"Still your children wander homeless; still the hungry cry for bread…." - Albert Bayly
"My house has a hobo sign that says, 'Generous man lives here,'" my soft-spoken friend Michael uttered at church one day. We were discussing demonstrating acts of charity among strangers in our adult Sunday school class.
"Well, they actually haven't painted a sign on my house, but word has spread among the hobo community that I'll give them a hot cup of soup if they’re hungry and a shirt if they need it," Michael continued with a humble twinkle in his eyes. "I don't give them money, though. And no booze. Just the basics."
Hoboes passing through Sioux City, Iowa, have been known to congregate in Cook Park and in a wooded area along railroad tracks parallel to Interstate 29 North, explained Michael, himself a Sioux City resident.
As I listened to him speak about hoboes, I was captivated. I learned that hobo signs are an essential way a dispersed group of people stay connected.
They have no phones, no email, no way to communicate, except for word-of-mouth and cryptic symbols left behind on fences, walls, houses and barns.
Simply put, hobo signs are instructions on where to go for food and shelter, how to stay out of trouble, how to navigate through life.
A piece of string tied to a tree or a fence stands for "asked for and received."
A plastic bag filled with rocks means you will come away with more than you need. The rocks symbolize material goods instead of money. Others leave behind arrows made of sticks, leading to a hot meal or a safe place to stay the night.
A squiggly horizontal line stands for, "Poor man lives here." A top hat next to a large triangle means just the opposite, "A wealthy man lives here."
A vertical line with three perpendicular lines diminishing in size with the smallest at the top symbolizes "officer." A smiley face tells others "Can sleep here."
Five circles mean "good chance to get money." A simple table means sit-down food. A cross? "Talk religion and get food." A "T" stands for "food for work."
Two circles, one on top of the other with three small triangles beside the circles are the sign for "kind woman." My favorite is a horizontal rectangle with a jagged line inside, which means "Bad-tempered owner."
According to hobo historian Fran DeLorenzo, author of The Hobo Minstrel, one or more signs can have the same message, and there can be slightly different meanings for a sign used in different parts of the U.S.
You may have noticed hobo signs and only dismissed them as litter caught up by the wind or child's play.
As I delved into hobo signs, I grew enamored by their simplicity and power and wondered what sign hoboes would place outside my house or yours.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Saturday, September 19, 2009
It’s not pretty where my heart still resides…
It's not pretty. Stripped of all of its former beauty and grace, my childhood home, now abandoned, stands gaunt – a total wreck. Once a gorgeous century-old house, decorated with soft lights and lovely draperies, blooming rhododendron skirting the foundation, it stands ravaged from total neglect.
When we return to the place from which we came, we long to see our memories in tact. This was not my experience when visiting 33 Pennsylvania Avenue in Lakewood, New York just a few weeks ago.
I’ve been back several times over the last 37 years to find the house in disrepair, contrary to my parents’ attentive care. However, this was the worst.
Sitting idle for years with only telltale signs of renovation, the place stares back at me like an unpreserved corpse with its hollow eyes, boney physique, deteriorating lines and decomposing flesh.
Windows broken out, rotting sideboards, swaying eaves, boarded up doorways, it has been purged of anything recognizable. It has no pulse.
My home, where as a child I imagined my future, is gone, save its idle skeleton, which stands weary from disuse.
Peering through the oversized French picture windows into my living room, I behold a place that once contained my dreams, held my hopes, along with disappointments, that now is stripped to only bones: walls with plaster missing, floors splintered and cracked, ceilings that are water stained.
Everywhere I look, I witness the decay and degradation. This once triumphant abode – a Victorian queen – now defeated with unimaginable damage.
Straining hard to remember sights and sounds of its formidable years, I am staring deep into a grave, which has entombed frolicking innocence – dancing, singing, playing, sharing, being.
My heart grows larcenous with a sudden urge to pick up a stone, a brick, a piece of clapboard – even a chip of glass – and steal it away. My soul thunders with anger over reckless, neglectors who have left it bare.
I silently watch for any signs of life preserved, above the fray, as though squinting through a thick, slowly lifting fog. Secretly desiring this corpse to rise, I summon its former beauty and grace.
As I pass through my backyard, I step over the broken glass, make my way around the side yard, through overgrown grass and back again, to the front. I am in a funeral procession, pacing slowly to the dead beat of despair.
As I depart, sadness besieges me. I solemnly wave goodbye, as with a therible of incense, blessing this house as once mine, while smoke from burning embers of yesterday rise and float away – forever gone.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
When we return to the place from which we came, we long to see our memories in tact. This was not my experience when visiting 33 Pennsylvania Avenue in Lakewood, New York just a few weeks ago.
I’ve been back several times over the last 37 years to find the house in disrepair, contrary to my parents’ attentive care. However, this was the worst.
Sitting idle for years with only telltale signs of renovation, the place stares back at me like an unpreserved corpse with its hollow eyes, boney physique, deteriorating lines and decomposing flesh.
Windows broken out, rotting sideboards, swaying eaves, boarded up doorways, it has been purged of anything recognizable. It has no pulse.
My home, where as a child I imagined my future, is gone, save its idle skeleton, which stands weary from disuse.
Peering through the oversized French picture windows into my living room, I behold a place that once contained my dreams, held my hopes, along with disappointments, that now is stripped to only bones: walls with plaster missing, floors splintered and cracked, ceilings that are water stained.
Everywhere I look, I witness the decay and degradation. This once triumphant abode – a Victorian queen – now defeated with unimaginable damage.
Straining hard to remember sights and sounds of its formidable years, I am staring deep into a grave, which has entombed frolicking innocence – dancing, singing, playing, sharing, being.
My heart grows larcenous with a sudden urge to pick up a stone, a brick, a piece of clapboard – even a chip of glass – and steal it away. My soul thunders with anger over reckless, neglectors who have left it bare.
I silently watch for any signs of life preserved, above the fray, as though squinting through a thick, slowly lifting fog. Secretly desiring this corpse to rise, I summon its former beauty and grace.
As I pass through my backyard, I step over the broken glass, make my way around the side yard, through overgrown grass and back again, to the front. I am in a funeral procession, pacing slowly to the dead beat of despair.
As I depart, sadness besieges me. I solemnly wave goodbye, as with a therible of incense, blessing this house as once mine, while smoke from burning embers of yesterday rise and float away – forever gone.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Dishing up little bit of sugar at the Leavenworth
Her name is Saundra. I first met her at the Leavenworth, a throwback diner in Omaha, where she waits tables.
Her attire was that of a classic waitress. She wore a dress-uniform, complete with a white chiffon apron tied in a neat bow around her waist. The only thing missing was a cap-like band on her head.
"How ya’all doin'?’ she greeted my family, while handing each of us an over-sized plastic-coated menu. After we ordered and she began serving our meals, Saundra paused at our table, head bowed while our son Joel finished the table grace.
"AMEN!" she exclaimed. "Here’s your ketchup, Preacher Man," she said, offering him a full bottle of Heinz.
During the course of our time at the Leavenworth, Saundra’s weathered beauty and velvety deep voice spoke phrases, as if sweet sonnets, that drew me in, like root command calling me to a place I wanted to remain.
"Do you have enough to eat, Sweetheart? Do you want more to drink, Baby? Honey, can I get you any dessert? Ready for your check, Sugar?"
The way Saundra addressed each of us was so endearing that a powerful spirit of agape love produced a sort of giving circle that she embodied.
After my brief interaction with Saundra during lunch that day, I found myself in the firm hold of her infectious kindness. I wanted to know more about her and asked if she would be willing to share her story with me.
"Honey, I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell my story for years."
In our follow-up phone conversation, I learned more about Saundra – the person. She is no longer married and lives with her aging parents.
Her ex-husband was alcoholic, and Saundra, now 54, was a frequent target of his rage. "One night," she recounted, "he nearly killed me with a tire iron." She reported the attack to the police; her husband was arrested, sent to jail, where he died.
Saundra breathed a deep sorrowful sigh of relief that day, but her son, who was 10 at the time, took it hard.
"If you just would have let him walk away, I’d still have a father," her son carried on.
"What kind of woman would I have been if I had stayed?" Saundra told me. "He hit me on my ankle, on my knee, on my thigh and on my head. I fell, but he would not let go. He had the devil in his eyes, and I thought, ‘My god, he’s going to kill me.’ I tried to protect myself. I called out the name of Jesus."
This is only a small part of Saundra’s back-story. There is much more to her life growing up in America’s heartland, where she confronted racial discrimination.
"I’ve had a lot of unfair things happen to me," Saundra concluded after relaying several personal instances. "But don’t get me wrong – I am truly and richly blessed."
"Saundra, before we hang up, I just want to say that you have the gift of exhortation. You lift people up. You make them feel so good!"
"You know," she replied, "I didn’t think I had any gifts. I have been searching and praying, asking God to show me what they are. Now, my prayer has been answered."
As we concluded our talk, Saundra said, "I only have one request of you," continuing with graceful charm. "If anyone asks you who I am, please tell them that I am a child of God."
Saundra is the embodiment of all that is determined and hopeful – in this world.
So, the next time you are on Omaha’s South Side, you might want to pay a visit to the Leavenworth Diner and ask to be seated Saundra’s section.
Whatever you go by – Sweetheart, Baby, Honey, or even Sugar – you will not be disappointed.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
Her attire was that of a classic waitress. She wore a dress-uniform, complete with a white chiffon apron tied in a neat bow around her waist. The only thing missing was a cap-like band on her head.
"How ya’all doin'?’ she greeted my family, while handing each of us an over-sized plastic-coated menu. After we ordered and she began serving our meals, Saundra paused at our table, head bowed while our son Joel finished the table grace.
"AMEN!" she exclaimed. "Here’s your ketchup, Preacher Man," she said, offering him a full bottle of Heinz.
During the course of our time at the Leavenworth, Saundra’s weathered beauty and velvety deep voice spoke phrases, as if sweet sonnets, that drew me in, like root command calling me to a place I wanted to remain.
"Do you have enough to eat, Sweetheart? Do you want more to drink, Baby? Honey, can I get you any dessert? Ready for your check, Sugar?"
The way Saundra addressed each of us was so endearing that a powerful spirit of agape love produced a sort of giving circle that she embodied.
After my brief interaction with Saundra during lunch that day, I found myself in the firm hold of her infectious kindness. I wanted to know more about her and asked if she would be willing to share her story with me.
"Honey, I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell my story for years."
In our follow-up phone conversation, I learned more about Saundra – the person. She is no longer married and lives with her aging parents.
Her ex-husband was alcoholic, and Saundra, now 54, was a frequent target of his rage. "One night," she recounted, "he nearly killed me with a tire iron." She reported the attack to the police; her husband was arrested, sent to jail, where he died.
Saundra breathed a deep sorrowful sigh of relief that day, but her son, who was 10 at the time, took it hard.
"If you just would have let him walk away, I’d still have a father," her son carried on.
"What kind of woman would I have been if I had stayed?" Saundra told me. "He hit me on my ankle, on my knee, on my thigh and on my head. I fell, but he would not let go. He had the devil in his eyes, and I thought, ‘My god, he’s going to kill me.’ I tried to protect myself. I called out the name of Jesus."
This is only a small part of Saundra’s back-story. There is much more to her life growing up in America’s heartland, where she confronted racial discrimination.
"I’ve had a lot of unfair things happen to me," Saundra concluded after relaying several personal instances. "But don’t get me wrong – I am truly and richly blessed."
"Saundra, before we hang up, I just want to say that you have the gift of exhortation. You lift people up. You make them feel so good!"
"You know," she replied, "I didn’t think I had any gifts. I have been searching and praying, asking God to show me what they are. Now, my prayer has been answered."
As we concluded our talk, Saundra said, "I only have one request of you," continuing with graceful charm. "If anyone asks you who I am, please tell them that I am a child of God."
Saundra is the embodiment of all that is determined and hopeful – in this world.
So, the next time you are on Omaha’s South Side, you might want to pay a visit to the Leavenworth Diner and ask to be seated Saundra’s section.
Whatever you go by – Sweetheart, Baby, Honey, or even Sugar – you will not be disappointed.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at www.my-story-your-story.blogspot.com and find her on Facebook.
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