worst.
I had some work up on Lake Superior on an ore boat this summer, but those damned things can’t run in the winter so I’m traveling again. I’d hoped to get something around here to see me through the winter, but nothing’s turned up, and I can’t stick much longer. Maybe I’ll head for Texas. God, I’m sick of boxcars.
If I get over Florida way, I might stop for a day or two if that’s all right. I haven’t seen Sis since the farm was sold. Six years! If Elda and the kids are in Florida, I’d like to see them, but I don’t mean to sponge, Bill. I think you know that.
I suppose Ma is still at Aunt Mary’s. That’s where I write her. I’d like to get back East next spring to see them. I was in Oregon in ’33 when Pa passed on. There wasn’t any way toreach me. If anything happened to Ma and I didn’t know, I’d just as soon ride the goddamned railroad right into the Gulf of Mexico.
Summer before last I was on a farm east of here, near a place called New Ulm. That was beautiful country, along the Minnesota River, but the owner didn’t want to keep me over the winter because the daughter was getting interested. She was a nice girl. If I could have found something steady around here, I’d have written to her.
When do you think there’ll be work, Bill, and where do you think it’ll be? I’d like to be there when it opens up. I’ve bummed so damned long, I’m getting to feel like a bum. Sometimes I stink till I don’t want to lie down beside myself. I remember Saturday nights on the farm, and the old galvanized tub that Ma filled. God, she scrubbed my head so hard, I thought she’d leave scars. I’d sure like to feel that clean again.
Your brother-in-law,
Earl Samson
“I wish I knew where that Bill lived, and I’d send him this,” Mama said.
“Why didn’t Earl mail the letter, Mama?”
“Maybe he didn’t have the price of a stamp.” She carried the letter in the bedroom and put it in her bureau drawer.
I found the letter in the hobo jungle last fall, in October. This was May. Had Earl Samson come back to Minnesota with the warm weather, or had he found “something steady” down south? I would like to meet him. Could he be one of these men in the jungle today? The one reading the magazine looked too young, the one sleeping, too old.
I passed by. Leaving the tracks, I crossed the shallow ditch, wading through the high, warm grass. It was cool among the cottonwoods. This was where the tramps lay around during hot summer days when they weren’t out looking for work or a handout. At night they slept in the basement, where dogs couldn’t bother them. There were a couple of wooden crates here, big ones, that gave some protection from the rain.
I picked my way through the silken grass and debris, searching for relics. Maybe evidence of Earl Samson. There wasn’t muchhere today. I crouched to inspect a brown leather shoe, cracked and scuffed till it was nearly white, a hole in the sole the size of a silver dollar. I put my hand inside the shoe and stuck my fingers through the hole. All of them fit. Further on I picked up an empty half-pint whiskey bottle, decided the label wasn’t pretty, and threw it aside again. Propped against one of the cottonwoods was a hoe with a broken-off handle. The men used it to bury their bowel movements when they relieved themselves in this grove.
When I had sifted through everything that was new and found no treasures, I returned to the tracks and continued west out of town, tightrope walking, putting one foot directly in front of the other, along the rail, my arms outstretched, like someone trying to fly.
As Harvester fell behind me, tall shrubs and pussy willows sprang up along the ditches on either side of the rail bed. They were forests for short people like me. I had come earlier in the spring with Mama to pick pussy willows for the living room, for Mama’s friends, and for Father Delias. Mama took special care for old Father Delias. She asked
I had some work up on Lake Superior on an ore boat this summer, but those damned things can’t run in the winter so I’m traveling again. I’d hoped to get something around here to see me through the winter, but nothing’s turned up, and I can’t stick much longer. Maybe I’ll head for Texas. God, I’m sick of boxcars.
If I get over Florida way, I might stop for a day or two if that’s all right. I haven’t seen Sis since the farm was sold. Six years! If Elda and the kids are in Florida, I’d like to see them, but I don’t mean to sponge, Bill. I think you know that.
I suppose Ma is still at Aunt Mary’s. That’s where I write her. I’d like to get back East next spring to see them. I was in Oregon in ’33 when Pa passed on. There wasn’t any way toreach me. If anything happened to Ma and I didn’t know, I’d just as soon ride the goddamned railroad right into the Gulf of Mexico.
Summer before last I was on a farm east of here, near a place called New Ulm. That was beautiful country, along the Minnesota River, but the owner didn’t want to keep me over the winter because the daughter was getting interested. She was a nice girl. If I could have found something steady around here, I’d have written to her.
When do you think there’ll be work, Bill, and where do you think it’ll be? I’d like to be there when it opens up. I’ve bummed so damned long, I’m getting to feel like a bum. Sometimes I stink till I don’t want to lie down beside myself. I remember Saturday nights on the farm, and the old galvanized tub that Ma filled. God, she scrubbed my head so hard, I thought she’d leave scars. I’d sure like to feel that clean again.
Your brother-in-law,
Earl Samson
“I wish I knew where that Bill lived, and I’d send him this,” Mama said.
“Why didn’t Earl mail the letter, Mama?”
“Maybe he didn’t have the price of a stamp.” She carried the letter in the bedroom and put it in her bureau drawer.
I found the letter in the hobo jungle last fall, in October. This was May. Had Earl Samson come back to Minnesota with the warm weather, or had he found “something steady” down south? I would like to meet him. Could he be one of these men in the jungle today? The one reading the magazine looked too young, the one sleeping, too old.
I passed by. Leaving the tracks, I crossed the shallow ditch, wading through the high, warm grass. It was cool among the cottonwoods. This was where the tramps lay around during hot summer days when they weren’t out looking for work or a handout. At night they slept in the basement, where dogs couldn’t bother them. There were a couple of wooden crates here, big ones, that gave some protection from the rain.
I picked my way through the silken grass and debris, searching for relics. Maybe evidence of Earl Samson. There wasn’t muchhere today. I crouched to inspect a brown leather shoe, cracked and scuffed till it was nearly white, a hole in the sole the size of a silver dollar. I put my hand inside the shoe and stuck my fingers through the hole. All of them fit. Further on I picked up an empty half-pint whiskey bottle, decided the label wasn’t pretty, and threw it aside again. Propped against one of the cottonwoods was a hoe with a broken-off handle. The men used it to bury their bowel movements when they relieved themselves in this grove.
When I had sifted through everything that was new and found no treasures, I returned to the tracks and continued west out of town, tightrope walking, putting one foot directly in front of the other, along the rail, my arms outstretched, like someone trying to fly.
As Harvester fell behind me, tall shrubs and pussy willows sprang up along the ditches on either side of the rail bed. They were forests for short people like me. I had come earlier in the spring with Mama to pick pussy willows for the living room, for Mama’s friends, and for Father Delias. Mama took special care for old Father Delias. She asked
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