In the 1930s, there is only so much one could do for money and security before leaving home to find it some place else. I was lucky because I chose to leave home, my parents did not kick me out. I figured that one less mouth to feed would take the edge off their worry, and secretly, the prospect of an adventure thrilled me. I left our dusty and dilapidated farm in Illinois with nothing but a few knickknacks and an extra pair of clean clothes stuffed in a sac, and headed for San Francisco, California. However, I was not in any way prepared for living life as a hobo. As I am now standing on a pair of feeble legs waiting for the next freight train to arrive in a station in Montana, I start to reminisce about the first time I jumped on a train. It was in January of 1930, when the days were the shortest and it got so cold that it was hard to breathe. I was trembling, but I could not tell if it was because I was nervous or just chilled to the bone. When I heard a rough clacking in the distance and the ensuing whistle of a train, I felt a jolt surge through my body. There were about a dozen other teenagers waiting for the train, and as it neared, they meandered towards the tracks. I copied them in my stance, and then watched them effortlessly grab on to the rails of the train. Using them as a guide, I started running to match the pace of the train, and then grabbed on. I used all the strength I could muster to pull myself on and then climbed to the top of the car. I was exhilarated; adrenaline was pumping through my entire body. I began talking to some of the other people on top of the car, and I quickly became friends with four of them. Now, I have learned it is better to not have friends while riding the rails, because it is a dangerous sport. It is easier to not become attached to people because death is a constant presence. Now, as I grab on to the train in the station in Montana, I no longer feel that exhilaration. Even though I am only fifteen, my body aches with every movement as I climb to the top of the car. My head is pounding from dehydration and starvation. I have not eaten in two days. The last thing I ate were three bowls of soup at a house for hobos to stay for a night. Food is my sole concern; nothing else seems to matter. If there is food, I am happy. I lower myself slowing into a sitting position on top of the car and close my eyes. The vibrations of the train picking up speed is excruciating on my deteriorating body. I place my sac, which is now shabby and torn, to my right and I hold it tightly. It was my only solace for my perpetual homesickness. I open my eyes abruptly after the shrill of five young boys and girls laughing travels painfully through my ears. While I observe them, I decide that they cannot be more than eleven years old. It is a shame to know there are younger kids than I suffering with the same predicament. They start playing games with each other, smiling with happy effervescence. It is almost contagious. I think that they must be new to riding the rails, which is affirmed a few seconds later when we arrive at the first tunnel of the ride. In a tunnel, the heavy black smoke that would normally fill the sky and travel upward is trapped. It suffocates you unless you cover your airways properly. Although I have never inhaled the smoke, I have heard it is a pretty horrendous experience. When we neared the tunnel, I covered my mouth, but did not think fast enough to tell the other kids to. While you are living on such little sleep and sustenance as I am, you become numb to thoughts and robotic in your actions. I close my eyes as the darkness of the tunnel masks the searing smoke filling the air. I start to hear violent coughing. As soon as we got out of the tunnel, I open my eyes to see the kids coughing out visible black smoke from their lungs. Tears stream down their faces with the sensation of their lungs burning. I watch as they take that large step in transforming from normal child into a hobo.
SMOKE (JANE)
In the 1930s, there is only so much one could do for money and security before leaving home to find it some place else. I was lucky because I chose to leave home, my parents did not kick me out. I figured that one less mouth to feed would take the edge off their worry, and secretly, the prospect of an adventure thrilled me. I left our dusty and dilapidated farm in Illinois with nothing but a few knickknacks and an extra pair of clean clothes stuffed in a sac, and headed for San Francisco, California. However, I was not in any way prepared for living life as a hobo.
As I am now standing on a pair of feeble legs waiting for the next freight train to arrive in a station in Montana, I start to reminisce about the first time I jumped on a train. It was in January of 1930, when the days were the shortest and it got so cold that it was hard to breathe. I was trembling, but I could not tell if it was because I was nervous or just chilled to the bone. When I heard a rough clacking in the distance and the ensuing whistle of a train, I felt a jolt surge through my body. There were about a dozen other teenagers waiting for the train, and as it neared, they meandered towards the tracks. I copied them in my stance, and then watched them effortlessly grab on to the rails of the train. Using them as a guide, I started running to match the pace of the train, and then grabbed on. I used all the strength I could muster to pull myself on and then climbed to the top of the car. I was exhilarated; adrenaline was pumping through my entire body. I began talking to some of the other people on top of the car, and I quickly became friends with four of them. Now, I have learned it is better to not have friends while riding the rails, because it is a dangerous sport. It is easier to not become attached to people because death is a constant presence.
Now, as I grab on to the train in the station in Montana, I no longer feel that exhilaration. Even though I am only fifteen, my body aches with every movement as I climb to the top of the car. My head is pounding from dehydration and starvation. I have not eaten in two days. The last thing I ate were three bowls of soup at a house for hobos to stay for a night. Food is my sole concern; nothing else seems to matter. If there is food, I am happy. I lower myself slowing into a sitting position on top of the car and close my eyes. The vibrations of the train picking up speed is excruciating on my deteriorating body. I place my sac, which is now shabby and torn, to my right and I hold it tightly. It was my only solace for my perpetual homesickness.
I open my eyes abruptly after the shrill of five young boys and girls laughing travels painfully through my ears. While I observe them, I decide that they cannot be more than eleven years old. It is a shame to know there are younger kids than I suffering with the same predicament. They start playing games with each other, smiling with happy effervescence. It is almost contagious. I think that they must be new to riding the rails, which is affirmed a few seconds later when we arrive at the first tunnel of the ride.
In a tunnel, the heavy black smoke that would normally fill the sky and travel upward is trapped. It suffocates you unless you cover your airways properly. Although I have never inhaled the smoke, I have heard it is a pretty horrendous experience. When we neared the tunnel, I covered my mouth, but did not think fast enough to tell the other kids to. While you are living on such little sleep and sustenance as I am, you become numb to thoughts and robotic in your actions. I close my eyes as the darkness of the tunnel masks the searing smoke filling the air. I start to hear violent coughing. As soon as we got out of the tunnel, I open my eyes to see the kids coughing out visible black smoke from their lungs. Tears stream down their faces with the sensation of their lungs burning. I watch as they take that large step in transforming from normal child into a hobo.