by Jim Bradford
“I will, Harold. Thank you for the ride.”
A smiling hostess in a colorful floral dress greeted us as we entered the restaurant. She took one look at HK and said, “You must be the birthday boy.”
“Yes, my name is HK. Have I met you before?”
“Sugar, I don’t think so.”
“What’s your name?”
“Honey, my name is Barbara.”
“Barbara, when’s your birthday?”
Looking sternly at Gary and me, she reluctantly replied, “March 20, 1948.” Then HK performed his customary trick and told her she was born on a Saturday. “Honey, I’m amazed,” she muttered.
She escorted our small group to a private back corner location. After seating us, she gently touched HK’s good arm and said, “HK, I am so proud to meet you. I hope you have a wonderful birthday.”
Minutes later our waitress arrived and introduced herself.
“Who’s celebrating a birthday?”
“I’m HK, and it’s my birthday party. Have I met you before?”
“No, I don’t think we’ve met before.”
“When’s your birthday?”
She told him, and he immediately responded, “You were born on a Friday.”
“Hon, that’s impressive. Is it the truth?” she questioned.
Simultaneously everyone at the table replied, “Yes, he’s never wrong.”
She left momentarily but soon returned with several coworkers eager to meet HK. He told each of them the weekday of their next birthdays, the days of the week they were born on, and even informed one lady that the University of Kentucky Wildcats basketball team beat the University of Tennessee on her birthday in 1995. They all left smiling and shaking their heads in wonder.
Our waitress recommended the best meal in the house, and we all agreed to follow her suggestion explicitly. With five identical orders of Patty’s specialty dish—a twelve-ounce pork chop, house salad, and baked potato—she headed to the kitchen. Moments later the mouthwatering homemade bread arrived in the restaurant’s trademark flowerpot container. “Are there any flowers in the bread?” HK asked with a laugh.
The birthday meal exceeded all our wildest expectations. It might have been HK’s first time eating an entire pork chop, at least one so large. As usual, he ate every bite and finished by rubbing his fingers side to side across the empty plate, making sure not a single morsel remained.
After everyone finished, our server cleared the table and disappeared into the kitchen. Desserts were never mentioned, but she returned with a thick slice of birthday cake so large it covered an entire dinner plate. The cake had a chunky chocolate crust with coffee ice cream, nuts, caramel, whipped topping, and a big red cherry on top. A single birthday candle was carefully placed in the middle.
She left five forks and extra plates, and soon her fellow restaurant workers joined in a strictly Southern version of “Happy Birthday.” With a little help HK blew out the candle, and every man sampled a small piece of the decadent dessert. HK finished the rest.
We thanked our server for her excellent service, and as we left the restaurant, HK told the entire waitstaff that he enjoyed his food and he hoped everyone had a blessed day.
“You ladies don’t look a day over eighteen,” he deadpanned.
Harold and his big Yukon were waiting out front to return us to the airport. We departed Kentucky that afternoon the same way we had left Nashville earlier that morning. After getting us airborne and climbing to our flying altitude, Chris again relinquished control to his experienced copilot, who executed another perfect flight home.
As we drove to our house in Gary’s vehicle, HK and I listened as Gary gave his wife a minute-by-minute description of our day’s adventure. As he ended the account, he said, “He did fine flying us to Kentucky, but he ran over two buzzards coming back.”
“Gary, you’re joking, aren’t you? I didn’t run over two buzzards, did I?”
“Naw. I think they got out of the way at the last minute,” Gary said with a straight face.
HK will live with memories of that special birthday experience inside his head for the rest of his life. He relives that exciting airplane adventure as if it happened yesterday. He thanks Gary frequently for his fabulous birthday surprise, and Gary always reminds him about the close call with two buzzards.
CHAPTER 22
Proud to Be a Rotarian
Rotary International is a worldwide service organization that brings together business and professional leaders to provide humanitarian services, encourages high ethical standards in all vocations, and advances goodwill and peace around the world. My affiliation with Rotary has played a key role in my professional and personal life. I was a charter member of the Brentwood Rotary Club, served as its third president, and have been active in it for almost twenty-five years. Club members, mostly local business professionals, meet every Wednesday morning for an hour of breakfast, club news, and to hear a guest speaker.
During HK’s summer breaks from school, he was forced to spend a lot more time in the chicken restaurant, depending on Pearl’s work schedule. The summer a year after meeting HK, I got the green light from Rotary members to invite him to our weekly club meetings. It provided the perfect opportunity to get him out of the restaurant while Pearl worked.
It took him no time at all to capture the heart of every club member with his humor, wit, and infectious smile. He inspired this group so much that the board of directors made him the club’s first Honorary Rotarian, a title he cherishes even today. Honorary membership entitles him to all the breakfast he can eat at weekly meetings without paying dues.
One year, not long afterward, our Rotary Club leadership decided to surprise HK with a Christmas present—the latest model exercise treadmill. They believed this machine would provide the perfect incentive for improving his muscle tone, stamina, and walking skills. He could supplement his weekly trips to Vanderbilt for physical therapy with regular year-round exercise.
Pearl agreed to the plan, so six Rotarians and I made a mid-December special delivery to her East Nashville home. I vividly remember entering the house to the homey sound of Gene Autry crooning “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” As we unloaded and assembled the treadmill, we could not help but notice how sparsely furnished the house was. There was no table or chairs in the kitchen, or anywhere else, for that matter. The kitchen was even missing a stove. HK later explained that they often brought food home from Mrs. Winner’s, or Pearl occasionally cooked a simple meal on a two-burner hot plate. Twin beds, one for each occupant, sat in a small bedroom filled with boxes stacked around the walls and reaching nearly to the ceiling. The two mattresses were the only soft items I noticed in the whole house.
Santa’s Rotary Club elves kicked into overdrive and returned to Pearl’s East Nashville home within days. This time even more surprises filled their sleigh. The austere kitchen was transformed with the arrival of a new table, complete with four soft-padded chairs, and the latest model four-burner range and oven with a digital integrated thermostat.
But that was not all; one last surprise awaited them. The next day while HK was at school and Pearl worked, Stu Brandt and I returned to the house and spent five hours painting the drab kitchen a sparkling shade of white. Pearl and HK pulled into the driveway just as we finished cleaning our paintbrushes. She was speechless, completely overwhelmed by the holiday shocker. HK, never speechless, complimented the two amateur painters as though he could see their magnificent artistry, saying, “Our kitchen is the most beautiful kitchen in the world! Mr. Bradford, you and Stu sure did a good job.”
Our Rotary Club always scheduled many service projects around the Christmas holidays. We have a long history of cosponsoring an annual Christmas party for underprivileged children at the Tennessee Baptist Children’s Home. Located on a spacious tree-lined campus near the outskirts of downtown Brentwood, this facility provides residential services for children without parents or who are unable to live with parents or othe
r relatives.
Every December club members meet on a designated Saturday morning at a local department store to shop for gifts. We have always been able to count on the store’s management to generously support our efforts by providing coffee and donuts before shopping, dedicating checkout lanes exclusively for Rotary shoppers, and, best of all, giving substantial discounts on all our purchases.
HK has an emotional connection with children, and he would not miss this annual Rotary shopping event for anything. The first year HK joined us, the project chairman designated him the shoppers’ “Head Elf,” a title he has continued to hold every year since. HK addressed the assembled club shoppers that day, saying, “I’m proud to be a Rotarian. Today’s shopping is for a good cause, so please spend your money wisely.”
The two of us shopped as a team and tried to choose gifts suitable for boys his age. HK contended that he knew exactly the best gifts for teenage boys. He insisted while shopping that I thoroughly explain each potential present in detail, including the color, style, and size. He carefully held each item before making his final selection, allowing his fingers to gently explore the item. If everything met with his approval, he finally declared, “This is a perfect gift for our boys.”
Teams budget a certain dollar amount to spend for each child, and throughout the shopping trip everyone was constantly forced to recalculate their shopping cart values to stay within budget. But not us. HK, the human calculator, continually updated the amount spent and remaining funds available. It was like shopping with a live cash register. When we reached our budget amount, he would immediately say, “Mr. Bradford, that’s all we can spend!”
HK wasn’t bothered that we were the last team to finish our shopping assignment. He declared to anyone within hearing distance that we were the world’s best shoppers. When at last we finally entered the checkout lane, he shared a closing message with our female cashier.
“I’m glad you waited for me and Mr. Bradford, because selecting the best presents requires a lot of time and patience. We are two really, really, really great shoppers.”
She just winked at me and laughed.
On the following Thursday night after our shopping trip, Rotary Club members gathered at the children’s home, just a few miles south of Brentwood, for the annual Christmas party. HK and I, fellow Rotarians, other financial sponsors, the children’s home staff, and a few family members always looked forward to this special holiday event. It included a delicious meal, musical entertainment, and a gift exchange that filled both the recipient children and the gift givers with untold joy.
Undeniably, the children’s opening of their gifts was the highlight of the party. HK introduced himself and played with many children as they opened their presents, especially the boys. He explained in great detail how he had personally selected each gift and confidently reassured every recipient that they would be pleased. Finally, he entertained the room like a seasoned performer, telling many of the guests the days of the week on which they were born.
I’ll never forget what he said as I drove him back to his grandmother’s house after the party: “I’m sorry some of those children don’t have parents. It’s sad they don’t have a home to go to for Christmas. Christmas is a special time for families. I’m glad that I have Grammy and we have a nice warm house.”
CHAPTER 23
Divine Intervention
Harpeth Hills Church is one of many in the Nashville area that actively supports a community-based outreach program called Room in the Inn. It is an annual program that begins in November and continues through March. Each night during these winter months, various churches host groups of homeless men and women, providing them a hot meal and a warm place to sleep for the night. A group of church volunteers uses the Family Life Center on Thursday evenings to provide fourteen men a hot meal, a comfortable place to sleep, a shower, laundry facilities, access to a clothes closet, and a hot breakfast the next morning.
One cold February Thursday night, I volunteered to assist with our church’s Room in the Inn guests. Since HK and I have a standing Thursday Boys’ Night Out, I took him along, thinking it would provide another new experience for him—one that might teach him something about the less-fortunate citizens around our city.
As we drove into the church’s parking lot, I carefully explained to HK about our evening’s guests. Some men were just down on their luck while others were homeless and lived on the street. I gave him a few pointers about conversing with our visitors: “You can talk with them; just don’t ask them about their hardships. Share things about your life and ask them questions about things they might enjoy discussing, such as their birthdays and maybe their hometowns.”
Most nights the host group has a hot meal prepared and ready to serve when the nightly guests arrive. But on this night, the Boy Scout troop responsible for cooking had gotten a late start, and the meal was far from ready. As we entered the building, fourteen homeless men were sitting together at one of several large round tables in the open gymnasium area. They were drinking coffee, patiently waiting for hot food. The strange voices were like a powerful magnet to HK’s sensitive ears.
I left him sitting alone near the empty food line because I needed to ask about the evening’s work assignments. I told him I’d be right back after getting my instructions. I walked away, thinking he would be content to sit and listen. I should have known better. A coworker interrupted my conversation and pointed toward HK’s chair. When I spun around, he was taking his slow, short baby steps toward the men’s voices. Both arms were extended for balance and rotated back and forth as he walked. He moved like a small humanoid robot.
I made a beeline toward him, but it was too late. The men had already spotted HK, and he was beginning his introduction. I reached him and gently placed my hands on his shoulders just as he said, “Hi, my name is HK. Are you the homeless people?” In unison, most of the group responded, “Yes.” A couple of them even laughed at his innocent question. A well-groomed young man, probably in his midtwenties and looking somewhat out of place, said, “Hi, HK.”
“What’s your name?”
“I’m Anthony.”
“Hi, Anthony. How did you lose your house?”
A few men laughed.
“HK, I’ve made some bad choices in my life.”
“Anthony, I hope you get your house back someday.”
In a feeble attempt to politely change the subject without offending anyone, I asked HK, “Why don’t you tell these gentlemen something about yourself?” He told them about the accident, his survival and his mother’s death, living with his grandmother, meeting me, and going to school. But he never mentioned anything about his father.
Then he began asking for birthdays, immediately following their answers by telling them the days of the week on which they were born. They were amazed, as people always are. But unlike HK’s normal group of admirers, these guys had no way to confirm this surprising tidbit of personal trivia, short of calling family. I remember thinking, What if an innocent encounter with my little blind friend helps these men reestablish long-lost family contacts? You never know how God will work in the lives of desperate men.
At last the food was hot and ready. The men shuffled through the serving line, loading plates with country ham, fresh vegetables, garden salad, and piping-hot homemade rolls. I prepared HK’s plate, and we joined a table with a group of our special guests.
Between bites, he continually talked and entertained everyone with his barrage of questions and funny comments. He asked about their hometowns, their ages, and how long they had been in Nashville. He even asked a few men point-blank if they had spoken with their mothers recently, emphasizing how important it was to stay in touch with one’s mother. I couldn’t help but notice tears streaming down the cheeks of one of the older men.
For the first time in our relationship, I witnessed the raw power of HK’s message and his magnetic pull on people of all stripes, from all walks of life. That night he articulated the
story of his embattled life boldly, without a hint of bitterness or despair. My precious little blind friend, with every worldly reason to be empty, angry, and miserable, instead conveyed a beautiful tale of eternal hope, unfettered redemption, and overwhelming optimism through his life story. His message was pure gold to those men without a home.
Later, as we reentered the frigid night air, I was convinced we had been summoned that night to Room in the Inn for a reason. For me it ranked as one of the best Thursday evenings I could remember, and I think that also held true for HK. I would not be surprised to someday learn that a man’s life had been changed by his encounter with HK on that bitterly cold February night.
Celebrity status followed HK everywhere, even to church. A particular group of ladies searched for him each Sunday just to plant lipstick-laden kisses on his forehead and cheeks. His regular refrain, “You don’t look a day over eighteen!” certainly didn’t hurt his prospects for continuing female adoration. Sometimes he left church services with so much lipstick plastered on his face that I accused him of looking like Barney after Thelma Lou had worked him over. I was certain some women, who shall forever remain nameless, applied fresh lipstick just to be sure it made a lasting impression. He cherished the attention. Much to Brenda’s chagrin, he preferred leaving his lipstick-smeared face untouched for as long as possible.
He loved Sunday school classes and continued making new church friends as years passed. Interaction with his peers certainly helped develop his engaging personality. One Sunday morning as I retrieved him from Sunday school class, I overheard a young boy reciting books of the Old Testament. Later, at home, I inquired about the assignment.
