A tall man stood there in the dark, with an old scruffy coat, a rumbled hat, and a wrinkled face covered by a ragged beard.
He politely asked for bread In the only words I could understand.
My dad took a few steps towards the cupboard where my mom kept the bread she had just baked, and grabbed two loaves and handed them to the man.
“Thank you, thank you," the man nodded with his head and backed out of the porch. My dad nodded in return and closed the door, as he stood quietly in thought, and watched the man disappear into the darkness.
"Dad" I called, “Dad! I called again. “Who was that?“
“Who was that?, I asked again, tugging continuously on his sleeve to get his attention as my dad stood, staring out the window,
His eyes were a thousand miles away.
Blowing on his hands, John skipped over the rails quickly as he neared the rail yard.
Seeing the flashlights of the yard police, he slid to the opposite side of the train and hid between two cars. Peeking around the corner, he stepped out for a better look when the train suddenly kicked backwards with a loud boom as the cars banged together, a trick the railway did to shake off and discourage any free riders.
“What the heck?" he gasped, leaping inside the box car as a flashlight pierced the darkness. Remaining still in the shadows, he waited, breathing quietly as the light disappeared around the corner. “Come on," he urged quietly. “It’s blinking cold out here."
Finally, the train jerked forward. As it picked up speed, settling into a rolling rhythm, he rubbed his numb fingers, gazed out the door at the frozen landscape painted with swirls of snow like thinning clouds and blew a misty breath at the stars. It was only a matter of time now before they would be in Humboldt.
Watching dark shapes of the countryside roll into the night, John exhaled icily out of hardening cheeks and wondered maybe if he had stayed too long in Manitoba after the harvest. Every other hand had left when it was complete, but Mr. Brand had liked the way John worked and had asked him to help build the new barn. He liked the extra money but the cold now biting through his clothes worried him.
Approaching a small station, the train stopped. John glimpsed out for a sign but the November wind pushed him back, stinging his face. For just a moment, the thought crossed his mind of the cold tale of a man found frozen in a box car, but John quickly withdrew his thoughts.
“It’s not too long to Humboldt now," he reassured himself, high stepping his numbing legs, his cold wooden feet landing on the floor.
The train jerked stiffly forward, but soon was slowing down again and stopping
“Another stop?" John spat, kicking the boxcar simply to feel his toes.
Again the thought came to him of the man found frozen in the box car. But he fell asleep, John thought cautiously, pushing the fear aside. Focused now on staying awake, he was moving continuously, pounding his frozen hands against unfeeling legs and jamming his heels against the floor.
The train eventually began trudging forward again, engine roaring, grinding its wheels against the snow covered rails, billowing thick steam into the growing cold, then stopped again in the darkness and began ramming cars together to the train.
He could only think now of moving and praying, but his mouth couldn’t form words. The train blew a warning whistle, picked up speed and disappeared long into the night. But soon the clicking wheels slowed and John strained his eyes hoping at lights shining in the darkness. Clumping to the door, he focused his tearing eyes on a dim sign surrounded by a backdrop of twinkling stars.
In its warmest greeting, it read, “Humboldt."
He slowly bent his legs, then jumped to the ground, moving stiffly as he ran to the closest light. It was the bakery. John’s family had frequently been there and he thought the baker might let him warm for a minute before he continued to the farm. But maybe he wouldn’t. There had been trouble near the rail yards with men riding the trains looking for work. He pounded on the door and his hope grew as the door opened quickly. The baker told a quick look at the street and yelled, “Get outta here! I don’t give handouts. Get lost!" Then lowered his voice and whispered, “But if you come around back, I’ll let you in."
John stepped back from the street and walked around the bakery to fine the baker holding the back door slightly open.
“Come in, John," he spoke quietly.
The sweet warm smell of fresh baking was softening up John’s icy face as the baker gave him a cup of steaming coffee that John barely held. He rested in on his numb knees and reached desperately for the warm honey coated donut the baker held out for him.
“Eat, John," he coaxed. “Drink that coffee. You look cold."
John nodded and let the donut’s aroma float into his nostrils, then washed it slowly down with the hot coffee.
“That was just a man looking for food," my dad answered, staring at the man disappearing down the alley.
‘How come he came here? I asked again.
“Sometimes they are told which house to go to by people and others times they find messages which house is ok,"
‘What messages?" I asked curiously.
“If it’s a good house and the people are friendly there will be signs left on the fence at the back of the yard, and signs by the railway a block away.
“Can I see the sign?"
If you know what you are looking for. In the morning you go see if there is some signs on the fence, by the alley.That man must have known what to look for," my dad replied
“A secret message?’ I jumped up.
“We’ll you go tomorrow and see," my dad smiled.
I went to bed thinking of all the stories and movies I had heard and seen about adventures and secret signs.It was an exciting mystery.
When the morning came I jumped out of bed and ran downstairs to find my dad finishing his coffee.
“I’ve been waiting for you," my dad said to me, "You go see if you find something and I will come and look at it."
Without a second thought I jammed my shoes on, and ran out the door.
I looked at every marking and scrape. Nothing, not a word.
Paint stains, nail holes, cracks, scapes but no message. There was nothing that looked or secretive or readable.
The excitement was wearing off.
It was then that my dad walked over.
“You are looking for words I think. It’s only a sign that gives a message, like a cross, or a letter. Look for that."
I kept looking, excited again. Then I saw it, at the top of the fence, on the last picket, an X inside a circle.
“Is that it?" I yelled
“Could be," my dad said. "Its written in chalk, sometimes in coal. That will tell you," he added.
“It looks like chalk, What does it mean?" I wondered
’That sign means that this place is “ok, and you are friendly."
"How did they know you would give him some bread?" I kept asking
“I have met people in the alley when I was working in the yard, sometimes asking directions, and I always talked to them, because I have been there too. Sometimes people go through things."
It would be years later that I would find out that my dad had ridden the rails during the dustbowl decades earlier, looking for work and meals. He would begin to tell stories of looking hard for work during the depression, riding the trains with friendly and not so friendly people and places, and stories of pickpockets standing beneath the “Beware of Pickpocket" signs at county fairs, watching people check where their wallets are.
He was also wise enough to avoid railroad police scrutiny by carrying his belongings rolled up in a bag under his arm, to not look like a drifter with a old knapsack slung over his shoulder.
These were stories I never forgot. It wasn’t just history.
Sometimes people go through things.