by Jim Bradford
For several years HK participated in the annual Braille Challenge competition against blind high school students from neighboring states. Nashville Mayor Karl Dean appointed him to the Mayor’s Advisory Committee for People with Disabilities. As a result, HK participated in Vanderbilt University’s 2012 Youth Leadership Forum for People with Disabilities and attended the National Federation for Blind Students State Convention in Chattanooga. Speaking on the Rotary Club circuit resulted in his being named an honorary citizen of my hometown of Athens, Alabama, and receiving honorary membership in five Rotary Clubs across three different states.
High school class rings were ordered during the junior year and arrived near the end of that term. This meant that incoming seniors were able to wear their rings for more than a year before graduation. HK treasured his class ring. It constantly reminded him of the enormous achievement that many had felt would be out of his reach.
I was the first person he called the day his ring arrived. The next night I picked him up for our standing Thursday Boys’ Night Out. As I entered Pearl’s living room, he could barely contain his excitement. He shoved his left hand high above his head to show me the shiny silver class ring set with a bright ruby-colored stone. I held his hand, admiring the ring, and realized that he was wearing it on his index finger. At first I thought the reason might be to keep it from slipping off his smaller ring finger and losing it. But I had to ask.
Wiggling his empty ring finger, he explained, “Mr. Bradford, I’m saving this finger so that when I find a girl who loves me and will marry me, I’ll use it to wear my wedding ring.” I just stared at him in wonder, thinking, Is there no end to this kid’s ambition?
Midway through HK’s final school year, his entire graduating class of seventeen embarked on a senior trip of a lifetime. He remembers the date as Friday, December 9, 2011. This group of blind and visually impaired students flew from Nashville to Denver, Colorado. For many, it was their first commercial airline flight. From the airport they took a two-hour bus ride to Aspen and the Snowmass Village ski resort complex. Over the next five days, these high school seniors—some, like HK, with multiple disabilities—enjoyed an unforgettable downhill alpine skiing adventure.
Specially trained instructors skillfully assessed each individual and selected adaptive ski gear to match each one’s unique capabilities. By the end of the first day, each student, carefully tethered to a ski instructor, was able to feel the wind in his or her face and the hair-raising exhilaration of downhill skiing. Recalling his experience, HK proudly reported that never once during his entire time on the slopes did he ever take a tumble. In fact, the ski instructor cadre awarded him the title “Best Blind Skier Ever,” and he had the certificate to prove it.
A few weeks after returning home, an envelope addressed to “Mr. HK Derryberry” arrived in Nashville. A letter, signed by every ski instructor, described how much they enjoyed getting to know him while assisting him on the slopes. They were extremely impressed by his constant cheerful attitude and concluded the letter by saying, “You touched us like we’ve never been touched before.” A $100 Walmart gift card was tucked inside. I’m sure this was a huge sacrifice for a group of college kids moonlighting as instructors during ski season. The little pickpocket left a trail of victims wherever he went.
As if graduating from high school were not enough, HK spoke enthusiastically about the potential for attending college. The first time he mentioned this in front of Brenda, she said, “HK, that’s wonderful, but you’ll need someone to assist you while on campus.” She looked straight at me as if to say, “And I know just who that someone will be.” Then, after a dramatic pause, she began to count: “Seventy-two, seventy-three, seventy-four, and seventy-five.”
“What do those numbers mean?” HK asked.
“Those are the ages Mr. Bradford will be during each of your college years. He’ll probably be the world’s oldest college freshman.”
HK’s senior prom stood out as one of his high school highlights. That night was an especially glamorous affair for the senior class, and HK did not disappoint. He impressed the entire assembly, arriving handsomely dressed in a black tuxedo and tie with a burgundy cummerbund. But his entrance caused the biggest stir when he arrived with Miss Brooke Sage on his arm, a beautiful, sighted blonde senior from Franklin High School. She was a sweet girl, one of his special friends who had asked if she could be his prom date.
HK’s monumental struggles and his resilient, positive attitude in overcoming learning difficulties had inspired the entire student body. During a short intermission in prom festivities, administrators made a surprise announcement. With all votes counted, his classmates had elected him King of the Prom, one of the school’s most prestigious honors.
On June 1, 2012, William HK Derryberry crossed the auditorium stage to receive his high school diploma, an achievement that had eluded both his parents. He had secured a promise from Nashville’s Mayor Dean to attend the momentous graduation ceremony. The mayor fulfilled his promise and was seated on the front row with a sizable entourage that included Grammy and friends of all ages who had come to witness this special occasion.
HK’s distinguished high school career was noteworthy for multiple awards and personal recognition. The mayor presented him Nashville’s Trey Pointer Young Citizen Award. That year he received the Tennessee School for the Blind’s Person of Character honor.
Many years before, when my daughters arrived at the same milestone, I truly felt that time had vanished much too quickly. That same feeling swept over me as I watched HK cross the stage. I wondered what had become of that small, shy, lonely boy I first met in Mrs. Winner’s restaurant almost thirteen years earlier. He was now twenty-one years old, stood only four feet eleven, weighed 143 pounds, and still looked extremely young for his age.
During those thirteen years, I witnessed his transformation from a small, isolated child who could barely talk into a confident young man full of personality, charm, and energy. He had a ready response when I asked about his future hopes and dreams.
“In addition to being a motivational speaker, I want to work in Vanderbilt’s neonatal clinic after college.” Then he thoughtfully explained, aware of his obvious limitations: “I’ll answer the phones, talk to the parents, rock the sick babies, and tell them their lives will eventually be better, just as mine was.”
And then it hit me. Although his disabilities would always be on full display, his calling card now included a large measure of charisma. It was a hidden trait that carried vast potential his grandmother never thought possible—but God knew all along.
CHAPTER 34
“I Think She Would
Have Loved Me”
Today is Friday, October 16, 2015. I’m sitting in our kitchen, sipping coffee from my Auburn Tigers mug and gazing out over the dazzling glory of autumn as it unfolds in middle Tennessee. Although the sun has shone brilliantly throughout the day, an early-morning cold front caused the temperature to slip steadily. Leaves dance in the crisp breeze before spreading themselves across the lawn, masking the final green vestige of fading summer. Tonight could bring our first frost, followed closely by a sudden reemergence of sweaters and long sleeves. I smile as memories fill my head, sweeping me back to a day a lot like this one, a day exactly sixteen years ago. It was the day I first laid eyes on HK Derryberry.
I have often wondered about my choice that day to turn left instead of right. Looking back now, that insignificant decision had life-changing consequences. All I know is that on that particular Saturday morning, God was my GPS, and He had me on a mission.
I find it unfathomable that time has passed so quickly. My memory bank is full of a lifetime of heartwarming, humorous, and even a few embarrassing stories that characterize my involvement in HK’s life. I could just as easily have missed the magnificent transformation of that small, shy boy with leg braces sitting alone in his own world at Mrs. Winner’s Chicken & Biscuits.
HK celebrated his twenty-fifth birthda
y in July 2015, a milestone even Vanderbilt’s NICU experts might consider miraculous after his touch-and-go ninety-six days in their care. I thank God every day for his maternal grandmother’s decision to let him live, and I shudder when I reflect on how she could have just as easily decided against it.
Just as he tells all the ladies he meets, HK doesn’t look a day over eighteen. Today he bears little resemblance to the tiny, cute boy I met on that cold autumn morning in 1999. He’s taller now, his hair is neatly trimmed, and he radiates a perfect smile, thanks to braces and expert dental care, compliments of a local dentist friend and his staff. An updated, stylish wardrobe keeps him looking preppy while his engaging personality and superb communication skills attract people like magnets.
In the same way, the reflection in my mirror bears little resemblance to the man HK met sixteen years ago. I was fifty-six then, but I’ll soon turn seventy-three. I’m seriously considering retirement soon. My once-brown hair is now thinning and gray; my unavoidable crow’s-feet have spread. It really makes my day to hear so-called friends remark that I look like my late grandfather.
Brenda continues her sales rep business and is a wonderful grandmother to Mac and Catherine in North Carolina. She’s involved in the lives of both our daughters and has become an expert at texting, just to stay in touch. She loves spending sunny summer days at the lake house and with friends in Florida. Friday nights are still reserved for “adult functions.” We reserve this night because I’m not convinced that she enjoys all of the silly stuff that HK and I do, like singing at the top of our lungs or splashing around playing bathtub basketball. But she’s gracious about it and usually doesn’t say much. If the rec room noise gets too loud, she’ll just close the door and go on about her business.
Pearl knows that life’s lemons don’t always translate into lemonade. She has endured more than her share of lemons in her lifetime, but she discovered a fresh crop of them on Friday, July 18, 2008, when a new Mrs. Winner’s manager took over. Whether it was corporate policy or not, this new boss wasted little time informing her that HK could no longer stay in the restaurant dining area while she worked the front counter. I’ll always remember her desperate phone call and the sound of her quivering voice as she asked me to come immediately and get HK. She had fifteen minutes to get him out of the restaurant, or she would be forced to leave work and forfeit a day’s pay, and she couldn’t afford that.
When I entered the familiar restaurant, Pearl was in tears, and HK was confused. He did not understand why he had to leave. Pearl could not quit because she needed her part-time hours. So, unhappy as she was, she reluctantly continued working under the new management. But for HK and me, this would be our final visit to Mrs. Winner’s dining room.
A new Brentwood chicken restaurant, about a mile down the road from Mrs. Winner’s, presented us with a fresh dining opportunity. One trip to the Atlanta-based Chick-fil-A chain, home of “the original chicken sandwich,” was all it took for us to make it our new favorite hangout. From that day on, Thursday’s Boys’ Night Out found us there satisfying our chicken cravings before joining friends for our usual bluegrass fix.
The fast-food restaurant’s general manager introduced himself one Thursday night and instantly became HK’s buddy. He loved introducing him to customers and even to occasional visiting Chick-fil-A executives. His brother, the store’s owner/operator, also became enamored with HK, and together they named him the “unofficial” Brentwood Chick-fil-A ambassador.
In addition to Thursday nights, HK was now spending most weekends with us, so we added Saturday mornings to our weekly Chick-fil-A rotation. We once celebrated his birthday with the entire restaurant crew. That year they surprised him with fifty-two gift cards, redeemable for a #1 combo—chicken sandwich, waffle fries, and a drink—every week for a year. That started a birthday gift tradition that these two generous men continue to this day. I keep his valuable gift cards in my vehicle’s glove box under lock and key, and hand him one each Thursday night before we enter the restaurant.
Thanks to the owner’s connections with Chick-fil-A’s home office, HK and I were featured devotional speakers at the company’s Atlanta corporate headquarters on October 13, 2014. We made many new Georgia friends and received a thunderous reception from more than four hundred company employees. Later that day we received a behind-the-scenes tour, including a peek into the untouched office of Mr. S. Truett Cathy, the late founder, CEO, and president of the company. HK now counts the founder’s son and current chairman and CEO, Dan T. Cathy, among his growing legion of friends.
I find the contrast between HK’s speaking abilities when I first met him and now to be simply remarkable. At first he could not engage in a normal conversation, but now he comfortably joins me in speaking to large audiences, commanding attention and capturing hearts with his inspiring story. We’ve spoken one hundred times during the past five years to more than twelve thousand people and have never advertised our services. Each invitation comes strictly from word of mouth or from the website we established about two years ago (hkderryberry.com).
HK loves entertaining audiences, so we try to accept as many speaking invitations as possible. A professional speaker friend of mine once asked me about our fee structure. I remember thinking, What fee structure? Having seen our forty-five-minute presentation, he quickly convinced me there was a rewarding market for our talks, so we followed his advice and established one.
I am always astonished each time we receive a speaking invitation. Who would have ever thought that we would be paid to speak to audiences throughout the country? We have been keynote speakers for Goodwill Industries; treatment provider councils of Tennessee, North Carolina, South Carolina, and Georgia; and United Cerebral Palsy’s 2014 annual conference in Nashville. In addition, we have spoken to many Rotary Clubs all over the South, local nonprofit organizations, corporations, schools, universities, and churches.
I’ve witnessed firsthand this struggling boy with disabilities living his life as close to normal as possible. HK has never been depressed or seemed discouraged in my presence, and I’ve only seen him cry twice—once when I told him good-bye at the restaurant, and the other after that painful hamstring surgery. When asked about his day, the standard response is always a heartfelt and booming “Lovely, lovely, lovely!”
Pearl officially retired when the chicken restaurant closed on August 4, 2013. Through prudent planning and careful spending, she and HK live a comfortable though meager life. No doubt his growing agenda will keep her young for many more years. Even so, HK realizes the mortality of human life and has some concerns about his future. He recently told me, “Mr. Bradford, if something happens to my Grammy, I have selected you to take care of me.”
Apparently HK was not thinking about the fact that his Grammy and I are close to the same age and, in the normal process of life, it’s likely that we will both be gone before he is. That is why speaking fees and other income based on HK’s story, including proceeds from this book, have allowed me to establish a trust for his earnings to cover a lifetime of future care when Pearl and I are no longer in his life.
One Saturday morning a few years ago, while parked in a handicap spot in front of the local Kroger store, I sifted through my SUV’s jumbled glove box searching for my hanging handicap placard.
“Mr. Bradford, what are you doing?”
“I’m trying to find my handicap placard.”
“I didn’t know you were handicapped!”
“I’m not, knucklehead; you are.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot.”
Sometimes he thinks he’s the normal one.
One specific afternoon side trip will remain with me for the rest of my days. I was driving to Huntsville, Alabama, to visit my hospitalized brother who was recovering from surgery. Pearl had agreed for HK to tag along with me that day for the short road trip. About thirty miles south of Brentwood on Interstate 65, I noticed a sign informing me that the Columbia exit was one mile ahead. On the spur of the
moment, I asked HK if he would like to visit his mother’s gravesite, and he said yes.
We took the exit and turned left at the bottom of a long incline. I drove under the interstate bridge and immediately spotted the cemetery driveway on the left-hand side of the road. Turning in slowly, we passed a marble marker bearing the name of Jones Cemetery. I could not help but notice that this eternal resting place was wedged between a twenty-four-hour truck stop on one side and the interstate right-of-way on the other. The constant roar of eighteen-wheelers and incessant interstate traffic noise kept this burial ground anything but peaceful.
We were alone as I slowly drove along the gravel lane, carefully reading names engraved on the granite headstones. Peering into the bright afternoon sunlight, just to the right of the driveway, I spied the name of Mary K. Moon Davidson. I helped HK out of the car and held his hand as we walked toward the gravesite. When we reached the headstone, three things instantly caught my attention. There was a small, oval-shaped, color photograph of his mother permanently attached to the stone. The grass had been recently cut, and clippings covered the slab’s bottom ledge. A small vase containing a single faded-yellow artificial flower, now nearly white, was buried in the red dirt. It had been awhile since the last visitor.
I placed HK’s small left hand on the corner of the stone for balance. In a soft voice I described his mother’s shoulder-length auburn hair, her dark eyes, flawless complexion, and a demure smile that perfectly matched her simple tan-and-white blouse. Tears filled my eyes as I stared, fascinated by the photo. After a short pause to compose myself, I pronounced him a spitting image of his mother. But my tears erupted full force when he sweetly said, “I wish my mother hadn’t died. I think she would have loved me.”
