Dewberry

This is Dewberry at age four.  That was his age when we first met fifty-nine
years ago.  On that day, I was ten.  I lived with my parents, and my baby brother,
in Trussville, Alabama, about ten miles east of Birmingham, where I was born. 

In Birmingham, I knew every kid on my
block and there were a lot of them.  I
lived two blocks north of My Mama and Paw Paw, my Daddy’s parents, and one
block east of Mama and Daddy King, my mother’s parents.  It was a great set up for a kid.  Then we moved to Trussville, where I didn’t
know a single person.

I was pretty miserable and I didn’t see
things getting better anytime soon.  It
was late summer and I was walking the five blocks from my house to the
playground.  Actually I was shuffling
along the sidewalk in the general direction of the park but entertaining the
idea of going to the library instead.  I
had my head down, looking for grasshoppers in the sidewalk cracks when someone
called out, “Young man, do you have a minute.”

I looked up and saw a woman, about my
mother’s age, in the backyard of a house where I’d never seen anyone
before.  In fact, I had thought it was
vacant.  She smiled and  I stopped walking toward the park and edged
closer to her.  That’s when I saw
Dewberry for the first time.  He stepped
from behind the woman, looked at me and grinned shyly.   I was staring at him, trying to figure out
why he looked so familiar, when the woman said, “This is Dewberry.  Do you mind taking him to the park with
you?  He won’t be any trouble.”

I didn’t hesitate.  I was about the loneliest kid in the
world.  “No ma’am, I don’t mind at all.”  

We went the park and we stayed there
the rest of the morning.  When I realized
that it was almost lunch time, I said, “Dewberry, I’ve got to go home now.  Come on. 
I’ll take you home.”

We got to the house and there was no
one in sight.  I knocked on the door and
no one answered.  I looked at Dewberry
and said, “Is this your house, Dewberry?” 

He smiled and shrugged.

I tried another tack.  “Was that your mother, Dewberry?”

You guessed it.  He smiled and shrugged.

I stuck out my hand.  He took it and we walked home together.  We’ve been together ever since.  A strange thing has happened over the
years.  I’ve gotten old, at least on the
outside, but Dewberry is still four years old. 
See what I mean.  This is his most
current “dress up” picture – it was taken last October.    

A couple of hours ago we were running;
actually, I was running and Dewberry was riding along on Baby Scout (Dewberry named
him after Tonto’s horse, Scout), when I said, “Dewberry, it’s time for me to
write another blog; any idea what I should write about?”

He smiled and said what he always
says.  “Me.  Write about me, Bert.”

I think I surprised him when I said, “OK.  Maybe it’s time to do that.  You have to understand though, only special
people will believe what I write about you.”

He smiled again.  “That’s OK, Bert.  Special people are the only ones who matter.”

Dewberry is like that.  He always says what he thinks.  In fact, there is no difference in what Dewberry
thinks and what he says.  I suppose it’s
a good thing that only special people can see and hear him.

I know there are people who will say, “Bert,
you’re way too old for an imaginary friend.”

I agree with those people totally, and I
don’t have an imaginary friend.  I have a
four year-old buddy whose name is Dewberry. 
He’s been with me for fifty-nine years and he will be with me for the
rest of the trip.

Once, a long time
ago, Dewberry told me that all special people have a little buddy.  And he And
he asked me to tell yours that he said, “Hello.”