Tuesday, November 20, 2012

A THANKSGIVING PARABLE

 
 
 
 
by   
Susan Duke

            Betty Pickitt and her husband, (who I always just called “Pickitt”) lived two houses down from us when I was a child growing up in East Texas.  I remember going to their house everyday, on my own, just to say hello or to see what Betty might be cooking on her old wood stove.  Everything always smelled so good at Betty and Pickitt’s.  I especially remember the sweet potatoes.  It seemed like every time I went for a visit, those sweet potatoes would be baking and almost ready to eat.  Betty would always say, “Sugar, you’re just in time for some mighty good vittles.” 

           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

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