One of the things I will miss about Bartlett Park is my neighbor, Fred Henderson.
Nearly every day, “Mr. Fred†as I call him, shuffles in his walker to a large oak tree across from my house and sits there all day.
I walk my dog, and there is Mr. Fred. I come home from work and he’s there, talking to some guy hanging out of a car. I throw on my swimsuit and head to the beach. There is Mr. Fred waving.
Over the last year, we’ve built quite a neighborly rapport. He laughs at my wiry Chihuahua and I chat about the weather. He talks and points to my house and I, well, chat about the weather.
Because, frankly, I don’t understand a word that comes out of Mr. Fred’s mouth. Maybe a word here and there, but never a whole sentence.
While reporting this week’s cover story, I attempted to engage Mr. Fred about Bartlett Park and St. Pete history to no avail. I don’t know how to describe Mr. Fred’s accent — he’s from Georgia so that might give you a clue — but if I was to write a conversation down it would go much like this:
Me: Howdy, Mr. Fred! Nice day out, huh?
Mr. Fred: Hibbity, hibbity, hibbity.
Me: Yeah, me too. Anyway, I’m doing a story on Bartlett Park. Can I interview you?
Mr. Fred: Hibbity, hibbity, newspaper, hibbity.
Eventually, through hand signals and repeating the question several times, Mr. Fred agreed to talk and have his picture taken. Of course, he didn’t give me much usable material for the story. But Mr. Fred did tell me that the man who owned the huge vacant lot by his favorite large oak tree was building two houses on the land.
“One for him,†he said. “And one for his wife.â€
Then he let out the heartiest laugh on this side of Central Avenue.
Anybody else with an interesting neighbor story?
This article appears in Apr 18-24, 2007.