Reuben, Reuben
a Hobo's Journals
by
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PAWHUSKA, OKLAHOMA August 7, 1945 colors of Oklahoma— cinnamon, paprika straw tan, bronze gold and bright, bright, blue Tan and I jumped off when the train slowed for Pawhuska. We’ve made ourselves a camp beside a small pond, surrounded by dried grasses and dwarfed oak trees. He suggested we fish for our supper. We made a good catch, and while the fish was cooking on sticks over a fire, Tan talked about his favorite poems and quoted Robert Frost, “Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat.” We were both quiet for a while, then Tan said, “Swede, it’s almost time.” He got up and walked away. August 8, 1945 Left camp before Tan woke up. Took a walk north of Pawhuska through some of the most glorious landscape I’ve ever seen—tall prairie grasses mixed with hundreds of wildflowers, birds flitting here and there, as far as the eye can see—never seen anything like it. Wonder what Father would say, if he could see me now. Probably something about not working. A strong wind came later in the afternoon, blowing almost horizontally. I saw a butterfly down in some grasses, beating its wings against the wind but unable to fly. I picked it up, made a cup for it with my hands, and brought it with me. I made the butterfly a nest in a can, put in some flowers. The next day, it was crawling around the camp, even on my arm. Tan was most impressed. Lesson of the Butterfly oh butterfly with broken wing beaten by prairie winds will you dance in my cup of flowers drink sweet nectar beside my bed? will you teach me how to live while you teach me how to die? Saw my first buffalo, heavy-headed and sad. August 9, 1945 Tan and I decided we better find some work. Went to the jungle in Pawhuska and heard that the Comstock and Drummond ranches were hiring help with branding. We walked out to the highway and put our thumbs out, and it just so happened, the first person who stopped was in a pickup heading toward the Drummonds. We jumped in the back. I told Mr. Drummond I’d never branded before but was willing to learn if someone would teach me. He laughed and said, “Not much to it, you just catch ‘em, hold ‘em down, and lay the hot iron on ‘em!” After the first calf, its screams cutting through my heart, I said, “This job is not for me,” and walked away. Tan told me wait, he was coming with me. Back at the jungle for mulligan, still hearing that calf. The look on Tan’s face says he hears it too. August 10, 1945 Two cardinals in camp this morning. Tan and I went to Pawhuska Library to check war headlines. We found out that on Monday, the United States dropped an atomic bomb on Hiroshima, killing about 140,000 people. It doesn’t seem real and maybe that’s better. I won’t think about it. Then I read about Chief Standing Bear and his lesson of forgiveness. “My hand is not the color of yours, but if I pierce it, I shall feel pain. If you pierce your hand, you also feel pain. The blood that will flow from mine will be the same color as yours. I am a man. The same God made us both.” August 11, 1945 at Lake Pawhuska one last lingering look good-bye to grasses whose names I don’t know to dwarfed pines on chiseled hills rocky red soil and calico pastures to an open sky of ultimate blue I like to pretend I understand birdsong; the chirps and warbles are words, and they’re saying life is good, the world is beautiful, be happy. Tonight, after our feast of fish over the campfire, Tan told me about the ‘hot iron in his heart.’ He said he was married to a Black Foot woman named Nancy Yellow Feather. He told me how beautiful she was and how much they loved each other. Then he stood up and looked at me with tears in his eyes, He almost whispered that one morning he woke to find she’d been stabbed to death right next to him in bed. And he knew who did it. “He’s going to pay. I’ve let him think he’s safe awhile, but when he least suspects it, he’s going to pay. When that sonofabitch breathes his last breath. I want him looking at my face.” August 12, 1945 Spent the night in an abandoned farm house. I swear I heard real voices, a woman crying, a man calling her name. Then the woman left, and the man’s voice got louder and louder until it woke me up. They didn’t seem to notice I was there, but I still felt like I was trespassing and left first thing this morning. forty-five miles west of Ponca City pioneer cemetery Mulligans, Rickets, Buffalous two lone trees perfect place of rest for my friend the butterfly, who lived with me for two weeks and died peacefully Tan’s heading back to the reservation, says he sleeps better with a drumbeat. He slapped me on the shoulder, and said, “Hang in there, Swede. Hope to see you again.” He gave me this poem, Harvest Train stepped from tracks up on train Jackson line, Jonesboro Station wayfarer, roundtrip, first leg stranger on a sentimental journey GM & O Rebel, traveling through landscapes of the soul to stations of the mind restoring beauty along the way stepped from train down on tracks Jackson Line, Jonesboro Station dream-keeper, round trip, last leg pilgrim from a sacred journey home
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About the Book
Reuben, Reuben, a Hobo’s Journals tells the story of Reuben Martinson after he escaped from a mental hospital in 1939 and never seen again. Twenty years later, Reuben’s daughter received a package with a worn satchel and the journals of a hobo poet named Dakota Swede.
His journals describe life on the road and rail in the 40’s and 50’s and reveal the heart of a man who finds poetry in nature and hope in the next town.