When I was a little girl, around six or seven, I remember those hot summer days in our neighbourhood, when the hobos would come down from the train to ask for food.

The train tracks were at the top of our street, and we’d often see the hobos sitting on the steel couplars

between the boxcars riding on the trains. They were a colourful part of our neighbourhood, making us wonder where they had come from and where they were going!

On the days that they came into the neighbourhood looking for food, we were called into the house and not allowed to answer the door. Our mother would answer the door and give them sandwiches in a plastic bag. They would then produce a mickey bottle, or if they were lucky enough to own one, a thermos, for hot tea. They were always polite and soft spoken. You could see that they had taken the time to make themselves presentable by the way their tattered shirts were tucked in, and their well worn pants had been brushed off. They wore old boots, some worn through, so that you could see a piece of a sock sticking out, others were scuffed so badly they shone.

I sometimes would wonder about these men who lived on the rails. Where were their families? Did no one love them enough to keep them at home? I never did have any of my questions answered of course.

I guess the railway started to get them off the trains, because each year there were less than before.

I like to think that most of them did make it home again, or at least found a new home and were happy and content to be in one place.

I’ll never forget them , those train riding vagabonds that rode the rails and taught a young girl that home really is where the heart is.