Hobos I Have Known

by Art Burton

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  NEW BOOTS

  Have you ever looked at people’s feet? You never know what to expect anymore. The choices range from sling backs to sandals to pumps, high heels, spikes, flip flops and sometimes even sensible oxfords to name but a few. Selecting the proper sneakers requires a Ph.D. to fathom the ones you should wear. We have unlimited colors, treads and specialized uses. Everyone can now express their own uniqueness through their footwear unlike when I was younger during the Dirty Thirties.

  In those days, you wore either leather oxfords or rubber boots. Most men in the country wore boots known as lumberman rubbers. That was a rubber boot that laced up the front and went above the ankle. But, as I said, no one took much interest in what you were wearing.

  The first time I bothered to notice what someone wore on their feet was in the fall of '31. I was introduced to a footwear combination that I'd never seen before and I've have never seen anything like it since. I was doing housework for Clive Johnson. The effects of the Depression had not adversely affected his way of life. He ran the local general store in the area and rumors suggested he had another source of income. Prohibition had not been embraced by everybody. I didn't care. He had hired me. I looked after his home — cooking, cleaning, the like — and was away from my own family. Why is it easier to do those chores in someone else's house? Well, the money helped.

  There had been lots of hobo activity that summer and it seemed to get worse as the year rolled along. Men were coming from as far away as Ontario. The Annapolis Valley needed apple pickers and we were on the path to this source of employment.

  The Johnson's also had a phone. One long, one short. Someone would be looking for Mr. Johnson. Everyone else with a phone would be picking up to see who. The few who could afford the luxury of a telephone were all on one party line.

  I was just folding the last sheet from the laundry and thinking about preparing the evening meal when the phone rang. R-i-i-i-n-g Ring. Eleven, Mr. Johnson’s number. I stopped what I was doing and waited. My dear old Aunt Ruth called these things the instrument of the devil. We didn't have one at home. R-i-i-i-i-i-i-n-n-g Ring. Impatience could always be expressed with the intensity of the long ring. I took the receiver off the hook and standing on my tiptoes leaned up to reach the mouthpiece.

  "He-hello," I said. It always amazed me that I could talk to someone miles away. Maybe Aunt Ruth was right.

  "Jean." It was Mr. Johnson. He struggled to contain his laughter.

  "Yes, sir," I said, standing a little straighter and awaiting his instructions. He didn't phone home to chat with the help. There was always something to be done.

  "Jean, there's a 'bo coming around to the house." He paused to laugh a little more. "That old pair of lumberman rubbers hanging behind the cellar door?"

  "Yes." I'd seen them. They made a resounding thump on the door every time it closed.

  "Give them to him."

  "O-okay. How will I know it's the right man?"

  A huge gale of laughter came from the phone.

  "You'll know, you'll know."

  With that, he hung up and left me standing with the phone in my hand. Click, click, click, I could hear as the others on the line disconnected as well.

  I went to the cellar way and retrieved the boots. They showed signs of wear, but, all in all, were in pretty good shape. I looked at the bottom. Size eight. Still lots of tread showing. Curiosity dragged me to the window to watch the road. I didn't have to wait long.

  Bobbing along in the strangest gait I'd ever seen came a short, black-haired man. Because of the grass growing along the edge of the roadway, I could only see him from the waist up. He had the traditional garb of the hobos—shirt buttoned up to his neck; a tattered sweater; an old, worn coat over his arm.

  He seemed to lurch when he walked. Long step, short step, long step, short step. He reached the end of the driveway, looked around wondering if this was the right place. How could there be any doubt? There wasn't a house for miles that compared to it. Then he turned in.

  Suddenly, I too was taken by fits of laughter. I could understand why Mr. Johnson had so much trouble controlling himself. On one foot, the man wore a sneaker. It appeared to be much too large for a man of his height and forced him to lift his foot at an awkward angle when he walked. The clincher, however, was the other foot. On it, he sported a red, high-buttoned woman's boot. It had a slightly higher heel raising his foot to an awkward angle for a man. The shoe looked to be a size five.

  He was already knocking on the door when my laughter subsided enough for me to greet him.

  "Come in," I said. "I've been expecting you." My smile almost hurt my face.

  "The man at the store said you have some boots for me," he said. He was completely serious. His voice was so low I had to strain to hear him.

  "Yes, I do. What size do you wear?" I don't know why I asked that. I only had one size to offer him.

  "Anything from a five to an 11," he answered.

  I burst out laughing again. I couldn't help myself. Again he stood there with his serious demeanor.

  "That's the truth Ma'am. Any of those sizes you might have." He wasn't taking any chances.

  I produced the boots from the table, a matched pair. His eyes turned to saucers. Now the smile split his face.

  "Praise Jesus, ma'am. Thank you Jesus."

  He dropped to the floor. The sneaker fell off his foot with a slight kick. He unlaced the lady's boot as fast as he could unravel the string from the buttons. The foot was scrunched and red. The toes curled under. My feet pained just from looking at his.

  "Let me get you some socks." He didn’t respond. I was lost to him.

  I went into the other room where the laundry was still sitting. I heard the door slam and returned to the kitchen, socks in hand. The discarded footwear lay on the floor. The sneaker peeking out from under the table, the red boot prominent right where the man had sat. I looked out the door. He was dancing down the driveway, literally dancing.

  Individuality is one thing but sometimes it is just nice to conform.