Transformation of a Town

This story is a mite older. It reflects more my status as Grand Duke of Hoboes and gives you a better feel for why I appreciate the honor.

Transformation
of a Town

by The Grand Duke of Hobes

Originally written April 14, 1983
Revised March 15, 2002

Copyright 2010

Tucked away along an insignificant little crossroads in north central Iowa is the
town of Britt. Britt is a small farming town that is just the same as hundreds of other small farming towns in Iowa. Were it not for the grain elevator and the local Harley-Davidson dealer, this little town would sink, without a trace, into obscurity. Yet, for one week every year in August, this easily misplaced speck on the map is visited by a group of fairy godfathers. These gentlemen produce a transformation of the town that is as wondrous as changing any ghetto into the “Emerald City” of Oz. These gentlemen are hoboes. Hoboes who have been returning to this spot at the same time each year for over a century to hold their annual convention and elect a national “king.”

The transformation begins about a week before the hoboes arrive. The shopkeepers and merchants along Britt’s one main street begin hanging signs and decorative bunting proclaiming the event to come. The normal daily quiet is assaulted by the sounds of hammering as the coronation and judging platform is erected in the town park. The large metal drums which will hold the gallons of mulligan stew that the town cooks for the visitors are brought out from some forgotten corner and cleaned. The public address system is rented and brought to town from Mason City by the editor of the Britt newspaper.

The ancient presses at the newspaper office get used now more than at any other time of the year. Mulligan stew cards, hobo convention cards, and brochures describing
the advantages of bringing a business to Britt are all produced en masse. The local residents, who have come to know and love the hoboes that visit their town, begin to gather in excited little groups. They discuss last year’s convention and wonder aloud what this year will bring. Which one of the old hoboes didn’t make it to
the festivities last year, and whether that individual will arrive this year. They try, many times in vain, to remember the names of the young newcomers who showed up and surprised the town. Many begin to take frequent trips to the north end of town to see if anyone has arrived early in the hobo “jungle.”

The festivities and coronation are always held on a Saturday. On Thursday morning the carnival arrives. This is one of those traveling carnivals that comes to shopping centers and malls across the country. They set up rides and games in the parking lots of those malls and still manage to leave quite a bit of room for parking. When they arrive in Britt, however, the squeeze is tight. The main street is blocked and the carnival sets up. This turns the entire shopping district into one huge midway. By Thursday night, the bright glaring neon lights and the taped strains of calliope music begin to fill the evening breezes. The hoarse cajoling of the game barkers to passersby and the sights of people with cheap stuffed toys and cotton candy confirm that the festivities are underway.

Hoboes have been arriving sporadically during the entire week. They quickly settle into the “jungle” which is right along the tracks at the north end of the main street. The grain elevator, like some familiar protective behemoth, rises abruptly from the level terrain on the opposite shore of the tracks. It is huge and silent. Seemingly quite content to tower supremely over the bright singing machines which leap and spin about in its shadow. The hoboes know this dark lighthouse and follow it to their friends.

Saturday morning finds the butterfly breaking from the cocoon. People from all over Iowa, indeed, from all over the United States flood into Britt. The noise is unlike
anything normally heard in this little town. The barkers are calling, the rides are singing, horns are honking, people laugh and speak loudly to be heard above the din. Trains pass by occasionally, their crews yelling loudly and waving as the engines scream a salute to the “men of the road” who wave back from the “jungle.” The air is filled with a myriad of smells. Popcorn and cotton candy from the carnival mixes and is overpowered by the smell of the stew cooking in the park. Near the tracks, the hoboes small stewpot sends its own aroma skyward and the smell of hobo pickles peeks from hidden corners where they are fermenting. Here and there an almost imperceptible hint of liquor betrays a few old ‘bos who made the trip to the tavern the night before.

Saturday night brings about a great change. The crowds slowly leave after having
witnessed the coronation of the “king” and “queen”, and then watching them ridden out
of town on a rail. The masses of smiling children which flood the hobo camp during the day trickle down to a persistent few. The carnival, having a commitment to be elsewhere by Monday, begins to vanish from the streets. The popcorn all sold and the cotton candy eaten, the great dancing machines quiet and fold themselves into cold, silent stacks of steel. The hoboes gather around a large campfire and begin telling tales of the road. They talk about the “good old days” and the “bad old days.” They talk of trains, adventures, and other hoboes in a sad nostalgic way as they realize that none of those things exist anymore. They sing railroad songs and exchange lies that bring guffaws of laughter from both the hoboes and the remaining crowd that gathers to listen. The integrity of the storytellers is never questioned as the entire point is fun and entertainment. Some hoboes, in an attempt to coerce the crowd into joining in the fun, begin to grab spectators and dance as several hobo musicians pick up the cue. Eventually, the hoboes and the small crowd that remains become like a large family. Everyone laughs, sings, jokes, and dances well into the wee hours of the morning.

By Sunday morning, the crowd is gone. Many of the hoboes pack up early so they can catch the early freight train which comes through about 7:00 am. The rest are recuperating from the days before or are visiting with friends before they leave. It is very quiet, almost solemn, as these vagabonds once again go their separate and solitary ways. The trucks carrying the carnival pull out and leave a deserted street. The platform in the park, a lone monument to the madness, will itself be gone before the day is over.

Within a week all of the hoboes are gone. The streets which were crowded with people and debris are clean and bare. The “jungle” is silent and the signs and bunting have been removed. Britt settles, once again, into friendly obscurity. The grain elevator
and motorcycle dealer once again regain their places of honor and prestige. The
convention, now just an exciting memory, fades further into history as plans for the next convention are quietly discussed. The cycle is once again complete