Hobo Stories

During The Great Depression there were 'hobos' (homeless men of all ages) who rode for free in open boxcars on the railroads that spanned the US.  When my parents first lived on Sixth and Locus Streets mother was resting on the sofa after father went back to work after lunch.  It was customary not to lock the doors during the daytime so the door to the back porch and kitchen were open.  Suddenly, according to the story repeated over and over through the years, a hobo in ragged clothing walked in and found mother lying on the sofa: "Get up and fix me a sandwich," he ordered in a gruff voice.  Since mother couldn't possibly get up with her legs paralyzed from Polio she decided to act tough: "Fix your own sandwich.  Everything's in the icebox.  Help yourself to some lemonade. And, put your dirty dishes in the sink before you leave."
         
The ruse seemed to work.  She kept one hand on her hip "to look tough" and heard him rumbling through the kitchen.  After a short time he stuck his head around the corner: "Thanks for the fixins mam," and she heard the door close behind him  She literally shook for a few minutes until she realized he was really gone and wouldn't harm her.  She had quite a story to tell father when he arrived home at 5:pm and he promised to never again leave the house unlocked.  Hobos still came to the backdoor from time to time since we were just six blocks from the railroad that ran the length of California.  Although clearly living on hard times, the men were generally polite, asked what they could do to earn a plate of food.  Father would let them rake leaves or mow the lawn and then have them sit on the back porch step for a plate of whatever he had prepared for dinner.  He always treated them with respect knowing it could've just have well been himself in such a dire need.
         
The Great Depression lasted for several years throughout the 1930's.  Even after we moved into the second house on West Forth Street there were hungry men who came to our back door for a plate of food after a bit of yard work.  Father felt they were men down on their luck, willing to work.  If our family was away from the house on an excursion, father never locked the back door: "If someone is hungry and we're not at home I would rather they could at least help themselves to something to eat."  No one ever entered our house while we were away, but I'll always remember there were those times when there was an amazing trust and compassion among people.