John Christian Hopkins: Tribute to Narragansett running legend

It was a hot, sticky late August day in 1975 and, like baseball fans throughout New England, my thoughts were on the unlimited potential of the Boston Red Sox and their pair of prized rookies, Jim Rice and Fred Lynn.

The Buckler-Johnston Funeral Home, in Westerly, R.I., was overflowing with Narragansett Indians—some in regalia—mingling with local members of the community and several serious-looking men in dark suits. Like the inside of the parlor, the parking lot out back and the sidewalk out front were crammed with people. There must have been 1,000 people at the funeral of my mother’s uncle, Ellison “Tarzan” Brown.

I knew Uncle Tarzan – or thought I did. I couldn’t recall seeing him sober, or without a wide smile. He was 61, with gray hair and furrowed brow, but he was a hero to the children of the tribe.

We were used to most adults ignoring us, unless we got too loud or rambunctious; but Uncle Tarzan always had time for the kids. He told jokes and tall tales, he paid attention to us.

One of the last times I saw him was the previous winter when we kids were playing outside of Aunt Myra Perry’s house in Charlestown, R.I., and Tarzan came walking down the dirt driveway. Our games broke off as we flocked around Uncle Tarzan.

“I was walking through the woods when I got hungry,” Tarzan told us. “I saw a deer, but all I had was a knife, so I had to chase him. I ran so fast, I went past him and had to wait for him to catch up!”

I always laughed at that story, never thinking there might be some truth in it.

I thought of that story on that August day of 1975 as I looked around at all the people. Even the governor had come! It seemed like a lot of people coming to pay respects to a storytelling old man who had been the hero of many a fine bottle.