The Little Boxcar Boys

The Little Boxcar Boys

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From Roseville to Reno,

In boxcars and in shacks;

The brothers grew up hobo-style

Along the S.P. tracks.

Always by the railroad,

As they moved and moved again

‘Cause Dad, and Mom’s new husband, Hap,

Both were S.P. men.

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Red was a powder monkey

And a Dad to Dean and Ski.

He could blow a tooth clean out your jaw,

And leave you headache-free.

He tried to be a good dad,

Though there wasn’t much for toys,

But he shared his tales and values

And he loved his boxcar boys.

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Yeah, Red was a boxcar dweller

And a man of modest means,

But he had a soft spot for the hobos

And he brought ‘em a sack of beans.

So his stolen axe was brought back quick,

And the thief whupped to atone,

By the grateful “Lord of the Jungle,”

As the hobo boss was known.

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Hap was foreman of a workin’ train

On the Colfax-Truckee run;

He never hit it off too good

With Helen’s older son.

And there were often problems

That the folks found hard to face,

So the boys were sent to live one year

In a Roseville family’s place.

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Old Dirty John was not so bad,

But his wife and kids were mean,

And didn’t show much mercy

To the younger Ski and Dean.

In Roseville Ruth’s unhappy home

That year went mighty rough,

But each brother had the other

And I guess that was enough.

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‘Cause sixty years, and miles of track

Have left their bond still tight;

They don’t share much philosophy

But they both want what’s right.

And though he’s caught the westbound freight,

Red’s voice can still be heard

In the honor of a handshake,

And a man who keeps his word.

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So keep that campfire goin’, boys,

The depot’s round the bend.

Be glad you got a brother

Who still wants to be your friend.

Embrace his faults and foibles,

The sorrows and the joys.

While the tracks still run together

For the little boxcar boys

Each wrinkle maps a mem’ry

For the little boxcar boys.

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Afterword:

My grandad Dean was born in a boxcar to his father, Red, and had a younger brother named Ski. Everything in this poem really happened if you can believe it xD. To clarify, in the third stanza he was talking about Dean's dad, Red, who worked for the railroad. An important note is that my family is weird in that we don't consider "hobo" to be a derogatory term, given its history with us. Hobo more describes honest folk back in the day who either chose to live off the grid for their own reasons or who had just had some bad strokes of luck by no fault of their own. Anyways, to say Red was frugal would be an understatement, but he always scraped together the money for a huge sack of beans to give to the hobos who lived in camps near the railyards. One time he bought a new axe, which was a big deal for him, since he held onto money for dear life. The axe was stolen, but even though he knew it was likely that one of the hobos had taken it, the sack of beans was gifted the same time of month it usually was. A few days later, a man came around the family boxcar, where Dean, Red and Ski lived. He was called the Lord of the Jungle, where "jungle" was the term applied by railroad workers to the hobo camps. With him, he brought Red's axe, and expressed his gratitude for Red's continued help to the camp, and let him know that the theif had been beaten and "would come say sorry when he get's better."

I grew up hearing these stories, and felt the need to share. There are few people I respect more than my Grandad Dean and as he gets older I find myself wanting his stories to spread. He's an incredibly gifted storyteller and I wouldn't be who I am without him and his tales. Thanks for reading :)