I gave him credit for staying calm.
“The young lass was about to fetch me a cool drink,” the man said. “I hope the mister doesn’t mind.”
Sissy’s daddy nodded and told her to get the man a glass of water and to fix him a sandwich.
I couldn’t believe she was getting off so easy.
The man talked between bites of the peanut butter sandwich.
I knew it was peanut butter because that’s the only kind of sandwich Sissy ever made. If I had made a nickel bet on it, I would have won the money.
The hobo man was, or so he said, with Barnum in his day. Oh, he’d seen and done it all, traveled far and wide. He’d run off and joined the circus when he was but a lad of twelve. It was a hard-bit life, but he’d got used to it. First thing they’d put him to doing was shoveling steaming piles of dung out of the cages of the lions and tigers and elephants that performed in center ring. The boss man soon realized a dwarf was as much of an attraction as the beasts he was tending, so they put him in as a clown. The life of a nomad was all he’d ever known. Now he rode the rails where he could still watch the countryside go by. He liked waking up every morning not knowing where he was. When he needed a couple dimes to rub together, he could always pick up some change juggling on street corners. Plenty of people would drop a coin or two in his hat. Why, they’d pay a dwarf such as himself just to let them gawk.
When the hobo finished his sandwich, Sissy’s daddy, who had hardly said a word, walked him to the door. He stood there for a minute, watching as the man headed down the road.
I’d been waiting for the hobo to show us some juggling, trying to picture how he’d manage it with such short arms, but he never did. I didn’t blame him. Sissy’s daddy didn’t appear to be in a juggling kind of mood.
“You’d best run on home now,” he told me. “Sissy can’t play anymore today.”
“Yes sir,” I said.
I was somewhat relieved I didn’t have to make up my mind about staying or going, but I admit to being concerned about what was going to happen to Sissy without me there.
The next day she told me she didn’t want to talk about it. Begging didn’t work, but once I promised she could keep my Sparkle Plenty doll all night, she gave in. I knew she would. She could not resist that Sparkle girl.
Yes, she admitted, her daddy did give her a spanking.
It was, to my knowledge, the only time he ever took that paddle off the wall.
“Did it hurt bad?” I asked, not sure if I hoped she’d say yes or no.
“Just stung for a minute. Three licks is all I got. One for opening the door, one for letting that little man come in the house, and another to make sure I’d never do it again.”
“Did you cry?”
“Of course I did!” Her look was withering.
I didn’t know whether to offer admiration or sympathy, so I kept my mouth shut.
Sometimes, when Vonnie was really pitching a hissy fit, Mother gave her a couple of swipes with a switch. That is, if she could catch her. I’d never been switched or paddled, although I’d come close a time or two. It’s not that I never deserved a paddling, because I’m sure I did, but so far I’d wriggled out of it. Lots of my escapes were because I was the baby, with an older brother and sister who surely knew better and should have kept me out of trouble. Or so Grandma said. Nevertheless, I was trying to get a feel for how to act, just in case.
Hobos came from the north in the fall when they headed for warmer weather, and in the spring they headed back north, often leaving gifts made from cigar boxes or popsicle sticks or matchsticks. Sometimes a hobo would offer to paint a picture of your house on a board or a piece of cardboard for a few coins. Some used real paints, but others kept a little tin of watercolors in their hobo sack, which was usually an old pillowcase or tablecloth tied onto a pole. A hobo painted a picture of my friend’s house that her mother liked so much she hung it up in their living room.
Grandpa came in the house with the Raleigh Register tucked under his arm. We had two daily newspapers. The Post Herald was the Republican paper and the Raleigh Register was for the Democrats. Grandpa was a Republican and Grandma was a Democrat. Since she was the one who ordered the paper and dealt with the paperboy, the Raleigh Register was thrown in our yard every afternoon. Sissy’s family got the Post Herald early in the morning.
“Anybody remember that singing hobo fellow we fed a while back?” Grandpa asked. “Appears he’s been by here and left us something. Found it wedged out there in the gate. Note says he’s sorry he didn’t catch us at home. He thanks us for the best meal he’s had since leaving his mother’s knee in Omaha. Rindy, you get credit for that,” Grandpa said, giving a nod to Grandma. “Looks like he left us a poem.”
“Read it to me,” I said.
“Way I figure, the one wants it read is the one to read it.” Grandpa handed the poem to me.
a hobo’s prayer
smokedusting
wanderlusting
rails click by below
heard them once
heard them twice
calling me to go
stew ain’t half bad
company’s fair
not a soul
