Agathos Dorea

I met Lindsey Parks when I was nine years old.

By anyone’s standards, Mr. Parks was still a young man–but there’s no question that work and relentless responsibilities had caused him to age beyond his years. To this very day, as he reached for the nozzle of Fire Chief Regular, I can still see his hands; worn and weathered. I guess years of pumping gas through the blazing hot summers and the frigidly cold winters of northern Minnesota will do that to a person’s hands. For some odd reason, I remember his skin being very thin. Although I really can’t be sure why–but if I was a betting man, I’d say he had the kind of skin that goes along with the unfortunate experience of having an empty plate about four bites shy of being full most of the time.

Yet despite his gaunt and aged appearance, Lindsey Parks was precisely the kind of man a nine-year old boy is taken with. He had responsibilities. He had authority. He had a uniform! He was, by all respects, a minute but essential cog in the big machine of small-town life. He kept cars on the road and people moving—and he did it with a kind of precision and panache that would leave me in wide-eyed wonder.

Every once in a while when times were good, I remember my old man would tell Lindsey to fill it up with high-octane Sky Chief Premium and Mr. Parks would always make it a point to clear that order with me first; it was the kind of moment you lived for when you’re nine.

A couple of years later, Mr. Parks’ daughter disappeared. He was never the same man after that; it just sorta took the wind out of his sails. My Dad remained a loyal customer of Park’s Texaco Filling Station until the end and even then he made it a point to check in with Lindsey on a regular basis–a lesson in kindness I still carry with me today.

Whenever I see an old Texaco sign, I always think of Mr. Parks.

Every single time.