Carole Marshall

Leader file photo

In the open park, a few day hikers were heading for the trails. Further along into the wooded camping area there was one rusty, beaten-up RV. Next to it a bearded, shaggy man looking as worn out as the camper sat on a lopsided lawn chair reading a newspaper. Edward maneuvered his grandfather’s cumbersome Cadillac down the rutted road. The guy by the camper looked up, smiled, and waved. Edward had encountered his share of derelicts in past cross-country drives and kept his eyes front. His grandfather, Winston B., reached back and waved to the man as they bumped down the road to their tent site. “Seems a friendly sort, doesn’t he Eddie B.”  “Yeah, G-Pa, they’re all friendly. Let’s keep to ourselves and enjoy the park. This is our last stop before your new home with Dad in Washington.”

Once their tent was pitched, Edward led the way along one of the trails. The moss dangling from fallen tree branches fascinated Win and he vigorously inhaled and exhaled the strong woodsy aromas of pine and moist dirt and sweet wildflowers.  When they reached the edge of the forest at the end of the high bluff, Win sucked a full, deep breath into his lungs and held it tight. The vista spread wide before him was like nothing he had ever experienced - roaring, foaming waves crashing over mammoth boulders on their way to the sandy beach. And as far as the eye could see, enormous white clouds collided with sailboats and container ships gliding along the gray horizon. Win exhaled, tears rolling down his cheeks. “The Pacific coast, G-Pa.  I’ll go first. You hang on to the railing and follow me down the steps.”

They spent an hour on the beach. Win took off his shoes and introduced his bare feet to the frigid incoming sea. He filled his jacket pockets with shells. As they headed back to the wooden stairs, he grabbed Edward and gave him a bear hug. “This is beyond magnificent, Eddie B.  Look, I can lick salt right from my face.” Edward loved seeing Win happy. They reached their tent site tired and hungry and settled down on a picnic table with deli sandwiches, coleslaw, apple pie, and iced tea.

After their meal, Win sat on the grass in the fading daylight with his cherished books. He didn’t see the approaching disheveled guy from the other campsite, but Edward did. And Edward was ready. He patted the switchblade in his jacket, buttoned the pants pocket holding his wallet, and squatted low to the ground on the side of the tent. “Look at him creeping up from behind,” he mumbled.  “He’s gonna try and roll an old man, have to scare him without scaring G-Pa.” Edward stood up and moved behind a thick pine. He eased the knife from his pocket, his thumb on the release button. The vagabond stepped in front of Win. “Evening sir, mind if I join you for a bit?”  “Not at all, welcome,” said Win. “Heard you reading, do some reading myself, thought maybe we could chat about books. Don’t get to talk much on the road.”

Win introduced himself and Edward, who was standing, feet wide apart, in front of the pine with the knife in his hand. Win shared bits and pieces of their camping trip. Shaggy guy said his name was Billy, told Win his RV was his home, that his family considered him a hobo, and that he had library cards for cities nationwide. Win offered the stranger his favorite poetry book for the evening. He thanked Win for the loan of the book, said he loved poetry of any kind. “I’ll get it back to you first thing tomorrow.” “Know you will,” said Win. “By the way, do you need anything?” Billy smiled. “Not a thing, but thanks for asking, more than most folks do.”

Win pushed himself up from the ground. He turned toward the tent and Edward by the tree. “You and that knife, Eddie B. One of these days you’re gonna hurt yourself.”  Packing up the next morning, Edward found G-Pa’s poetry book on the hood of their car. The battered RV was gone.

Carole Marshall is a former newspaper columnist and feature writer for American Profile magazine. Sometimes she’s a storyteller with a good aging agenda. Reach her at dustywriter89@gmail.com