by Jim Bradford
A few Sundays later, on July 13, 2003, the lengthy cover story titled “Like a Father, Like a Son” finally appeared in the Life magazine section of the Tennessean. As if on cue, the telephone rang early that morning. It was Brenda calling from Atlanta, where she was on a weekend business trip. She was eager to hear if the Sunday paper had arrived and whether I had read the article.
“I just finished reading it, and I think it’s great,” I replied. “I’ve got tears in my eyes. They did a wonderful job.”
She knew HK would be excited when I read him the article and described the touching photographs that captured the essence of our special story. “Please tell HK I am very proud of him.”
In the quietness of our empty house, I sipped my morning coffee and slowly digested the article again, this time savoring every eloquent phrase and descriptive detail that our journalist friends had used to communicate our passionate tale. In the sports world HK would be called a champion. Our friends were beginning to see him as a celebrity. But I knew he was a miracle.
CHAPTER 20
“You Know, I’m Famous”
The swirling whirlwind of fame caught us all by surprise, especially HK. Having his life story read by more than a million people raised his profile and made us even more visible everywhere we went. People at church rushed to greet us that Sunday morning when the story appeared. They could not wait to tell HK they had read about him in the newspaper. Even our minister told the assembled worshipers to read the article about “one of our most famous members.”
It did not take long for the first hints of HK’s newfound fame to become full-fledged realities. He was invited to appear on Talk of the Town, the local CBS affiliate’s noon talk show, then hosted by Harry Chapman. Live television seemed to help the interviewer and his subject bond quickly as Harry walked HK through a series of questions about the article, our friendship, and some of his life-changing experiences. HK carefully answered every question, often pausing thoughtfully before speaking. But with the irrepressible HK on the set, the apparent normalcy of the talk show was not to last.
As he wrapped up the interview, Harry started narrating a live television commercial using a teleprompter. Suddenly HK interrupted him with an urgent request. From off camera, he asked, “Harry, Harry, is Ron the weatherman at the station today?”
“HK, I don’t think Ron arrives until around two o’clock.”
“Well, will you tell him I said hello when he arrives? He’s my good friend.”
“I’ll certainly do that, HK, but now I’ve got to finish this commercial.”
Cameramen and technicians on the set strained to suppress their wild laughter as the innocent little blind boy momentarily knocked Harry, the consummate television anchorman, off his game. Meanwhile, the teleprompter never slowed during the interruption. Unable to find his place in the commercial, Harry was forced to ad-lib the remainder of the advertiser’s copy, once again displaying his seasoned poise and professionalism.
After I left the television studio, my plans were to drop HK off with Pearl, but my cell phone rang before I could drive out of the station’s downtown parking lot. At first I thought someone was playing a practical joke on me as the caller introduced herself as a reporter from the local NBC television affiliate. Ironically, while we sat in her competitor’s parking lot, she was contacting us to extend an invitation to appear in a local television segment called “Unsung Heroes.”
Unlike the live on-air interview, “Unsung Heroes” was a short, prerecorded human interest segment that aired each Thursday night during the six o’clock news and on weekends. This reporter told me she had seen our story in the newspaper, and she assured me emphatically that she had no idea he had just appeared on Talk of the Town.
HK, Pearl, Brenda, and I spent hours being interviewed as the reporter gathered information for the mini-documentary. Her camera crew spent days shooting video at some of our familiar Brentwood hangouts. Although produced in a different medium than the print cover story, “Unsung Heroes” also chronicled our unlikely meeting and journey together.
Being featured in a widely read newspaper and on two television stations certainly qualified HK as a local celebrity, and he loved every second of it. Two of our favorite restaurants displayed framed autographed pictures of him next to their collection of famous country music stars. Even though it’s been many years now since the cover story first appeared, strangers who remember reading it still recognize him. It’s not unusual for people of all ages to approach us today while we’re shopping or eating. Typically, these exchanges go something like this:
“Please excuse me, but aren’t you that little boy I read about in the newspaper some years ago?”
“Yes. My name is HK. Have I met you before? What’s your name? When’s your birthday?”
Four months after surgery, while recuperating at our house, HK was shocked one day when country superstar Alan Jackson’s executive assistant called to invite us to be his special Grand Ole Opry guests the following week. Thanks to thoughtful friends who knew this assistant, they had planned the royal treatment usually reserved for Mr. Jackson’s family members, including a tour of his private bus and backstage seats at the Opry. This news helped kick HK’s recovery into high gear.
Arriving at the Grand Ole Opry that special night, our entourage was greeted by a congenial security guard with a clipboard. After carefully reviewing his guest list and satisfying himself that we were indeed the HK Derryberry party we claimed to be, he said, “Mr. Jackson is waiting to meet you. I hope you enjoy your visit to the Opry.” He directed us to a parking lot specifically reserved for Opry performers. I distinctly remember praying that Country Music Hall of Famer “Whispering Bill” Anderson wasn’t scheduled to perform that night, because we parked in his reserved spot.
Due to his surgery, HK was temporarily confined to a wheelchair. But that presented no problem because Alan and his assistant had made all the necessary arrangements, including help in transferring his special guest into the bus. I’m sure that Alan’s business associate never dreamed his job description included these kinds of tasks, but he performed it admirably, gently seating HK on a small sofa inside the luxurious motor coach.
Shortly after we were seated, Alan and Denise Jackson emerged from their private quarters and warmly greeted each of us. Wearing his trademark cowboy hat, denim shorts, and a T-shirt, he focused in on HK.
“Hi, HK. I’m Alan Jackson, and it’s very nice to meet you. I’ve heard that you’re a very special person and one of my biggest fans.”
“Hi, Alan. I’m HK, and it’s nice to meet you too.”
While talking, HK instinctively felt Alan’s leg, something he does with most men to see whether they’re wearing long pants or shorts, which HK was wearing that night. Realizing that Alan was also in shorts, he said, “I thought you wore long pants with holes in the knee!”
“I’m just relaxing and wearing shorts like you. I’ll change clothes before I perform tonight.”
“What songs are you going to sing tonight?”
“HK, I’m not sure, but I’ll decide before I go onstage.”
“Why don’t you sing your big hit ‘It’s Five O’Clock Somewhere’?”
“You know, I might just do that.”
“Alan, are you going to tell the audience that I’m here tonight? You know, I’m famous.” Everyone laughed, including Alan.
“HK, you know, I might just do that too.”
The Jacksons were so warm and gracious that we visited with them for more than an hour. Denise used Brenda’s digital camera to take a group shot, a photo that constantly reminds us of that special evening and one that remains prominently displayed on our refrigerator today.
After HK was transferred back to his wheelchair, we were directed through Opry House security to a special audience section onstage directly behind the house band. It was like having a 50-yard-line seat for the Super Bowl. After performances by Porter Wagner, Little Jimmy Dickens, the Whites, Vin
ce Gill, and Steve Warner, our new friend Alan Jackson casually strolled onstage to a rowdy welcome from his loyal fans. Wearing jeans with holes in both knees, Alan began to belt out his hit “It’s Five O’Clock Somewhere,” much to his special guest’s delight. With the final notes still ringing in our ears, Alan dedicated this song to his famous friend HK, who was visiting backstage. I’m confident that HK has this exclusive, once-in-a-lifetime memory tucked away for permanent safekeeping.
CHAPTER 21
The World’s Best Blind Pilot
Looking back now, I can see that 2003 marked a turning point for HK and me. My new best friend turned thirteen that year and began experiencing the fullness of life in ways I never could have imagined when I was that age. Even though he was now a teenager, he looked much younger. People sometimes patted his head and spoke to him as if he were a small child, but that didn’t seem to bother him. His personality overflowed with curiosity and wonder, always ready for a new challenge.
Becoming a teenager was a big deal for HK, especially when Brenda pulled out all the stops. She planned an extra-special birthday bash with friends and family at one of his favorite Brentwood restaurants. She spread the word that gifts were optional, but she asked everyone to bring a funny birthday card. Oh, how HK loved greeting cards!
Hunting for the perfect birthday card was near the top of his favorite shopping experiences. We could spend hours in our local Hallmark card shop and return the following weekend to scour for fresh inventory. Even then, his quest to find just the right message for a special person often consumed thirty minutes or more, as I read aloud verse after verse from just one section of the latest arrivals. He loved the music-playing varieties, but his main quest was for the perfect card, usually the one that made him laugh the most.
After making the perfect selection, our next hurdle was keeping him from telling the intended recipient, usually Grammy or a friend from church. He simply could not keep secrets. Most of the time the person knew weeks in advance that he or she would be receiving a greeting card and usually knew the exact message contained inside. HK always justified “spilling the beans” this way: “They just really need to know they are getting a card. Waiting for that special day is just too hard.”
The first weekend in July found Pearl, Brenda, me, and twelve of HK’s closest friends gathered for his thirteenth birthday celebration. One of them came with a special handmade card containing a surprise gift that left the birthday boy speechless. Grand Rivers, Kentucky (population 343), is home to Patty’s 1880’s Settlement, an award-winning tourist restaurant set on the western Kentucky shores of Land Between the Lakes National Recreation Area, about 115 miles northwest of Nashville. And Gary Waller thought that a visit to Patty’s would make the perfect birthday gift for a newly minted teenager, especially if it involved his first airplane flight.
Because HK was still recuperating from leg surgery, the birthday trip had to be postponed almost four months. But on a clear, frosty Saturday morning in late October, the time finally arrived for his long-awaited airplane adventure. It was a gorgeous autumn morning, sunny, without a hint of clouds in sight. Trees showcased their finest colors in shades of burnt orange, golden yellow, and fire-engine red. Winds remained calm, and even though there had been heavy frost the night before, temperatures were predicted to climb into the low sixties later that afternoon. It was a perfect day for flying.
Gary, his brother-in-law, pilot and airplane owner Chris Peugeot, HK, and I met at the John C. Tune Airport—a small general aviation airport located about eight miles west of downtown Nashville, catering mostly to corporate and private aircraft. The cold morning air—thirty-eight degrees, according to a nearby bank sign—gave us all a shiver as we left the comfort of our warm cars.
Chris was deep into his preflight checklist when we arrived. He had moved the single-engine airplane from the hangar and topped off the fuel tank. As we approached the small craft, I had serious doubts that four grown men and a teenager would fit comfortably in the tiny passenger compartment. But our experienced pilot seated us with room to spare. Chris took the left front seat—the pilot’s seat; I firmly buckled HK in the right front copilot seat; and Gary and I took the seats directly behind them, leaving his brother-in-law alone in the rear seat.
Before firing up the engine, Chris explained to HK exactly what to expect. He then took HK’s left hand and carefully guided it over every gauge and toggle switch, patiently describing their functions while allowing him to feel and understand the importance each one would play in today’s safe flight. HK grew intensely serious. I wondered if he felt any fear rising from deep inside.
Chris then carefully placed the copilot’s headset over HK’s ears. The large black headphones engulfed both sides of his face. His small head looked like the filling between two sides of a giant Oreo cookie. Chris explained the operation of the headphones and told his copilot that he’d be able to hear the air traffic controllers at Nashville International Airport some fifteen miles away.
“I will be the only one able to talk with them,” he explained. “You’ll talk to me during the flight.”
Finally, with the faint hint of a smile, Chris explained to HK that if something prevented him, the pilot, from completing the flight, then it would be the copilot’s responsibility to get everyone safely on the ground. HK listened intently to Chris’s final instructions without uttering a word. After the brief orientation ended, Chris asked, “HK, do you think you can be a good copilot and fly the plane safely?”
“Yes, I know I can. I’m the world’s best blind pilot,” he calmly replied.
The small plane shook and rattled as Chris fired up the engine. A puff of white smoke rose from under the front cowling. The engine ran smoother after idling a few minutes, and—most important to me—the smoke disappeared. Chris carefully ran through his checklist one last time as an additional safety precaution, and we were finally ready to take to the air.
“We’re ready for liftoff. HK, are you ready?” he asked.
“I’m ready!”
Chris taxied onto the runway, gave the engine full throttle, and the wheels soon lifted from the ground as we soared into the sky.
The plane climbed north, giving everyone but our copilot a picture-perfect view of the distinctive Nashville skyline ten miles away. The unmistakable twin spires of the metallic AT&T sky-scraper, the “Batman Building,” glistened in the crisp morning air like flashing beacons guiding visitors to Music City. We soon leveled off at thirty-five hundred feet, and the colorful foliage of the autumnal countryside took my breath away.
As we settled into the flight, I looked at HK to see if he had taken up the rocking movement that often overtook him when he was excited. Not a wobble. He was as solid as Gibraltar, fully engaged in his copilot’s duties, listening to the headphone chatter, and keeping as quiet as a mouse on Christmas Eve. As I studied him, I tried to imagine the thoughts that must have been running through his mind. I distinctly remember wondering if God had somehow allowed him to visualize Earth’s majestic beauty below and the enormity of the heavens above.
Chris kept receiving instructions from Nashville approach control until we cleared Nashville air space. Then we were on our own, flying under visual flight rules and Chris calling the shots. After we had reached our chosen altitude and destination heading, he said to his copilot, “HK, are you ready to fly us to Kentucky?”
“Yes, I’m ready!”
After giving him a few more instructions, Chris said, “HK, you’re now our pilot.”
We never really knew whether the copilot controlled the airplane or not, but HK took on his responsibility with utmost seriousness. He gripped the plane’s yoke so hard his knuckles turned white and his body stiffened. He was spellbound, seeming to peer out the cockpit window as though looking for anything that might interfere with our safe journey northward.
An hour later we were closing in on our small Kentucky airport. The copilot relinquished the controls as Chris contacted the air
port, alerting them of our pending arrival. I felt pretty sure that the tense copilot welcomed the break, since his hands were undoubtedly sore from maintaining his death grip on the airplane’s controls.
Chris taxied us onto a large aircraft parking area, eventually settling next to a larger red-and-white plane. He shut down the engine, turned to HK, and said, “Did you enjoy your flight?”
“Yes. I did a good job flying the plane, didn’t I?”
“Perfect! You did a great job getting us here.”
A short, portly man, neatly attired in Western wear, approached as our group of air travelers entered the small terminal. His coal-black hair, with hints of gray on the sides, was swept back and glistened as if wet from liberally applied styling gel. He wore a white Western-cut cotton shirt with fancy buttons, heavily starched Levi straight-leg jeans with unbroken creases down the front, and navy cowboy boots with a small piece of ornate silver on each tip. He looked like a rodeo star a few years past his prime. The only thing missing was a ten-gallon hat.
“Is this the HK Derryberry birthday party?” the man asked.
“Yes, I’m HK, and it’s my birthday.”
“Nice to meet you, HK. I’m Harold. I’m going to drive you to Patty’s.”
“Nice to meet you, too, Harold. When’s your birthday?”
“September 12, 1957.”
“You were born on a Thursday.”
“Are you kidding me?”
Everyone climbed into the back two seats of Harold’s large, highly polished GMC Yukon, and we began the ten-minute ride to Patty’s, a century-old landmark restaurant famous for its thick pork chops and homemade bread baked in what looked like small flower-pots. The vehicle eventually came to a slow stop directly in front of the restaurant. Harold turned to the guest of honor and said, “HK, make sure you have dessert. They are out of this world.”
