Webster’s Dictionary describes a hobo as a destitute man with wanderlust, traveling mostly on freight trains, riding in box cars from one area to another. They “work” communities and homes begging for meals, sometimes doing odd jobs to pay for them. A tramp is just a lower-class word for a hobo. A bum is very similar but described as a person living in a shiftless, disreputable manner. All three types rode the rails when I was a youngster, but very few remain in today’s world.
Our 120-acre farm home was bisected by the CB&Q (Chicago, Burlington and Quincy) Railroad, with tracks running about 20 feet from the gate in our front yard, so it became a welcome stop for these vagabonds who frequently knocked on our front door asking for a handout. Their universal codes scratched or penciled on a fence or railroad tie apparently indicated that ours was a house where they wouldn’t be turned away. They had developed some rather complete hobo hieroglyphics.
When a tramp (as our family called them) would come trudging through the front yard, we kids would normally scatter as he knocked on the front door. My mother had a mild fear of these old codgers but never let on as they asked for a sandwich or a meal and something to drink. Mom always listened to their plea, standing behind our screen door, and would ask them to wait on the porch while she fixed something. She never turned one away but also never allowed one in our house.
My sister, Theresa, tells me that Mom would most likely scramble some eggs with meat and potatoes and add a couple thick slices of homemade bread. This feast would be handed through the front door along with a hot cup of coffee. No doubt Theresa helped with some of these meals because she probably ran right into the house when she saw one of these fellows tramp up the path to our front door.
My brother, Jim, recalls how some of these rather unkempt “scudders” who offered to chop a pile of firewood might peel off a couple scraggly coats and a couple of well-worn sweaters before they started their job. It never took long to finish their free meal sitting on the front porch. A polite thank-you would always be offered as they headed on their way. My brother, Charles, always remembered how cruddy these bewhiskered fellows looked, with a rumpled old hat, worn out shoes and no bath for Lord knows how long. He also remembered how many of them layered their coats and sweaters, probably shedding some in warmer weather.
My younger sister, Patricia (God rest her soul), would probably have been scared of these tramps who frequented our farm home quite often during the year. She was born in May 1939 and would only have been a toddler the years before we moved away from that farm by the railroad in March 1946. By nature, she was rather shy, feeling secure holding onto Mom’s apron strings.
Our youngest sister, Mary Ellen, born in January 1945, remembers nothing of hobos or tramps but loved to hear Mom tell of the roaming gypsies who visited her home years back. Mom would relate how several families might show up at the door of their farm home, with young boys already heading for the chicken house to steal eggs and even chickens if they could poke them into gunny sacks. Many of these wandering thieves would not hesitate to steal a couple cows or horses if they could get away with it. Families really had to be on their guard when roving gypsies came down the road in their decorated wagons. They were truly a menace.
My sons, Tom, Dave and Mike, remember hobo stories from my younger days but also tell about Newton’s famous “Bum’s Tunnel” down by our railroad station west across from Sunset Park. It was the talk of the town and exciting stories emerged for years. It was apparently a haven for traveling vagrants who would gather in that deep, dark cavern under the railroad tracks, concoct their own hobo stew and scare local kids away. How much was fact or fiction no one knows for sure. While the tunnel was filled in years ago, fascinating stories remain.
National “Hobo Days” continue to be held the second weekend each August in Britt, Iowa, with current and previous hobos arriving from all over the country. The Internet is loaded with details and stories. Old timers like me might find it worth a trip up that way to soak up some of the atmosphere from days gone by. Or, read some of the good hobo books in our library.