We were talking today about how different some aspects of our culture were when we were children growing up around here. Back then kids were turned loose to look after themselves when they weren't needed to work. We played wherever we wanted to and did whatever we liked as long as it was legal and we didn't bother anybody. There wasn't much trouble that sensible kids could get into, as long as they stayed away from the railroad tracks. However, Fonda was always a railroad town, and in those days it had a large contingent of hobos, whom we more commonly called bums.

Political correctness hadn't been invented yet, so it was perfectly acceptable to call them that. They for the most part were harmless, alcoholic drifters, who would do odd jobs for a couple of bucks if they needed money for a bottle. My dad often hired a couple of them to load furniture onto his truck. We kids took them for granted and were often grateful find change that they dropped in the alley behind the antique shop. After all soda was a dime and a real big candy bar only cost a nickel.

Only once was I frightened by a hobo. One night my younger brother and I were alone in the darkened shop, waiting for our parents to come take us home. A tall, spooky-looking man in a long black coat came and tried, very determinedly, to get the door open. Mike had seen him come up the steps and locked it just before he got his hand on the latch. We were terrified. There was no phone and we were all alone in the dark. It seemed like a long time before he gave up and went away. A few minutes later my Aunt Bev arrived to drop off my baby brother and I have never been so grateful to see anyone in my life. I am sure the old fellow was just at the wrong door, as there was a boarding house next door, but I didn't know that then.

When Ralph was a boy hobos stopped at outlying houses to beg a meal or maybe work a few hours or a week or two for their keep. They marked the gates and driveways of farms, to show where a good meal or a place to stay could be found, or where there were mean dogs, or stingy landowners. Ralph's mom was always glad to feed them when they came through and his dad often gave them work.

Can you imagine the reaction of the fine citizens of Fonda today, if elderly men wandered around in their own little world of alcoholic haze, with no means of support and no real home? If they slept on the steps behind the bar because they were too under the weather to make their way to a vacant shed down the way and wore the same dirty clothes for weeks? Something would have to be done. Some government authority would have to take action. Wait a minute. The bums are all gone so I guess someone already did.