A HOBO memory.

QUOTE from Mark Cuban, owner, Dallas Mavericks, on the best advice his dad gave him.

TODAY IS THE YOUNGEST YOU WILL EVER BE, LIVE LIKE IT.

MEMORY of hobos. I subscribe to REMINISCE, a magazine that is written by the readers. They reminisce about things that happened to them in their childhood or into their twenties - the stories go back to the 1930s to the 1960s. I really enjoy it as I'm at the same age as many of the writers.

I read a story this month written by Robert Levelle from Michigan. It brought back memories for me when I was 10-12 years of age. Robert wrote about hobos coming to their home in the 1930s and earlyh 1940s and asking for food. His mom would always feed them two or three eggs, two or three slices of bacon, four slices of toast and two cups of coffee. The plates never came back with uneaten food. Robert asked his Mom why she always fed these men. His mom said, "Your dad has a good job with the railroad car ferries, we have a home and food in these trying times, and God may ber testing me. One of these men may be Christ in disguise."

Many years later Robert found out why the hobos always stopped at their home. A friend told him about the chalk marks left on the telephone pole near their driveway, it was code for the hobos that this house would offer a good meal. I find this kind of historicl trivia very nteresting.

Now my memory of a hobo. From 1949 to 1952 my parents ran the Dodge County Rest Home in Dodge Center, Minnesota. (it was commonly called the "The CountyPoor Farm). In 1951 I remember one hobo who walked in off the highway and stopped and asked for food. I happened to be the one playing in the yard so I was the first one he talked to. The guy asked me if he could talk to the manager. I took him to mom. He was very nice and polite and was wondering if he could get some food. Mom told me to take him to the garden and he could help himself. I took him to the garden and he was so hungry he dug up a potato, rubbed it off as best he could and ate it raw, dirt and all. Then he picked an onion and did the same thing. I took him back to Mom and she gave him a peanut butter sandwich and some milk. I remember mom asking him where he was from and he said, " Brooklyn, N.Y. and I'm an army vet, having served in Europe in WWII." He thanked mom for the food and was on his way, walking down the highway with a bag slung over his shoulder. I wonder what happened to that nice hungry man.

I know we had other hobos that stopped but this guy was the only one I had contact with. I wonder if they had a code for the County Poor Farm?

HUMOR for today:

Joe Frazier: "He's phony, using his blackness to get his way."

Muhammed Ali: "Joe Frazier is so ugly he should donate his face to the U.S. Bureau of Wildlife."