Ordinary Wisdom: The Man in the Bib Overalls

I’ve met a lot of interesting people in my lifetime. Some were highly educated, some were successful businessmen, and some had enough credentials hanging on their walls to wallpaper a small house.

But one of the most remarkable men I ever met was a farmer in bib overalls named Earl.

I met Earl in the early 1980s at the little airport in Safford, Arizona. He didn’t look like anybody’s idea of an aviation expert. He looked like what he was: a farmer.

But Appearances Can Be Deceiving

Earl had never attended flight school. He didn’t even have a pilot’s license. His father owned farmland and a crop-dusting airplane, and one day he essentially told Earl to get in and learn to fly it.

And that’s exactly what Earl did.

Over the years, he learned about navigation, radio procedures, and flying techniques by asking questions of pilots passing through the airport. He listened, learned, and remembered.

I was fortunate enough to have an airplane available during those years, and I flew almost every day, sometimes for no other reason than the joy of being in the air.

I flew everything from hang gliders and ultralights to a Cessna 172 and eventually a pressurized Cessna P-210, the highest-performance airplane I ever flew.

I wasn’t trying to become an airline pilot. I simply loved flying, the freedom, and the adventure.

And Sometimes I Did Things Just So I Could Say I’d Done Them

One day, while flying around the Arizona desert, I realized I was lost.

I could have called Albuquerque Center for assistance getting back to Safford Airport. That would have been the sensible thing to do.

But then I looked down.

There, in the middle of nowhere, sat a double-wide mobile home with a dirt road running in front of it.

I checked for power poles and other obvious obstructions, then decided to land on that road.

Why? Because I wanted the memory of having done it.

I landed, parked the airplane, and knocked on the mobile home’s door.

A woman answered. She looked at me, then over my shoulder at the airplane parked in front of her house.

“Darling, you’re lost, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I am,” I admitted.

“Well, where do you want to go?”

“Safford Airport.”

She pointed toward a mountain.

“Well, darling, it’s right through that mountain over there.”

I thanked her, took off, and followed her directions. Sure enough, I found Safford Airport.

Was that the smartest thing I ever did? Probably not. Landing on an unfamiliar road certainly wasn’t without risk.

But had I called Albuquerque Center, I wouldn’t have that wonderful memory today.

The Spirit of Adventure Lived in Both of Us

That adventurous spirit may explain why Earl and I got along so well.

One day Earl and I flew to Reno in a pressurized Cessna P-210. I wanted to experience flying that airplane, and Earl was willing to teach me.

I took the left seat while he explained the landing gear, constant-speed propeller, radios, and heading.

Once airborne, everything was going smoothly.

Then Earl looked at me and said, “Wake me up in an hour.”

I thought he was kidding.

He wasn’t.

Within 20 minutes, he was sound asleep, snoring like a chainsaw.

There I was, flying an airplane I was still learning to operate, with my instructor sleeping beside me. Fortunately, the autopilot was engaged, the weather cooperated, and I followed Earl’s instructions.

Approaching Reno, I woke him. He opened his eyes, checked our position, and helped with the approach.

We landed without incident.

And Earl? Not a word of praise. Nothing.

Apparently, I’d done exactly what I was supposed to do.

Looking back, perhaps that was his greatest compliment.

My Favorite Earl Story

But my favorite Earl story was one he told me at the airport.

He’d taken several fellows fishing in a heavily loaded Cessna 172, flying through mountainous country.

Suddenly, they hit a tremendous bump.

And I’m not talking about the little jolts you sometimes feel on commercial airlines. This was a violent jolt that actually jarred one of the airplane doors partly open.

Earl reached over, opened the door farther to get a better grip, and prepared to pull it shut. But the passenger beside him saw Earl opening his door and apparently figured Earl knew something he didn’t.

So he opened his door, too!

Picture this: They’re flying near a mountain, the airplane is heavily loaded, and suddenly both front doors are open.

The fellow in the back seat shouted, “What the hell are you doing?”

And the passenger up front answered, “If Earl’s getting out, I’m getting out too!”

Every time I think about that story, I laugh.

The Wisdom That Stayed with Me

But there’s something about Earl that has stayed with me all these years.

He never needed to impress anybody. He didn’t have diplomas or certificates proving what he knew. He learned through experience, curiosity, observation, and the willingness to ask questions.

Some people stop learning when they leave school. Others never stop, whether they attended school or not.

Earl belonged to that second group.

I wonder how many extraordinary people we pass by without recognizing what they know or what they’ve experienced.

We see their clothes, occupations, or the way they speak, and think we’ve figured them out. But sometimes the fellow in bib overalls knows more than the man wearing the expensive suit.

Earl taught me something about flying, but something even more important about life.

Never confuse a person’s appearance or formal education with the wisdom they possess.

And if you ever find yourself in an airplane with a farmer in bib overalls who tells you to wake him up in an hour, don’t worry too much.

He probably knows exactly what he’s doing.

Just make sure the doors are closed.

Your Turn:

What is one wild story you can share with the community? And don’t forget to also share the wisdom you learned!