I was about four or five years old when my father decided to settle down and quit living the gypsy life on the road construction crew that he worked for. You can reference that story HERE: http://mahvalicious.diaryland.com/060926_61.html. He bought a piece of property on the edge of the little town that we had settled in, (population 275 at that time) and proceeded to set up residence there.
I remember very vividly that one morning in the fall of the year when I headed for school, I was told that when school got out that afternoon I should go home to the new location instead of the old one. Four o’clock came, the dismissal bell rang and I went happily skipping down the road headed for home. Little did I know that my father had purchased a piece of property adjacent to the dreaded BUM’S JUNGLE!!
Now I had no idea what a Bum’s Jungle was, but all my friends, who were skipping down the road with me by the way, were eager to fill me in on the horrible and terrible things that happened there. My Dad’s Half Acre of Paradise was bordered on one side by the railroad track that went through town, on one side by the gravel road that went a mile down to the country church, on the third side by an open field, and on the fourth side by a heavily wooded area known to all the local kids as Bum’s Jungle. At that time the railroad was still using the big black steam locomotives that shook the Earth making the dishes in the cupboards rattle when they went roaring by, and spewed black ashes and stinky smoke all over everything.
Of course there were times when the engines wouldn’t roar by, but would stop to take on a load of something or to switch to a siding track until another train went sailing past. That’s when the inhabitants of the Bum’s Jungle would take advantage of the slower pace and hop on or off the boxcars and take up residence in the wooded area behind our house. Periodically we could see men moving about back in the woods, campfires at night, etc. The camp would be occupied for a few days and then would be empty for a long period of time. Then Big Brother and I would go carefully exploring back in the woods to see what we could find – empty whiskey bottles, cigarette packs, snoose cans, remnants of meals cooked, etc. As the years went by the occupancies became fewer and farther between. To my knowledge there never was any trouble from any of the inhabitants – they were just itinerant men moving from one location to another in a manner they preferred.
And to this day that piece of property is still known in the local community as Bum’s Jungle.
I remember very vividly that one morning in the fall of the year when I headed for school, I was told that when school got out that afternoon I should go home to the new location instead of the old one. Four o’clock came, the dismissal bell rang and I went happily skipping down the road headed for home. Little did I know that my father had purchased a piece of property adjacent to the dreaded BUM’S JUNGLE!!
Now I had no idea what a Bum’s Jungle was, but all my friends, who were skipping down the road with me by the way, were eager to fill me in on the horrible and terrible things that happened there. My Dad’s Half Acre of Paradise was bordered on one side by the railroad track that went through town, on one side by the gravel road that went a mile down to the country church, on the third side by an open field, and on the fourth side by a heavily wooded area known to all the local kids as Bum’s Jungle. At that time the railroad was still using the big black steam locomotives that shook the Earth making the dishes in the cupboards rattle when they went roaring by, and spewed black ashes and stinky smoke all over everything.
Of course there were times when the engines wouldn’t roar by, but would stop to take on a load of something or to switch to a siding track until another train went sailing past. That’s when the inhabitants of the Bum’s Jungle would take advantage of the slower pace and hop on or off the boxcars and take up residence in the wooded area behind our house. Periodically we could see men moving about back in the woods, campfires at night, etc. The camp would be occupied for a few days and then would be empty for a long period of time. Then Big Brother and I would go carefully exploring back in the woods to see what we could find – empty whiskey bottles, cigarette packs, snoose cans, remnants of meals cooked, etc. As the years went by the occupancies became fewer and farther between. To my knowledge there never was any trouble from any of the inhabitants – they were just itinerant men moving from one location to another in a manner they preferred.
And to this day that piece of property is still known in the local community as Bum’s Jungle.
5 comments:
Great story and picture.
i used to be an itinerant man!! now lookit me!!! how can i win the UnOfficial Lutefisk Award? Uffda!
I love reading your entries! You have such great stories to tell! I've been playing catch up this morning. Good stuff :)
We have a family story... Grandma (Dad's mom) told this to my mom, and she always loved it. Seems Grandma's brother Fred was obsessed with trains all his life, and they always knew he'd grow up to be an engineer or have something to do with trains. And he did... He became a bum! :)
Re your comment on kitchenlogic's blog - YES! I've heard of Tubbs and HW Sr. Indeed! My most embarassing crushes though were on Peter Frampton and Shaun Cassidy. Though I'm not really embarassed. I was ten.
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