But back to the topic...Railroad Louie. Louie is my dad. I think he'd have made a great hobo. He just rides the rails these days by paying for a ticket. He loves trains. There's a reason for the call of the whistle that always manages to catch his attention.
The "homestead", as our home is known as, is on a railroad line. Some people would sneer at a piece of real estate on the Milwaukee Road line, but not us. The neighborhood Dad grew up in (the same one I grew up in) was a very ethnic one. We lived flanked by my Polish relatives (yes, everybody knew everything with or without a phone),and with an interesting European mix around us. We had Italians, Serbians, Armenians, Italians, and even a lady from France. Everyone spoke their own language and would disappear for a few weeks in the summer for a trip to their native countries. They all had cool ethnic names, and as kids we played with other kids who didn't speak the same language. We had a chunk of land used for a cow, horse, and some chickens in my Dad's time. Our land was next to a barn that my dad's Polish aunt owned. She had a rooming house for men who just came from Poland to work, and a very lazy shepherd dog(Sheeba) who would roam into our yard to sit in the sun. Her barn was my play yard when the Polish guys weren't sitting under the grape-vines singing Polish songs--- with the help of a bottle in a brown bag! The most exciting place to be was down by the lumberyard only a few steps away. A lumberyard on the trainline that actually had the trains stop to deliver lumber! This was way cool. The smells of lumber and diesel fuel, to this day, make me want to jump on the trains that were left behind. It was the place for me to go when the lumberyard closed. These days when a lumberyard closes there are locks and gates and security cameras, but back then...I got to visit the yard when everyone else went home. I found my own ways of jumping from the unloaded trains through the lumber sheds and into the inner sanctum of wood heaven. My jungle gym was the cabooses and flat cars left on the spur track. The push me, pull me's were always there tempting me to ride into town just the way my dad would!
Enter "Rairoad Louie." Dad loved big band music. Into Cudahy and Milwaukee on the weekends would come bands like Vaughn Monroe's. To this day Dad will sit through 90 degree heat in the sun to listen to the sound of the big bands. Back then he had to be creative to get to these places. Dad usually ended-up hopping the closest open transportation he had - the rails. Why not? The steam train started to slow down enough to pull into the station in our town and was free if you knew how to jump on a box car fast enough! Dad mastered these jumps weekend after weekend. He knew where his stops were without the help of a conductor. The departure wasn't always so smooth though. His buddies will laugh to this day as each would propel themselves from the moving train. The speed of the train dictated the number of rolls and bounces each would take. Dad said when he bounced he only felt one thump even if he rolled several times. Sometimes they would get "chicken" if the train picked up speed and then they'd have to ride to the downtown yards. Now that was "public" transportation!
Living on the line also has some other adventures. We lived in the historic section on the line called "Bums Jungle." This was the underworld's private train stop. In all seasons this section was alive with campfires for the over-nighters who would catch another train the next day (or two). Sometimes these guests would wander, like bears from the woods, looking for food. It happened one day that Grandma Nellie had such a visit when Grandpa Jan (Yan) was at work. Grandma Nellie had the unwelcomed visitor on the doorstep and in her broken English she called "Yan, get up and bring your gun." I guess the guy flew faster than a slow-rolling train back to the bums jungle.
As kids we had a very large boulder in the field next to the line. When we heard the train whistle we all flew to "the rock." We climbed it's "shelves" and stood there to wave at the conductors and if it had passengers - we'd wave to them too! This went on for years and years. The rock started to get known as "the place the kids flock to greet the trains". (The Welcome Wagon of our kind) The conductor and passengers would wave back like royalty. The rock was actually purchased as a piece of the line's history and sits in a post office today somewhere in Chicago with a plaque about us. Look out box car children!!
Excitement grew in the neighborhood as a big trucking company moved in. We had steam shovels and dump trucks to add to our familiar sounds. The air was filled with diesel fuel! To this day I love that smell. As time went on "Grandpa Louie" would take his grandson, (my son!) who grew up in the same Polish house (ironically with a Dad just come from Poland as well!) and those two would get lost for hours watching trains and talking to the guys with the trucks. The front window-sills of our house, once sprinkled with violets, had lines of little trains and trucks spread out to greet the early morning crews.
So to all those who think property on the train line is devalued- guess again! I wouldn't trade a house on the North Shore for the scenery we have in Bums Jungle.
Long live hobos! Long live the railroad. (No thanks to Governor Walker)
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