friend and outstanding Sunday school teacher about HK joining her third-grade classroom. “Yes, I’d love to have him,” she responded.
This decision seemed like such a wise choice at the time, but our friend soon helped us realize our mistake. HK’s limited social and verbal skills had not prepared him for a third-grade class, even at the Tennessee School for the Blind. We never realized that he had not yet progressed to the third-grade level at school, even though he was the same age as his classmates.
The teacher quickly discovered that he was unable to function effectively with his group of Sunday school classmates. They were as unprepared for him as he was for third grade. All his classmates had attended church their entire lives and were knowledgeable of Bible stories and church songs, and most could recite Bible verses. They found it difficult to interact with HK. Like most kids, they stared at him a lot.
After a valiant two-week effort, our friend politely shared her observations and misgivings with Brenda. She offered a ray of hope and gently said, “Don’t worry. I know things will work out. We just need to find the right class for him.” The following week she discussed his situation with the other elementary Sunday school teachers. Everyone believed first grade would be a perfect match.
Bingo! At age ten, HK was four or five years older, but physically smaller, than most of his new classmates. Unlike third graders, these younger kids didn’t seem to notice his disabilities. They thought he was pretty cool since he could read braille with his fingers and wore large white plastic braces on his legs. HK, who sensed he knew a little more than the younger children, was thrilled in his new environment and made friends easily. His unique personality began to unfold like a rose in springtime.
A year passed, and we had hardly attended a church service without HK. One Sunday morning as he and I slowly walked down a hallway toward the church auditorium, we overheard two adult friends in casual conversation. One man said to the other, “The meeting is scheduled for Thursday, March 12th.” Out of the blue HK stopped abruptly, almost causing us to fall. He turned his head toward the man’s voice and said, “Mister, March 12th is on a Tuesday.” Not fully understanding the unexpected comment and never having met this boy before, he asked, “What did you say?”
“March 12th is on Tuesday, not Thursday,” HK replied. “Thursday is the 14th.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am sure.”
The man was skeptical. Surely he couldn’t have made such a mistake. He pulled out his PalmPilot and scrolled down until he found March 12. Then he exclaimed, “Son, you’re absolutely right! It is Tuesday. How did you know that?”
“I don’t know how I know. I just know dates.”
“That’s a pretty good trick.”
Both men smiled and shook their heads in amazement. Without saying a word, HK tugged on my hand, letting me know he was ready to resume our walk. As we left church later that morning, I asked him, “How did you know March 12th was on a Tuesday?”
“I don’t know how I know. Grammy says I have a special gift.”
“You never told me about your special gift.”
“You never asked me.”
CHAPTER 16
“Will You Stay Until I
Say My Prayers?”
Not long afterward, Brenda hatched yet another brilliant idea. “I think HK should just stay at our house on Saturday nights.” Her rationale was well grounded and similar to the one used to gain Pearl’s approval for attending church. With HK staying over on Saturday nights, Pearl would get a much-needed break, I would have a chance to dress him for church, and he would get an extra hour of sleep. Plus, I would be relieved from driving to his Electric Avenue home late on Saturday nights. Brenda bolstered her idea by reminding me that we had three perfectly good bedrooms that were rarely used. It dawned on me as she was crafting her closing argument that Brenda, who only months earlier had cautioned me about becoming overly attached to this special little boy, now enjoyed his company just as much as I did. Or maybe even more.
The following Sunday evening I stood on Pearl’s front porch and explained Brenda’s idea. I spoke softly, not wanting HK to overhear our conversation in case the answer was no. But from somewhere inside the house, he chimed in with, “Grammy, I would like to spend Saturday night with Mr. Bradford and Brenda.”
“Well, I guess that will be fine, but I sure will miss you. This house will be quiet and lonely,” she declared.
“Grammy, I’ll only be gone one night. You won’t miss me, and I’ll be fine. It will give you a chance to get some rest. Grammy, I love you.”
And the deal was
done. Pearl handed him off to us with his doctor’s contact information and specific instructions to follow in case he suffered a seizure. His last seizure had been three years ago, at age seven. We equipped our home with a breathing machine and kept ample supplies of his daily medications.
His first overnight visit was a unique experience for all of us. As far as I knew, neither he nor Pearl had attended church regularly, but I was pleased to learn that her routine with HK included a nightly prayer before bedtime. The first time I tucked him into bed, he asked, “Mr. Bradford, will you stay with me until I say my prayers?” Every prayer began the same way. First he prayed for his daddy and asked God to “unshackle” him, a term he’d likely learned from the fiery radio preacher. Then he prayed softly for God to unshackle his grandfather and began a long prayer list that always included Grammy, Brenda, me, and a host of other people whom he had heard were sick or experiencing some difficulty in their lives. His list of names was often so long that he actually fell asleep mouthing his words, but I’m confident God heard every one.
Now, for sixteen years since that first night, my weekend routine has included picking up HK early Saturday morning and returning him home bathed and wearing clean clothes by ten thirty Sunday night. Welcoming a houseguest of any age tends to be awkward at first, especially one who has special needs. Fortunately, HK was an easygoing child, and our weekend transition took little effort. He was readily entertained, listening to music or watching any available sporting event. His favorite pastime was playing dominos and card games with Brenda and me or friends who happened to drop by occasionally.
Bridget’s bedroom was slowly transformed into HK’s weekend living quarters. Having a room of his own was something he had never experienced at his home in East Nashville. There he shared a bedroom with Pearl, sleeping on a small child’s bed in a room with practically no closet or storage space.
