Lonesome Journey

Bobby was determined to tell his father what a worthless human being he was, if it was the last thing he ever did. Dad had run off and left his mother, dying of cancer, when Bobby was but eight years old.

The last time he visited "mom" in the hospital, it was the first time in a long time that she was lucid and told him he was her great hope of making something of his life - doing something important with his time here on earth. Her words would live with him all his days. "It’s not enough to exist, like I have all my life. You must do something important. Get a good education if you can. But, if you can’t, learn on your own. Most of all, be a good person."

After kissing her gaunt, illness diminished cheek and telling her goodbye, as soon as he was out of the room, he burst into tears and ran from the hospital. He didn’t slow down, as he ran across the busy street beside the hospital, toward the railroad. A driver locked his breaks, the tires on pavement issuing a horrendous screech of danger. Bobby didn’t even hear the squalling tires or the irate driver’s outburst of profanity.

When he reached the railroad, two blocks from the hospital, he ran down the tracks, sobbing, until his chest hurt so bad from crying, running and knowing he had seen his mother alive for the last time, he had to stop to rest.

It was a time when the railroads carried everything - a time before airlines and truck lines. And, the buses were the least desirable forms of passenger transportation. The rails seemed never empty of snorting, hissing steam locomotives, sometimes two or three in tandem to move the heavily laden freight cars they pulled. Railroad timetables were filled to the brim with freight trains and passenger trains.

As Bobby sat on the rail, oblivious to everything except his hurt and sadness, he thought perhaps the best thing he could do was just sit there and wait for a train to run over him. That would end all the hurt of losing his father, and now, his mother. How unfair could the world be? Why would that God they talked about at Sunday School and during the long sleep-inducing sermons at church allow this? How could that God, the One they say made all of us, let his mother die? It wasn’t fair!

Try as he might, he couldn’t stop the overwhelming sobs, wracking his entire body. When there were no more tears to cry, still, he sat on the rail, his arms folded across his legs, his face buried in his arms, and sobbed, each sob hurting his chest. Over and over, he asked why everything was so unfair.

Then, he heard the loud whistle of the steam engine, as it approached the railroad crossing. Bobby forced himself to keep his face buried against his arms. He didn’t want to see the locomotive bearing down on him, only to end his misery and hurt.

Now, he could feel in the rail, the clickety clack of the train’s wheels speeding over the small joints where the tracks connected together. The many times he’d laid a penny on the track for these monsters to flatten to the size of a silver dollar flashed through his mind. And, the many times he had played railroad chicken with his buddies. That was a dangerous enough game, with the last person bailing off the side of a boxcar into the cinder roadbed, with the ever-increasing speed of the train, being the champion. He thought about his good buddy Luis, his closest pal and playmate.

The train roared ever closer. The engineer pulled the chord for the loud steam whistle in a frantic manner. The whistle screamed at him, "Get off the track!"

A loud voice, speaking in a heavy Scottish brogue behind him yelled, "What’s the matter with you, Lad? Get off the track! Can’t you hear he whistle blowing?" Then, a strong pair of arms swooped him up and dove to the other side of the tracks, up against a backyard fence.

Bobby lay facing the tracks, the arms still firmly wrapped around his middle, as the huge locomotive screeched by, it’s locked wheels sending sparks flying in every direction. Then, the sparks stopped, as the engineer realized Bobby had been pulled from harm’s way. The freight train streaked by at a blurring pace, the boxcars moving so swiftly as to make it impossible to read all the signs on their sides at this close proximity.

The voice was calmer now. "What were you thinkin’ of, lad? Be ye deaf?"

When Bobby tried to pull away from the muscular arms, they held him tight, and the voice said, "Naw, ye don’t. Ye’ll stay right here ‘til the train’s gone, laddy. Ye’ll not be gittin’ ran over by no train outside my back yard."

Bobby closed his eyes and cried, glad the voice had saved him. Mom wouldn’t want him to do this. She had said he should do something with his life. Throwing it away in front of a locomotive surely wasn’t what she meant. In a halting, still sobbing voice, he said, "I’m okay, now. It’s just that my mom’s dying, and I don’t know what to do."

"Well, now, killin’ yerself sure don’t be the answer, lad. What do ye mean, yer mom’s dyin’?"

"She’s in Saint John’s hospital. She has cancer, and she isn’t going to get well. She’s going to die." The Scottish brogue eased his hold from around Bobby’s waist, and Bobby sat up on the grass strewn with railroad cinders. "I just saw her, and she’s dying. She’s going to die soon, and it isn’t fair."

"But, you still have a father, don’t you?"

The sobbing had nearly stopped now, as Bobby got to his feet and turned to look at the man who had saved his life. He was a large man, with uncommonly large arms. Bobby guessed him to be a miner in one of the many coal mines in the area. His huge hands were dark from years of coal dust impregnating the skin. Bobby had seen miners before. He stared to the south, at the rear of the caboose, which had finally passed, and said, "My dad ran off and left a long time ago - years ago. I was eight." He shoved his hands deep into the bibbed overall pockets and continued, "When mom dies, there won’t be anyone."

The big Scot put his hand on Bobby’s shoulder and said, "I’m truly sorry, lad. Sometimes, life just doesn’t seem fair, but you got a whole life to live. I know it’s hard. I lost both my parents when I was but a lad." A smile made his face much friendlier and, he said, "But one thing about us humans, lad, we always survive, somehow. You have any family, at all?"

"Lots. There’s seven of us still at home. My sister Laureen is seventeen. She’s the oldest. The oldest at home, I mean."

"Well, there you are. Sounds like a good Irish name, Laureen."

"My mom’s Irish. My dad’s Scottish."

His savior got a big grin on his face and said, "It be Scot, lad. Scottish is an American word. You come from good stock if you be Irish and Scot. We’re known for bein’ tough, handlin’ whatever’s thrown our way." As he spoke, he led Bobby across the tracks and into his back yard to the well. After pumping the well a couple times to rid the pump of the warm water, he lifted the metal dipper from the wire upon which it hung and filled it. "Here ye be, lad. I be thinkin’ you need a good cold drink."

Bobby gulped the water down and invited himself to refill the dipper from the pump. Then, he pushed the pump handle down, quickly moved his hands under the stream of water and splashed it in his face. It was summer, and between perspiring and the sweat of having nearly died, the cool water seemed a blessing. Wiping the water from his face with his hands, he didn’t know what to say to the man. He had, after all, saved his life. How could one thank someone for that?

"Sir, I… uh… Thanks for…"

Again, the kind, smiling giant put his arm around Bobby’s shoulder and said, "Glad I was here, lad. Maybe the good Lord willed it. I’d usually be at work this time of day, but I have to take my wife to the doctor, and the drill boss told me to just take the day off and he’d punch me in and out on the time clock. Mining company doesn’t give us no free time off and pay us. I couldn’t afford to take off and lose a day’s pay, so maybe the good Lord has been kind to both of us today. You be gittin’ off the rails when the next train comes along. Promise?"

Bobby smiled up at him, nodded and started for the rear gate.

"Laddy, remember, you made a promise to me. Never, never break a promise. Good luck to ye. Any time you come by to see your mother, you need a cool drink, help yourself."

As he turned down the tracks toward home, Bobby looked back and saw the big man standing at the gate watching after him. He waved and the man waved back. Then, he walked slowly along, atop the rail, balancing himself in the game he’d played so often, by himself or against an opponent. It involved seeing who could stay atop the rail the longest without losing their balance and falling off. The railroads had been his playground as long as he could remember. All the engineers passing his shack of a home came to know him. He was always out waving at the people in the cabs of the big steam engines and the conductor standing on the little porch at the rear of the caboose.

Even though they could bring death, if one was foolish, the rails led to everywhere a boy could want to go, and they were his friends. He pulled the harmonica from his pocket and smiled at the fact that he could stay atop the rail and play it at the same time. That’s something none of his buddies could do. Of course, none of them had a harmonica. Besides, they wouldn’t know how to play it if they did.

Although the house was but a shack and they had an outdoor toilet, and no running water, the one luxury they had in their hovel was a telephone. Bobby sat watching that phone for three days before it rang and his brother Jack answered it to receive the news that mom had finally died. In a way, as much as it hurt him for his mom to die, Bobby was relieved. He’d never again have to go see his mom and hear her carry on in nonsensical drug induced conversation with someone who wasn’t there. He’d not have to see her glazed eyes stare at him and ask who he was. And, he wouldn’t have to suffer the anguish of knowing she was going to die, and not knowing when. At church, they always said that when we died we went to a much better place. Perhaps dying was a good thing, if life here became too unbearable, like with his mother. And, of course, mom wouldn’t be suffering from the pain of her body being slowly eaten away by that monster which had invaded it - the pain that no drug could erase.

It was a time of neighbors bringing food and sympathy to those still living at 2750 South College Street. What a laugh the name of that street was. "College" Street. Nobody living on College Street would ever have the chance for college. They were lucky if they made it through high school. It was the poorest of the poor neighborhoods. But, as poor as the neighbors were, they all rallied to help out for a time after Bobby’s mom died.

Bobby would look back years later at the funeral and smile at how many people attended for his mother, even though she was no one in particular. Most of her relatives were either dead or infirm due to illness or old age. But still, the large room at the funeral home was filled to bursting. Flowers covered the entire front of the room and surrounded the shiny coffin.

At the graveside services, he stood far off to the side, unable to bear looking down at the ornate gold and silver coffin some kind souls had furnished for his mother’s burial. For that matter, those friends and neighbors had also paid for the burial plot in the prettiest cemetery in the city. His mom’s grave was but a stone’s throw away from the tomb of Abraham Lincoln, one of Bobby’s heroes. Half the time during the funeral, he stared at the top of the monument covering "Honest Abe’s" body and thought, "I wonder if mom will meet you in heaven."

A small group from the Lutheran church stood off to the opposite side from where Bobby stood all alone and sang mom’s favorite hymns, "The Old Rugged Cross" and "I am Weak but Thou Art Strong." Bobby was out of earshot of the crowd, and softly played the songs on his harmonica to accompany the instrumentless singers. At least he played until the tears sliding down his cheeks became sobs. Then, he walked even farther away and sat atop a hill all alone amongst the beautiful pine trees, wondering where he would go from here. A long shiny gray limousine had brought him and his brothers and sisters to the cemetery, but he didn’t want to be around any of them.

As he sat in lonely solitude, Bobby smiled when he thought about the blackberry jelly. After all the kids went to a blackberry patch several miles from the house to pick berries, mom always made large amounts of blackberry jelly. Quart after quart of jelly. Once, when they ran out of food and his mom was in the hospital, brother Jack visited her and told her as much. She answered, "If you can get some bread, there’s dozens of quarts of jelly."

Jack told her, "We already ate all that."

As Bobby thought about that situation, he actually chuckled, and thought about what a wonderful mom she had been, and how he would try to do as she said, be somebody, do something. But, what was going to happen? Would they be sent to an orphanage?

The long gray limousine left the cemetery, winding around the road below in front of Abraham Lincoln’s tomb.

The day had been cloudy, a super fine mist drifting through the air from time to time. Now, as evening replaced late afternoon, the sun’s last gasp for the day forced its way from the western horizon to the bottom of the clouds. As beautiful a sunset as he had ever seen played across the sky. How could anything be so beautiful, when they had just buried his mother? Another thing he had heard at church was that God worked in mysterious ways. Yes, it was a mystery, truly. Perhaps He had taken Bobby’s mom away and replaced her with a beautiful sunset. Maybe it was His way of ushering mom to heaven and letting him know everything would be okay. Bobby thought that would be a good way to view the purples, blues, oranges, yellows, maroons and reds - a tribute to his mom.

It was fully dark, and clouds still obscured the stars and any moonlight, which might happen to be up there. Bobby was surprised that he wasn’t scared, walking through the cemetery between headstones and tall, life-sized figures of angels and such. Slowly, he forced himself to the small mound of dirt covered with flowers and which hid what had been his mother. He stared at the large pile of flowers for some time, not really seeing them, but thinking about his dad. Why had he run off, like he did? Some day, he’d like to ask him.

Bobby walked slowly away from his mom, tears filling his eyes, but he forced himself not to sob as he had before. He had to figure out how he could fulfill what had almost been his mother’s dying wish, that he do something worthwhile with his life. But what chance did he have? As he walked past Lincoln’s tomb, he looked up at the huge bronze statue of his hero and asked aloud, "What do I do now, Mister Lincoln? What do I do? I have nobody."

When he arrived at the big iron gates on the road leading in and out of Oak Ridge Cemetery, he stopped and stared at the ten-foot high ornamental iron gates and laughed. They were closed, with chain and padlock securing them that way. Were they afraid their clients would crawl from the grave and walk away? Then he remembered that some brothers stole Abraham Lincoln’s body and tried to get a ransom for it. "That’s it. They think someone will sneak in and dig through all that concrete to steal his body again."

Bobby laughed out loud and walked along the stone wall enclosing the cemetery until he came to a spot where a large oak tree grew close to the wall. Shoot, this escape would be nothing. Not only was he the champ of railroad chicken, he was also the champ when it came to climbing the huge cottonwood across the Wabash railroad from his house. Or, the tall railroad trestle that ran above Luis’s house, for that matter. Up the tree, jump to the wall and slide down the other side, groping onto the edges of the stones with his fingertips. Nothing to it.

He arrived home four hours later to find his next to oldest brother from Arkansas waiting, angry that he had disappeared at the funeral. But, he soon settled down and told him he was going to stay there in town to look after everyone. Bobby wasn’t sure exactly what this would mean, but at least there’d be someone old enough around that they probably wouldn’t have to go to an orphanage.

A little over a month later, Bobby turned thirteen and graduated from the eighth grade, wearing a brand new suit, new shirt, new underwear and a new pair of shoes, all purchased by the mother of a boy with whom he attended school. They lived in what Bobby and friends called the rich neighborhood on Lowell Avenue.

Now that he was out of school, he had to have something to do. He had to earn some money. In the month that had elapsed since his mom died, Bobby thought a lot about his plan to find his dad and not only ask him why he deserted his mother, but to tell that runaway just exactly what he thought of him. Being one of the better writers in his class, he had composed the perfect scenario for telling his father how worthless he was. All he had to do was find him. This was a priority over everything in his life, and though he wanted to tell his dad off, he missed him. There was still some shred of love for the man who had taken him fishing so many times before he deserted his family.

Bobby approached the manager of a drive-in restaurant, actually, a hamburger joint, and asked for a job. Of course, the manager knew he was much too young to work and asked, "Why do you need a job?"

"Because my dad’s gone, and my mom died. I have to earn a living for myself."

The man leaned back against the end of the customer counter, folded his arms and asked, "Would you mind sweeping and mopping the floor and washing dishes? Cleaning up the parking lot? That sort of thing?"

"Heck no. I’ll do anything."

"And, I suppose you’re sixteen, aren’t you? Can’t hire you if you’re not sixteen. It’s the law, you know."

"Yes, Sir, I’m exactly sixteen."

"Good. Can you work nights?"

"Any time, Sir."

"Okay, you start tonight."

Never, had he imagined it would be that easy to get the job. Bobby couldn’t help but yell out a dozen times on the way home, "Yippee! I got a job!" His brother, who was seeing after him, his twin sisters, his younger sister and younger brother seemed happy that he would have a job and told him they could use the money. Bobby hadn’t counted on this, but it was okay. He’d give Harry part of the money, but hide away a portion for his eventual journey to find his dad.

The drive-in manager turned out to be a great guy and brought Bobby home every night, actually, every morning, about two AM. Then, he walked the three miles to work each day. He had all the free hamburgers, cheeseburgers and milk shakes he could possibly eat, he was putting away ten dollars a week in his secret place in the old mine dump across the railroad from his house and he slowly put together a wardrobe of new clothes to wear on his journey.

It was the first part of October, and one night on a payday, when Lee Strington, the manager dropped him at home, Harry’s car wasn’t there and neither was the big homemade trailer. The house was dark. Harry had always left a small lamp turned on in the back room, so Bobby didn’t have to come into a dark house. But, tonight, there was no light. Maybe the bulb burned out of the lamp. Yeah, that was it. But where was Harry’s car? And the trailer?

He fumbled his way into the middle room of the shack, which had always served as a combination dining, living and bedroom, and found the pull chain on the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. He had a catch in his breathing, when he found the room stripped bare of everything. Even the linoleum, which had covered the middle of the board floor, was gone. The coal heat stove, which he had sawn so many old railroad ties into short sections to fuel, was missing.

Bobby made his way to the next room, which had been his mother’s bedroom, and more recently his big brother’s. Nothing. Stripped clean. Finally, the room where he and his sisters and brother had slept. The old beat-up piano on which he had so faithfully practiced while his mother lived was gone. Empty. The room he considered his own was empty of everything except a small pile of his clothes on an old blanket in the middle of the floor.

He wanted to cry. Now, he truly was alone, all alone. But he refused to be a baby, forced himself to think about something else and held back the tears. He had to be a man. There was no room for being a kid, anymore. So, everything and everyone was gone. So what? All they had wanted from him was most of his paycheck, anyway. Now, he could keep all of it, including the twenty-seven dollars in the pay envelope stuffed into his front pocket. Wouldn’t be no time at all, he could go looking for that loathsome father of his!

Slowly, he made his way back through his mom’s bedroom, through the middle room to the back room, a converted old porch. Bobby snapped the switch on the only thing left in the room, the lamp Harry had always left on for him. Wonder why he didn’t turn it on tonight? Of course, dummy, he left before dark and plain forgot. Wonder where they all went. Back to Arkansas, I bet.

Then, he saw the note stuck to the wooden back door with a straight pin. He pulled it off the door and moved back to the lamp. Bobby, we went bak to Arkinsaw. See ya. Harry. Well, writing or reading never had been one of Harry’s best things. At least, he left a note.

Bobby walked back to his mother’s room and stared at the place the rocker used to set. I wonder where you are, mom? Should I stay here and keep working a while, or should I grab a boxcar and head out to somewhere? I don’t know what to do? His eyes filled with tears, as he slid down the wall to sit on the floor and cry softly. Bobby never dreamed anything could hurt so badly without falling under the wheels of a train. Only that could hurt worse.

He sat on the floor, tears slowly continuing down his face, for how long, he wasn’t sure, before he stood, wiped the tears away and began thinking about how he could manage all alone. Heck, he had a job where he could eat all he wanted. What else did he need? With the ninety dollars he’d hid away over in the mine dump and the twenty-seven dollars in his pocket, he already had a hundred seventeen dollars. But how long should he keep working before he left? Maybe he’d just work until he felt the time was right, then grab a train for somewhere.

As it turned out, three weeks later, the electric company made the decision for him. Since the bill hadn’t been paid for two months, they finally disconnected the power. When he came home one early morning from his job and pulled the string on the "living" room light, he knew it was time to go. The following morning, Bobby walked downtown and purchased a large laundry bag at a department store. It would carry all his worldly belongings when he left, including the harmonica he so highly prized. The fine Hohner harmonica had been a Christmas gift from his mother. As much as he had pleaded with her to get him a harmonica for Christmas, he never figured out where she got the money. But, it was his connection to her. He didn’t have a single picture or momento of any kind from all his mother’s things. Only the harmonica.

On his way home, even though it was a long distance out of his way, Bobby went by the drive-in to tell the manager he wouldn’t be back. It was a hard thing to do. Many of the people working there, and patrons coming in regularly, had become somewhat of a surrogate family. But, at least he wouldn’t be sneaking off and leaving them without even saying goodbye, the way his brother had done him.

It was late afternoon when he had everything packed neatly in the bag and stood on the Wabash railroad beside his house for some time, staring at the house he’d known as home all his life. Somehow, he knew he’d never see it again.

Having grown up around the railroads, he pretty much knew which trains went where. There was the BM&O, the Illinois Central, the Missouri & Southern, and finally, the Wabash. He’d ruled the Wabash out, because he knew it went toward Kansas City. That was the wrong way. Quite by coincidence, and as Bobby thought, perhaps by Devine intervention, one night at the drive-in, a man from his neighborhood had came in and was surprised to see Bobby.

"Hey, Bobby, I thought all your family had left town?"

"Most of them have. Guess I’ll be going pretty soon."

"Where you gonna go?"

"Looking for my dad."

"You don’t know where he is?"

"Nope, but I’ll find him."

"You know, one day I ran into your brother, Harry, over at Vespa’s store. Told me he was moving back to Arkansas. I asked him what ever happened to his old man and he said he was living somewhere in a small town in Southeastern Arizona."

If not Providence, it had been one heck of a stroke of good luck that Ernie Dixon had happened into the Teepee Drive-in that night. Bobby had studied a US map and memorized about every highway and byway leading to Southeastern Arizona. He also memorized all the railroads between his hometown in Springfield, Illinois and that area. It looked like there was only a dead end spur railroad running to that corner of Arizona, so he’d have to hitch hike part of the way.

The slow moving, western bound Illinois Central train was right on schedule at sundown. This freight train ran from Chicago to St. Louis every day, but had to pull to a siding and slow way down, so the Green Diamond, Limited, a high speed luxury train to California could pass by at about a hundred miles an hour. The slow moving freight was the favorite target of hobos and bums a few years back, but that was during and right after the war. Not many hobos rode the rails these days.

Just as he knew there would be, at the front of the train was a long line of empty cars, their doors slid wide open. The trains always placed the empties at the front, so the loaded cars could be dispatched to their proper sidings and docks as quickly as possible. The train moved slower than many Bobby had jumped playing railroad chicken, so it was an easy target for him to toss his bag in a car, grab the edge of the door and swing himself aboard. Not as luxurious or as fast as the Green Diamond, but it traveled in the right direction.

Bobby sat with his legs hanging out of the car, holding onto the edge of the door, as they passed the boxcar parked on the ground between the two railroads. That boxcar was where his best friend, Luis Angeles, lived. He had hoped Luis would be outside, so he could wave and yell goodbye. No one was evident, and even though he yelled at the top of his lungs, Bobby knew his voice was no competition for the loud clatter of the boxcars on the rails and the snorting of the big engine some thirty cars away. He watched back at Luis’ boxcar house until it was out of sight, knowing it, too, was now in the past. Just one other thing he would probably never see again. Everything he had known, everything he had loved and hated was now in the past. His life, whatever it might be, lay ahead, in the "from now on."

Once the train left the area he knew and with which he was familiar, Bobby moved into the car and lay with his head on the bag. He had worked the previous night, then sat up making plans until morning. The day had been filled with walking a good number of miles, and now, he was tired.

He awakened to a hard slamming of cars into one another, as the train backed into a siding in the St. Louis freight yard. It was pitch black outside, except for the small lights that indicated which switch was open and which was closed. Bobby carefully dropped his bag out, jumped to the ground, retrieved the bag and jogged toward the lights of the city, across two dozen sets of rails. The yard was filled with activity and people, but no one seemed to pay any attention to him. That was good.

The area of the rail yards wasn’t exactly the nicest part of St. Louis, and Bobby wondered which of the unseemly characters he passed would try to grab his bag. Evidently, they took him for a hobo, and figured he had little worth stealing, because they paid little attention to his passing. When he started hiding money away months ago, he had retrieved a Bull Durham tobacco bag from the trash behind a neighborhood tavern, stuffed his money in it, then put the small cloth bag in a coffee can. His hiding place in the old mine dump had been a good one, and his can was always there when he went to add to his slowly growing treasure. Now, he carried the Bull Durham bag fastened to his underwear with a safety pin, and carried but three dollars in his pants pocket.

It took nearly two hours to wind his way through the nearly dark, deserted streets of St. Louis before he finally came to US 66, his escape route from this dangerous city. Of course, being a young boy, he conjured up all sorts of horrible things that might happen to him before he got out of there. But, once away from the area of the railroads, there had been but three people out and about when he reached route 66.

Now, he turned and walked along the deserted sidewalk that seemed without end. Finally, he was on the outskirts and came to a brightly-lit truck stop. There were maybe thirty big trucks parked along the side of the huge open area around the gas station and restaurant. Beyond the trucks was a long u-shaped string of doorways to small rooms the truckers could rent for a dollar a night, according to the big sign out front. All others were charged a dollar, fifty.

Bobby went to the rest room at the side of the restaurant building, took care of a pressing need, then looked at himself in the mirror. He brushed his hair into place with his hand, not wanting to look like a penniless bum. As he wandered slowly to the front door and entered the restaurant, he smiled at the ease with which he traveled, with no real fear of being away from home all alone. Heck, what was there to be afraid of? There was no home anymore.

The waitress smiled down at him and said, "Out kinda early, aren’t you, son?"

He grinned and said, "Guess you could say that. Been out all night. On my way to Arizona."

Her eyes opened wide in mock surprise. "Long way from here. You want some coffee?"

"If you please, Ma’am. Could I also have some pancakes and eggs and sausage?"

"That’ll run a little under two dollars. You do have money, don’t you?"

"Yes, Ma’am. Sure do."

"Pancakes, eggs, sausage and coffee coming right up."

Most of the truckers hadn’t risen from bed this early, and Bobby looked around at the few who had, sitting at a table in the middle of the large dining room, or in booths along the wall. He wondered if they had kids and if they’d ran off and left them, or if they drove a truck and got home every now and then to see them. Maybe if his dad had driven a truck and was gone a good bit of the time, he would have enjoyed being at home and wouldn’t have left. While he waited for his breakfast, he once more went over the little speech he would deliver to his dad when he found him. Being young and naïve, Bobby never gave it a thought about how big the country was and that he might never find his dad.

When the waitress sat the food in front of him, he laid three dollars on the counter and asked, "You know any truckers going toward Arizona?"

"Probly know some goin’ that way. Watcha goin’ to Arizona for?"

He stared at the plate, as he lifted the fork to begin chopping the eggs up and stir them around to cover all the white with yolk. "Looking for my dad."

"Oh? You didn’t run away from home, did you, sonny?"

Bobby looked up from his plate, leaned back on the stool a bit and chuckled softly. "No, not hardly. Don’t have a home anymore. My mom died a while back, then my brother left and went back to Arkansas. They finally turned our lights out, because there was no one to pay the bill, so… well, I thought I’d go find my dad. You say some of the truckers are going that way?"

"Sure. You eat your breakfast, son. I’ll see if I can find you a ride."

Before he finished the last bit of sausage, one of the biggest men Bobby had ever seen plopped onto the stool next to him. His voice was like the coal crusher that broke huge slabs of coal into manageable size chunks out at the coal mine north of Springfield.

"Millie tells me ya need a ride ta Arizona."

"Yes, Sir."

"Goin as far as Oky City, if ya got yer own feed money. Can’t afford ta feed ya, but I got room fer ya ta ride along. Ya like ta talk?"

Bobby thought this a strange question and wasn’t sure how to answer. "What do you mean, Sir?"

"First off, ya don’t call me Sir. Name’s Josh, but everyone calls me Gruff. Betcha can’t guess why?"

Bobby smiled and asked, "Couldn’t be your voice, could it?"

The bear of a man slapped him on the back and laughed loudly. "Yer not a dumb un, are ya? Reason I asks ya if ya like ta talk, I like ta listen. Gonna write a book one day ‘bout my travels. You know, the people I git ta know and all. And the talkin keeps me from fallin’ asleep drivin’."

"Yes, Sir, I can talk all you want. Anything you want to talk about." Bobby waved his hands around animatedly and said, "Why, my mother told me I was the best talker of all us kids. That’s ten kids, and I’m the best talker of all. Always talk constantly. Won’t shut up. Yes, Sir, I’m a talker, all right." Bobby smiled widely as he spoke, knowing the truck driver was aware he was putting on a comedy act for him.

The man laughed so hard, tears filled his eyes and he shook his head. Finally, his laughing slowed long enough to say, "Ya got a ride to Oky City, kid. Leavin’ soon’s I finish my Joe."

"Joe?"

"Yeah, Joe. You know, coffee. Ya gonna ride around with truckers, ya gotta talk like one." He slapped him on the back and returned to the table he’d occupied with two other drivers.

Millie leaned on the counter and spoke quietly. "Ol’ Gruff’s a good guy. Soma these guys I wouldn’t trust farther than I could toss ‘em, but ol’ Gruff’s all right. You get to Oky City, you be careful who ya ride with, you hear?"

"Yes, Ma’am."

When she laid the ticket in front of him, with tax, it totaled a dollar ninety-two. He shoved all three dollars at her and said, "Thanks a lot, Millie. Keep the change."

When she started to shove the dollar back and said, "There’s three dollars here, son," he said, "Yes, I know. It’s your tip."

She looked at him kind of squinty and asked, "You sure you can afford this?"

"Yes, Ma’am. And thank you for being so kind."

She reached across the counter, took his hand between both of hers and said, "Sorry about your mama, son. You take good care of yourself. And, don’t you forget to talk to God now and then while your tryin’ ta keep ol Gruff awake."

There were a lot of nice people in the world, after all. He smiled at her and again said, "Thanks for your kindness, Ma’am." As he walked outside to await Gruff, he looked back at the door and smiled at her again. She sure was nice. By golly, this hitch hiking might be a lot of fun. Might meet a lot of nice people, and I thought I was going to be all alone.

Bobby did better than talk all the way to Oklahoma City. He interspersed his conversation with some jazzy renditions of popular tunes on his harmonica. Every time he finished a tune, Gruff put his elbows on the steering wheel to control their direction and clapped loudly. It seemed he was amazed that a young kid could be so proficient on something like a harmonica.

Even though Bobby had a single purpose in making this journey, to tell his father what a terrible person he was, he was fascinated at how the landscape changed as soon as they traveled west from St. Louis, through Missouri. The narrow two lane Route 66 traveled up and down hill after hill, around and around hills and, it seemed, through about every little town across the middle of Missouri. About the time it started to get dark, they had reached Joplin, but they wouldn’t stop for the night. It was six AM when they left the western edge of St. Louis and, with time out to refill the fuel tank and eat at Joplin, Missouri, they arrived in Oklahoma City at three in the morning. Gruff talked Bobby into sharing his room for the rest of the night, before continuing for Arizona.

They stopped at another of the many truck stop/motels they had seen along the route, and Bobby had to admit, he was ready to sleep a while. He had forced himself to stay awake, talking, singing or playing the harmonica, fearful old Gruff might fall asleep and kill them both.

Gruff gave him a blanket and a pillow off the bed and said, "Hope you don’t mind the floor, kid. Can’t sleep in a bed with someone else in it."

"Hey, Gruff, I don’t mind at all. I’ve always been piled in a bed with three or four of my brothers and sisters, so it’s good to sleep alone. Even if it’s on the floor."

As Gruff sat on the edge of the bed and pulled his shoes off he said, "You know, kid, all that talkin’ we been doin’, you never told me why you’re out hitch hikin’ to Arizona."

Bobby was folding the blanket over in half to help cushion his body from the hard tile floor. "I’m going to find my dad."

Gruff stared at him and rubbed his feet. "What’s he doin’ there?"

As Bobby lay down and pulled his own shoes off he said, "I don’t know. Guess he’s still hanging wallpaper and painting houses. That’s what he’s always done. Haven’t seen him for about six years."

"Him and your mama divorced, huh?"

Bobby hoped the hurt didn’t show in his voice. "No, I don’t think so."

"You run off, or did your mama let you go lookin’ fer yer dad?"

"She’s dead."

"Oh, I’m sorry. You lose her recently?"

"About seven, eight months ago. What time we have to get up?"

"Whenever one of us wakes up. Goonite, kid."

It wasn’t two minutes before Gruff was snoring out his tale of exhaustion and Bobby lay thinking again about how nice a stranger could be, when your own family had deserted you. He again thought about his brother leaving for Arkansas without him, and leaving while he was working, as if sneaking off, so he wouldn’t have to tell him he couldn’t go along. Again, he wondered why his brother didn’t like him.

When he awakened, Gruff was still loudly protesting wakefulness with the most awful snoring Bobby had ever heard. He almost laughed aloud, but managed to only snicker softly. A small bathroom occupied one corner of the room, and Bobby washed his face and hands before putting his shoes on. Then, he quietly slipped out of the room with his bag and walked to the restaurant. At the counter, he ordered sausage, eggs, biscuits and coffee. When he finished and there was still no sign of Gruff, he asked the waitress, "Ma’am, do you know a truck driver they call Gruff?"

She chuckled and said, "Yeah, everyone knows Ol’ Gruff."

"If I leave the money here for his breakfast, will you be sure he knows? And, would you tell him I said he’s a good guy, and I thank him for the ride?"

The gray-haired, motherly lady smiled and asked, "You come from St. Louis with Gruff?"

"Yes, Ma’am."

She eyed him for a moment before asking, "You sure you can afford to buy Gruff’s breakfast? He wouldn’t expect you to pay for the ride."

"Oh, I know he wouldn’t, but I want to do it. And yes, I can afford it."

"Well, then, you leave three dollars for your breakfast and his. That’ll cover it."

Bobby laid four dollars on the counter and said, "Whatever’s left is for you. Thank you very much, Ma’am."

As he slid off the stool, she asked him where he was going, and he answered as he started for the door. "To find my dad."

"Good luck, Son. And I’ll tell you thanks for Gruff. I know he’d want me to."

He smiled and waved at her, as he walked through the door.

The weather was nice, the sun was just up, and Bobby decided to walk a ways before trying to catch a ride. He followed the route 66 signs through the city for the next four hours, enjoying looking at all the big buildings. Oklahoma City looked like a pretty nice place. The thought struck him, Where should I go after I find him? I can go live anywhere I want. Maybe I’ll hitch hike to New York to see Aunt Dolly. Boy, she’d be surprised. With no one to talk to, he pulled the harmonica out of his shirt pocket and, with one hand holding the drawstrings of the bag thrown over his shoulder, he belted out a bunch of blues on the harmonica.

***

Five days and about twenty rides later, he caught a ride with an older man in a pickup truck, traveling from Lordsburg, New Mexico to Clifton, Arizona. The first town they would come to in Arizona was a small place called Duncan. Bobby didn’t think they’d ever get there. The old man never got over twenty miles per hour, and in high gear, the engine was constantly on the verge of stalling. He was in no hurry, but the slow pace not only wore on his nerves, it seemed the old man had been a long while without anyone to talk to. He never stopped chattering the hour and a half it took to cover that thirty miles.

Bobby couldn’t believe his eyes, when the highway came around a curve leading into Duncan, and right there on the curve sat a black pickup in the driveway of the first small house in Duncan. The name on the pickup was his dad’s, with paper hanging and painting below it and a telephone number. He yelled so loudly at the old man to stop, the elder citizen ran off the road, both feet firmly planted on the brake pedal, stalling the engine. Bobby was so excited, all he could say was thanks, and started back toward the house. He didn’t even see or hear the old man restart his truck and drive away.

At first, he walked quickly, but then slowed to a near stop, wondering what seeing his dad would do to him inside. The speech he’d rehearsed in his mind so many times seemed to elude him, except the question, "Why did you leave us?" He knocked on the screen door several times before his dad opened the door and stared down at him through the screen.

Bobby had expected his dad to say something, but not at all what he heard. "What do you want?"

He thought he didn’t recognize him. "I’m Bobby."

"Yeah, I know who you are. What do you want?"

Bobby reared back and his mouth dropped open. He had never expected this sort of reception. Perhaps he had expected, "Hey, Bobby, how’d you get here? Come on in." Then, he would say, "No, thank you. I just came to tell you how much I hate you for leaving us. And, I thought you might like to know mom died." But all he got was, "What do you want?"

He wasn’t sure how long he stared at his father before quietly saying, "Nothing" and turning to walk away. As much as he wanted to just hate him and not care at all, his eyes moistened and he cried, as he walked quickly along the highway and off to the railroad cars sitting on a siding. He had to get to the other side of the cars where no one could see him crying for that wretched human being he used to call dad. How could he do such a thing to him? How could he just brush off his own son so easily, knowing he had to travel all that way to find him? Then, it struck him. That man standing behind the screen door was to be pitied. He probably had no one in the world to love him or care if he was alive or dead. He was all alone and despised. The poor soul. He could have had a son who, even though he had traveled all this way to berate him for abandoning him, when they came face to face, all he wanted was a hug.

The tears stopped, and Bobby stared out at the vast expanse of snowy cotton ready to be picked along the railroad, wondering what to do now. His odyssey to Arizona had been fruitless for any purpose it might have intended to be, or could have been. Now, here he sat at near sundown, on a railroad track. It was funny that he should be sitting on a rail so far from the Wabash he’d sat on so many times. He laughed aloud and knew where he had to go, now. It wasn’t to New York, or anywhere unfamiliar. He had to go back and sit on the Wabash, where he belonged. This was the wrong darned railroad!

He watched the sun sink below the horizon and stars fill the sky. Every time he thought about his father being but a few blocks away, he laughed softly. Well, at least he did what he set out to do. He found his dad, and like it or not, he could no longer hate him, only feel sorrow.

Bobby stood, laid his bag inside the open door of the freight car and walked across the road toward the few small buildings comprising the business district of Duncan. He was hungry, but found everything locked up tighter than a drum. It was no wonder. This was a southern route through Arizona, and there was no truck stop here, so he supposed the trucks used another route. Nothing to do but sleep in the boxcar until morning. There was a restaurant with a sign announcing they opened at six AM.

He sat for a long time, staring at the beautiful sky and thinking of his mother. I found him, mom, but he didn’t want me. I guess he truly did leave for good. Funny thing, I feel sorry for him. Isn’t that strange, mom? He’s a pitiable human being. All alone, with no one to care about him.

***

The odor was delicious and wakened him from his dream. Bobby knew it was the smell of food, but it was unfamiliar. When he moved from the end of the boxcar to the door, he saw two fires burning a short distance away, alongside the cotton field. The slight breeze seemed to carry the smell from that direction. Well, if they had enough food, he’d offer to buy some. His innards played a tune with which he was quite familiar.

With his bag slung over his shoulder, Bobby made his way across the three railroad sidings and wondered why they’d have this many sidings in such a sparsely inhabited area. It seemed there must be thirty people sitting around the fires, eating from metal plates. They all sat on the ground, except one very old man, who sat in a high back rocker. Two large trailer homes and one smaller trailer sat in a row at the edge of the cotton field, still hooked to their respective truck. Bobby was fortunate to have known Luis Angeles and his dad. He recognized the group as Mexican.

When he was within range of the firelight, he stopped. All eyes stared at him, as they continued to eat. How would he communicate with them. Sure, he knew buenos dios, por favor and de nada, but that was about the extent of his Spanish. As he stood there feeling foolish and inadequate, one of the prettiest girls he’d ever seen sat her metal plate on a rock and approached him?

"Habla Espanol?"

All he could do was sort of shrug his shoulders and shake his head no.

"She smiled prettily and said in broken English, "Then, we must speak in your tongue. I understand some Inglés. What do you seek, Senor?"

"Uh, I was wondering if I could buy some food." He quickly added, "I have money."

"Oh, so you are hombre?"

"If that’s how you say hungry, yes, I’m real hungry. Like I said, I’d be glad to pay. The restaurant closed last night before I could eat, and they’re not open now."

"Si. Uno momento, Señor, por favor." She turned and walked toward the old man in the rocker.

Bobby wasn’t sure what most of what she said meant, but he sure liked the way she said it. A permanent smile seemed etched on her pretty face. Bobby watched, as she spoke to the old man for a moment, then the elderly gentleman waved his arms wildly in the air and raised his voice. Oh, oh, the old man wasn’t too happy about a stranger walking in and asking for food, even if he had offered to pay. But the still pretty smile gave no hint of the old man’s anger, as it came swiftly back across the small circle of people.

"Mi abuelo says you are welcome to eat with us, but you insult him with your offer of dinero for the food. He wants to know why you are out here alone."

Before he could answer, she said, "Come sit by Abuelo, while I get your food." She took his hand and led him through the circle of people to stand before the old patriarch.

He offered the old man his hand and said, "How are you, Sir? Thank you for letting me join you."

The old man grinned, as the girl translated what he said. Then, he smiled a wide, nearly toothless smile and spoke in Spanish. The girl said, "Mi abuelo is impress with your manner. "I think I say that right? But, he asks again, why you are here by yourself, such a young man. Forgive me. You want to eat." She turned and moved to the pot hanging over the fire, filled a plate with beans and pork, retrieved two flour tortillas from a crockery container and returned. She motioned for him to sit, then handed him the plate.

He almost asked her for a fork, but then remembered Armenio, Luis’ dad, eating beans from a plate by scooping them up with a tortilla. His face flushed slightly, that he had nearly made a huge error in manners. The beans and pork was delicious, even if he did dribble them down the front of himself, not being used to eating this way. The girl sat on the other side of her grandfather facing him, still smiling, and he wondered if her smile was now at his ineptitude in handling the food with a tortilla.

It didn’t take long to finish them, and when the girl offered more, he wanted some, but didn’t want to impose too much on these kind folks. When he told her as much, she laughed and spoke to her grandfather, who smiled broadly at him again, bobbing his head up and down, as if approving of Bobby’s manners. When he’d finished the second plate, he asked, "May I ask your name?"

"Nam? Oh, nombre. Si, it is Anna." She pronounced it as ah -nah. "Que es your nombre?"

"Uh, Bobby." He hoped he had answered right, thinking she was asking his name.

The old man spoke to her and she asked for the second time, "Why are you here by only you, mi Abuelo asks."

He didn’t really know what to tell her. Should he tell her his father lived but a few blocks away, but wanted nothing to do with him? Or, should he make up a story? How could he lie to that beautiful smile? "I traveled here to find my father."

"And, did you find heem?"

When Bobby nodded his head and stared at her, the smile slowly disappeared. "Why did you have to find heem? Was he missing?"

Bobby smiled at the concerned look which had replaced the smile and said, "I guess you could say that. He ran away and left my brothers, sisters and myself. My mother was sick, and she died later. I came from Springfield, Illinois to find him, but he didn’t want me around."

All the while he spoke, a look of disbelief edged out that beautiful smile for a position in front of him. Then, she turned and spoke to her grandfather for several minutes, the old man’s head slowly moving from side to side, as she relayed the reason for his being here. The old man spoke softly, while looking directly at Bobby, and she asked, "So, Bobby, do you not have a familia or casa any longer?"

He understood more Spanish than he thought, he knew she meant family and home. "I guess I don’t."

When he told her about his brother leaving in the middle of the night without telling him he was going, she rapidly relayed this to the old man, with a look of near rage on her face. Then, she turned back to him and said, "That was a bad thing your hermano did to you. He would no longer be my familia! What will you do now?"

"I guess, go back to Springfield."

After conferring with her grandfather once more she asked, "Would you like to work with us for the next two months? Then we go to Michigan to pick fruit in the orchards. We go right past this Springfield place, and could take you home."

It wasn’t a bad plan. Especially when she asked it with the pretty smile back on her face. Sure. Why not? He certainly had nothing pressing in the way of commitments.

So, for the next two months, Bobby traveled from cotton field to cotton field with the migrant Mexican family and was treated as part of that familia. He slept in the open every night, under the stars and, although it was a hard, hot job, picking cotton all day, the nights were fairly cool. Not only was he not spending any money to live, but was putting eight or nine dollars a day in his Bull Durham bag. He would have been content to do this forever. Mainly, because he had fallen head over heals for that pretty smile and the friendly attitude of the entire family toward him.

It was so nice to have a family again. Everything from a new born baby, born in that Arizona cotton country, to the old family patriarch. They all treated him with respect and kindness. The "old man," as he always thought of him, reminded him so much of Armenio. He sat and talked to Bobby evening after evening through his granddaughter interpreter, teaching him many beautiful, important lessons about life. One of the things he returned to time and time again was that a man should always be able to hold his head up and say he had done the best he knew how, and had always been fair with everyone with whom he dealt. Always be faithful to family, especially. Always thank God for everything. Even the bad things. The old man’s philosophy was, "If we had no bad happen to us, how would we know when things were good?"

After laboring in the cotton fields in the broiling sun, Bobby became as dark skinned as his hosts. When the time came to travel to Michigan, Bobby was sorry to see the men and women packing everything carefully and tightly in the trailers for the trip. He sat in the back of the old flatbed truck on bales of hay, along with seven or eight family members, including Anna and her beautiful smile. He didn’t care that it took twelve days and what seemed like a hundred flat tires on the trucks and trailers to be fixed to reach the outskirts of Springfield. They camped out on a farm where the owner let them stay every year, as they came through. Springfield, it seemed, was a place they lingered a few days, getting everything back in shape for the rest of the journey and buying what foods they needed to make it on to Michigan.

Bobby stayed with them for three days, and on the morning they left, waved at the departing trucks and trailers until they were out of sight. Then, he threw his bag over his shoulder, walked to the highway and started for town, with a much heavier moneybag than when he left. He cut across fields to the railroad and walked for an hour before coming to Luis’ boxcar house. All he thought about was the pretty girl and her wise old grandpa. When he reached Luis’ boxcar home, Bobby had quite a tale to tell and a lot more respect for Armenio and the gentle person he was. But now, he had to figure out what he was going to do and left his buddy’s, not really knowing where he would sleep that night.

It was six miles out the railroad to the north, then two miles across town to the cemetery. The grass had grown over his mother’s grave, and a pretty granite headstone marked her resting place. Bobby sat on the grass next to the grave, looking at the stone.

"Hi, Mom. I found him, just like I started out to do. I guess you know all this already, but I want you to know, I don’t hate him anymore, Mom. I just feel sorry for him, and sorry he couldn’t be more committed to familia." He smiled at his use of the term and said, "I don’t guess I need to tell you all the stuff that’s happened since I went looking for dad, do I? I guess you know I found a new family. My only problem now is, what do I do? I’m only fourteen. Not old enough to get a real job or anything.

I did learn to pick cotton real well, but I want to do like you said, Mom. I want to get a good education and do something important, but I don’t know where to start."

Perhaps it was his mother speaking to him. Perhaps it was some unseen guardian angel God had sent to look over him. Or, perhaps it was just his being a deep thinker for his age. But he suddenly stood up and said, "My gosh, Mom, they have a whole day’s head start on me. I mean, my family - my familia. Mom, I promise, I’ll be back to see you at least twice a year. That’s how many times my family comes through here. You should see this pretty girl that… I’m sorry, I know you know all about it. I love you, Mom. I’ll see you in a couple of months, when we come back through. Right now, I have to get to Michigan. But, don’t worry. I promise, I’ll do something good and worthwhile with my life when I’m a little older. I’ll go back to school, promise."

He bent over and kissed the cold granite, but was as warm inside as he’d ever been. Let’s see, I gotta find a map that shows Michigan and figure out which way they’d go. Wonder if old Gruff goes that way.