A Little Travelin' Music

Here is another short story I wrote about my hobo friends. On a day which is synonymous with American history, it only seems right to post about an important part of that history.

I Know the Hobo

Originally written May, 1983
Revised April 14, 2002

The United States is a democratic republic, and every hobo is a king unto himself. Yet, every year, an event happens which is designed to rock the republic to its’ core.

Every year, all the vagabonds, hoboes, and travelers all meet in Britt, Iowa and elect a “king” who rules the nation. I know this because I have attended the event several times and have personally seen it happen.

I first heard of this remarkable event from hobo king “Steamtrain” Maury Graham
himself. I met Maury at a crafts festival in the Catoctin Mountains of Maryland. He
invited me to come to Britt in order to see how a hobo king is elected. How could I, a devout wanderer and traveler, possibly have turned down an invitation like that?

Unlike the majority of the true hoboes who come in to Britt “on the rails”, my
arrival has always been by conventional truck or motorcycle. I have always wanted to
make a grand entrance by hopping off a freight; however, the old-timers have told me of the dangers and discouraged me from trying. They have explained how riding the rails is a survival art of much skill which is best left to those who have extensive experience at it. I trust them so I listen to them.

The town of Britt has acted as host to this annual hobo convention for over a
hundred years now. It would be hard to find a better host. The people of Britt love the hoboes. I have seen people buy groceries, clothing, blankets, and other goods for their hobo friends. Many residents, who have gotten to know the old ‘bos over the years, will come out to the “jungle” and invite their friends to their homes for food and to stay over. Everyone else just seems to get caught up in the festive atmosphere. There are events and a carnival all week leading up to the election and coronation of a king and queen of hoboes.

As a friend of “Steamtrain” Maury, I have had the privilege and fun of
participating in many of the activities, and I have been allowed to live in the jungle with the ‘bos. I have helped in the preparation and serving of “mulligan stew” and have been trusted to guard the jungle during the coronation festivities.
I have vivid memories of the smells and tastes of the stew as all of the ingredients
cooked for hours in the pots. I have tasted “hobo pickles” which are very tasty and can be made in only a few hours. I have tasted a hobo candy made by an old ‘bo named “Frypan Jack.” It is so sweet and delicious that people will wait in line for hours to get some. I have no idea what the ingredients are, nor do I care.

I have slept under a clear Iowa sky, inside an open boxcar, and in a small tent with no other protection as a tornado passed overhead during the night. The roar and whistle inside the funnel did no justice to the feeble attempts at description that others have made who have had contact with these monsters. I have even met Mr. Nobody. Mr. Nobody is the hobo candidate for President of the United States. When you ask someone who they are going to vote for, and they reply “nobody,” you now know who they were talking about. Most importantly, I have met many new people, made many new friends, and heard many good stories and much history.

That is the purpose of a true hobo; to make friends. Not just acquaintances, but
friends whom you will keep in touch with throughout your life. I have done this and I
correspond regularly with many of my new friends. In 1980, in appreciation of the help and friendship I put forth to my hobo friends, I was officially dubbed a “Grand Duke of Hoboes” for life. I have the paperwork to prove it. I cherish the honor, and, like everything else connected to the hoboes, I laugh about it at the same time. Irreverence is a hallmark of hobo life. I was even given a hobo name, “Black River Blondie,” to identify me and increase my “status” among the brotherhood. I have since shortened it to “Black River” out of laziness, but I will never drop the name I was given.

So, every year I sit down and try to see if I can find the time to return to the
festivities. Since I have settled down with a wife and family it has been difficult. I read the hobo web sites to see who did or didn’t make it to the convention. Whether those who didn’t were just ill, or whether they “caught the Westbound” and will not return again.

It is a sad irony that I have discovered the honor and friendship of the
“brotherhood of the road” just as it is entering its twilight years. The heyday of the hobos rested on the steam locomotive. As the steamers faded into oblivion and the economy improved the job prospects of the millions out of work during the depression, the ability of the old ‘bos to travel freely was severely restricted. Few young men took up train hopping and the existing population has now become quite aged. Soon there will be no “real” hoboes left. I have wished many times that I could have discovered it when it was young so that I would not have to watch it die.

But there is hope. Maybe not for the train hoppers, but for the traveling spirit and
the vagabond lifestyle. Every year more and more young vagabonds show up to be a part
of the convention. Hitchhikers, bikers, and campers are well represented along with the original vagabonds who never die, the tramps. So maybe the reign of the American Hobo is not quite over yet. Perhaps I can still be a part of some of the festivities over the next 100 years of coronations in Britt, Iowa, the home of the “American King in Rags.