by Art Burton
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THE WALKING SUITCASE
Security of possessions is one of our greatest desires. People achieve this security in different ways. I remember one hobo who showed up at the house in May of ’31.
This was one of those springs when summer-like temperatures were already heating things up. We made bread every other day or so to keep up with the demand. We would blend the ingredients before bedtime, let it rise overnight, and then pan it first thing in the morning. In this way we hoped to have it baked and the wood stove cooled a bit before the heat of the day was upon us. This didn’t always work. Some mornings just started out hot.
The knock came to the door around 9 a.m. This was late for the ’bos to arrive. They usually aimed for a meal time. I don’t know if they were relying on generating some guilt because we had food and they didn’t or whether it was just that families prepared better food for themselves than for the itinerant strangers who showed up at the door. By arriving at meal time, they could share this better food.
Regardless, the kitchen could only be described as hot. The bread was almost ready to come out of the oven. Outside the temperature was in the high seventies. I opened the door and there stood a tall man, hat in hand, dressed in a heavy coat.
"Could you spare a little food?" he asked. This was the standard opening sentence. My older brother who was visiting and helping out around the farm was already finished his morning chores. He sat in the dining room, reading. Most of the time he worked aboard the cargo ships between Nova Scotia and Boston. My father was not in sight but was around somewhere.
"I guess so," I said. The breakfast dishes were all washed and put away. "Come on in."
He stepped into the hot kitchen. Perspiration beaded across his forehead. He slipped out of his outer coat and removed a sweater, laying both of them on a small couch we had just inside the door.
"It’s a warm one out there," he said.
"Sure is. Early summer." I agreed.
"Course, it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity." We both smiled at the familiar adage.
"Warm in here, as well," he added.
I just nodded. I didn’t need any reminder. I was working in this furnace.
The usual fare for these travelers at our house was a couple of fried eggs and some home made bread. We had our own chickens so eggs were always plentiful. I broke two into a frying pan and added a little salt. Over easy was the only way I served them and never offered a choice. I put two slices of bread on a rack to toast.
I noticed a bottle of strawberry jam sitting on the table left over from breakfast. I remembered picking the berries last July in weather just like today. From the time we were kids, it was ingrained in us not to eat any berries while we were picking until all the containers were full. Even as adults, we continued that practice. I could recall the struggle not to pop one of those delicious red balls of flavor into my mouth. Now as I looked at one of the last of the bottles from that batch, I wondered if the jam would last until the new season arrived. It would be close. What would breakfast be without toast and jam?
The bread was ready to come out. I opened the oven door and a new blast of heated air filled the kitchen. The ’bo was sitting in line with the door and received the full brunt of the heat.
"Whew, that’s hot," he said, "but it sure smells good." He squirmed in the heat and then took off another sweater. Under it was a jacket. It came off. So far that was a coat, two sweaters and a jacket. He still wore a heavy, plaid work shirt and I could see flannel underwear at his neck and cuffs. By now the kitchen was at least 85 degrees. I removed the bread from the oven and set it to cool on the counter. There were four loaves in total each radiating their own heat.
I wore a short sleeved, cotton dress and a full apron. The bread was finished so I removed the apron. The hobo had a sheen on his face from the heat. I placed the toast and eggs in front of the man. He looked at the bottle of jam on the table, looked at me and looked back at the jam.
"Would you mind if I have some jam?" he asked.
The bottle sat there big as life. I did the math. This was May. The next batch would not be ready until July. We had, at most, three mason jars of the sugary fruit left. It would be close. Could I say no?
"Go ahead," I said. There was no enthusiasm in the offer.
His face lit up like the early morning sun. "Oh, thank you," he said. Half of the remaining jam landed on the toast and in the same motion arrived at his mouth. Jam was smeared on both of his cheeks. Each filthy finger was licked until it was almost clean. Never had I seen any one derive so much enjoyment from such a simple act. It was worth the sacrifice.
Once finished, he stood to leave. His tongue was still flicking out to catch any errant spots of red on the sides of his face.
"Thank you, ma’am. I sure ’preciate the food." The thanks were sincere. I found it embarrassing because on the farm, food was not a real concern. We easily grew enough to satisfy our needs and had enough left over to share, even the precious strawberry jam.
My brother came to the kitchen door and watched as the hobo slipped on his jacket. He pulled on the first sweater. It was a little small and a bit tight. The second one was larger and slipped over his head in an easier fashion and finally he pulled on the coat.
The ’bo noticed us watching this ritual.
"It’s warm out there now but the cold weather will come again," he said. "This is the only way I can be sure no one will steal my clothes when I’m not looking or when I’m sleeping. It’s hot but it works."
My brother nodded in agreement but said nothing until the man was out the door. These were concerns I had never though of. My internal debate over the jam seemed so trivial in the face of the hobo’s distress over maintaining all his worldly goods in one place where they would be safe.
"I’ve seen a lot of strange things in my travels," my brother said, "but that’s the first time I’ve ever seen a walking suitcase."
