Against the Wind Chapters 1-3

Introduction

Drifting from town to town, place to place, I seek to avoid the dark past that keeps nipping at my heels, like a wild animal chasing me, ready to consume me at any moment. My salvation lies in the ability to sustain myself as I move about, seeking refuge from the memories and the demons of yesterday which haunt me.
The past threatens to smother me and I constantly seek fresh air to breathe.
A new town and new faces provide a clean slate on which to write my destiny; I am the Master of my fate, the Captain of my soul, as the poet so eloquently said.
There are endless potholes in the road of life, but I have managed to avoid the more obvious pitfalls; the bottle, the needle, the soulless one night stands.
Some sail through life like a dream or a song, nothing ever going wrong; others are cast upon a restless sea, storms brewing all around, tossed about with every wave.

Chapter One
Possibly the nomadic nature is a hereditary gene or in our DNA as they say. My grandfather was a circus 'Bull” the guy in charge of the work crews that set up the big top and dismantle it for the next appearance or “spot” in carny speak.
Travelling by train from place to place six months out of the year,I suppose one could call their winter quarters a semi-permanent home.
My first toy, a hand carved or “whittled” wooden train included an engine, coal car and caboose. Our small shanty of a wood frame house sat just a few feet from the rail road tracks, with the old time wooden water tower on timbers smack in our front yard. There I would play in the coolness of the dripping water from the giant barrel above me.
Always fascinated when the engine would stop to replenish it's water supply,(steam engines ran on coal and required water storage to create the steam) the hissing of the relief valves, the smoke and the smell of creosote from the tracks, (a preservative used in the wooden cross ties).
Occasionally being invited aboard by the engineer into the cab, an experience of a lifetime for a small boy, forging a lifelong connection with the “rails”, a double portion for me as two major rail lines traversed our town,
the MKT, or Missouri-Kansas-Texas rail road affectionately called the “Katy” running north and south and the ATSF, Atcheson, Topeka and the Santa Fe, travelling east and west.
Normally the sound of the cars produces a definite rhythm like clackity-clack, clackity clack but when crossing a perpendicular track a double sound is heard, clackity clackity clack. A sound so ingrained in my soul, like the beating of my own heart.
Not being a professional writer, this is my attempt to
take you down the back roads of my mind, not necessarily going from point “A” to point “B” but to the best of my ability share my perspective and experiences on the nomadic lifestyle in America.
For the sake of clarity, let me delineate the difference between a Hobo, a Tramp and a Bum. Tramps and hobos are commonly lumped together, but in their own sight they are sharply differentiated. A hobo or bo is simply a migratory labourer; he may take some lengthy holidays, but sooner or later he returns to work. A tramp never works if it can be avoided; he simply travels. Lower than either is the bum, who neither works nor travels, except when impelled to motion by the police.
My earliest encounter with the “cars” at age fourteen a couple my buddies and myself began talking about running away from home, not that we had any good reason, it was just that small town, summertime boredom combined with a bit of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn.
We found ourselves down in the rail yard among some parked, empty boxcars, practising grabbing the ladder and climbing aboard the car, we developed the skill quite well in a short time. We were set for a big adventure,and the next Saturday was the big day. Like it was meant to be a northbound freight was moving real slow with plenty of empty cars. It was an easy task to “hop” that train. Without the slightest idea what three teenage boys were going to do when we arrived at wherever in the world we were going, the excitement had built to such a frenzy no one cared. Breaking the bubble of boredom and actually feeling the sway of the train and wind in our faces, we were on our way.
Only about an hour into the adventure, Jim, there was Jim, Jimmy and myself. Jim began to have second thoughts and decided not to continue the caper. The train had picked up considerable speed and was probably going about 45-50 miles per hour. Jim leaning out the door, said “I am going to jump” Rising to our feet, Jimmy and I approached him to persuade him not to jump, at least until the train began to slow down to a safer speed. No, he had made up his mind and out he went. I will never forget that moment as I leaned out of the door, he hit the gravel alongside the track and instantly he was gone, a vanishing sight of arms and legs flailing and then nothing.
Jim survived, with considerable injuries and the trip was cancelled, nothing else memorable happened that summer just the usual swimming, bike riding and going to the movie' s.
My mind is and will be “rambling” and there will be no particular order to these stories, I will record them as they come to mind.
Years would pass before I caught another freight,and by that time it would serve its purpose in my life.
I don't remember exactly how I met “Georgia Boy” a man with an interesting story to tell. It was a common practice to buddy up with another hobo if there was some kind of connection and you felt safe about doing it. You don't always discover that common thread that binds you to another traveller it just happens. Perhaps it was sympathy that drew me into his life as he revealed it to me.
Georgia Boy (never knew his real name) was on the run, a fugitive of the law, he had been convicted for the murder of his wife. In tears, he told me he was innocent and that he had been framed for it. Occasionally he would phone home to his brother-in-law who believed in his innocence and kept him abreast of any changes that may have taken place.
For weeks we travelled together, working odd jobs along the way, I am fairly sure we met in Texas and were working our way to California.
It was on a Sunday morning, he phoned his contact back in Georgia. I was standing nearby when I heard him began to cry out loud. I said “what is wrong, what is the matter?”
Trying to control his voice, he said “they caught him”. The real killer had confessed and was in custody of the police.
He was free to return home to his children and pick up the pieces of his life he had left behind. I had believed him all along and was so happy for him to receive that news.

Tears flowed like a river, as we bid each other good-bye, and he boarded a bus bound for home.
Thousands of hours spent alone searching for the meaning of my meagre existence produced little fruit and in retrospect, I reluctantly admit, I wasted a lot of time, or did I? It was not productive time, but can I honestly say it was wasted? All the time I am gradually regaining my footing preparing for a time when I could meld back into society and be a part of the solution rather than a part of the problem.
On a different occasion, I recall catching a freight out of Albuquerque, New Mexico, in the midst of summer.
I made sure I had a good supply of water knowing that the crossing of the arid western deserts would be demanding both physically and spiritually. It was known that men had died on that run, overcome by the elements.
I was in luck that day, it so happened I had caught a train with cars loaded with new “cars”, yes brand new Cadillacs were the treat of the day. A little known secret was the keys to the cars were hidden in the air cleaner.
I made my way to the top level to obtain the best view of the land. I entered the car, started it up and ran the air conditioner while listening to the radio. All that was missing was a six-pack of cold beer. There was not a lot of gas in the tank so when one went dry I had to move to another one to continue the luxurious trip across the desert. If one of the rail road security men known as “Bulls” had caught me, I may not have survived to tell this story.
Eventually you are going to find yourself on foot. “Padding the Hoof” or “Hoofing It”, when certain circumstances prevail and the only way to travel is either walking or “hitch hiking”. To catch a ride in an auto mobile is to hit the “rubber road”. I found that people in cars were very reluctant to pick up a hobo if they recognised him to be one. I can't say that after moving for several days that I was the sweetest smelling flower in the garden, and one could look awful dishevelled and probably downright frightening to some folks. I actually felt safer in a boxcar than riding with a stranger in a car.
Hiking or walking will often lead to a “jungle” that is what is known as a camp or camp site of other hoboes.
I could write another entire book about the hobo jungle, a separate society within a society. As for myself, I only spent the minimum time jungling probably because of my earlier experiences. There are rules and laws that govern life in the hobo world. Mostly just common sense, but some very strict and dutifully enforced. For example, it is a basic requirement that everyone share their food. To get caught “sandbagging” or holding out could result in bodily harm. The only “sins” worse would be stealing and child molesting, which would probably result in a bashed in skull or being tossed from a fast moving freight train.
A Poem Written by the Author
An endless song
played
in a single key
with a variable speed
clackity clack, clackity clack
hear the wheels on the rails

Hypnotic in a sense
mile after mile
picturesque scenery scrolling by
little farm houses
barns
fences
cattle grazing
occasional wave from someone living that dream

Is it real?
Am I dreaming ?
A fine line between
a sudden jolt
awakened to the reality
dampness in the air
thirsty for fresh water
pulsating pains with
faint recollections of my last fine meal

No time schedule no destination
moving
waiting
anticipating the next stop
will it provide the sustenance
for another day

Not a tramp
not a bum
Hobo's have their own sense of worth and integrity
working as they go
obeying the laws of Hobo jungle
sharing
not withholding
for that they would pay
dearly

Never intended to be a hobo
no conscience decision was made
fleeing the flesh of man
coping with things they don't understand
not a cowardly act
self preservation.

Dreams of going home
only a few realise
the crooked path to a fiery end
death is not the enemy
and times
a welcome friend
to end the dream
with hope,
to start again ...

Chapter Two
Starting again or starting over is a very common thing with hobo's. Always hoping tomorrow will bring change but the tomorrows come and go, and the only thing that changes is that your hopes and dreams seem to have eluded you and another day has slowly slipped away. Living a life one day at a time is the key to survival. Managing the twists and turns of today and dealing with tomorrow, if and when it comes.
Laying down at night, well the nights are like another dimension, so much to be said about the nights. Typically if I were in a new place, I would begin searching for a safe place, emphasis on safe, to make it through the coming night in the late afternoon before the sun began to set.
Nightfall could find me alone, with a buddy or jungling with other hoboe's.
Exciting at times yet boring at others, perhaps the allure of what will happen next is the “carrot on the end of the stick”. Even as a small child, I remember sitting on the front steps, with my chin in my hands, wondering; how far could I go to he east and where would I wind up, how for to the west, etc. so many questions so few answers.
The great explorers of the world may have experienced these feelings when they were young. For the record I now know to travel to the east would take me to The Atlantic ocean and likewise to the west would put me on the shore of the great Pacific ocean.
I cannot honestly say that my “itchy foot” got scratched, or that travelling itself is not an insatiable
desire, and only circumstances caused me to eventually park it, so to speak, to become one of the characters I had seen from the door of a rolling boxcar.
Rolling along on a smooth stretch of track, on a nice warm day, watching the countryside scroll by, the swaying of the boxcar rocking my soul like an infant in the arms of a mother. A dream state? Perhaps, or watching the Travel channel on t.v. Totally captivating as all of the senses are excited. The sights,smells and sounds of the hobo life; the pretty white fenced farms, with horses grazing leisurely, the smell of fresh cut hay permeating the air, the sound of the wheels on the rails a constant rhythm that sustains the mood occasionally receiving a wave from someone living their dream. Freedom of the open road. This could be considered “Hobo Heaven”.
As the train approaches the next town or city, there is an inevitable sudden jerk, as the slowing string of cars
sets off a sequence of small clangs that ripple through the this iron monster, snapping the mind back into reality and with a sense of urgency of what now? What will unfold in the coming hours, what will chance offer the hobo in the way of sustenance. Will there be friendly people? some one to greet you with a smile and perhaps point you to the nearest public facility such as a park, or even a bus station. It will be a welcome sight, to have access to fresh water and whatever else awaits the weary traveller.
Different seasons pretty much dictate what area of the country to travel in, along about the first of September there seems to be a turning of the tide as most hoboe's either pack it in for the winter or began to work their way south where they can survive the elements until spring time,
when they can roam the country freely.
You wake up one morning and there is a chill in the air, maybe even a frost on the ground. There is no need to wait for the first snowflakes to fly, the season is changing and you know what must be done.
There are a lot of choices actually, depending on where you are. On the east coast the most popular choice would be to head down to Florida and find work in the citrus groves or working the truck farms. Working affords the opportunity to sweeten the kitty as well, insuring funds to travel on come springtime.
If you happen to be in the heartland when those warm summer days begin to wane, South Texas offers a seasonal opportunity to work as well, citrus, truck farms and for some commercial fishing. There is a steady migration of people working on a shrimp boat in the winter and working the wheat harvest up north in the summer. A book could be written about the wheat harvest itself. It starts in Texas and continues up to and inside of Canada. You can work a portion of it or follow the caravan for the entire season.
California offers a year round array of opportunities
for the hobo, a place of refuge for the winter for some and a constant place to travel between Canada and Mexico.

Chapter 3
Somewhere around the late 1800's a group of hobo's

decided to organise themselves, tired of being arrested for vagrancy in every town they passed through even though they were looking for work, and in some cases brutally being tossed from a moving train. The word went out across the country to meet and form and organisation. The original meeting believed to be held in 1887 in Chicago, Illinois being a centrally located city. Sixty-three bo's attended the initial gathering thus the group was aptly named Tourist Group No. 63.
The “Hobo Convention” met for twelve years until in 1899 the town fathers of Britt, Iowa offered to host the convention where the members could gather once a year re-establishing relationships with those they met travelling over the years. Annual celebrations included electing a Hobo King and Queen for the that year. It is estimated that in 1947 approximately 1800 Hobo's attended. In 1911 it was reported that the hobo population exceeded 700,000 and probably even greater during the great depression of the 1930's. In 1980 estimates suggested there were still around 20,000 living the Hobo lifestyle.
I never dreamed of being a Hobo, it was not a concious decision to become one either. Life presents a lot of unexpected events and we deal with them as they arise as we journey through our time here.
It was in the summer of 1964 when life had blessed me with a bowl of lemons, I was determined to make lemonade. Sufficient to say, is that my life had taken a complex turn and slipping into obscurity seemed to be the answer.
To become incognito, was the cloak I needed to earnestly begin to re-construct some sort of life that would benefit myself as well as society.
Looking back at the way I handled the situation was cruel, unkind and downright despicable. I simply gathered a few things into a small bag and left without mentioning my plans to anyone, one of those moments in life you would pay dearly to have behaved differently. Thinking so selfishly of only myself, without regard to the wonderful people that had so graciously taken me into their lives, adopting me and giving me unlimited opportunities to have a normal life not to mention their constant love and affection showered on me even until this day. I simply disappeared that day and for four years no one would know if I were even alive.
The seeds of discontent had already been sown in my life they were taking root and developing so as to blind me from the needs of others, drowning, suffocating in my own sense of self pity.
Walking away that day, having gone only a short distance I caught a glimpse of the old home place through the trees. Standing on a small bridge I paused for a while, leaning over the rail letting a flood of memories wash over me of growing up there and especially the gillions of images of playing in that creek, and beyond was a view of the backside of the old house itself, the lawn, the garden and even the old tin shed, that once was my “secret clubhouse”. With all of those wonderful memories tucked away in my mind, I set out to discover my new world.
To hitch a car on the highway, take a bus or simply hop a freight train were the choices but when the sound of a trains whistle in the distance announced the arrival of my mode of transportation, the choice was simple. The very vibrations from the horn penetrated the atmosphere summoning me, not unlike Jack London's “Call of the Wild”
it resonated within me like a confirmation or a sign that this was meant to be this was the proper time.
The decision to leave was somewhat impulsive therefore not a lot of preparation had been made. Strung over my shoulder was a medium size canvas bag containing; two changes of clothes, a spare pair of shoes, a few cans of food, milk carton of water and the usual toiletries and of course a roll of tissue. Jokingly I thought,the Boy Scouts of America had prepared me for this including the famous B.S.A. Pocket knife used primarily for utility purposes however the knife would also serve as a defensive weapon if needed and that type of occasion would certainly arise in due time.
Normally the trains moved swiftly through the city but this southbound freight was slowing down as it approached the rail yard, an inconspicuous area to board. With an abundance of empty cars it was like yet another omen confirming the decision to go. Before I realised it I was rolling along, gradually picking up speed with an occasional jerk as the train resumed its duty moving the freight and it's unsuspecting passenger to it's destination.
The sweet smell of the dirt of the Oklahoma farmland was wafting through the air. The car swaying lazily from side to side was also comforting as a mother rocking her child and the gentle breeze was caressing me to create a memorable moment with the rhythm of the wheels on the rails providing the music to make the experience complete.