My grandmother told stories about the hobos who hopped the rails. These men, often war veterans, were considered vagabonds, and they jumped into open boxcars to get away from the world or themselves. Often these wanderers would make camp in small rail towns, looking for food or work. Hobos had their own hotline and seemed to know whose door to knock on to find a hot meal.
Grandma’s house was one of these.
My father’s mother lost her husband early in life, leaving her with four young children and no source
of income. Goldie did what she had to do, cleaning hotel rooms and taking in laundry, but she needed a handyman’s help.
Grandma never fed hobos for free.
Life can toughen you up, and that’s what happened to Goldie. If you knocked on her door, you better be sober, you better be polite, and you better be willing to work for your supper. My grandmother turned many away, but she never had any trouble feeding the hungry who accepted her conditions. One would repair her gutter for a plate of stew. Another would plant beans, weed her garden, or cut her grass for a ham sandwich and piece of pie.
Goldie made really good pie.
My grandma spoke of frequent knockers, like Hobo Jim, who were addicted to the sway of a boxcar and the changing scenery viewed from its open doors. Trespassing hobos learned the train schedules, the mile markers, and the ways of the railroad detectives.
Hobos were not welcome travelers in most homes.
These men with their weary hats were said to be thieves and thugs and trouble you didn’t want in your town. If you missed laundry off the line, chickens from the coop, or vegetables from your garden, hobos were quickly accused. Their faces grew scruffy from the miles, and most carried what little they owned in a knapsack that could easily be thrown over their shoulder or into a moving boxcar. Grandma quietly told me that she thought hobos were merely lost, down-on-their-luck humans, trying to find their way home.
No wonder they knocked on Goldie’s door.
Despite being cautioned, my grandmother chose to treat these tired travelers with respect, and they graced her with the same. Those that knocked on her door did what she asked and then thanked her for the meal. A hobo’s labor was never paid with money because my grandmother didn’t have it. Instead, for a few hours of work, the men were rewarded with nonjudgmental kindness, a place to wash up, and a plate of hot food. Don’t forget my grandmother’s pie.
You can imagine my thrill many years later when my young husband, who was a railroader for life, crossed paths with the still traveling Hobo Jim. When asked, the weary old traveler spoke of California and how he came home from the war lost and unable to fit in.
Grandma was right.
It was my husband who found Hobo Jim, cold and still on the roof of an outbuilding close to the railroad tracks. From there, Hobo Jim could easily watch the boxcars sway and the engineer’s wave.
Hobo Jim finally found his way home.
As I watch the fast-moving trains glide through my small town, I think about Goldie and the men who knocked on her door. Time and trains have changed, and trans-modal units stacked on flatcars now rule the rails. The old boxcars with sliding doors and the secrets they used to carry are now covered in graffiti and slowly disappearing into the sunset.
Going the way of the hobos.
GOLDIE’S GIRL
The column was originally printed in the October 2024 issue of Missouri Life.
