American Progress

by Veda Boyd Jones

  Steven’s face brightened. “I’ll see if I can find some.” He raced off toward the house, leaving his hoop and stick behind.

  Chet began chopping wood again. Fred turned a thick log on end and sat down on it. He liked the smell of fresh wood that came from newly cut logs. “Did you find any harvest work?” he asked Chet.

  Chet nodded. “Worked on a lot of different farms.”

  “Does it pay very well?” Fred grinned. “If it does, maybe I’ll suggest it to my brothers, Harry and Larry. They could both use a good-paying job.”

  “Depends on the crop and the farmer. Farmers are short of cash now, like everyone else. One farmer I worked for let me sleep in the barn, gave me three meals a day, but only fifteen cents for each day’s work.”

  Fred raised his eyebrows. “Fifteen cents for a whole day’s work?”

  “Yep. That wasn’t as bad as it sounds, though. Lots of men are making less than that these days. One farmer I worked for was really hard up. I worked all day in his field. Come dusk, he gave me two ears of corn for the day’s work.”

  “Wow! I thought farmers had it easy. They don’t have to worry about getting a paycheck. They can grow everything they need for food.”

  “I found out it’s costing them more to grow the food than they can get for the food when they sell it. Then they can’t pay the bank for their loans or for gas for their tractors and trucks.”

  “I never thought of that,” Fred said slowly.

  “One farmer I worked for had all his chickens stolen. His family went to church, and when he came home, they were gone. He told me some of his farmer neighbors started staying home from church because people without jobs from town would come out while they were gone and take things. So farmers don’t always have it so easy.”

  “Boy, I guess not!”

  Chet stopped chopping to wipe his forehead again. “Worst thing for me is the Farmers’ Holiday that’s going on right now.”

  Fred knew what he was talking about. Lots of farmers had started an organization called the Farmers’ Holiday Association the previous spring. They worked together like a union to make things better for farmers.

  In September, the Minnesota group had started a strike. They blocked highways to keep other farmers from bringing their milk and meat and vegetables to market. They wanted to keep food from being sold until people would pay more money for it. When one Minnesota farmer tried to get his truck through the striking farmers, he’d shot and killed one of the striking farmers.

  People were angry about the Farmers’ Holiday strike because there wasn’t as much food at the grocery stores and meat markets. What food there was cost more than it did before the strike. But Governor Olson said farmers had a right to strike like any other workers.

  Chet leaned the ax against the shed, picked up a saw, and began sawing the wood into stove-size chunks. “Can’t blame the farmers for wanting higher prices, what with a quart of milk selling for only five cents and a farmer only getting two cents a pound for his hogs and two cents for a dozen eggs.”

  “It does sound bad,” Fred agreed, “but even at those prices, lots of people can’t buy food.”

  Chet stopped sawing to grin at him. “Don’t I know it.” The grind of the saw began again.

  Fred felt his face grow hot. He’d forgotten for a moment that Chet was homeless and didn’t have a job. He just seems like a regular guy when we talk.

  “I have to say, though,” Chet added, “when I saw farmers dumping their milk on the highway, it made me sick to my stomach. All the hungry men I’ve seen riding the rails and standing in lines for hours for a cup of soup and a piece of bread, and the farmers throw away good food!” He shook his head. “I understand they need better prices to make a living. Still, it was a hard thing to see.”

  Steven came running up to them, panting, a steel skate in each hand. “I found them! There’s something wrong with one of them, so Mother said we can use them for the scooter.”

  Chet grinned at him. “Great. Doesn’t matter if one of the skates is broken, because we only need one for the scooter.”

  Steven’s father was crossing the lawn on his long legs, his hands in his trouser pockets. Fred was glad to see his dark eyes were friendly when he spoke to Chet. “My son Steven tells me you offered to show him how to make a scooter.”

  It seemed to Fred that Chet looked a little wary, as if he wasn’t certain Uncle Donald was really friendly. I suppose a lot of people treat him mean because he’s a hobo, Fred thought. A pang of sadness tightened his chest.

  “Yes, sir,” Chet answered Uncle Donald. “That is, if it’s all right with you.”

  “It’s fine with me.” Uncle Donald laughed. “Steven’s been pestering me for a scooter of his own all summer. What will you need besides the skates to make it?”

  Chet told him what size pieces of lumber he’d need and what nails. “Scrap lumber will do.”

  Uncle Donald nodded and laid a hand on Steven’s shoulder. “Why don’t you stop at one of the lumberyards Monday after school and ask if they have any pieces like that? They usually have some scrap around they’ll let a boy have for free.”

  “All right.” Steven’s eyes were shining. “When can you make it, Chet?”

  Uncle Donald said, “If you don’t have other plans late Monday afternoon, how about stopping back then?”

  Chet squared his shoulders and nodded. “Sounds fine to me.”

  Fred thought Chet looked pleased that Uncle Donald had treated him as he would anyone else, as if his time was important and he might have more to do than stand around feeling sorry for himself.

  “I’m Donald Harrington,” Fred’s uncle said, holding out his hand to Chet. “I’m afraid these boys have forgotten to introduce us.”

  Chet swiped his sweaty palm across his trousers and shook Uncle Donald’s hand. “Chet Strand.”

  “Nice to meet you, Chet. Why don’t you carry a load of this wood down the basement to the laundry stove? Then Steven can show you where to wash up. We’d be glad to have you join us for dinner tonight.” Uncle Donald grinned. “It’s our youngest daughter’s second birthday. There’s going to be cake and ice cream for dessert.”

  A wide grin crossed Chet’s skinny face. “Thank you, sir. That sounds great!”

  A warm feeling filled Fred’s chest. He liked Chet, and he liked the way Uncle Donald treated him. “If you don’t mind,” he told Chet, “I’d like to see how you make the scooter.”

  Chet shrugged. “I’ll be glad to show you.” He leaned down and picked up a piece of wood about ten inches long and a couple inches wide from the sawdust and log chips on the ground. “Do you think it’s okay if I take this with me?”

  “Sure.”

  Chet picked up some of the stove lengths he’d just cut. “Okay, pal,” he said to Steven. “Lead the way to the basement.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Chet’s Story

  Monday afternoon, Chet was true to his word and showed up at the Harringtons’ house. He was sitting on the back porch talking to Anna and Isabel when Fred and Steven arrived.

  “Hi, Chet! We got the lumber.” Steven held up two pieces. Each was a couple feet long and two inches by four inches.

  Chet studied the pieces. “They look just the right size.”

  Steven grinned.

  “Hope you haven’t been waiting long,” Fred said to Chet. “I went with Steven to the lumberyard. The man there said we could have the scrap lumber, but we’d have to work for it. We both had to pick up bent nails for half an hour.” He made a face. “I didn’t mind working to pay for the stuff, but we knew you’d be waiting.”

  “That’s all right. Why don’t you get your skates, Steven, and we’ll get started.”

  An hour later, it was almost done. Chet had taken one of the skates apart. He’d attached one set of wheels to one end of a two-by-four and the other set of wheels to the other end. Then he’d nailed the other two-by-four to the front of the piece with the skate. Finally, he pu
lled a piece of wood about eight inches long from his back pocket. “This is the last piece, the handle.”

  Fred took it from him. “It’s smooth. Is this the piece you took with you Saturday?”

  Chet nodded. “I smoothed it down so Steven won’t get slivers from it.”

  “Thanks!” Steven grinned at him.

  “You’re welcome.” Chet nailed it onto the top of the piece of wood that stood straight up. Then, with one hand on the handle, he grinned at Steven. “One scooter, all set for travel.”

  Steven whooped with joy and grabbed the handles. “I’m going to try it out.” He headed toward the alleyway, stopped, and turned around. “Think I’ll try it on the sidewalk first.” He pushed it through the grass toward the front of the house. Before he made it out to the sidewalk, Aunt Lydia came to the back door and called them all in for supper.

  When they went inside, Chet pulled a small wooden object from his pocket and held it out to Aunt Lydia. “Would it be all right if I gave this to Audrey for her birthday? I know it’s a couple days late, but …” He shrugged.

  Aunt Lydia took it from him. Fred leaned close to see what it was. “Why, it’s a little bird carved from wood!” Aunt Lydia’s eyes sparkled in delight. “It’s lovely, Chet. Thank you. I’m sure Audrey will enjoy playing with it.”

  Fred took it from Aunt Lydia’s hand and studied it. “Did you carve this?”

  Chet’s cheeks grew red. “Yeah. I like to whittle. It fills up the time when I’m riding the rails or … or waiting for something.”

  Like standing in a bread or soup line? Fred wondered.

  “You’re good at carving,” Aunt Lydia said.

  Chet smiled but looked a little embarrassed.

  After dinner, Steven insisted everyone come outside and watch him try out his new scooter. “It works swell!” he told Chet breathlessly when he returned from a scoot down to the end of the block and back. A moment later, he was gone again, with seven-year-old Isabel and four-year-old Frank chasing after him.

  Aunt Lydia drew Chet aside. Though she spoke softly, Fred could hear what she said. “If you’d like, I could wash your clothes for you. I’d like to do something special for you for making the scooter for Steven and the bird for Audrey. You could borrow a shirt and trousers from my husband while I wash your things. Of course, they’d be large for you, but you’d only have to wear them for a day.”

  “I … I’d like that, ma’am,” Chet said in a low voice. “It’s hard to keep clothes clean when … well, you know.”

  He means when you don’t have a home, Fred thought. His chest clenched again in pain for his new friend.

  “If you’ll come back first thing in the morning,” Aunt Lydia said, “I’ll do your things with our laundry tomorrow.”

  Aunt Lydia and Uncle Donald went back inside, taking Audrey with them. Fred and Anna stayed outside with Chet. They sat down on the front steps together in front of the screened porch. Fred watched Steven turn the corner, Frank and Isabel still racing after him. “Guess he’s going to go around the block.”

  “I like all your brothers and sisters, Anna,” Chet said quietly. “They remind me of my own brothers and sisters.”

  Fred stared at him in surprise. It was the first time Chet had talked about his own family. “I never thought of you as having brothers and sisters,” he said. “I guess I just thought … I don’t know … that you didn’t have a family.”

  “I have a family.” Chet didn’t look at him while he talked. He leaned his elbows on the stairs behind him and watched the street. “I come from a big family, like Anna does. I haven’t heard anything from my family since I left home. I think about them a lot. I worry about my brothers and sisters. I’m the oldest, see. I used to help Mom out with them a lot—help them with their schoolwork and stuff like that. You know, teach them the stuff older brothers and sisters always have to teach.”

  Fred and Anna nodded. A lump filled Fred’s throat. It hurt. He wondered if Anna had a lump in her throat, too.

  “It’s October,” Chet said. “They should be back in school. I wonder if they are. I worry about them, whether they’ll be able to finish school. I don’t want any of them to have to quit and go out on their own the way I’ve had to do. I’d like to get a good-paying job one day, a real job, you know?” He looked at Fred with raised eyebrows, then at Anna.

  Fred nodded.

  “A real job,” Chet repeated, “a full-time, forty-hour-a-week job. That way I can make sure the kids are taken care of and finish school.”

  Fred tried to swallow the painful lump in his throat. “Is your father dead?”

  Chet shook his head. “Naw. He’s just out of work like so many other men these days. He’s a good, hard worker,” he was quick to say, “but the plant where he worked closed, and he hasn’t been able to find another job. Been out of work over a year now.”

  “Like my friend Dot’s father,” Anna said.

  Chet nodded. “‘Course, maybe Dad’s found a job since I left. Like I said, I haven’t heard from them.”

  “If your father isn’t dead and you like your family, why did you leave home?” Fred asked.

  Chet didn’t answer right away. He kept staring out at the street. Fred saw him swallow. He thought he saw a glint of tears in Chet’s eyes, but then it was gone. I must have imagined it, he thought.

  Finally Chet said, “One day my dad came home from looking for work. Like most days, he hadn’t found a job and hadn’t found any work for chores for a few hours, either. He was out of money, and the cupboards were empty. He took me aside and said, “You’re the oldest, seventeen. You’re not a boy anymore. I can’t afford to feed everyone. It’s time for you to be out on your own.”

  Anna gasped.

  Fred stared. His chest felt cold with horror. What if Father said that to me, just pushed me out of the house that way?

  “It wasn’t his fault, of course,” Chet said quickly. “I know he didn’t want to do it.” His shrug lifted his worn, dusty shirt. “He didn’t have a choice. I knew that. We lived in a small town in western Minnesota, and I knew well enough there weren’t any jobs to be had. So that night, I stuffed a change of clothes and a blanket and a razor into a pillowcase. I walked down to the train yard and caught a freight train headed east. That was the first time I rode the rails.”

  The clacking of Steven’s wheels on the sidewalk made them all look up. Steven was flying toward them, his straight dark hair blowing. One foot pumped the sidewalk in a rhythm that kept his scooter moving fast over the cracks. A couple houses behind him, Isabel was still running, with Frank a couple houses behind her.

  Steven waved at them. “Look at this! It works great!”

  Chet grinned and waved back.

  Relief loosened some of the tightness in Fred’s chest. “I think it must be exciting to live on the road like you do,” he told Chet.

  “It’s interesting to see different places,” he admitted, “but it isn’t much fun wondering where you’re going to sleep every night or whether you’re going to have anything to eat that day and never having clean clothes.”

  “No, I guess not,” Fred said slowly.

  “Remember the pillowcase of stuff I told you I took with me from home?”

  Fred nodded.

  “Yes,” Anna said. “What happened to it?”

  “Someone stole it from me. Most of the hobos are gentlemen.”

  “I’ve heard that,” Anna said, smiling. “They’re called the Gentlemen of the Road.”

  Chet winked at her. “That’s right. But hobos aren’t the only ones riding the rails. Sometimes you meet up with a tough guy. That’s what happened to me. He used to be in prison, and he didn’t want to reform. He threatened me with a knife and told me he wanted the pillowcase and anything else I had.”

  Anna clapped a hand over her mouth.

  Fred hugged his knees. “What did you do?”

  Chet shrugged again and looked as calm as though he were explaining an arithmetic problem
. “What could I do? I let him take it. I had fifty cents on me from a couple days’ work, and he took that, too. So you see, it can be dangerous.”

  “But hobos usually become friends with each other, don’t they?” Fred asked. “That’s what I’ve heard. They look out for each other.”

  “In some ways they do, but you don’t want to get too close to anyone on the road. Most stick to themselves. If you go to someone’s house to ask for work, it scares people if there’s more than one of you.”

  Anna nodded. “I guess it might be scary to see a bunch of strangers come to your door together.”

  “There are other reasons to stick to yourself, too,” Chet said. Fred thought the other boy got a faraway look in his eyes.

  “When I first started riding the rails, I met this kid about my age. His name was Ron. He and I got along like this.” Chet held up two fingers, wrapped together.

  “What happened?” Fred asked. “Did he go back home?”

  “No.” Chet was quiet for a minute. “One night, we caught a train outside a small town. We hid on top of the train as it left town, laying down so we couldn’t be seen. But it’s hard to hold on up there. Dangerous, too. Lots of hobos have been thrown off the top of trains when the trains went around corners. So we climbed down between two of the freight cars. On the back of cars there are iron handles, like a ladder built into the train car. We stood with our feet on one of the bottom handles and holding on to one of the high handles.”

  He stopped talking and just watched the street with that faraway look in his eyes again. Excitement built inside Fred, waiting for the end of Chet’s story. He hugged his knees tighter.

  “It was really cold that night,” Chet said finally. “Between us, we had one pair of gloves. We were each wearing one glove because it’s hard to hold on to cold iron with bare hands. I was on the back of one car, and Ron was on the back of the other, so our backs were to each other. Suddenly, there was a jerk. I almost lost my hold. I heard Ron yell. I glanced back and saw he was falling.”