I was about 10 years old. It was the early 1930's -- Depression Years. In those days, fifteen million people were out of work, and a common sight was a line of men two hundred yards long waiting to apply for a job.

Another common sight was people riding freight cars. Many would hop a freight and get from one part of the United States to another. I would see a long parade of freight cars, and walking on top, swinging along in easy rhythm and carrying a blackjack in his hand, would be the railroad bull. Even in these lean, tough times, the railroads didn't want tramps on the cars and the bull would chase them off. He would not always wait until the freight train slowed down, either.

Well, my mother's brother, a drifter named Aaron, rode the rods. It was his way of traveling. He had dropped out of grammar school and it was hard to believe he had even gotten that far. But he was quiet and he was harmless, not at all mean in any way. When Aaron came around, he would sit, not talking. When you came into the room, he wouldn't say anything, but in a moment, the quiet got too much for him, and he would sort of laugh and then get quiet again.

When it came time for Aaron to leave -- Aaron never stayed long -- we would always wait until just before dark, then we would get into our old Whippet and Dad would drive down to the railroad tracks. Aaron would just say, "Well, bye…" and in the darkness Mama would quietly cry, and we would watch Aaron walking toward the freight train, crouching down, not wanting to be seen by the railroad bull. Then we would see him, just as the freight train started off with a loud squeaky LURCH, running to scramble inside one of the box cars with the big, sliding doors that would keep the winter cold out.

Driving back home, everybody was quiet, with their thoughts on Aaron, and it was a time of poignant sadness . . .