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     My dad was also a child of the Great Depression, which thundered into his life in 1929, the year he turned thirteen. 

  

     Due to the lack of work, money and difficult times, his parents split up and headed for California.  Afraid of what they wouldn’t find there in the way of work, they placed my father in a reform school, where they knew he’d get three squares a day and a place to sleep.  He wasn’t incorrigible, nor was he a criminal; it was just that his folks didn’t know how else they could provide for him – things were that bad.

     He was large for his age, so all the older kids continually picked fights with him; testing him.  That’s when he first learned to use his fists – the hard way.      

     There’s a passage in the King James Bible: “...iron sharpeneth iron.”  And that’s exactly what was happening to Dad, forcing him to realize two very important things. Firstly: he didn’t belong in that reform school.  Secondly: if he wanted to address this problem he’d have to grow up, become a man and take care of himself.  And I’ll be go to hell, if, at the tender age of thirteen, that’s what my old man did.

     Big Mike Chisholm broke out of that reform school and hopped the first freight train for California.  It damn-near killed him.

     Okay, dear reader, please permit me to hit the pause button.  Why?  Because if you’ve been lucky, you’ve never had to struggle through a “Great Depression” - therefore how could you possibly know that hopping a freight train during such desperate times was akin to playing Russian roulette – since dealing with the “Bulls” might be hazardous to one’s health.  Alright, so what’s a Bull? These were tough men - of minuscule moral character - who were hired by the railroad companies to throw vagrants off their freight cars.  The Bulls carried clubs, baseball bats and blackjacks as implements of “persuasion,” and coast to coast hundreds of unfortunates attempting to “ride the rails” were killed or injured each month.  As these people were out of work, homeless-nonentities, the Bulls were rarely prosecuted.  Thus a phrase was coined by the masses attempting to survive the Great Depression: “Hard times.”

     Railroad “Bulls.” Note the clubs.

     

          A “Bull” beating a vagrant off his train.

 

                       The “Bulls’” handy work; a dead vagrant tossed off a train.

     So here’s my 13-year-old dad sneaking up to a freight train, parked in a railway yard, trying his best not to be spotted by a Bull so he won’t get his head cracked open.  He spies an empty freight car with its door partially open, scuttles up to it, tosses in the canvas sack with his few possessions, follows it into the car and slides the door shut.

     Now he sits there in the pitch-black, breathing hard, trying to slow his heart before it explodes.  After a while, my father catches his breath, calms down and begins to concentrate on every sound surrounding him in this black environment.  At this stage the hairs on the back of his neck commence to stand up.  In spite of the fact he’s heard nothing to indicate otherwise...his sixth sense tells him he’s not alone in the black bowels of that freight car.  At length, unable to stand it a moment longer, Dad slides the door open a crack to let in some light.

     Suddenly a deep, baritone voice explodes out of a dark corner of the freight car: “Shut that goddamn door!”

     My pop immediately complies with the stranger’s request, slamming the door shut, and sits there once again in the “Black Hole of Calcutta.”  Now positive he’s about to become another mutilated, raped, naked body lying unclaimed alongside the tracks outside of town.  “Hard times.”

     After an eternity the train moves out and, when the train is well outside of town, the freight car’s door is abruptly slid open.  Standing in the doorway is the biggest Black man my dad has ever seen. He’s wearing a black stocking cap, a USN peacoat, denim bellbottom trousers and beat up leather shoes.  Not once does this Black giant acknowledge my dad’s presence. Instead, he studies where the train is headed...the Colorado Rocky Mountains in the far distance.  It is late November 1929. 

     After a passage of time the huge Black man finally looks down at my 13-year-old father, and gives him his full attention.  My pop is convinced he’s just been dropped in the shitter.

     The Black man turns away and moves to the far end of the boxcar.  Much to my dad’s horror, he sees the Black man begin to undress.  Stripping down to the waist, he glances over his shoulder at Pop, and says, “Come here, Kid.”

     My father grabs his canvas bag, stands up and moves to the open doorway.  Unfortunately the freight train is empty and by now has picked up a fair bit of speed.  The formidable, rocky terrain whizzes by outside; my dad realizes if he jumps he’ll risk being badly mangled...if not killed outright.

     A massive Black hand clamps around my pop’s left arm, pulling him away from the doorway.

     “Don’t be stupid, Kid!” the Black man yells above the noise.  “Get the hell over here and get them clothes off if you wants to survive this night!”

     The Black man easily overpowers Dad and drags him to the boxcar’s far corner - tears run down my father’s face - even so he never utters a sound.  In reform school he had learned about being somebody’s “bitch”...and had fought off the older boys.  He knows what’s coming next.  “Hard times.”

     The Black man roughly strips the clothes from my father’s body.  When he gets down to Dad’s underwear, he turns away and proceeds to engage in a strange activity that totally catches Pop off-guard.

     “What the Christ kinda fuckin’ rape is this?” my father’s mind shrieks.

     The Black man begins methodically wrapping Dad’s legs in newspaper!  Afterward he pulls up my father’s pants over his newspaper mummy-wrapped legs, and wraps more newspapers round his torso.  After bundling Pop up in newspapers, and redressing him, the Black man repeats the process on his own body.

     Subsequently, that night the freight train climbs through the first of many snow covered passes in the Colorado Rockies.  The temperature has already dropped well below freezing; forcing my dad to huddle with that enormous Black body to share bodily warmth.  Never has he experienced cold such as this in his young life.  Had he been alone and unprepared, Pop told me his frozen corpse would have no doubt ended up being tossed off the train, by the Bulls at the next railway yard.  By insulating Dad’s body with newspapers, and using his bodily heat, clearly this Black gentleman saved my father’s life.

     The following day is Thanksgiving.  To celebrate they are still alive in their frigid boxcar, that night the Black man lights a candle and shares a can of dog food with my dad.  “Hard times.”

 

             Dad’s Thanksgiving feast.

     Without any warning, however, their Thanksgiving meal is interrupted by my father being physically picked up and slammed head first into the boxcar’s icy metal wall!  A Bull has found them!  Dad passes out for a moment, as his Black companion and the Bull go at each other.  When Father comes too, he discovers the Bull on top of the Black man, beating him senseless with a sap.  However, the bull made a big mistake - he had dropped his baseball bat.  Not giving it much thought - merely reacting to the situation - Dad staggers to his feet, picks up the Bull’s bat...and swings away.  The bat’s “sweet spot” connects with the back of the Bull’s head, emitting the sharp crack of a ceramic plate breaking in half!  The huge Bull instantly becomes an oversized rubber doll, collapsing and bouncing off the boxcar’s icy floor.

     Twenty minutes goes by before Pop and the Black man can pull themselves together.  Even so, my father falls apart; weeping uncontrollably at killing the Bull.  Dad’s Black companion places his arms about my father, rocking him back and forth, comforting Pop.  Reassuring my dad that he had little choice – the Bull fully intended to toss them off the train – killing both of them in that merciless Rockies’ winter.

     Later, as it crosses a trestle, they toss the dead Bull off the train.  The body seems to float and tumble forever...ultimately disappearing in the falling snow and darkness...plummeting in the depths of a deep, snowbound gorge.  “Hard times.”

     A trestle in the Rockies.

     Two days after this, on the outskirts of Los Angeles, the gigantic Black man and the large, 13-year-old, White boy split up in a railway yard.  The Black man had of late been honorably discharged from the U.S. Navy, and was on his way home to Fresno.  My dad, on the other hand, was going to Long Beach to find his father.  These strange traveling companions were never destined to meet again.

     Dad’s ex-USN “guardian angel.”

     When I was a kid growing up in my father’s house, dear reader, not once did I hear the word “nigger.”  Nor did I ever hear disparaging remarks regarding the Colored or Negro race, which were the terms of respect used in the 1940's and ‘50's.  As for Thanksgiving and Christmas, Pop always went the whole-nine-yards; no doubt thinking of that can of dog food he once shared with the Black ex-sailor.  It wasn’t until I was well into adulthood that I fully appreciated his stand on these issues.

     

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