We had a small forested area that ran along the railroad tracks at the end of our street, maybe 3 blocks to the East. The “Cut” we called it.

Trains went (cut) through our neighborhood to cross the train bridge over the Willamette River to the Union Pacific railroad station on the West side.

At night, we could hear the trains chugging by and blowing their whistles. Chug, chug, whoo hoo. It was a mysterious and forelorn sound to me.

Hobos jumped the train as it slowed to cross the narrow bridge. All the boys were allowed to play in the Cut but were instructed to head for home when the train passed, leaving a group of hobos.

It was a pleasant place to camp out, treed with wild grasses sofening the hard ground. They were out of sight because the tracks were cut deep into the terrain, but we all knew that this was ẃhere the hobos jumped off.

They started camp fires to warm mostly cans of beans. My brother told me this because, being a girl, I wasn’t allowed in the Cut. I was too afraid of those worn and tattered fellows, anyway. Dad, who worked for the railroad, always said they were just men who were down on their luck.

My brother and the neighbirhood boys went down into the Cut as soon as the hobos hopped the next train. They were probably secretly dreaming about one day hopping a train outta there.

They were sure they’d find treasure in the cold ashes around the camp.  Something, anything. But mostly, they found cigarette butts and tin cans.

The boys played hobos, tying a kitchen towel or big red or blue handkerchiefs around the end of a long stick fllling it with cans of beans and peanut butter sandwiches pretending to run away from home. They slung that hobo sack over their shoulder, walking down the street as if they were really leaving.

The hobos never caused a bit of trouble, unlike the “hoods.” The hoods were a group of teenage ruffians from school. They drank, smoked and harassed us girls, and fought with each other in small gangs. They never did much damage to the neighborhood or to each other. They were just tough acting. 

They stormed around the neighborhood in souped-up cars, wearing tight t-shirts and narrow leather belts on their Levis. To our parent’s chagrin, we fell in love with the bad boys.

That’s who our parents should have warned us about, not the hobos.

How many of us girls got knocked up by hobos? None.

How many by the boys? Lots.