by Jim Bradford
Apparently his home bathing routine involved only a washcloth, soap, and a bathroom sink. That was plenty when he was younger, but now his personal-hygiene needs were such that he required a tub and lots of hot water. Bath time followed supper on Saturday nights at our house. He was the most enthusiastic bather I have ever witnessed. Water splashed everywhere, especially when we played bathtub basketball. I always spread out extra towels just to keep the bathroom from flooding. Brenda didn’t mind the few extra loads of laundry. Besides, she loved hearing our commotion from the far end of the house and appreciated the squeaky-clean results.
I’d seen HK wear the same shorts, T-shirts, tube socks, and shoes year-round, but now it was time for a change. One thing I’ve learned during my career in the clothing industry is that high-quality, well-fitting clothes are a genuine game changer for almost everyone. A positive first impression, a healthy self-image, and an aura of pride are just a few of the more tangible benefits that the right wardrobe brings to anyone with the self-respect to care about his or her appearance. For HK, it was more about looking like other boys his age.
Brenda and I discussed HK and his clothing options and decided that he needed clothes suitable for a boy his age. So we went shopping for polo-type shirts, khaki pants, lace-up and Velcro men’s shoes, and other accessories, such as belts, socks, and underwear. As he grew, I invested in more formal attire, including a sport coat, dress shirts and pants, shoes, bow ties, and even a tuxedo for the numerous wedding invitations that began arriving in our mail for him.
Finding good-quality clothes was easy; getting them altered to fit HK’s malformed body proved both difficult and a bit expensive. The postpartum stroke HK had suffered caused his withered right arm to be considerably shorter than his left arm and his right leg to be shorter than his left leg. His right foot was a size 3 while his left foot was a size 5. Fortunately, I knew an excellent tailor who masterfully modified each clothing item to perfection. Shoes, however, proved to be a unique and more costly problem. Just as Pearl had done, I had to buy two pairs of the exact same shoe for him in different sizes, and the right shoe required a built-up sole to accommodate his shorter right leg.
Seeing the results of his properly fitted clothing was worth it, though. Now he looked like any other well-dressed young boy. In his struggle to break out of a lifetime of isolation, dressing well and looking sharp reinforced his self-confidence and provided him with important emotional comfort.
CHAPTER 17
“Don’t Worry; Mr. Bradford
Is a Good Driver”
Brenda and I cherished our overnight weekends with HK, but sometimes our little visitor altered family plans and caused us to limit long-standing social outings with friends. We included him in many social gatherings, yet there were occasions when we needed adult time with friends, so we reserved most every Friday night for “adult functions.” Brenda explained to HK that those were events that children do not attend. This was a new concept to HK, who later commented to her, “I never heard of adult functions until I met you.”
On Sunday evenings after church, a group of friends, including HK, usually met for a casual dinner. One particular Sunday night we met at Back Yard Burgers, a drive-through and walk-up hamburger chain. The food order line snaked down the sidewalk as our large group gathered, but the line moved quickly, and we were soon approaching the order window. Before we could say a word, the young cashier peered out the window and said, “Well, hello, HK.”
“Hi, what’s your name?” HK asked.
“I’m Stacy.”
“Are you the same Stacy that used to work with my Grammy at Mrs. Winner’s?”
“Why, yes, I am.”
With every ounce of sincerity in his small body and the innocence of a child, yet in a voice loud enough to be heard by every person in the parking lot, HK erupted, “Are you Stacy that got fired for smoking marijuana on the job?”
Embarrassed yet truthful, he replied, “Yes, HK, I’m the same Stacy.”
“I’m sorry you got fired. I hope you’ve stopped smoking marijuana.”
“Thank you, HK. I’ve definitely learned my lesson.”
Brenda and I looked at each other, each reading the other’s mind. Did he just say what we thought he said? Others simply turned away to hide their laughter.
The last weekend of July 2001 found middle Tennessee sweltering through another hot, humid stretch of summer. Brenda and I had planned to forgo church that Sunday to make our semiannual visit to her widowed aunt who lived in Lenoir City, Tennessee, about a 150-mile drive east of Nashville.
We had struggled the day before with thoughts of HK being left behind on Sunday in a lonely restaurant. We made a pact that if Pearl approved, we would take him with us. So I posed the question to Pearl: “Would you allow HK to accompany us to Lenoir City?” Immediately he chimed in, saying, “Grammy, I want to go. I’ve never been to Lenoir City.” She relented under the double-barreled assault, saying, “Okay, but I sure will miss you, and you’ll have to be very careful.”
“Grammy, you know I will be careful. And you don’t need to worry; Mr. Bradford is a good driver.”
The next morning we picked up HK at the restaurant for an early start to a long day. He told Pearl good-bye while she reminded me, “Drive carefully, and take good care of my grandson.”
As we settled in for our three-hour interstate road trip, he wasted no time asking where we were and what we were seeing on both sides of the road. After more descriptions of hotels, office buildings, and airport runways than she ever imagined possible, Brenda began to limit her answers mostly to describing houses, barns, animals, trees, and other cars.
We took a short break for restrooms, chocolate milk, sweet iced tea, and coffee at McDonald’s in Cookeville, about halfway to our final destination. Not even ten minutes after resuming our drive, HK asked, “Brenda, where are we?”
“The interstate sign says we are coming up on Monterey.”
“That’s where Byron ‘Low Tax’ Looper murdered State Senator Tommy Burks.”
“What did you say?”
“Monterey is where Byron ‘Low Tax’ Looper murdered State Senator Tommy Burks in October 1998.”
Stunned, neither one of us could think of a thing to say in response. News about the gruesome 1998 murder and Looper’s arrest had flashed across Tennessee and the nation, but that was three years ago. Byron Looper, the elected Putnam County tax assessor, had legally changed his middle name to “Low Tax” during his campaign for assessor. He ran for the state senate in 1998 against the incumbent Burks, a popular politician and well-known farmer who had held the position for twenty-eight years. Burks was found murdered during the campaign, and Byron “Low Tax” Looper was convicted of committing the crime. We kept HK’s odd bit of trivia in our minds and wondered how he knew such a strange story and remembered it so well.
We started a gradual climb up the Cumberland Plateau, a large, flat-topped tableland that rises more than one thousand feet above the region around it. The plateau is generally considered the dividing line between middle and east Tennessee. We were ten miles west of Crossville, and I was driving sixty-five in the faster left lane behind two eighteen-wheelers when suddenly Brenda screamed, “Jimmy, stop! You’re going to hit that truck!”
Without warning, the truck ahead was attempting an emergency stop, with smoke billowing from the rear tires and the dual-wheeled trailer swerving back and forth. I hit my brakes, and all I could think was, God, please don’t let anything happen to HK.
I managed to stop barely twelve inches from the trailer in front, but the vehicles following us were not so fortunate. Turning around to check on HK, I heard brakes squealing and the sickening sound of metal smashing into metal—and I was helpless. It seemed to happen in slow motion, but in reality it was only a microsecond later when we were violently jarred as the sounds of breaking glass and crunching metal exploded behind us. When the noise ended, our SUV was sandwiched between the vehicle behind and the tra
ctor-trailer in front.
I looked first at Brenda, and other than being doused with iced tea, she appeared to be fine. Turning to the backseat, I asked, “HK, are you okay?” I almost lost it when he did not respond and mightily struggled to get his breath, but he was laughing! I was flabbergasted. Immediately I remembered the day he had first met Brenda and how I discovered that people with cerebral palsy often react the opposite way you would expect in highly charged emotional situations. Finally he said, “I’m okay. What happened?”
While Brenda explained that we had been in an accident, I opened the rear door, unbuckled his seat belt, gave him a reassuring hug, and told him that we were all safe. I checked him thoroughly from head to toe and found nothing worse than a small red spot on his forehead, probably caused by hitting his head on the back of the front seat. He was fine, and his breathing was back to normal, but mine was not. I silently thanked God that we had all escaped unharmed.
With Brenda and HK safe, I turned my attention to the other vehicles around us. I assisted a young mother who had two hysterical children still buckled into their car seats in a Honda minivan behind us. She was dazed but unhurt, and her children were just scared. Their crushed vehicle suffered major damage, so I helped move them to the grassy interstate median.
Traffic on our side of the interstate was at a standstill while cars heading west pulled over to help. Luggage, clothing, and personal items were scattered along the highway for twenty or thirty yards. A canary-yellow Chevy Camaro convertible lay upside down on the highway ahead with no movement or sounds coming from underneath. Later we learned that the driver had lost control, jumped the median, and struck a fully loaded eighteen-wheeler just two vehicles ahead of us. It was a double-fatality car crash. Fearing that an accident of this magnitude might make statewide news, I called Pearl to let her know what had happened. HK and I both assured her that he was safe.
Somewhere in the midst of the highway confusion, emergency crews and highway patrol officers arrived on scene. One unharmed victim of the multiple-vehicle pileup was a veteran female police officer. Though she was not in uniform, within minutes she began using her professional skills to render first aid and direct people back to their cars and out of danger. Even after self-identifying as a police officer, she was forced to take a firm stance with some of the more stubborn victims.
She approached our vehicle while I stood outside checking HK. I explained my concern for him and told her that my young friend was blind, had cerebral palsy, and appeared to have sustained a blow to the head where we could see a small red spot on his forehead.
“Hi, young man,” she said confidently. “My name is Nancy. I’m a police officer in Scranton, Pennsylvania. Let me take a look.”
“Hello, Nancy. My name is HK. When’s your birthday?”
She told him, and he immediately responded that her next birthday would be on a Friday. “Wow!” Nancy said. “How do you know that?”
“I just know.”
Nancy felt his head, looked at the red spot, took his pulse, and pronounced him in excellent shape, without injuries.
We learned that Nancy, along with her young niece and nephew, were returning from a family reunion in Mississippi. None of her passengers were injured, and their van was drivable, with nothing worse than minor fender damage. She brought her youthful travelers to meet HK, and in no time they, too, were dazzled by his amazing birth-date skills.
It was clear that the small pickpocket had bagged another unwary victim when, two weeks later, a package for HK arrived at our house from the Scranton Police Department. He was thrilled to find a handwritten note from Nancy, along with a Scranton Police Department polo shirt complete with an embroidered badge and a police ball cap. An official proclamation, signed by the chief of police, naming him an “Honorary Member of the Scranton Police Department” made the surprise parcel even more special.
Three hours after the chain-reaction crash, eastbound interstate traffic finally began moving again. Luckily, our vehicle suffered only minor damage to both bumpers and was completely drivable. It was only later that I noticed the upholstery and headliner had been splattered with coffee and tea.
Brenda called her aunt to explain our unfortunate travel delay. It was midafternoon when we finally arrived at the home of ninety-year-old Leona Shelton. Since she had no children, Brenda was mildly anxious about her reaction to young HK. We recalled how she enjoyed our girls when they were young, but in recent years we had begun to notice that Aunt Leona could be quite difficult at times. We heard that she often complained about misbehaving children at the Baptist church where she had been an active member for more than half a century.
When we introduced HK to the elderly matriarch, he greeted her politely, saying, “It’s nice to meet you, Aunt Shelton.”
“It’s nice to meet you, too, HK. I’ve heard lots about you from Brenda and Jim,” she replied.
“Aunt Shelton, when is your birthday?”
“Honey, I’m so old I don’t think you want to know.”
It was love at first sight for both the eleven-year-old blind boy and the refined Southern lady. HK hugged her right away, and for the next hour he sat snuggled next to her in the high-backed antique chair that was her customary seat during our visits. I never remembered her sharing it with anyone before—not even with our young daughters.
Until Aunt Leona’s death four years later, we made the six-hour round-trip drive to Lenoir City once every three months. Brenda took plenty of pictures each time, sharing precious images of HK with her elderly aunt, many of them sitting together talking. It wasn’t unusual to see the framed results prominently displayed throughout the house during our next visit.
A few weeks after her funeral, the attorney for Leona’s estate gave Brenda a large box collected from personal effects in her house. It was filled with a lifetime of family photographs, but the ones on top included more than two dozen images of Leona and her new special friend. Frequently we heard him say, “I miss Aunt Shelton. I wish she hadn’t died. She was such a nice lady, and I loved her.”
CHAPTER 18
Bluegrass and Friends
Nashville is a music lover’s paradise. Live music filters out from all kinds of areas and bubbles up in some strange places. In this town, sidewalk serenaders, honky-tonk cover bands, or a baby-faced restaurant server could be the next overnight sensation.
For as long as I can remember, I have been an avid bluegrass music fan. So I was delighted to discover a local bagel shop that has been presenting for several years now a Thursday night live bluegrass show as its way to increase customer traffic. Local pickers and singers combine with a semiregular house band to make a unique experience for the establishment’s patrons, complete with bagels and fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. Our group of friends and Brenda and I are such loyal music lovers that we refer to our outings there as “Thursday night church.”
Three years after meeting HK, we started attended the bluegrass church together. I had asked him if he liked bluegrass music, and he had answered exactly as expected: “Yes, I love bluegrass music!”
That summer we became regular churchgoers, rarely missing Thursday night sessions. Normally we arrived no later than 6:00 p.m. to get good seats close to the band and enjoy dinner together. The bagel shop had a combination of round tables and chairs plus a few rectangular farm tables with bench seats on one side and chairs on the other. It was always standing room only.
I took pride in knowing that HK’s transformation into an engaging, outgoing personality was now in full bloom, just three years since our first meeting. He seemed to be awakening from a dark place that had been his reality since birth. No longer withdrawn into a lonely shell, with his radiant smile and inquisitive nature, he connected with total strangers like no one I had ever seen. His amazing gift of memory and his day-of-the-week birthday trick immediately captured everyone’s attention. Folks who might have started out as strangers quickly became part of his merry band of friends.
I stayed on guard, listening carefully and prepared to intervene if his tableside conversation went too far. Having personal experience with his endless interrogations, I knew that not everyone would appreciate his unrelenting questions. If I didn’t come to their rescue, the conversation might last most of the evening.
One hot July night we made our usual trek to the bagel shop for a dose of bluegrass revival. It was a typical evening with a music-hungry full house. As luck would have it, we had an empty seat at our table. Just before the music started, a young woman scooted into it and, without introducing herself, said, “May I sit with you?”
“Of course, be our guest.”
Within seconds HK extended his left arm and started exploring. Reaching as far as possible while moving his arm back and forth, he finally touched her arm.
“Hi, what’s your name?” he asked.
“My name is Karen. What’s your name?” she whispered, trying not to disturb other listeners.
“I’m HK,” he replied, not whispering.
“What’s your last name?”
“Lowe.”
“Have I met you before?”
“No, I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Where do you live?”
I knew immediately where this was going.
“Hi, Karen, I’m Jim,” I said apologetically. “HK, Karen is here to listen to music. Let’s not ask any more questions right now.”
He complied and put a temporary hold on his cross-examination. Looking at his small, inquisitive face, I could tell he yearned to know more about Karen and wouldn’t be happy until he did. The bluegrass pickers played for forty-five minutes and then took a short intermission. During the break I usually ordered fresh-baked cookies for the two of us, but tonight HK had another agenda.
