Bull dogs with rubber teeth

Summers up on Rumble Creek work'n for the Berners sometimes had a story. Doc, ya know, had a heart of gold, God rest his soul. Anyway, he told me when he was a lad they lived within walking distance of the railroad. Sometimes a hobo would show up at the back door and gently knock. They always knew it was a hobo by that type of knock. His mom always had something for them to eat. They'd stand there with tattered hat in hand and basically be ashamed of liv'n.

"Would ya--could ya-well maybe--I mean". His mom would give him whatever she had at the time.

I read a book years ago called "Hashknife Cowboy." His dad moved them up near Holbrook, Ariz. near the railroad tracks. So many hobos showed up that his mom made her husband move them - can't remember the whole thing. By the way, great book, had some off-color cowboy talk, though.

There's a lot of talk these days about the homeless - L.A., San Francisco, Seattle is dying, New York City and the list goes on. Ain't no laugh'n matter if you're homeless and no resources to get yourself out. Of course some of these folks have mental problems. And others just gave up the fight and want to live that way don't ya know. I doubt if you can compare the hobo of Doc's childhood to the homeless of today. Most of those men in the bread lines of the dirty thirties would have took a job if there was one and retain their dignity, "The Grapes of Wrath."

Personally I t think all those Hollywood types, vain as peacocks, with their millions or billions could team up with the George Soros and all the others who live in excessive squander and move to at least try and help solve some of the homeless problems. The churches and rescue missions are doing all they can.

Along the back trails of my memories was Uncle Vinny sing'n to the cows at milk'n time. I remember a little of the "Big Rock Candy Mountain".

"Where the bums all go to stay, it's a land that's fair and bright, where the handouts grow on bushes, and you sleep out every night, where the boxcars all are empty, where the sun shines every day on the birds and bees and the cigarette trees, and the lemonade springs where the bluebirds sing. The bulldogs all have rubber teeth and the hens lay soft boiled eggs.

I'll see you all this com'n fall in the Big Rock Candy Mountains."

This is known as the "Hobo Ballad." Maybe it was written by someone goin' through tough times or a true hobo who loved the life of ridin' the rails. Or it was someone just dreamin' of a place where there wasn't so much misery.