Tales from Home and Around the Globe

By C. P. Tertius

Tales from Home and Around the Globe

Table of Contents
Page
1950 The Boxcar

1953 The Reluctant Hobo
1956 The Chaw
1956 Watermelon Ride
1957 Ruff
1957 Melon Patch & the Fire Trucks
1958 Drag Race
1959 Hitchhikin' to the Cotillion
1960 Wanna Go See Sally
1962 Hitchhikin' to Puerto Rico
1962 University Riot
1963 Return from Puerto Rico
1964 Trouble at Church and Home
1966 Smoke Generator
1967 Sleepin' on the Limited
1968 Wet Rail-No Air
1969 Pool
1970 Pull
1979 Naw, You Might Shoot Me Man
1980 Just Hit Me Again
1981 Fire Below
1985 Swept Up for an American Gulag
1988 Around the World with a Tennis Racquet
1989 Adventures in South East Asia
1990 Fish and the Monkey
1991 The Mad Polish Foreign Legionnaire
2005 Trans-Siberian #5
2010 Voyage with the Flying Dutchman
2011 America Laburt!

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098371784

Book preview

1950:

The Boxcar

One fine day in the spring after church, Keith Miller was looking forward to a special family dinner with his older cousins; however, not so much with his new baby sister who seemed to cry too much for his liking. It always brought her attention while he was ignored. He was an elder child of eight whom heretofore, had gotten most of the adult’s interest until she came along.

After each person was seated, he was asked to say grace and did so solemnly, all the time wondering as he prayed, where his father was. He had not been at church either. The roast chicken dinner was delicious except for the broccoli that he detested. He liked it raw in salads but thought it stunk after it had been cooked.

His mother said,

Finish your broccoli so you can belong to the ‘clean plate club’ and have dessert. It’s one of your favorites.

Before he could force it down, his father staggered in and plunked down in his chair at the head of the table without so much as a nod in greeting or apology. His eyes were bloodshot as though he had been up all night. He had. He and his buddies had been fox hunting which entailed a lot of whisky drinking as they sat around a fire in the swamps listening to the hounds chase an unfortunate fox.

Miller knew that his daddy was as drunk as a skunk and that the least little thing could enrage him. Usually when he was in such a state, Miller bore the brunt of his rage after his mother had been ‘talked to’. While she tried to placate him, Miller either endeavored to disappear because if he talked back, he would get a hiding with a leather cowboy belt and he had had enough of those whippings to last a lifetime. They seemed ever more frequent since his little sister had come along.

Daddy was not hungry so he pushed his plate away and lit a cigarette demanding some coffee. Sure enough, he noticed the remaining vegetable on Miller’s plate and told him,

Hurry up and clean your plate so we can have some cake.

Miller tried to force down the hideous green stuff but gagged instead and some fell back onto his plate. That was all it took. His father jumped up from the table, grabbed Miller’s arm and marched him into the den undoing his big belt as they went.

His Mama cried,

Wait. He couldn’t help it!

However, her attempt at intervention had failed once again.

Fortunately for Miller, his father was a bit unsteady and loosened his grip enough that Miller broke away and ran out of the house almost knocking the screen door off its hinges. He hopped on his bike and sped off in the direction of the train yards a few blocks away.

His father got into the 1950 Chevy and lurched off spewing gravel everywhere but, luckily for Miller, he could not figure out where Miller had gone. He then disappeared for three days. In the meantime, Miller’s mother and older cousin cleaned up the table shaking their heads while trying to comfort the baby. His mother said,

Keith will be back when he thinks the coast is clear. He’s got all afternoon. He knows that things will be calmer by suppertime and he’ll be hungry.

It turned out that by dusk, little Keith had not returned and a worried mother and cousin decided they had better try to find him so off they went on foot towards the train tracks as they knew Miller had gone that way and that he frequented the two stations to watch the trains when he could. The station operators and agents had come to treat him as a sort of mascot as they saw him trackside so often.

The ladies did not find him in such a dangerous place; however, they found his bicycle by the coal chute so they asked an agent who was just leaving for home if he had seen the boy.

The agent told them,

He was in the yard earlier watching a couple of trains pass through but that was a couple of hours ago. Not much goin’ on here on Sunday. Try callin’ him. He’ll show up. For a young kid, he knows his way around here and how to stay safe around trains.

The women went back to the bike and started calling,

Keith. Keith! Time to come home. Everything’s ok. Your daddy’s not there.

Night fell and it was getting hard to see around the rail cars but they continued their cries which seemed to be of no avail. They were really worried that their little boy had been hurt or worse….kidnapped by some ne’er-do-well who had been lurking around the railroad.

Just as they were about to give up hope and call the police, their cries were answered by a small, barely audible voice. It emanated from one of the box cars standing in the yard. They ran up to it but the door was closed and when they tried to move it, it would not budge. The reverse side door was jammed as well.

The small muffled voice was strangely calm as little Keith said,

"Someone closed the doors while I was asleep this afternoon and I can’t open them from in here. Try to unlatch the lock as there should be no seal in it. This car is empty.

After sighs of relief and fumbling with latch, both women managed to shove he huge door open a couple of inches but no farther. Keith stuck his hand out of the crack and said,

Let’s all rock and shove this door together. A little more and I can get out since I’m such a skinny kid.

The comment was meant to lighten the mood but it fell flat on a worried mother. Nevertheless, they rocked and pushed together straining mightily until the door opened a mere six inches and little Keith squeezed out. Fortunately, the ladies were so glad to see him that he just got hugs instead of a berating. They put the bike in the trunk and went home full of thanksgiving.

Luckily, it all happened on a Sunday as the north local did not run that day; however, Monday it did so, picking up the boxcar and taking it on its journey to Montana according to the agent, Mr. Johnny.

The following week the agent warned little Keith,

You’re a very lucky boy because it gets mighty cold up North. No place for a young feller like you. You stay off them cars, you hear?

After the commotion and various warnings, Keith promised to stay out of boxcars if he could still come to watch trains; however, he would always fondly remember the straw covered boxcar corner as a safe place to avoid a thrashing.

1953:

The Reluctant Hobo

Late in summer, an eleven year-old Keith Miller ran behind some freight cars in his hometown to avoid a rock throwing gang of not so nice boys; nevertheless, he heard them divide into a pincer movement to cut off his escape. He noticed a partially open boxcar door so he climbed in to hide, quietly tugging the door shut behind him; however, he could still hear the voices of the gang searching for him.

After what seemed to be a long time, he heard the local’s engine rumbling by. The train crew must have scared the gang away because there was only silence; that is, until there was a jarring bump as the engine coupled to the string cars that his hiding place was in. He decided it was about time to unload, so he tried to open the door but it was stuck shut!

No matter how hard he tried, the door just would not budge and the train began to move, ever so slowly, back and forth. He guessed the crew was switching so he was not worried as he would find a way out when they finished. About five minutes he heard the air brakes releasing and thought the switching was complete. Unfortunately, he was right. The train began moving ever faster!

As the speed increased, he heard the boxcar rumble over the diamond at the north end of the yard and then realized that it was leaving town. The speed increased, as indicated by the clickety-clack over the jointed rail, so he knew there would be no escape until the train reached its destination, wherever that would be.

He rode for about an hour and a half before the local slowed to a stop. He tried to open the jammed door again but to no avail so he began pounding on it with a board that he found on the floor. At long last, he thought he heard someone outside the boxcar, so he pounded even louder and faster. Miraculously it opened and he faced a puzzled brakeman, who said,

What the hell are you doin’ in there, boy?

Miller stammered,

Sorry. I was hiding from some rock throwers back in my hometown but then I couldn’t get out before the train coupled up and took off! Where am I?

The man smiled and answered.

Yo in Memphis, boy.

He added,

So get out of there before you get hurt.

Miller eagerly complied and dismounted to terra firma unsure of what would follow; however, the kindly brakeman recognized him and said,

Yo a long way from home and I bet yo mama’s lookin’ fo ya. Yo bettah go to the office and call her.

Miller then said,

Oh no, Sir. I can’t do that. She will kill me as it’s about supper time.

The man escorted Miller to the yard office and said,

You need to respect her more. I’ll call her because she needs to know you’re ok. What’s yo phone numbah?

A fearful Miller said,

357-W.

To make a long story short, Miller’s mother was notified by the kindhearted brakeman and Miller hitchhiked some forty-eight miles back home, arriving just before dark to face a much relieved mother but a very angry father. He got no supper but he did get a whipping on his backside with a broad cowboy belt from Daddy. It was then and there that Miller decided that he did not want to be a hobo anymore, whether reluctant or not. Nonetheless, adventure and punishment over for the moment, this would not turn out to be his last time to ever hop a freight train.

1956:

The Chaw

Baseball, the national pastime, was all important for a young boy growing up in small town America in the 50’s. Professional players, such as, Stan Musial, were revered as role models, not only for their athletic prowess, but for their sportsmanship. Little League, and later high school player, Keith Miller was no exception. He even copied Stan-the-Man’s batting stance although as a right-hander, he played third base whereas Stan was a lefty first baseman.

Stan could hit the long ball in the clutch but Keith, being short in stature, was a walker and a singles hitter; however, he rarely struck out and could be relied on to frequently get on base. He used a 32-inch Louisville Slugger and choked up about an inch or two, depending on the pitcher’s speed; whereas Stan gripped his 34 ½ inch bat at the knob as a power hitter is wont to do. Miller tended to pull his hits but could slap a pitch to the opposite field depending on where the opposing infield was set up. Either way, his copying Stan-the-Man’s peek-a-boo stance frustrated the opposing pitcher and earned him several base-on-balls, including being hit by the pitch on more than one occasion.

One trait of a major leaguer belied the role model image for him though, was that of the chaw. Stan did not chew but many pros did have a wad of chewing tobacco packed into their jaw. They chewed and spit in a manly fashion as they waited on the next pitch whether at bat, in the on-deck circle or in the field.

One fine, hot and humid afternoon in the spring of ’58, Miller’s team, the Tigers, arrived at a dusty ball field in Potts Camp, a small town of some four hundred hardy souls. The outfield really was a converted pasture separated from the cattle by a barbed wire fence.

The home team was made up of lean and lanky country boys who looked like they had played baseball all their lives judging from their warm-up. In addition, many sported a lump in their cheek just as their major league counterparts. Miller thought they looked pretty formidable as they went through their pre-game drills spitting into the dust and what little grass purported to be an infield.

The umpire’s cry of Play ball rang out and the Potts Camp pitcher blew the first pitch past the bewildered lead-off man.

Miller said to his teammates sitting on the plank next to him,

Those ole country boys play like pros and they even look like ‘em with those chaws.

Then he noticed a couple off his teammates had a chaw as well. As saw one of his pals take out a plug of Days Work, he mumbled,

Why not?

Hey, Joe Bill, While you’re at it, cut me of a small plug. When I get up to bat, I’ll show those country boys a thing or two."

As he cut off a corner, Joe Bill asked,

I never seen you chew before. Are you sure you can handle it?

Miller lied,

Sure can, done it before many times.

Miller took the cut of tobacco and put into his cheek as he had seen the other do; however, he did not bite down on it. Once it was