My introduction to Earl Parrot came many years ago in a tiny national forest campground deep in a narrow rock strewn valley in the Ozark Mountains. I was just passing through looking for a little piece and quiet and some good fishing. Earl’s campsite was at the edge of the small clearing near the forest. There were tarps strung and laced with cord that reminded me of a sail rig on a triple master off New England. Everything appeared functional and in it’s place. Firewood was stacked high and orderly on the side under one tarp and a small well used tent was barely visible under the structure.
After being in and out over the next couple of days I had wondered who or how many occupied that campsite that seemed so much like home. Earl and I were the only ones there and taking a look at the weather forecast it was easy to understand why. Rain and cold all week.
My exploration took me out longer than expected one day and I realized the steady rain was destroying my hopes for a nice warm fire to ward off the cold. I had left my precious fire wood uncovered like a complete rookie. To my surprise when I returned, I saw a tattered blue tarp pulled over my woodpile. Looking underneath I saw my soaked wood was topped with 3 or 4 pieces of a dry crisp oak that was not mine. The rain had stopped and the oak made a warm dancing fire to pushed back the cold. Looking over to the distant campsite I saw the same dancing glow and decided it was time to meet the neighbor who had saved my evening.
Earl was about 80 years old with deep weathered lines on his face that told me he was a man’s man. The wrinkles painted his face in the firelight as we shared a spirit I had brought over. Earl was from Wyoming and spent a lifetime on the ranch. He was a true cowboy and told me of his days as a rodeo cowboy and bronc buster through the 50’s and 60’s. “Never no dollars in that back then”, he said. “Just a good way to meet girls and break a few bones”. He was quiet and thoughtful in his words and used them sparingly. It was one of those conversations that made you embarrassed when you said you lived in Austin and was on vacation. You see Earl was living in the National Forest. He said without emotion that his children had taken his ranch and sold the parcels off to out of staters. They wanted to put him in a home and just get rid of him but he decided to go on the road. We never talked about how he got there or how long he had been there but the policy of the park was you could not stay in one place for over two weeks. I knew I had stretched my welcome with this dignified and private man so I thanked him for the wood and the words and went back to my piece of the world.
Earl would wave when I would see him each day. I never knew what he did with his time but I could tell he was well respected by the park rangers. One day they helped him move his tent, wood, and shelter contraption a few feet to beat the park rules of being in one place too long. The rangers laughed and talked and lifted and moved his things with respect that son’s would show their grandfather. Occasionally a ranger would show up and pick Earl up and drive away. I learned later that he was getting a small check at the post office which he sent to his children. Imagine that.
I was nearing the end of my stay and packing up the truck when a ranger drove in at high speed. He jumped out and talked in an excited voice to Earl who moved with some haste to get a big burlap sack and some grocery bags that were neatly folded. Before he left with the ranger he shuffled over to me and in a wild eyed excited voice told me the story. It was simple you see, a grocery truck had turned over on a rain soaked mountain road. It’s contents were scattered down a steep ravine. All those groceries were there for the taking. No telling what was down there but he knew there was yams. I suppose looking back Earl expected me to jump in my truck and follow him. It was an enticing offer but I chose to go in search of one more bite instead. A couple of hours and I was back ready to hit the road. I walked over to say good bye to Mr Parrot but he was no where around. What I did see was more than 30 one gallon cans of yams stacked neatly under a separate weather beaten tarp. The cans were dented and muddy but no doubt a treasure for the cowboy from Wyoming. I smiled as I walked back to close up my truck and leave the forest for good. As I did I noticed three one gallon cans of yams sitting on the tailgate of my truck. None of mine were dented or dirty. He had give me the perfect ones.
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