A Hobo Hobby

A Hobo Hobby

By Kathleen M. Brosius

I was running late. Blame it on traffic, or maybe a phone call that took a moment too long. I ran to the hospital door and dashed to room number 209. “Katie dear,” he whispered.

“I Daddy,” I leaned over him and kissed his cheek. “How ya feeling today?” His smile brightened his tired eyes. Those eyes. I could read his emotion by the look in those blue eyes. He was a storyteller. Through the years, I had listened to his stories—some joyful, some sad. He had an expression, through his eyes, for each.

I sat close to his bed and softly talked to him. What I said, I don’t remember. All that was important was that he could hear my voice. A tear escaped from my eye; a prayer whispered in my mind for only God to hear. I knew he was fading. I talked to him until he was asleep.

My aunt was coming to see him in the morning. I decided to go home for a few hours. The phone rang at four am. I sprang out of bed to answer. I knew who it would be.    

“I’m sorry Kathleen. Your dad is gone.”

I was stunned. I was expecting it, but I was stunned. I kissed his cheek. I caressed his face, his hair, his arms. The nurse handed me a card explaining poetically what was happening. It was a nice poem. I smiled and let tears come. I sat by him until daybreak, then whispered goodbye.  

Going through my father’s things, I found commercial fishing reports and periodicals. On a table, a stack of encyclopedias lay, along with a couple of paperback novels. In the pocket of his chair, I found several hobo magazines. My dad was a hobo in his younger years. I recalled his stories of adventures, exciting get-aways, and cold nights in hobo jungles. All told with the familiar emotion of those clear blue eyes.

I spent the evening reading through those magazines. I learned that there are still hobos riding the rails in modern times. Not as many, as today’s hobos do it as a hobby, escaping the busy stressful life of the world. I began imagining a life riding the rails, and it was then that I made the decision to become a hobo.

The railroad yard was in the middle of town. I had researched online and jotted down all I could remember of what I had learned from my father. His hobo days were back during the depression years. He was looking for work, but also welcomed the element of adventure involved. I smiled to myself, as I recalled his story about when he and his brother were riding the rails out east. They had jumped off the train and soon found themselves on the grounds of a convent. They were hungry, tired and in need of a bath, so they welcomed the invitation to come inside for a hot meal. According to my dad, they were “trapped” there or several days, the concerned nuns trying their hardest to convert the young men. They finally escaped and found their way to an empty boxcar.

After some effort, I recruited a friend of mine to join me in my new hobby. She was a bit leery, but I promised that we would scrap the idea whenever she wanted. “Nancy,” I pleaded. “We can do this. It isn’t as dangerous as it was 60 years ago.” I crossed my fingers and hoped that neither of us would come to that point. Nancy consented, and here we were standing at the edge of the railroad yard, wondering what to do next.

“As soon as it gets dark, we’ll make our way over to that line of boxcars.” I pointed in the direction of the train. “I checked and it is heading West at daybreak.” Nancy nodded. I continued, “I think I see an open boxcar. As soon as it’s dark, we’ll jump on and settle in.” Nancy nodded. “I’m so excited. Our first time at riding the rails, Nanc.” She again nodded, a terrified expression forming.

We checked our gear and decided that we had all that we needed. We would get off at wherever the train stopped close to sunset. Getting up and into the empty car was a bit of a challenge, but we made it. Nancy clasped her hands tightly together. I stepped up and she booted me up far enough for me to pull myself into our traveling quarters. Then I leaned out and down as far as I could and pulled Nancy up enough for her to grab on and pull herself in.

We scrambled as far back into a corner as we could; after a few moments of giggling, we huddled there, thrilled at what we just had accomplished, but at the same time full of dread, suddenly realizing that we were breaking the law. The floor of the boxcar was hard, but clean. We each had a sleeping bag and one change of clothing. We carried with us a small camping kit, matches, a flashlight, and a meager supply of instant packs of food. Tucked inside our sleeping bags, we each had a plastic bag of toiletries. We were well prepared.

The night was long; we got little sleep. At dawn, we heard the yard come alive. Workers were preparing for the day, each one having their specific job. It wasn’t long before the sound of the engine on our train startled us. The train jumped.

“Kathleen,” Nancy whispered, “Do you want to get off?”

“I donno,” I squeaked. “Do you?”

“I donno.” We sat still, listening, waiting.

The train lurched forward, then slowly calmed. We were moving. A moment later, we were moving faster. I grabbed Nancy’s arm and hung on. “Oh my gosh, Nancy, what have we done?”

“I know! What if we can’t get off?”

For a long while we clung together like a couple of scared children, waiting for our mothers to find us. Finally, we relaxed a little and began to talk about what we knew about hobos and riding the rails.

We both had researched the culture, intrigued at the number of people who used to ride the rails. I recalled what I had learned from my dad. “Before my mom and dad got married, Daddy did this a lot. He would go alone some of the time. His brother Pede joined him sometimes.” Then I remembered, “One time my Aunt Mona went with them.” I paused, trying to remember the story. “They were alone on the train, but they jumped off at a popular spot outside of Chicago, I think.”

Nancy was captivated, “I didn’t know this?” She added, I wonder if Dad knew that Pondo was a hobo. Aren’t or, weren’t hobos sort of outlaws? I mean, weren’t they tramps, and didn’t they rob people?”

“Well, there’s a difference between tramps, and hobos. And bums.” I described it to her. “A hobo is someone that is down and out and is looking for work. A tramp is someone who looks for work only when he is forced to. And a bum is someone who isn’t looking for work at all—just a handout to get by.” I chuckled, “Daddy would fall under all of those categories at times.” I smiled, thinking of him.

“Back to that story I was telling.” Nancy nodded. “When hobos are waiting for the next opportunity to jump a train, they would congregate somewhere close to the railroad yard. There were always a few hobos, or tramps, gathered at these places. My dad and aunt and uncle jumped off the train at one of these places. There were a few hobos settling in for the night. A fire was blazing, and a coffee pot was sending out the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. They began settling in.

My dad and Pede we very protective of my aunt Mona. A couple of the hobos that were there (those places were called the jungle, by the way). Anyway, I guess there was a little ruckus. Those two hobos tried to grab a hold of my aunt. Daddy and Pede had to wrestle them away from their little sister, and stand guard all night.”

Nancy was interested in these jungles. “What were they like? I mean those jungles?”

“Well,” I thought a moment. “They were areas outside of town, close to the railroad yards. Hobos would stop there sometimes for a couple of days if they were thinking there was work somewhere close. It could be a lively night. A fire crackling away, music—somebody always had either a guitar, or a banjo, or a harmonica. They would share stories and maybe know where there was work, or a warmer place to spend the night. They shared food and drink. They were usually close to some kind of water, so they could wash-up a little.”

“Hmm,” Nancy replied. “I never knew anything about this kind of life. And people still do it?”

“Ya,” I nodded. “They aren’t looking for work, though. Today, they just do it because they like the idea of riding-the-rails. Of being free for a few days. Pretending that they are a hobo from days gone by. It’s a fun hobby.

The train rolled on. We fell asleep and would wake, look around, and fall back to sleep. When the train sounded her whistle, we jumped. Looking outside, we wondered where we were. The afternoon was gone. The sun began to dip below the horizon. The train slowed. A few short minutes passed, and then it stopped. Peeking out of the open door of our boxcar, we saw that a town stretched before us.

“I think we should jump out,” I said. “The town looks big enough that a train might be coming through in the morning. Hopefully, it will stop.”

Nancy whispered, “Will we find a motel? I could sure use a shower.”

“And a hamburger, fries and a malt,” I laughed. “Girl, we are hobos, there ain’t no motels or restaurants for us.”

“You mean we’re gonna have to sleep outside in one of those jungles?”

“I guess so, I don’t see any empty buildings,” I motioned. “Come on, let’s check this place out.”

We jumped from the train, both of us a bit nervous. We certainly did not want to get caught. Nancy noticed a policeman driving along the tracks. I sensed that she wanted to run for cover. There was no place to hide. My heart started beating faster. Adrenalin hit and we sprinted away from the tracks. I saw a ditch and dove. Nancy followed. We were half screaming, half laughing, terrified of being dragged off to jail.

The patrol car passed. Either, the driver didn’t see us, or he did see us and just let it go. We lay in the weeds for a few minutes, both wondering what to do now. I peeked over the edge of the ditch and saw a small gray building. It looked like a vacant house. Windows were broken, weeds and clutter tried to hide the once welcome little home. “Come on, let’s aim for that old house.” I checked the surroundings looking for suspicious characters. I saw none, so I stood and started running. Nancy was right behind me. Across the remainder of the tracks, we ran; across the highway, across a dirt road running along-side the highway, and onto the vacant property. We dove into the tall grass in front of the ancient dwelling.

Panting for breath, we lay there a moment wondering what to do next. I whispered, “It would be perfect if there was a little sign by the door or on a post somewhere close.”

“What for? What would that do?” Nancy asked.

“Let’s go take a look.” I saw that no one was nearby so I stood. Nance followed. “Look for some funny lines or drawings carved in wood,” I said. “I really doubt that there will be anything, but you never know.”

We scoured the outside of the house. Nothing. We made our way through the weeds to the other side of the house. A door was hanging by one hinge. A screen door lay haphazardly on the ground. Nancy kneeled to examine it. “Kathleen, come here. Look at this.”

Looking down at the wooden frame, gray from years of weathering, a small scratch formed a message. “Just a minute,” I dug into my pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I jotted down a few of the markings. My dad told me about them; he called them Hobo Codes, or Hobo Hieroglyphics.

We both studied the markings. Nancy brushed the dirt off. “There, that’s better.”

I kneeled next to the ancient door. “Let’s see.” I scanned the paper. 

Nancy said, “Hey look at that one. It looks like that, maybe.” She pointed to the paper. “What do you think?” There it was, a squiggly line. “I bet that means water.” Studying it further, they recognized an OXO marking just below the water sign.

“That means good water. Look!”

“Yes! That’s it.”

“But I wonder if we dare sleep here,” I said. “Are there any more marks?”

Searching further, Nancy spotted a straight line, obviously made with a knife. “Look there.”

I brushed it off and there, they made out a faint box-like mark, with no line across the top. “Look at this. That mark means that we can camp here.” We looked at each other.

Laughing, I said, “You know these marks,” looking up at the dilapidated old house, then at my partner-in-crime, I said, “You know, we are in the 21^st century. This house and these signs are probably 100 years old.

Nancy shrugged her shoulders. “What do you think?” She stood, picked up her gear and walked through the door. “Let’s give it a try.”

We found a corner away from the broken door. There was no furniture, nothing inside. We pulled the door shut as tight as we could and with a piece of rope we had, we tied it shut, hoping to deter any wildlife, man, or beast. Since we weren’t outside, we didn’t make a fire. The sun was completely set, our watches said 9:15. For our supper that first night, we dined on granola bars and a shared banana. We were pleasantly surprised to find an old water pump just outside the back door. And it worked. After the brownish water cleared, we had beautiful cool spring water. We washed up a bit and were ready for bed. Our sleeping bags looked very inviting. We wished we had a pillow. Our extra clothes served as a soft pad for our tired heads.

“I wonder if we should call home.” No doubt our husbands and kids and friends and relatives were feeling anxious, having not heard from either of us all day. I texted a short message to my husband. Hi all, we r ok. Found vacant old house by the tracks. Will check in tomorrow. Luv u.

Nancy did the same. We didn’t know the name of the town. We could have checked, but it was too late now.

I whispered, “Good night girlfriend.” I took a deep breath and added, a “Wow! I’m glad you are with.”

Nancy said, “Me too. It has been an adventure and it’s been only one day. ‘Night.”

We slept sound.

That was our first day of riding-the-rails. We made it. Now a new day lay ahead of us. First, we had to figure out how to get onto another train. We were not in a yard this time. “Hopefully, a train will stop.”

No train was stopping, but finally one slowed way down. We were scared to death. Then the beast came to a stop. We were about to pull ourselves up and inside an open boxcar when the train began to back up. We quickly jumped away. “Yeow!” I screeched. The train then came to a complete stop. We gave it a moment then proceeded to pull ourselves up and inside.

We again scrambled to a corner and crouched low until we began moving. We settled in and the day repeated itself. We ate another granola bar, and then listened to the hum of the engines, the drone of the wheels on the tracks, and the wind whistling by the open boxcar.

Our few days spent as hobos, were quite the experience. We jotted down notes, thoughts, and wishes, as the clickity-clack of the wheels rolled on. Our bodies ached from sleeping on the hard boards of the boxcars. We were starving for a good meal and a long drink of anything. And we missed our families.

All and all, I would say our new hobby was a success. Nancy and I planned to do it again. Maybe the next time, we would take a longer jaunt. Maybe we would find our way to Britt, Iowa for the yearly Hobo convention. That would be awesome. What a hobby.