I am in Avondale Park. It’s a sunny day in Birmingham. Pollen is in the air. Allergies are rampant today.

There is an 11-year-old girl in my arms. She smells like shampoo and flowers. The girl’s name is Becca. She is blind.

I am lifting her upward. I am placing her onto a pedestal so that she can use her hands to feel a massive bronze sculpture inasmuch as she really wants to know what this statue “looks” like.

The statue is a depiction of Miss Fancy, the 8,000-pound elephant who once lived in this park about 100 years ago. Back when this place was a zoo. Miss Fancy attracted the attention of an entire city. She has become somewhat of a fascination with me, since I live in Avondale.

For years now, I have been visiting this park, researching Miss Fancy’s life. I have even been lucky enough to interview a few surviving souls who remember her. I am constantly on the lookout for elders who might remember her.

As a result, I have found many stories about this old elephant. I never thought these stories would come in handy with an 11-year-old girl.

But they have.

I have been telling the little girl about Miss Fancy all afternoon. And she is extremely interested in this elephant.

So I’ve been retelling these tales using my best grandpa voice, trying to make the stories interesting.

Truthfully, I feel a little foolish, telling stories to a child. Namely, because I don’t know how to tell stories to a child. I know nothing about kids.

My wife and I were told a long time ago we couldn’t have kids. Honestly, I wasn’t that broken up about it. For starters, I had a godawful childhood. My father was abusive and died by suicide when I was a kid.

I was raised on the wrong side of the tracks by a single mother. I am a dropout. I have no lessons to offer a child. Guys like me don’t become fathers. We become sermon illustrations.

But here I am, friends with an 11-year-old girl. She was a foster kid. She was rejected by birth parents who were addicted to drugs. She was adopted by two loving parents in North Alabama who have given her the world. And somehow, this kid and I have become friends.

I don’t know why. I don’t know how. And for some reason, her parents made my wife and I her Godparents.

And somehow, here I am, in this park. With my Goddaughter. Telling her about Miss Fancy. An elephant.

And the kid is eating it up. Becca is excited to hear about an elephant who lived a century ago.

Thus, I tell stories about how Miss Fancy used to break out of the zoo; and visit homes in Avondale; and stick her head in neighborhood windows; and eat food from people’s kitchen counters; or in their vegetable gardens; or eat their hydrangeas; or their trees; or their garbage, or how she would play with local dogs.

Or how Miss Fancy once leaned against a shotgun house in North Avondale and knocked it off its pilings. Or how Miss Fancy was once arrested for blocking traffic.

Then, my storytelling comes to an end as we approach Miss Fancy’s statue. The statue sits at the entrance of the park.

The child asks if she can touch Miss Fancy.

So I lift her into my arms. She wraps her arms around me. And she trusts me to carry her, although I don’t know why. If she truly knew me, and knew what kind of a fool I am, she wouldn’t like me.

I place her feet onto the pedestal, so she can feel Miss Fancy’s girth. She is using me for balance. Holding me tightly.

“What does an elephant look like?” she says.

“They’re big,” I say.

“How big?”

“I don’t know. Real big.”

She is touching the statue. “Bigger than a car?”

“Yes.”

“Bigger than a truck?”

“I suppose so.”

She smiles. “Bigger than how much I love you?”

No answer.

“Hello?” the child says. “Why aren’t you answering me?”

“Allergies,” said I.