Boxcar Dreams of Riding the Rails

Last night we watched a bit of Riding the Rails, a PBS show, part of the American Experience series (learn more here). In the 1930's, more than 250,000 children and teens were living on the road in America, many of them hopping on trains and riding across the country. I remember learning about this aspect of the Great Depression somewhere along the way, but I tended to see it as a grand adventure. Last night's show reminded us of the dangers and the lack of comfort.

And the hunger. I forget how many people were so very, very hungry in the 1930's. I remember reading a fact about World War II that talked about how many recruits had to wait to be shipped off to war so that they could be nourished and so that their diseases of malnutrition could be treated.

I share a birthday with Woody Guthrie, so I've always been fascinated with his life, the way we all know some of his songs (sing along: "This Land is Your Land"; you know the words, even if you don't know all the verses). Woody Guthrie rode the rails as a very young man, and it was a habit he returned to throughout his life.

When I read that biographical nugget, I didn't realize he had so much company, both in terms of young people (more than 250,000; what did that landscape look like?) and the older people who were on the move, looking for work. I also didn't realize how many of those children had been turned out of their houses, their parents pushing them out to fend for themselves in hopes that the younger children could be saved. How would that feel?

From a very young age, I felt the pull of the open road. I used to tell my parents that I wanted to be a trucker when I grew up (yes, I was a child of varied interests; I was going to be a Broadway star, a trucker, an Indian brave, a writer, a settler--my imagination was not constrained by gender or time period or wage requirements).

I still feel that pull occasionally. One summer, I went to a marvelous exhibit on Woody Guthrie at the National Museum of American History, one of the wonderful Smithsonian museums in Washington, D.C. I got to see original manuscripts and pictures. It took my breath away, moved me to tears (yes, I'm emotional that way), and influenced my poetry for years to come.

Here's a poem that comes from that period. It remains unpublished, and I've largely stopped sending it out. I still like it, but I've written other poems that I like better. It still speaks to me on some level, that familial responsibility, that longing for freedom. When I wrote it, my mother-in-law had a lot of needs (and I added some fictional children for good measure). If I rewrote it today, I'd probably come at it from a different angle, something job related. Perhaps I'll play with this poem today. You play too. We could all write railroad poems and see what we came up with.

Boxcar Dreams


How did Woody Guthrie decide to leave
his children and women? What mad hope
made him leave?
Did guilt keep him awake at night?
Did he cry himself to sleep as he longed
for his left-behind loved ones?

I don’t dream of boxcars, but I price RVs
in my spare time. When family members call
with black holes of needs that suck
away time and space, I dream
of prairies and wide vistas,
western light and trees that touch the sky.

I buy maps but keep this evidence of my infidelity hidden.
As I drive the children to cheerleading practice, Cub
Scouts, soccer, violin lessons, I chart possible escape
routes. When my mother-in-law fills
the air with her inescapable chatter, I make mental
lists of all the supplies I’d need to stock in my camper.
I fall asleep, wondering how many miles
would erase their grasp.

Would great art come out of my mash dash
for freedom? Would I write songs that schoolchildren
will still sing a hundred years later?
Would I even make it to the state line
before the leash of responsibility pulled me home?

Hobo Poetry Project

A few weeks ago, I wrote this post that talked about neat poetry opportunities in Southeast Florida.  Yesterday, I went to the The Hobo Code Poetry and Art project.

We began by talking about the hobo in popular culture and the culture of the Great Depression which gave rise to the hobo culture.  We talked about the hobo code and the symbols that many of them used to let people know what to expect as they approached towns and houses; for examples of those signs, see this website.

Much of this news wasn't new to me; in fact, a few years ago, I wrote this post that talked about seeing the documentary Riding the Rails.  I did pick up one tidbit about Jack London, who was a hobo before he was a writer.  He credits his hobo experiences with teaching him how to tell a good story; when he was a hobo, it was his ability to tell a good story to the lady of the house which would determine whether he got food/shelter or not.

It was interesting to have this conversation about the hobo culture with my friend who is an immigrant from India beside me.  She said, "These men made a choice to live this way?"  And then she said, "This is a very first world choice, it seems to me."

The workshop leader gave us two pages of symbols, and we talked a bit about them.  And then, finally, the poetry writing part of the 2 hour workshop.  We were supposed to use the symbols and to write a poem.  The ways that we did this were up to us.  We had art supplies too. 

It was fun to see the ways we responded.  Some people incorporated the symbols in place of words in a poem.  Others had the symbol as background.

For example, I was pulled to the sign that had a cross that meant "Talk religion, get food."  And I was struck by the stories of Mulligan Stew; at the end of the day, hobos would gather at the hobo camp and contribute what they'd gotten (a potato here, a carrot there, a lump of lard--all into the pot!) into a communal stew.  I have had church stuff on the brain, as I've written a post about Saint Brigid, who also multiplied food, for the Living Lutheran site and I've been thinking about the food miracles of Jesus.  So I drew the cross and wrote parts of poems in each quadrant.

We can turn in our work later--March 1 is the deadline--and you don't have to have attended to the workshop to submit work.  I plan to play with photography:  I have a vision of a cross made with a carrot and a potato.

I loved the workshop, and I fell in love with the public library all over again.  There were groups working in study rooms, including a group of young teen girls working on some kind of dance routine.  There was a HUD workshop happening.  There was the poetry workshop.  There were several huge rooms full of computers for community use.  There was a woman handing out information about transportation upgrades planned for a central corridor.  All that on top of the regular resources of books, periodicals, and videos.

After that workshop, I went out with the friends who came to the workshop with me.  We went to a Vietnamese Pho restaurant that one friend wanted to try--what a treat!

I drove us all there.  One friend saw my memoir manuscript that I have in the car so that I'll remember to take it to Mepkin Abbey with me.  She asked if she could see it, and I said, "Sure."

She was so excited about the possibilities of this memoir.  She has said more than once that she sees me as the next Kathleen Norris--ah, from her lips to God's ears!  I'm happy to get this encouragement.

What I loved about this workshop is that it inspired me in all kinds of ways.  I could see adapting this assignment for classroom use or for a different kind of workshop.  I thought about all the other ways that signs and signifiers work in our culture.  I thought about National Poetry Month and possibilities there.

But most of all, I was happy to see so many different people at the workshop; one man even brought his two children in the hopes that they'd be inspired to love writing.  Hurrah!  And I was happy to see so many people at the library.  What a great resource--and how wonderful that people are using it.

Sanctuaries of All Sorts

Yesterday was another strange day, to hear that Roger Stone lives in Ft. Lauderdale and appeared at the U.S. Courthouse downtown.  As I left spin class yesterday morning, a sheriff's helicopter landed on the roof of the hospital, which I thought was strange--that's not usually how patients get transported.

Now I wonder if it had anything to do with the national news.  The courthouse is not that far away from the hospital that houses the wellness center where I go to spin class.

And by afternoon, the good news that the government would reopen.  Hurrah!  Of course, in 3 weeks, we could find ourselves in the same place again, but I'm guessing that everyone will try to avoid that.  Shut downs don't usually work well as a political tool, and now maybe everyone will remember that.

In between, I had a pleasant day at the office, with enough down time between dramas to get my extensive filing done.  January brings the updating of many forms, and since they need to go in the 7 tab faculty folders in a particular way, I usually take care of it.  That also gives me the opportunity to check to make sure that everything is in place.  Occasionally I say, "Hmm, the last time we observed this faculty member was late 2017.  What year is it?  Better get that on the calendar."  We have mostly adjuncts, lots of them, and it's easy to lose track of all that needs to be done and then recorded on paper.

Still, it's exhausting work on some level, and so, last night, as with many Friday nights, I was in bed early.  I was able to take some time to sketch before bed:

I like the vaguely spiritual imagery--clearly I'm still back in Epiphany, with its star symbolism.  I like the railroad, with its recall of the underground railroad and the idea of riding the rails that took off in the 1930's--and the ways that people get through Mexico in this current immigration story.

I think I've got the beginning of a poem!

I'm also recalling an earlier sketch that I did almost two years ago to the day.  I created the Sanctuary part and added the tracks later as I read Colson Whitehead's The Underground Railroad:

I'm used to going back through blog posts and my offline journals to see what was happening.  It's only recently that I can do this with visual journaling--how interesting!

And now it's off to today's spin class and then to the Visioning session at my church, as we decide where to go as a people of God.  Just a regular Saturday!

Other Songs to Avoid on Your Way to Work

On Friday, I wrote this post about music to avoid on your way to work--especially when you have meetings.

This morning, in spin class, I thought of another class of music to avoid before work:  the gotta go, gotta ramble, you're a great gal, but I'm not a guy who stays in one place for long.  Is there a female counterpart?  I don't hear those songs often, if not at all.

We spun away to the Marshall Tucker Band's "Can't You See."  You remember it from long ago.  It includes this nugget, which will now be in my head all day:

"I'm gonna buy a ticket, now
As far as I can
Ain't a-never comin' back
Ride me a southbound
All the way to Georgia, now
Till the train, it run out of track"

So, even though my work day is not that onerous, I sit here at my desk, dreaming of southbound trains and driving west--well, driving north up the peninsula of Florida, and then driving west.  Interstate 10 goes a long way.  It's a big continent.

It's imagery that speaks to me, clearly.  Awhile ago, I posted "Boxcar Dreams" in this post about riding the rails.  And awhile ago, I came back to the idea of covered wagons and that journey west in a poem that begins this way:


Homestead Acts

During boring meetings, I sketch
covered wagons and sod houses.
I make lists of my possessions:
what would an immigrant need
and what could be jettisoned?

There's more to this poem, but it goes off in a different direction, and I still have hopes that it could be published elsewhere, and I don't want to jeapordize that by publishing it here.

I will try to focus my brain on the legitimate trips that are coming up, so that maybe it will shake loose of this fantasy of driving until the road runs out.  I'll remind myself of the aches and pains that come with that kind of trip.  I'll calculate the gas costs.  I work on my paper that I'll be soon presenting for the College English Association.  I'll make sure the Spring schedule is good to go. 

Or maybe I'll compose my own gotta go, gotta ramble poem . . .