Teenage Hobo

About the Book

Three young boys found life thrusting the need of survival during difficult experiences, which people twenty or thirty years older may never face. The experiences they faced daily were unexpected and extremely hazardous. Each event could have resulted in their conquest or end of life. The ages in development of life’s fortitude were with these boys.

Two of these boys were my younger brothers: Jack and David. I was the ripe old age of fourteen at the time the events took place during the summer of 1941. Jack was two years younger, twelve. David was exactly four years younger than I, ten. David had been born on my birthday, as I had been born on our dad’s birthday.

Each day into the trip began with a fog of apprehension, obscuring any warmth of the morning sunrise. For about thirty days, this apprehension was repeated. The exhausting trudge of walking alongside many miles of highways. The fear of what might occur while riding within noisy freight train boxcars. The wonder if we would indeed make the thousands of miles to our goal of rejoining our unknowing mother in Los Angeles. All these periods of concern would be with me. I would hope I would be able to conceal these feelings from my brothers. I knew they too must be exhausted, but we had to move on; we had to succeed. I also knew Mother would be angry when she found out about what we had done. She would not be mad. Dogs get mad; people get angry.

The emotions of young people, as we were, did contain periods of fear and painful discomfort. As time rolled by, the world began to appear to pass in slow motion. I felt we were not of the same world that we were dragging ourselves through. I wondered if this was my punishment in hell for the many wrong deeds in my past. If so, why were my brothers being subjected to this same misery?

About the Author

Many years ago, my family and I would make trips to the mountain campsites for our vacation. We found and, generally used, the campsite in the high country of Yosemite. It was named Camp White Wolf. There were several other campsites, but this was one where there were individual sites large enough to set up our large tent. There was what must have been a water runoff nearby, although usually dry when we were there. At the site, there was a picnic table and a rock-lined pit for a campfire. After we had set up our tent at our campsite, we would take walks to see and enjoy the beauty of the comfortable woods. The clean, cool air felt so very good on our faces. The four children had their pleasure in climbing among the huge boulders. They would make games among themselves. Sometimes they would investigate the many different insects or small animals that they would see. I carried a notepad with me. I would tell them to draw a picture of what they saw. Later, we would then check the books we had at home to find out about what they had seen. Every year there would be something different. One time, there was an eagle soaring among the trees, not having to flap its wings, using the mountain’s updraft to stay aloft. In the city where we lived, there were few of these wondrous sights.