Summing Up and Forging On

Good to see you, old friend!

I'm pleased at your literary accomplishment – and I, as well as everyone else here, hope that it turns into a literary success.

Well done.

Now comes the difficult bit.

I got £2.50 in royalties this year.

It's good to see you back as well.

Several years ago Black Rose Writing published my autobiographical (laced with fiction) Beyond the Dark Water. It was not a success and it quickly went out of print. It's available free to the curious on my blog.

The contract I signed had something about it appearing in book stores and it cost me nothing to allow it. One thing that killed it, they printed it on the cheapest paper possible at $15 a copy.

I appreciate being welcomed back. Some of my friends on here are unavailable elsewhere.

When young I occasionally was almost a hobo. There were times I walked the sidewalk, watching the gutter for lost money. I always found some. - Pity the poor and the homeless in this practically cashless society. There is no cash for them to find.

Sometimes I rode freight trains. The following is an only slightly embellished true story concerning one such journey.

When I Met Billy Bones

He called himself Billy Bones. He said it was after a character in a movie. Because he felt like a marooned pirate in the jungle camps, same as the namesake.

Billy Bones was tall, rail-thin, with a carrotish beard, hung on a long face, with pale blue eyes. His eyebrows grew thick and long, giving him a bit of a wild look.

Bones was bustling. Being more than solicitous. He was teaching Arlen how to cook with discarded tin cans that were easily found throughout the ‘bo jungle. He put burning sticks under a can of water with sprinkled in coffee grounds.

“I picked a can with rust in it because we need iron,” he said.

He went around selecting cans for cups.

Arlen didn’t think rust could be a useful nutrient, but he didn’t see fit to argue. He wanted the coffee, which he hadn’t drunk any of in near a week. Arlen was no professional ’bo like Bones. He was just a young man on the way to Texas. The train he had come in on rested nearby, soon to resume its journey eastward. He planned to reclaim his boxcar at its leaving.

He watched Bones rinse the cans before putting them in the fire to kill off germs.



Bos are mindful of hygiene. Who knew?



Before he filled the can cups Bones pulled a flat bottle from his blue jeans hip pocket and poured in a shot to each. He handed Arlen his. Arlen accepted his can cup, holding it at the top rim to avoid the boiling heat further down. After Bones filled his own can cup they held their coffees a few minutes, allowing it to cool a bit.

Here in the barren stretch of the jungle, the dirt was the one place to sit. For that reason, Bones and Arlen did everything standing, even drink coffee. Arlen liked for Bones to keep talking as it relieved himself of having to think of things to say. Apparently, Bones didn’t mind at all.

Then Bones mentioned it was a good time to eat.

“Come with me and I’ll show you where to get it,” he said.

Reluctant, fearing he would miss his ride, Arlen hung back, until Bones reassured him, saying, “If you miss that one there will be another in a little while.”

Against his better judgment, Arlen followed along. He wouldn’t want to be too late to see his ailing mother.

They left the proximity of the railroad and the jungle, following a path not well-worn. It was almost a climb getting up it. At the last minute, Arlen saw what he judged to be a church or a monastery. Bones went up to a heavy door and swung the knocker. He waited. After a few minutes, a person opened the door enough of a crack to push through a sandwich. After accepting his, Bones stood aside and Arlen received his. The door immediately shut.

Arlen saw that he held a massive butterbean sandwich. By the time they made it down to the hobo jungle, the sandwiches had been consumed. As they approached the site of bones’ campfire, Arlen looked up to see his train rolling away, picking up speed. It was not about to get away from him.

His pounding feet caught up behind the last boxcar. Against the shouted warnings by Bones to let it go, Arlen wrapped his fingers around the grab iron and hoisted himself onto the bottom ladder rung.

“Don’t let go,” Billy Bones hollered, as he drifted into the background.

Arlen knew he would be slammed into railroad ties and rocks should he fall; his body would be shattered. The train rapidly went into the dusk. In a matter of minutes, Arlen was riding in the dark, with the railroad cars shaking more violently than he could have expected. He wondered if he would ride this way all night. His senses were on the highest alert for over an hour. And then the train slowed. It stopped in some dark place for a reason unknown.

He jumped down to run along the line in search of an open door. The train moved. The cars shook into motion, each car, in turn, receiving the shock of renewed tension. The movement became increasingly fast. He hoped to be able to spot a gaping hole in a boxcar before too late.

Arlen found one just in time. He pulled himself up by the bar and scrambled inside. Spent, he made his way to a deep end and lay down on his back, his emotions shouting hallelujahs to the darkness. His weary body pulled him into slumber by degrees. As he slowly surrendered, he ran a salute through his mind to all of the disposed and the hoboes he had been encountering on his adventures in America, both by hitchhiking and jumping on freights. He knew that as soon as his mother got better, he would be off again. For his itchy feet could not allow him to settle. Only his older days could slow him. All his journeys would honor the like of Billy Bones, generous to a fault while having virtually nothing for himself. For Billy was not special among the breed. He was the norm.

Edgar! Please stay!!!

I probably will.

Good stuff!

Holdin' ya to it!

My engagement here will be limited to this thread and occasional forays into some of the friendly threads.

Good idea!

I am currently without a dog companion. I often look back with affection at all of the dogs I've loved. My first was said to be a mutt with Cocker Spaniel lineage. He didn't resemble a Cocker Spaniel in any way. His tail had been bobbed off at about four inches in length. He was black with a white chest and white socks. Mom named him Boots Teddybear. We called him just boots. When Mom cooked a chicken she gave the entire chicken skeleton to Boots and he ate it all and suffered no ill effects.
Brother Roger made a cart to pull with his bike. Boots often rode in it. He never barked. Never even tried. He often dug up carrots to eat. Not an aggressive bone in his body.
When we moved to Texas in January of '57 Roger made a crate for Boots to stay in on the train. Boots was likely about seven. I was told that when we switched trains in Houston he got out of the cage and they didn't catch him. There is no way of knowing how he spent his final days.
I have a scar on my hip from when a bigger dog attacked him. I moved to rescue Boots but an even bigger dog nipped me to warn me to keep out of it. He survived the fight with no obvious injuries.

Welcome back, old friend! The forum has now improved with your return. I admire your writing skills and your guts for staying with it.

Thanks, rags. Many of my stories suck, but some are not too bad. Teapot's Empire will be my best of all. Steeped in current events as much as it is it may offend too many to ever see the light. But if I had to self publish I would still get it out there somehow.

Tag along.........

I woke up early. The new plot twists as I near the conclusion of Teapot's Empire stirred me to arise. Being retired, I have all day to work on it. I open it up and write in short bursts, for my capacity for sustained effort is limited. In an hour or so I will be back at it.

On Sunday mornings I make my wife and I a breakfast of eggs, toast and either sausage or bacon. I've made the coffee pot up, waiting on her before starting it.

The other six days we fend for ourselves. After I leave here I will visit PDiddie's blog and post a share of it on X. Then look for messages on Facebook. After that, Youtube and a few news sites. Mid morning usually calls for my nap. I put on a rerun of an old western and let it lull me to sleep. Afternoons are for mundane tasks, such as mowing, mopping, doing repairs. Right now I have to finish preparing the skillet for action.

I’m sorry Rocky is gone. I hope it wasn’t too traumatic.

I have only had dogs since I turned 65. Cats I’ve had since I turned about 40. My parents were allergic to them since I left home as a kid, It’s been great to have pets.

Rocky was a different dog from any I've had. He loved people which is good because he had the capability to kill them. What he didn't love was varmints, which covers all smaller animals. The few times he got out of the fence he didn't run the way most dogs seem to do. When he saw me coming with the leash he stood still for me to put it on him. He was stubborn. If I then went to make him go home he would resist with all his strength. Once I figured out to let him decide he voluntarily went home.

The first time I mowed with him nearby he grabbed the running mower and dragged it until I got it away from him. The second time he went after it I whacked his nose with a length of half inch PVC pipe. After that he went in the house when he saw the mower.

He was hell on the squeaky chickens. Loved them. But once he learned how to take out the squeaker it became too expensive to supply them.

He loved his groceries. If I went out to eat I always saved a bite of my dinner for him.

I buried his favorite chew toy and his leash with him.