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Tramps were common on the farm in Depression years
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ather was sure there was a hidden sign nailed to a tree, only visible to the countless tramps who rode the rails that said, “Jump here: good food up the hill.” Deep in the heart of the Depression years, almost as if they were put there to remind us there was someone in worse shape than we were, tramps walked the back roads, rode the freight trains and survived by begging for their next meal. Countless numbers found their way to our kitchen door, always around dinner time, looking for something to eat. They frightened me, although Father said they were harmless, and I was glad that if they did surface at night, we never saw them. My brothers were sure they often came up over the West Hill and slept in the barn where they were warm and away from the outdoor elements. They seemed to know on the farm the big meal was at the noon hour. They also seemed to know when
MARY COOK Mary Cook’s Memories the family was all seated at the table, because that was when we would hear the gentle knock on the door. They never had to ask for something to eat: we knew why they were there. Mother would look them over and if they were clean, having taken a wash in the Bonnechere River before coming up the hill, they were invited in. If they looked like they needed a hand-scrub, Mother would take out a wash basin of warm soapy water, put it on the back stoop and told them to come in when they had washed up. The brothers would squeeze together on the bench and make room for the tramp and Mother would laden a plate full of food. I would watch mesmerized as the food vanished as if they
hadn’t eaten in days – there was a good chance they hadn’t. Father would try to make conversation, but the tramps said little. We five children clammed up as if we had lost our tongues. I wanted to know where they had come from and how they had become tramps, but of course I too sat mute while the food disappeared. As quickly as they came, they spent just enough time to cram in their heaping plates of food and then they stood and were ready to head out again. Mother would tell them to sit a spell and we always knew what she was going to do because it never varied all the time we lived through those Depression years. She would take a brown
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ness knows where. We never saw the same tramp twice. They came in all shapes and sizes, and all ages. Some of them, I thought, were no more than boys, young like my three brothers. I would wonder why they were tramps, and my brothers weren’t. Then one day I learned at least a partial answer to that question. The young tramp that rapped on our kitchen door that day was whip thin and as clean as a whistle. His hair was coal-black and slicked down, showing that he had taken more than a quick wash in the river. Just as he finished tucking into his second piece of pie, he asked Father for a job. He talked more than any other tramp we had ever fed. He was what was called a “home boy.” He came from England as a 12 year old, he said, from an orphanage. He was sent to a farm in the Ottawa Valley, where he suffered from abuse and endless hours of labour. Father told him there was no money for a hired
man and besides, we had three strapping boys to do the chores. But the tramp persevered. He told Father if he could sleep in the barn and have three meals a day and a flat-fifty of cigarettes every Saturday night, he would work for nothing. That was how one of those tramps who rode the rails and depended on the generosity of others, became our hired man. He really became a member of the family and I would often see Father slip the man, who was really a boy, a dollar when he could spare it. The tramps were a symbol of that era. We knew not where they had come from or where they were going. It mattered little what time of year it was. Winter or summer, almost daily we could count on seeing a tramp coming up over the West Hill. They were never turned away. They came hungry and they left with full bellies and enough food to take them to the next stop on their endless journey.
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paper bag off the rack at the back door. Then she would go to the bake table and make thick sandwiches of whatever meat we had had for dinner. Always she would tuck in cookies or a big piece of pie and then she would go to the ice box and with the ice pick would chip off big slivers of ice and put them into a glass jar that at one time held pickles or preserves, filling it with cold water from the granite pail. Often I would see the tramp wipe his eyes with the back of his hand, as he thanked Mother and tucked the bulging paper bag into the sack he carried on the end of a short pole resting on his shoulder. He would go as quietly as he came, out the back door and down the hill, making his way to the railroad tracks. I knew he would be waiting until the next freight train rounded the corner at the very back of the farm. It would slow down to handle the curve in the track. Father said this was where they would jump on the train and go off to good-
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Manotick News EMC - Thursday, July 18, 2013