Hobos I Have Known
Page 9
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THE QUARTER
As I said earlier, feeding the hobos became a way of life along Route 236 in Hants County. Men stopped in on the way to the Annapolis Valley looking for food, if not daily, at least on a regular basis, especially during the harvest season. Memories of one visitor run in to those of most of the others. Very few stood out. Those few that did have been mentioned earlier in this book. There were few surprises. That changed during the summer of ’36.
By then, I was married, living on my own and looking after two little kids. My new home was a little farther from the train station, so the there were fewer visitors. Many of these itinerant travelers hitched rides on the trains that passed through the area twice a day. They would hide in, on top of or under the boxcars.
Riding the rods was the expression used for those who would crawl up under the bottom of the train and lie among the rods that ran from side to side of the boxcar. This was a dangerous practice and many died when they lost their grip and slipped down between the tracks. Fast moving, steel wheels were whizzing along on both sides just inches from their heads. If you fell, you had to keep your wits about you and just lie perfectly flat and perfectly still. The slightest error could prove fatal.
You might wonder why anyone would choose this method of travel over the comfort of being inside the boxcar or the safer option of being on the roof. Detection was the simple answer. You were less likely to be spotted in the relative darkness under the train than anywhere else. Being caught inside could end with you going to jail. On the roof of the car, you were exposed to the elements: sun, wind, rain and don’t forget the ever constant trail of smoke from the coal burning boiler.
But all of that has nothing to do with the day I was surprised during the normal feeding ritual. The knock came to my door shortly after noon. It was midweek, probably a Wednesday. I was home alone with the kids and looked out to see a stranger on the stoop.
His clothes had that well-worn but not worn-out look. There were no holes but they were baggy at the knees, frayed at the cuffs and collar, and not what anyone would ever mistakenly refer to as clean.
The train had chugged through at least five hours earlier, so this was an unexpected visit. I glanced down at his feet. He wore leather shoes. The heels on one side were practically worn away. This man was a walker not a rider.
I put the kids in the dining room and gave them some toys to play with. Even though I had, over the years, become reasonably comfortable with the hobos, I still didn’t want them around my children. Motherhood changes you in some ways.
The man smiled when I opened the door and greeted me with the all too familiar: "Could you spare a little food for a traveling man?"
I sized him up and down again, noticed nothing differently than I had when I studied him through the window and invited him in. Even though it was lunch time, I fed him the usual fare of eggs and toast. I was not running a restaurant.
The man had no complaints about this offering and I sat at the table while he ate and we chatted. He had come from Ontario, he told me, and things were as bad as ever. Factories had chains across their gates. The fences surrounding them were growing up with uncut grass, old newspaper pages and general wind blown litter. It was enough to bring tears to a grown man’s eyes.
"Those clowns in Ottaho don’t know what they are doing," he said.
"Ottaho?" I asked, not familiar with the place.
"Ottaho, the nation’s capital where all those politicians are wasting our money sitting on their –" he hesitated, calmed down a little and continued "– sitting around doing nothing to help the poor working man."
"Oh," I said, enlightened, "Ottawa."
"Right," he said, "Ottaho. Mackenzie King threw Bennet out as prime minister last year, but nothing has changed. Why would it? It was King who was prime minister when all this Depression stuff started back in ’29 or ’30."
I was taken aback by the vehemence in his voice and it must have shown on my face. He stopped his rant and looked embarrassed himself.
"I must apologize," he said. “I know better. My mother once told me never to discuss politics or religion if I wasn’t looking for an argument." He held up his fork displaying the bright yellow yoke of the fresh egg. "I was only looking for food when I came to your door. I apologize again. This is an excellent meal."
Now it was my turn to blush. It was only a fried egg. A little butter in a frying pan, crack the shell, drop in the egg and flip it when it was solid on the bottom. This was hardly gourmet cooking.
"I can’t blame you for being upset," I said. "What did you do before the Depression hit?"
"No, that’s no excuse for being impolite," he said. "It’s not your fault I’m out of work. I used to be a newspaper reporter, now I’m a freelance writer." He smiled. "At least that’s what I tell myself every night before I go to bed. It allows me to sleep through the night."
He set down his fork and leaned in to the table a little. "You must have seen a lot of men like me coming through over the past few years. Tell me about them."
What was there to tell? Of course, I remembered Rat Trap Johnson but that wasn’t fair. He was the exception to the rule. Still, I started with him and then quickly followed up with tales about the good men who had passed through. This man sitting at my table was easy to talk to and soon an hour had flown by. I told him many of the same stories I’ve shared with you. In his eyes, he seemed to be filing all this information away. His obvious interest and encouragement kept me talking, sharing, laughing.
Finally, I had to excuse myself to go check on the kids in the other room. They were both being unusually quiet. I looked in and both were sound asleep. It was afternoon nap time. When I returned to the kitchen, the man was on his feet by the doorway.
"Thank you for everything," he said, "the food, the stories." He held up a finger and pointed it at me. "Remember, stay away from those politicians in Ottaho. They’re a bunch of lazy stumble bums." He laughed and went out through the door never to be seen again.
At church the following Sunday, several people were talking about the mysterious stranger who had stopped at their place looking for a meal. All had positive things to say about him, but no wonder. When I cleared away the dirty dishes from the table, there was a shiny new quarter under the plate. Old King George, himself, in all his regal glory, sitting there as big as life staring up at me. A quarter. That was a lot of money in those days, let me tell you, a lot of money.
Was this man a real hobo or indeed a freelance writer? I can only guess. I like to think that somewhere, sometime, he immortalized my stories in print.
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Closing Notes
The tradition of hoboing continued until well after the end of the Second War. The pace dropped off with the advent of the war. Many of these men signed up and went overseas. Others found jobs feeding the war machine. If anything good could be said of the war, it would be that it brought an end to the Depression.
Also in May of 1940, Prime Minister William Lyon Mackenzie King introduced the first version of Unemployment Insurance. This took some of the sting out of losing a job.
For some people, hoboing became a way of life – riding the rails, seeing the country and begging for food. They saw themselves as adventurers, not vagabonds.
Not all houses were equally visited. Somehow, men, who were passing through on a one-time trip, knew where they would be fed and where they would be met by the angry snarls of a vicious dog. How did they know?
My father always contended there was some method of marking friendly houses. A bent twig, a pile or rocks, a rag tied to a bush, he didn’t know what. Not knowing never stopped him from looking. He knew who fed the hobos and who didn’t. Frequently, he would make the trip along the road that the hobos themselves would travel. Looking. Studying.
Sometimes he would be sure he had found the indicator pointing to his house and would move it or alter it.
Not because he wanted to discourage the visits, he was brought up to look out for others. He moved them because he was curious. He wanted to know. Nothing he ever moved stopped the visits. But even when he was relating these stories to me in the 70s and 80s, he still contended there was a secret code.
Others believed this too. If you know that code, I’d love to hear about it. In the meantime, please remember one thing: we’re all our brother’s keeper. Don’t be afraid to offer someone a helping hand. That attitude is what makes Canada and America great places to live, during bad times and good.
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Author's Bio
Art Burton lives and writes in Latties Brook, Nova Scotia with his wife Flame.
He has a murder mystery print book For Hire, Messenger of God which is available at most online bookstores and can also be ordered at most brick and mortar stores. To learn more about the subject matter of this book go to https://users.eastlink.ca/~artburton/