It is ironic that I, a life long railroad buff, had my first encounter with hobos on a bus rather than a train. When I was about eleven years old my family lived for about a year in Bonhamtown, New Jersey. This small section of Edison Township was a transportation hub. A maze of highways and rail lines. One day I was riding my bicycle along Old Post Road, in search of whatever tracks remained from the defunct Platte Valley Trolley line, that I had read ran thru that area, when I came upon a bus repair facility that belonged to the Public Service bus company. Behind the bus garages I spotted a field overgrown with high weeds that only partially concealed about three dozen old Ford buses that were left to rust away until they might be needed for parts, or, be sold for scrap metal. Ford Motor Company manufactured city transit buses like the one pictured from the 1930's until the end of World War Two when Ford quit the bus business. I could not resist dismounting my bike and wading into the weeds to explore the buses. The reader must understand that in the early 1950's young boys rode off alone on large heavy Schwinn bicycles to travel wherever their whims carried them. Our parents never knew where we might wander. The only rule was "be home by dark." Sadly, the World is different now.
I was having a ball climbing all over the buses, looking into the engine compartments, sitting in the drivers seats, etc. I was sitting behind the wheel pretending to drive one of the buses when a voice spoke from behind me,"Let me off at Easy Street." I sat frozen and scared. A middle aged man strolled to the front of the bus and sat on dash board so that he faced me. He asked if I was a runaway. I assured him I was not and told him my dad and older brother were with me, prowling around some of the other buses. All I would have to do is yell and they would come running. He cupped his hands in front of his mouth and yelled as loud as he could, "Hey! Hey You! Come over here and claim your little piss ass liar!" Then he chuckled and asked my name. Still not quite trusting him I told him it was Jack. He questioned me a while longer until he was sure I was not a runaway. Then he shared with me that his name was Whistle Stop Warren and he was a hobo. He had been napping in the bus. I doubted he was a hobo because he was dressed in work clothes rather than worn out patched up rags. Besides, he was clean shaven. Although I made no comment, he sensed my skepticism. "I said I was a hobo kid, not a tramp or a bum. I see I'm going to have to teach you a thing or two."
Whistle, as he preferred to be called, lectured me for more than an hour about the differences between hobos, tramps, bums, alcoholics, recluses, homeless people, etc. It was quite clear in his mind that each group was distinct unto itself although I could see some commonalities between the groups. However, I was not about to debate with Whistle. He held that hobos travel about, mostly by rail, in search of work, usually agricultural, which sustains their humble existence. Hobos value their independence and freedom and live carefree lives without the encumbrances of mortgage payments, taxes, or, other such obligations. Hobos are a fraternity and a family like culture in and of themselves. He talked of a hobo code or creed, of a loose government of Kings and Queens, and of a National newspaper The Hobo News (Now published on line at hobonews.com). I could scarcely take it all in, but, I was certain of one thing: I wanted to be a hobo. In reality I have dabbled in the hobo life style most of my life just as some men go on hunting or fishing trips. I have pursued hoboing much more in my semi-retirement years. This is the case with most of the hobos I encounter. Pensioners, schoolteachers hoboing on their summer vacations, ex military, businessmen escaping the rat race for a few weeks, etc. Once in a while I meet up with a full time hobo, but, not often.
Eventually, Whistle asked if I was hungry and offered to share a hot meal with me. I assumed he had some type of food with him that we would cook in the bus yard. Instead, he helped me stow my bike inside one of the buses and had me follow him as we tramped thru the tall weeds towards a wooded area just across a railroad track. I learned that the track was active, a branch line that served a Ford automobile plant located on Highway One in Edison near the intersection of Vineyard Road. I knew the facility well, having gone there once for a plant tour with my Scout Troop. North of the Ford Plant the branch line meandered into a railroad yard that connected to the main Pennsylvania Railroad line that ran from Washington D.C. to Boston via New York, known today as Amtraks Northeast Corridor Line. Little did I know then, that somewhere around my thirteenth birthday, I would hop my first freight train from the very track Whistle and I were walking across.
After a short hike thru the woods Whistle announced that we would soon be entering a hobo jungle. Hobos like to camp out in thickly wooded areas where they cannot easily be seen, hence the term "jungle." This jungle actually turned out to be some type of picnic park, fair ground, or camp meeting. There was quite a number of small buildings, covered pavilions, out houses, a stage or bandstand, many years abandoned and left to rot and become overgrown with vegetation. There was not one speck of paint left on any of the wooden structures and some had entire trees growing right up thru their floor boards and out of their roofs. One hobo thought the place had once been called Shady Brook and that it had been built around the turn of the century. The buildings were arranged along a midway so the set up resembled something like the main street of a small town. I noted there was a hand carved sign, no doubt the work of some previous hobo, nailed to a tree that read EASY STREET.
The population of the hobo jungle looked to be about eight men and three women. I was surprised not only to see women, but also, everyone was wearing regular clothing. These folks looked more like campers than hobos. Whistle later explained that women hobos are quite common. Some are spouses of male hobos. Others are widows, runaway wives, or, adventures. He further explained that hobos clad in ragged, patched up, dirty clothing were somewhat common during the Great Depression. Due to news photos of that era the image stuck. Sometimes hobos, especially hobo musicians, will costume themselves that way to entertain the public, but, when traveling the rails, it is better not to be noticeable. The smell of food and coffee cooking in one of the buildings shifted my focus from curiosity to hunger. We had homemade beef and bean chili, hot dogs, corn on the cob, and, white bread. We washed it down with black coffee and red Kool-Aid. After a lot of good natured talk, and, more than a few tall tales, Whistle and I were assigned to clean up duty since we had not helped with the meal preparation. Whistle and several of the others, escorted me back to the bus to retrieve my bike and sent me on my way home.
It was a few days before I could get back to the hobo jungle. I was anxious to see my new found friends again. They were nowhere to be found. Apparently they had traveled on. Over the next two years I visited EASY STREET a few times a month. Once in a while I would encounter a hobo or two. Never a group, and, never Whistle. However, something started in me back then that has kept me traveling the rails for more than half a century.
