by
Susan Duke
The fact that Betty and Pickitt were black and I was white never entered my little four-year-old mind. All I knew was that they were my friends and I loved them like most kids love a grandmother and granddaddy. I felt safe and always welcome at Betty and Pickett’s house.
Looking back now, they
seemed to get a kick out of my childhood wonder and conversations. Sometimes they would read me a story from the
well-worn Bible that often lay open on the kitchen table. They always took time to answer my questions,
and I remember feeling that they always wanted me to stay just a little
longer. Many times Betty would send me
home with a few still-warm baked sweet potatoes tucked under my small
arms. She’d say, “Now you run on home
and take these to your mama.” I really
felt like I had done something good when I handed Mama those sweet potatoes.
One
day, when I arrived at home, Mama got a dishtowel and wiped fresh sweet potato
off my mouth. She asked, “Why is it that you won’t ever eat sweet
potatoes when I cook them?”
I
explained simply, “They just taste
better at Betty’s house.” Maybe it was
the old wood stove she cooked them in, or perhaps it was the way she heaped on
fresh butter and a pinch of salt.
Whatever the reason, I can remember their unique taste that to this day
has never been matched. Even more, I can
picture Betty’s smiling face as she handed me a plate and then winked at
Pickitt, watching me intently as I devoured the much-appreciated feast. I never remember a visit when Betty didn’t
have something cooked and ready to serve.
Giving was a way of life to them.
Some
days, Pickitt would stop by our house on his way into town. When Mama answered
the door, Pickitt would tip his hat and ask, “Mam, is there anything I can
bring you from town?”
“No,
but thanks for asking,” Mama would say.
“Well,
then, Mam,” Pickitt would continue,
“would you mind if I bring back a little somethin’ for Miss Suzie?”
“That’ll
be fine.” Mama usually replied.
Pickitt
would then lean down, smile that big smile of his and say, “And what would Miss Suzie like ole’ Pickitt
to bring her from town today? Will it be
candy corn or cashew nuts?”
Sitting
on the front porch steps, eagerly awaiting Pickitt’s return, I remember
thinking, I must be special to Betty and
Pickitt. I realize now that we
indeed shared a special friendship—one that defied age, race, and
intellect—friendship born of the spirit from which flows love, acceptance,
peace and joy. This kind of friendship
does not recognize prejudice or status in life: but only what the voice of the
heart calls “real.” When Pickitt handed
me my much-anticipated package and I said “Thank you sir,” it seemed to just
make his day.
Another
attribute of Pickitt’s friendship came in a most unique fashion. He and Betty also raised turkeys behind their
house. They fascinated me by the funny
sounds by they made. I told Pickitt one
day when he was out feeding them, “It
sounds like those turkeys are talkin’.”
He
responded, “Why sure they are Missy; they’re talkin’ turkey talk.”
“Well, can you understand what they are sayin’?” I asked.
“Sometimes I can,” Pickitt answered.
My
curious childhood imagination took over as I continued to probe. “What are they
sayin’ right now?”
Pickitt
knelt down until he was even with me, looked straight into my wide eyes of
wonder and said, “Why Muss Suzie, I do believe those turkeys are sayin’ how
glad they are to see you. That’s why
they make so much commotion when you come around.”
I
believed every word he spoke as I waved to the whole lot and exclaimed, “I’m very glad to see you too!”
Pickitt
chuckled out loud, patted me on the head and said in his usual way, “Oh Miss
Suzie,
you just won’t do.”
A
few days later, on yet another visit, Pickitt called me over to the turkey pen
and pointed to the young turkeys that were roaming about. “You know, Miss Suzie, Thanksgiving will be
coming up in a few months, and I’ve just been thinkin’ that you might like to
pick our a turkey of you own for me to raise just for you.’ I quickly pointed to the one I thought was
the very best. Pickitt pulled a colored
string out of his overall pocket and handed it to me.
“Well, all right now,” he
said, “Let’s catch him and tie this string on his leg so we’ll know for sure
which one is Miss Suzie’s turkey.” I
never gave the fate of the doomed bird a thought. I was too caught up in the excitement of
Pickitt letting me capture and tag my own Thanksgiving turkey. I felt proud, as
if a special honor had been bestowed upon me.
He suggested we name him Tom. My
daily visits found me looking anxiously inside the pen for Tom, the grandest
turkey in the place with the red string tied to his leg. Pickitt told Mama about our adventure and
said she could be expecting ole’ Turkey Tom around Thanksgiving.
Although
the friendship between a white child and an old black couple was an unlikely
combination, it became a bridge that closed the gap in an all too prejudiced
society. With wisdom, humility, and a servant’s heart, Pickitt was able to give
gifts through me to my family without it resembling charity. The treats he
brought me from town provided moments of anticipation and joy. Knowing a turkey was being raised just for me
gave me something to look forward to. I
could not have known at the time all I was being taught. But somehow, I think Petty and Pickitt
did. I also believe they were old enough
and wise enough to learn some simple lessons from me, too.
Tucked
away inside this grown-up heart is a childhood smile that escapes and makes its
way to my lips every time I remember my special friends. Strange as it may
seem, one of the first things I want to do when I get to heaven is look up
Betty and Pickitt. I have a feeling
their mansion will be easy to find. I’ll
just look for the smoke curling from their chimney, and follow my nose to their
door, where I know, inside, sweet potatoes will be cooking in an old wood
stove. I expect a kind and gentle face
will greet me and say, “Why Miss Suzie, we’ve
been waiting for you, Sugar. Come on in
and let me fix you a plate.”
“But the wisdom that is from above is first pure,
then peaceable, gentle,
and easy to be entreated, full of mercy and good
fruits, without partiality
and without hypocrisy.”
James 3:1