Summer: The Hobo

This is the second post of a 4-part series called “The Happenings on Highway 5.”

The middle maple tree in front of our haunted farmhouse in Indiana was first base for our kickball games. The three of us kids played a lot of kickball in the summer, often whining until Mom, a visiting grandparent, or the farm boy who lived further down the road joined us, allowing for two teams of two. We spent a good portion of the day kickballing, cartwheeling, dandelion picking, fighting over the one bicycle we owned, and chasing the chickens while hunting for eggs.

Summer afternoons in Indiana can get blazing hot. Sometimes we would retreat to the living room and watch Gilligan’s Island on our black and white, rabbit-eared TV. One such afternoon, when Gilligan was once again doing something that wasn’t very bright, but actually was, a knock on the front door startled us. Mom peeked out the window and then cautiously greeted our visitor—a weather-beaten man with gray whiskers and a pack on his back.

“Ma’am, I’m just passing through and wondered if you had any work I could do for a meal or a few dollars.”

We listened as Mom said she didn’t have any money or much for him to do (that second part wasn’t actually true), but that she could make him a couple of sandwiches.

In the kitchen, Mom resorted to peanut butter and jelly, tapping into a loaf of bread from the freezer.

I was a shy kid, but a nagging curiosity prompted me to creep out to the front porch. Our visitor sat on the only seat available, the railing. He wore a frayed engineer’s cap pushed back so that I could see his eyes, sparkly and blue.

“Hey, there,” he said, “You got a good ma there.”

I nodded.

“Well, I’m Joe. Joe the hobo.”

I nodded again, shyness keeping my tongue tied.

“Do you know what a hobo is?”

This time I shook my head.

“Well, I ride trains across the country and stop here and there, work a little, but then I get to wanting to ride the trains again. I’ve been all over this land.”

I nod.

“I’m not a bum. You know the difference between a bum and a hobo?”

Another shake of my head.

“A bum dies on the inside.” Joe tapped his chest, by the heart. “And a hobo, why he dies outside.” Joe spread his arms wide, gesturing to the fields, the sky, and Highway 5.

Mom came out and handed Joe two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and a glass of milk.  She also gave him two more sandwiches wrapped in wax paper.

“Those other two are for the road,” she said. “The bread’s frozen, so let them thaw.”

Joe took to my habit and simply nodded because his mouth was full of PB & J. He quickly polished off his sandwiches and gulped his milk, wiping away the white moustache left behind. As Joe stuffed the wrapped sandwiches in his shirt, he said to Mom,  “Thank you, ma’am. Your kindness is appreciated.” He stood, gave me a wink, and walked down the steps.

Mom went back inside, but I watched Joe hoofing it down the road, and puzzled over what he had said. I knew I had just learned something important—that Joe’s words were about more than where one died.

He was just about to vanish around the first bend in the road, when I saw a sheet of wax paper fluttering in the wind behind him. It made me sad, knowing Joe was so hungry.

I wish I could see him again, now that I feel I understand his words better. Joe may have been physically hungry, but I’m pretty sure he wasn’t hungry in the soul. I wouldn’t be afraid to speak to him, today. I would ask him more questions about life—about the meaning of it and how to live it to the fullest. As far as gurus go, Joe was probably my first, and so I thank him.

Whatever happened to Joe? I don’t know where his bones lie, most likely weathered by the elements, but I know this: his spirit is alive and well.