Nowhere Special to Go: Riding the Rails During the Great Depression: Ride the Rails, #2

By Robert T Hunting

A transformative novel of the Great Depression, both sorrowful and uplifting, full of impossible-to-forget characters, Nowhere Special to Go follows a young man and his dog as he takes to the rails in search of work and somewhere to belong. Pete will travel across the Great Plains and witness the unimaginative horror of a dust storm; he'll find friendship and kindness in transient camps. He'll look on in wonder at the majesty of the Mississippi, barely escape a tornado on the coastal plain of Georgia, and find work as a pack horse librarian. His destiny will await him in a place from his Midwestern roots—Vermont.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wordwooze Publishing
• Release date: Oct 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223108825

Book preview

Chapter 1

A relentless sun beat down on a young man standing beside railway tracks. He squinted at the shimmering heat, removed his fedora, and used his forearm to wipe sweat from his brow. He jammed his misshapen hat with its 2.5-inch brim back on his strawberry blond hair. A weary sigh escaped him as he reached for his canteen and shook it. Almost empty. He unscrewed the lid and drank. He felt scorched by the heat, and hunger gnawed at him.

With nothing to do, he scanned his surroundings once again. Getting a bit dizzy. I can go sit under that tree, but I need more than shade.

His empty gaze took him across acres of corn fields and brought back a memory of his mother in a hospital bed. He and his family watched her wither away. The stench, the indignity—nothing could save her.

He worked to clear the memory with a shake of his head and fixed his attention on an idyllic farmhouse under the leafy protection of two oak trees. I need food and water. Maybe those people there can give me something.

Pete Welling picked up his bindle, a modified version used by others who rode the rails. Most tied a cloth or a blanket around the end of a heavy stick and slung it over their shoulders. Back home in the library, Pete found a drawing and description of a German army bedroll, tied across the shoulders like a backpack. He’d used what little money he had left and took his design to a tailor. The result more than satisfied him. His creation held a blanket and sheet, soap, tooth powder, a towel, matches, a shirt, pants, and underwear. The tailor also sewed in a pocket. Pete used it to hold a can opener, scissors, a Swiss army knife, and his harmonica.

Pete slipped his arms into the leather straps of his bindle, made his way down a small embankment, and scaled a four-foot wire fence. With caution, he approached the back of the house, stepped onto the wooden porch, and knocked on a screen door. Here goes. Hope some dog doesn’t come tearing out at me.

A radio played Dream a Little Dream of Me. He heard heavy heels on the linoleum. A moment later, a woman wearing a loose-fitting smock-style apron stepped into view. She stared at Pete through the screen door. Her brows furrowed, and her lips tightened as she rubbed her palms on her floral apron. Pete guessed she might be in her early forties. Deep lines in her face showed character—a woman who’d seen and experienced a lot.

Careful to speak in his most respectful tone, he blurted out, Sorry to bother you, ma’am. I didn’t mean to scare you, honest. I’m not intending any harm. He pointed over his shoulder. I’ve been standing by the tracks, getting a little dizzy from not eating.

Stop blathering, Pete’s brain ordered him. Get to the point. I’ve got no money, ma’am, but I’d be really grateful if you could spare some food. I could work it off if you’d like.

She gave him a careful examination before she spoke. I shouldn’t do this. All right, I’ll make you a roast beef sandwich. Stay there. Don’t come in.

No, ma’am, I won’t, and thank you.

She glanced at his canteen. I’ll fill that for you as well. But we’ll have to get you on your way. I don’t want my husband to see you. He doesn’t like—what do you call yourself? —hobo, tramp, drifter?

Probably a bindlestiff, if you know what that is, ma’am. I’m not a bum. Looking for work and some stability, is all.

He remained on the platform. She opened the screen door, took his canteen, and returned to her kitchen. A few minutes later, she again opened the door and handed him his canteen and a sandwich wrapped in butcher paper. There. Go now. Good luck, stay safe, and hurry back to the tracks—maybe go a little way from our house.

Of course, ma’am, and thank you once more. Pete let the door swing shut and returned to the fence. Sensing the woman watching, he did his best to climb the fence without doing any damage to it. He hurried up to the tracks and walked along the line.

A train approached. Pete craned his neck. Freighter. Maybe he’d have a chance if this one slowed down. He moved into the cover of a tree and hoped the engine driver and stoker wouldn’t see him.

As if he’d willed it, the train slowed and stopped. A grateful Pete rushed over to the train and searched for an empty boxcar. Earlier, he’d convinced himself he’d die here in the middle of nowhere. Now he felt a spurt of optimism.

Luck favored him. He found an empty car, its door wide open. He leaned his body in and looked for any unwelcome surprises. Nothing. Perfect. He climbed up. A moment later, the train gave a small lurch and moved again. Pete braced his legs, pleased to be off. Should he eat now? No. No. He’d wait and see what else the day brought. Meanwhile, he’d drink some water to calm his stomach.

By late morning, the northbound freighter had slowed to a crawl. Pete looked out the wide bay door and saw a sign: Pleasant Valley. Why not stop here? See if there’s any work.

He jumped from the open boxcar and looked left and right in search of bulls—railroad guards. The station wouldn’t be important enough to have bulls, but why take the chance?

He walked along the side of the rail line and made for the station. The last of his water was gone hours ago; he hoped the platform had a water fountain. He spotted it. Excellent! A careful inspection convinced him no danger lurked nearby. He approached the fountain and drank. At last, he straightened to his full height and refilled his canteen. Now what? Would there be work here? Hard to tell, but from what he saw, the town looked prosperous enough. Why not ask around?

The train station sat opposite a leafy town square with its Union Civil War monument. Every town center Pete had ever visited had one of these. He entered the square and stopped a man in a suit hurrying by.

Excuse me, sir. Can you tell me—?

Beat it, you bum.

"I’m not a bum," Pete shouted at the man’s back.

If the stranger heard, he didn’t acknowledge the claim.

No one else was nearby. Pete followed Main Street, asking several passersby if there was work for an honest man. A man paused at the entrance of a hardware store and said, Try the Fulton Farm. They’ve got a big operation that includes apples and grapes. They’re harvesting cherries right now. Don’t know if they’re hiring. Might be too late, but, if you’re interested, follow Main Street out of town until you get to a white horse fence. That’s your destination. Can’t miss it.

Should he bother? Seasonal work, but better than nothing. Okay, he’d go, but first he’d eat what he’d saved for so long. He returned to the town square, sat on a bench under an oak tree. He removed his bindle and fished out the butcher paper that held a roast beef sandwich and—to his surprise—two large ginger molasses cookies.

Pigeons lurked nearby, hoping to share some of Pete’s bounty. He scattered a few crumbs from his second cookie before he palmed his recently grown beard. Green eyes, with their burst of brown, looked out at the world. Out of habit, Pete’s forefinger lightly touched the scar on the side of his nose. The kick from his father’s horse gave his nose a slightly misshapen appearance.

Okay, time to get going. Fifty minutes later, his feet suffering from the pavement heat, Pete trudged down a tree-lined lane. He stopped at a water pump, slipped out of his straps, primed a squeaky pump, and placed his head under the outlet. Water gushed out and soaked his head and shoulders. He stayed for a few long seconds and took his fill. Nothing in recent memory had ever felt this good.

He removed his fedora, crunched it some more, and held it under the spout. Satisfied that he’d thoroughly soaked the hat, he shook it and placed it back on his head.

He swiped at his face with a palm and looked around. In the distance, he saw acres of cherry trees, with people on ladders or standing on canvas tarps underneath the trees. He made for the orchard, unconcerned with what he looked like. The sun would dry him soon enough.

He stopped at the edge of the orchard and took in the spacious trees, most about twenty feet tall.

A woman in a flour sack dress carrying a burlap sack crossed his line of vision. He called out to her and asked if he might speak to the owner, the manager, the foreman, whoever’s in charge here.

That’d be Mr. DeJong over there, the woman pointed out. The one in the straw hat, talking to somebody on a ladder. I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.

She moved into the orchard. Pete watched her speak to a stout man and point in his direction. The man advanced slowly. Pete noted the cane and the pronounced limp.

The man called out, I see you’ve helped yourself to water. No problem. It’s free. I’m the foreman here, Thomas DeJong. Help ya?

Hi, Mr. DeJong, Pete said, dropping his bindle bag and reminding himself to smile his best. I’m needing work. I wonder if you’re hiring. He held his breath, half-expecting to be turned away, already planning his return walk to town.

I don’t know, came the slow response. I might.

Might? What did that mean? Was there still a chance?

I’m a good worker, sir.

I don’t doubt it, son, DeJong replied. He gave Pete an up-and-down inspection. You could use a few extra pounds. No matter. So, not afraid of hard work, huh? He scratched the underside of his chin and didn’t wait for an answer. We did lose a man two days ago when he went into town and got tossed into the pokey.

DeJong looked away, as if considering something, and then said, You know what, I might give you a try. Prove yourself. There’s a little under three weeks of work left. After that, we keep a few workers to help with the clean-up. He stopped speaking for a moment and considered Pete. Say, how old are you?

Eighteen, sir.

Eighteen, DeJong repeated. Adult. Okay, you’ll get the adult rate … twenty-five cents an hour. You collect your money at the end of each day. We work long hours. You good with that?

I am and thank you.

DeJong’s gaze stayed on him. Show your appreciation by working hard. I’ll try you for the day. If you don’t measure up, you’re out tomorrow morning.

Sounds fair, sir.

I’m guessing you’ve got nowhere to sleep, DeJong said.

I don’t, no.

Huh. Well, Pete, this is your lucky day. I can give you the cot of the fellow you’re replacing. Not the Ritz, but it’ll keep you dry. The room comes out of your pay. Twenty cents a night.

Pete considered the offer. Why not? Better than sleeping on hard ground and being eaten by mosquitoes.

Sounds fine, sir, but I’ve got no money.

You will by the end of the day. There’s still plenty of good hours left today.

Sounding even better.

Then let’s look at where you’ll sleep, DeJong said. You’ll have to go at my pace. I can’t go fast anymore.

The foreman led Pete toward a pair of long and narrow single-story buildings perpendicular to each other, both of corrugated metal, both rusting and in disrepair. Each held eight separate units with doors but no windows. Three outhouses stood sentry nearby. Several Roadster pickups sat a distance away under two willow trees.

In an open space near the buildings, Pete saw several fire pits near a small campground of tents, lean-tos, crude shacks with peeling wood, and one tepee. He guessed those shelters belonged to seasonal workers. From what he could tell, the area had no electricity or shower facilities. That would be asking too much. He spotted a hand pump and imagined people would somehow make do in the absence of showers. Much like he’d managed since he’d hit the rails and taken birdbaths.

DeJong cut into Pete’s thoughts.

This is the worker’s camp, he said as he led Pete to the building on the right. There used to be only this building, but when our operation grew, the farm built the second one. Now —. He half turned and stretched out an arm to indicate the rest of the shelters.

They stopped in front of the final unit. A cinder block substituted for a step. DeJong struggled to get up onto a narrow walkway. He pulled open a screen door of the unit and used his shoulder to force the door inward. They entered a six-by-eight room with twin cots and not much else. One cot held sheets and a blanket; someone’s scattered belongings took up space against a wall. A musty smell assailed Peter as he took in the uneven tar paper floor. Colorless walls did nothing to improve his enthusiasm for the room.

Your bed, DeJong said. Leave your things here but bring what valuables you’ve got. Thievin’s a problem from time to time. If you’re one of them, watch out. The camp’s got some quick justice for thieves.

"Don’t have to worry about me, sir.

Good to know. Still interested?

Yes, I am.

Okay, then. Your roommate’s Vernon Jepson. You’ll get along with him fine. DeJong stepped toward the door. Time to put you to work. Let’s go.

On the way back to the orchard, DeJong asked, What did you say your name was?

Peter, sir. Peter Welling.

Where you from?

Indiana, sir.

Indiana, eh? Big state. Where?

Shipshewana.

Ahh. What’s there by way of work?

Not much. Lumber mill. Cabinet factory.

And nothing else?

Pete shook his head. No. It’s why I’m here.

So, following the sun?

Not exactly, sir. I go where there’s work. Any kind. Like everyone here, I expect.

DeJong paid no attention to the answer and said, Can you handle a tractor?

I can. I grew up on a farm.

Pete soon discovered the workday ran from six in the morning until seven at night. Workers on stepladders picked cherries from the higher branches and placed them in canvas shoulder bags. Ground pickers did the same with lower-hanging cherries. Burlap bags covered the bases of trees mostly free of fruit. Two or more workers gently shook and tried to topple all remaining unreachable fruit.

The efficient cherry harvesting process impressed Pete. His mother often bought cherries from stands along the highway. The entire family loved the fruit and the baked goods she made. He hadn’t given any thought to the stages that brought cherries from the tree to the table. Now he understood the effort that went into his mother’s baked goods.

His job had him carefully emptying canvas bags into a large bin on a small flat bed. Once a bin was filled, Pete drove to the farm’s receiving station, where he and others struggled to lift it from the truck bed to the floor. Different workers prepared the cherries for shipping.

Pete found the work hard and demanding. He often stopped at one of the large milk cans filled with water stationed throughout the orchards. There, he’d open a lid and used a ladle to scoop out cold water into a tin can. The water refreshed and restored him; it also helped fill his empty stomach.

That evening, Pete sat outside his room, his legs dangling over the narrow walkway. On his way to his room, he discovered a second pump. He slipped into his spare T-shirt and pants and returned to the pump to wash his clothes—a faded cotton work shirt that had seen far too many washings, and denim pants, soon to show tears in the knees. He’d lay them out in his room and let the air dry them.

His stomach growled. He forced himself to ignore it; instead, he gazed out at the activities in front of him.

A man, perhaps in his late forties, came near and held out his hand.

Hello. I’m Vernon Jepson. Thomas DeJong tells me I have a new roommate.

Pete jumped to his feet and shook the man’s extended hand. A good firm, warm grip. Pete liked that. Hi, Mr. Jepson. I’m Peter Welling. Good to meet you.

Same, and by the way, call me Vernon. I don’t deserve the honorific of Mister. We’re both workers, salt of the earth types.

Honorific, Pete thought as Jepson’s hand withdrew. The man’s educated. He allowed himself to take in his roommate’s features—the salt-and-pepper shock of hair and matching short beard. Jepson carried himself well, his spine straight, his shoulders back—the kind of man of whom Pete’s father would have said, If I’m in an alley fight, that’s the guy I want covering my back.

All right, then, Pete said. Vernon it is, but my mother would have clipped the back of my head if she heard me calling an adult by his first name.

Jepson gave a soft snort. Happily, for you, she’s not here. He peered at Pete. Now, have you eaten?

Pete hesitated to answer, mostly out of embarrassment. Well …

I take it ‘well’ means no, Vernon said. I have a couple of sardine tins and some cheese. Happy to share.

Pete shook his head. No. I can’t take your food.

This time, sure, you should, Vernon insisted. "And, just so you’ll know, they have a system here. The farm will take orders in the morning for anyone who needs something from the store. They then go into town and pick up what you’re after. You tell them what you want, pay in advance, and give them your name. Then they’ll keep your order at the receiving station to pick up at noon.

Clever, Pete said. I’ll definitely sign up.

A word of warning, though, Vernon said. If you get anything, keep it hanging on one of the pegs. We’ve got our share of four-footed creatures happy to have a go at the food. He hesitated for a moment. Oh, and on Sundays we only work half a day. From what I hear, the owners are Christians.

Pete gave a derisive laugh. Must cut into their profit.

Vernon gave a sardonic smile. Church and capitalism never made for a good marriage.

Does having half a day off mean we get paid for the entire day?

Vernon looked heavenward and back to Pete. They’re God-fearing, the owners, but not fools. You work half the day. The other half of the day is yours. You can go into town if you want, or just look around.

They ate from Vernon’s provisions as they leaned against the side of the building. Pete, ravenous, had to force himself not to inhale—as his mother used to say— the food.

Good of you to do this, he said to Vernon and stabbed at another sardine with his fork.

Not at all. The fellow who was here before you had a restless heart and a yearning for drink. He never came back. Now you’re here. You’re lucky to get this room. Same for me. He used his pinkie to pick at something in his front teeth. So, Pete, everybody’s got a story. What’s yours?

Pete ran his tongue over his gums to clear some food. Take too long.

Care to say anyway? If so, ‘begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end. Then stop.

Eyes wide in response to what he heard, Pete’s voice rose with excitement. Alice in Wonderland. The king. I loved that book. My mother used to read it to me when I was a kid.

So, you come from a literary family?

"I wouldn’t go that far. No, I’m just a farm boy. I won’t bore you with the details of the story of my life—just this—a lot of bad weather, a bad bank, losing my parents, and my brothers hightailing it to distant places. I had a girlfriend. She got a scholarship to Rutgers and made it clear she didn’t have time for me anymore. He waved an arm. And here I am."

The two men talked for another fifteen minutes until the older one said, I have to get to bed. I need the sleep. We get up really early in the morning.

Now that you mention it, Pete said, pointing to the fading campfires, everyone appears to be of the same mind.

Both rose and made for their beds.

An unrelenting, sticky Midwest heat wouldn’t let Pete sleep. His fingers scrabbled about on the floor in search of his bandana. He wiped sweat from his neck, rose, and reached for his canteen. After a long drink, he placed the strap back on a hook and stared out at the orchard. Too dark to see anything but dancing lights of fireflies. Magical, that.

A powerful flash danced across the sky. When you see lightning, his mother used to say, count the seconds until you hear thunder, then divide by five. That will tell you how many miles away the storm is.

Pete waited. One steamboat, two steamboat, three steamboat. On the ninth steamboat, a thunderous crack reverberated throughout the valley. Pete did the calculation; about a mile and a quarter away. The storm had to be out over Lake Michigan. Not that it mattered much. He’d already learned a storm meant no work; no work meant no pay.

Soft snores and whistles came from Vernon’s cot. Odd, our ages, Pete thought, and finding ourselves sharing this same room. I couldn’t have predicted this a year ago … or anything else, for that matter.

Thunder crashed again. Pete guessed a dry thunderstorm. Wouldn’t bring rain. That reminded him of the recent drought back home, when crops craved much-needed rain. Relief didn’t come; the crops failed and left the family in serious debt. The drought showed no signs of lifting. Cattle died. The bank foreclosed.

Pete told himself to get those negative thoughts out of his head. What’s done is done. Yet he struggled to free himself from the haunting memories.

He returned to his cot. Exhaustion finally claimed him.

Chapter 2

A hand shook Pete’s shoulder. You better get up, Vernon said, if you want to keep your job. C’mon, up, up.

Thanks, Pete mumbled before rising and climbing into his washed clothes. Still damp. His body heat would fix that. I’ll work harder on making sure I get up on time, he said. I want to keep this job.

A towel over his shoulder, a bar of soap, and a can of tooth powder in hand, he hurried out and made for a pump. As he washed, he thought about Vernon’s job at the Farm; he didn’t make Vernon out to be a mechanic. Was the man certified or self-taught?

Something caught Pete’s eye when he returned to his room; there, on his cot, he found a 5th Avenue candy bar. He stared at it for a moment, glanced out the screen door, and quietly said, Thank you, Vernon. I’ll return the favor. He’d only just brushed his teeth, but still devoured the treat."

Time to go. He hurried out the door and made for the receiving station, determined to get his order in. DeJong hadn’t come around and asked him to leave. That had to be a good sign.

Noon.

Pete sat in the shade of a tree and inspected the purchased items in his burlap bag. He fished out a package of pepperoni sticks and bit into the first one. As he chewed, a soft, lilting voice spoke.

Hello.

Distracted with thought, Pete hadn’t noticed the girl in a red checkered feed sack dress with a short white collar. He knew the style well, as did much of the rural Midwest. Economic conditions forced women to make clothes out of flour sacks. In time, mills understood the use of the feed sacks and began producing them in colorful patterns.

Pete considered the visitor with her blue eyes. For reasons he could never understand, kids were drawn to him. That’s because you can’t fool kids, his mother once said when he mentioned it. They’re good at seeing into hearts. You don’t have Eric’s gift of gab or Wendell’s toughness, but you have more kindheartedness in you than they do. Try to remember that.

Hello. How are you?

Good, the girl replied.

What’s your name?

Yvonne. What’s yours?

Peter, Pete.

She repeated the name. Pete. Are you named after someone?

Not that I know of.

So, why do you have that name?

You’re full of questions, aren’t you? But since you asked, my mom and dad argued over a name my dad liked.

What was that? she asked.

Chester.

Chest-er? Never heard that before.

Not common, Pete said. He was an uncle of mine who died in the Great War. Have you heard of that war?

Yes. Mr. Jepson told me.

That so? I know him. And how about you, Yvonne? Is that your mom and dad over there? Pete pointed and tossed a quick wave to a middle-aged couple sitting nearby. The woman smiled, and the man returned Pete’s wave.

The girl looked over her shoulder for a moment and tossed her own half wave before she faced Pete. Yes, that’s my family—my mom, dad, and my little brother, Davey. And me.

Pete nodded, unsure what to add to the statement, when she said, What’s your sign?

Pete reeled back as if in surprise. "My what?"

Your astrological sign, Yvonne said, careful to sound out each syllable. What month were you born?

Oh, that. I was born in August.

August what?

The 26th.

She gave a small shriek. August 26? Me too. We could be astrological twins. She shot Pete a gleeful smile. Bet you didn’t think I knew that word.

I won’t take that bet.

The girl rushed on with her comment. I should check with Mom about our signs. She’s a palmist and will start her own business when we get to California. She peered at him. Do you know what a palmist is?

Pete shook his head in reply.

They read the lines in your palm, Yvonne said. And tell you what that means. I’m definitely asking Mom about our birthdays. She gave vigorous nods as if to assure herself of her intention.

Pete thought, If your mom’s so good at reading palms, why didn’t she see what was coming? Shouldn’t she have figured out some way to keep your family from all this?

The girl fired her next question. How old are you?

I’m eighteen, and you are a very nosey little girl.

"I’m not a little girl, Yvonne asserted. I’m almost twelve."

Twelve and full of yourself, Pete thought, but kept the opinion to himself. His mother would have had fun with this upstart. She brought three boys into the world, but always wanted a girl.

He climbed to his feet. "Well, Yvonne, I gotta get back to work. It’s been nice talking. And it’s fun knowing we have the same birthday.