Hobo Jungle

[rex desilets]

Happy Thanksgiving to all and a good day for all for gathering together with family and friends...

Get yourself a slice of turkey and have a seat at the table!

How did you do that? I want to copy it.

[Tom Dempsey]

Lemon halfs stuffed just under the skin.

[rogruth]

I guess that would be called breast of turkey.

[healey36]

Overcast, dreary Black Friday...bagged shopping and headed to Gettysburg for a walk of the field. Not too many folks out:



The lane running down to the Slyder's farm. Hood's division swept across this ground on their way to the Round Tops and Devil's Den on the second day.

Hope everyone had a good Thanksgiving...

Healey

[E7]

Great stuff Healey! It certainly captures the feel of Fall.

Rich

[healey36]

Went to visit my 90+ year-old uncle the yesterday...he's laid up in the hospital and I'm hoping he'll get turned around for the run up to 100.

He was an air-mechanic his entire life, a trade he picked up while serving in the Navy during WWII. He worked for many years as the chief-mechanic for the National Brewing Company in Baltimore caring for Mr. Hoffberger's private jet (a Boeing 707 if memory serves me). I got to meet Mr. Hoffberger a number of times and he would always give me a bunch of Oriole gear (he was the owner of the team) and my father got a case of National Premium...nice man.

Anyway, Mr. Hoffberger would frequently send my uncle over to help various folks who were having issues with their airplanes. On one occasion he was sent over to take a look at a jet belonging to Dean Martin and Joey Bishop who were in town for some event. My uncle determined what the problem was and sent off for a part that was going to take 24 hours to get...Martin and Bishop got laid up overnight. With no expectations my uncle invited them over to his house if they got bored sitting around their hotel.

My dad and I were over at his place that afternoon, I don't recall why particularly. My uncle lived on the east side of town, not too far from the Sparrows Point steel plant. Around eight o'clock that evening there's a knock at the door and in walks Martin and Bishop. both grinning ear-to-ear. My uncle busted out some National beer (he always had cases of the stuff), my aunt made a big tray of cold-cuts, and for the next 2-3 hours we had just the best time. I was probably about ten years old then, my two cousins a year or two younger, and I remember Martin just fawned over the three of us. He was a genuinely nice, funny guy.

A while back one of my cousins flipped me this clip from an old Carson show. It brought back a lot of memories.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pbpc-NJHcZ8

The world has changed a lot since then, and I sure miss these guys.

Healey

[E7]

Time to shake the trees a bit here in the jungle and wish all the Hobo's a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year as the holidays are bearing down on us like a runaway freight. Special Holiday wishes to some of the Bo's who have been conspicuous by their absence of late: Tramp and Daisy, The Dirt, 2 Rail Jon, and Sarge right off the top. (Feel free to ad to this list)

Rich

[webenda]

Dashcams have filmed many amazing things in the past, such as the meteor shower over the Russian city of Chelyabinsk. However, this could be the first time a Star Wars imperial Tie Fighter has ever been caught on camera by a driver.:=> https://youtu.be/qvDw9LRcA7I

[MurphOnMillerAve]

Time to shake the trees a bit here in the jungle and wish all the Hobo's a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year as the holidays are bearing down on us like a runaway freight. Special Holiday wishes to some of the Bo's who have been conspicuous by their absence of late: Tramp and Daisy, The Dirt, 2 Rail Jon, and Sarge right off the top. (Feel free to ad to this list)

Rich

Nice posting, Rich.
I remember the gentle voice of Jim Perrine, (seen in this photo) here on MTJ. He was a pleasant gentleman who enjoyed sharing his layout with a granddaughter. I believe he was also a friend of Hev's who met with him when this photo was taken.

Hev was a presence, here, beyond words for dignity and a kind, welcoming approach to all. I had the joy of meeting him and Pete and Mitch and Tony a couple times at the "Tractor Pull" in Lancaster, PA, and enjoyed what was for me a totally new experience via their collective very kind welcome.
Murph

[E7]

A bunch of good men Murph! Alas, some gone too soon.

[Tramp]

Forums, Godzilla, and Holiday Traditions

Over the last dozen years I’ve participated in a few online forums. As we all know, an internet forum is a virtual location where people behind computers meet to discuss a mutual interest by initiating topics called threads. One thread that I started 14 years ago is still chuffing along, having gathered well over a million views and 25,000 replies. The participants are a mismatched crew of cyber buddies from all over the country, and some members who live near enough to each other have actually met and become real-life friends. There aren’t any other northern New Englanders, but after years of conversation, laughs, photos of homes, wives and children, projects, stories of tragedy and contentment, you become attached, particularly to the core group.

When one of the longest-standing members died last fall, I donated one of my baseball prints to the fire station he served, while another member donated the framing. The plaque read: “To the Memory of a True American Hero.” I was surprised at the intensity of my emotion with his passing because we had never met in person, our only contact outside the forum being the yearly Christmas card.

Three things have bound the thread’s participants together: we are almost embarrassingly obsessed with vintage steam trains, we drink, and we all have a sense of humor.

Most holiday seasons, I'll put up a post something like this: “Do you hear a sweet sound in the air? A delicate chiming, a pleasant squeaking, so you know it's not annoying sleigh bells. Might sound a tad like approaching joy. Any idea what it might be?”

And one of the members will know immediately and post: “The beverage cart!”

Imagine one of these carts during the heyday of passenger train service across America in the 1920s, the kind that headed down the aisles. My cart, the New England version, is pushed by an ancient black Pullman porter who always calls me captain.

"Afternoon, cap'n," he'll say, since my cart never appears before 12:30. "What will we be having today, cap'n?"

He knows I only drink beer, perpetually Canadian or the Dutchman, but he's an exceedingly agreeable apparition. And when he sets down my beverage, impeccably served, old-school style just the way I like it, he adds, "Merry Christmas, cap'n. I'll be by later, see if you might need another." He knows I'm good for a few on holidays, but the man is forever polite.

On the forum we joke about always keeping one wheel free from oil. We want to be able to hear that squeak of the approaching cart. Of course the Californians have a longer wait. While one ear is listening for the cart to approach from the club car, I try to write a quick story about getting our Christmas tree. Along with the posted photos of the fully dressed tree, the members look forward each year to the tradition. “Has he put up the tree and story yet?” they begin to ask around Thanksgiving. Some years there's something funny or unusual that makes for an easier job, and some years there is absolutely nothing to write about.

A previous Penobscot Falcon detailed the tree story of Genghis Khan when way too much happened—I was forced to drive the filthy run-over tree through the carwash during a gale-like snow storm—so this in some ways is its dull if heavy counterpart.



My wife and I headed to the abandoned balsam-fir-tree farm, the weather laughably mild. Although Thanksgiving had been blizzarded white as Labrador January, there was nary a flake on the ground at mid-December. An aged curmudgeon of a Mainer owns the farm, beady blue eyes, raspy nose, and 11 strands of white hair. I enjoy sparing with him every season, attempting to get a rise out of the fellow, which I’ve come to accept is impossible.

He sells his overgrown trees for $35, and overgrown means that most of them have reached 25 or 30 feet. The year before we had cut and hauled our balsam (nicknamed Longfellow) ourselves, up hill and through a foot of frozen snow, but I figured for that kind of money, I'd let Aged (apologies to Dickens) do the work this time with his chainsaw and tractor. Lucky thing I did because my wife chose a tree that could only be nicknamed Godzilla. Heavy? The trunk had to be carved down to fit our massive no-trunk-too-big tree stand, the bottom branches spanned nine feet—I measured—and the beast had no less than three bristly tops at its 12 feet.

Godzilla was not one to be felled easily. On Aged's first attempt, his chainsaw malfunctioned. I stood ready to assist with my trusty handsaw, but Aged merely shook his head at the suggestion, grumbled loudly at my audacity, and continued dismantling his Hitachi. Took about fifteen minutes, but finally—I'm not known for patience—he got the chain realigned and filled the area with an impressive cloud of blue smoke, revving the machine cruelly. The Hitachi’s pained cry must have alerted my wife who returned to the polluted valley. She had wandered off into the woods searching for deer.

Each year I’ve secured the tree with rope a little more precariously to the top of the rusty Honda, just for the game of it. After Aged loaded Godzilla with the tractor, I realized this time there would be no concern. Godzilla was so heavy that the car morphed into a lowrider; that tree wasn't going anywhere. When we arrived home, and I slid him off the car, I began to truly comprehend the weight, only managing to drag him half into the dooryard. After pruning out the two extra tops, I left him there until the next morning, knowing no one could possibly steal the creature.

Getting Godzilla into the house by myself while my wife was working at the boatyard was one of those impossible-but-you-somehow-manage-it tasks. Heaving at the balance point of the trunk, gaining mere inches with each tug, and trying not to trip on the branches was key. (By the way, rubbing alcohol will remove balsam fir sap from jackets, sweaters, jeans and hands miraculously.)

Once the beast was secured and vertical in the parlor, the lights, all twelve hundred of them, went on without a whimper. I do not enjoy stringing the lights, constantly spined by errant fir needles, and I’ve been known to become frustrated and even angry when the lights fail and permanently die after hours of careful artistic positioning. This time my wife was impressed by my whole attitude, my new calm and non-griping manner, the gentle smile of holiday cheer and goodwill toward all creatures, even Godzilla.

Of course the next day, once all three-hundred antique balls, tinsel and candles had been carefully adhered, the entire tree went dark, and it took over an hour to locate the one devilishly dead strand and replace it. Even this I managed without much temper. I'm a much happier man now. The right woman will do that.

The ornament trimming was vastly improved because of a new system that I highly recommend to those with tall trees. Trim and finish the top first, even the icicle tinsel. This way the stepladder can be nestled into the lower limbs easily without knocking off and breaking delicate balls. I'm surprised I hadn't figured this one out sooner. (Reminds one of the cranberry rake: after 100s of years someone decided to attach a long handle.)

Another added plus to the top-first method is that you’re finished with the ladder work while still reasonably sober. No more balancing on the top step, reaching out precariously with that one final ornament while my wife points and directs, "There, a little further up. Almost. Just above that silver one," while the body sways and the head reels with calamitous visions as the holiday soaking of the Dutchman moves forward into agility centers.

I don’t tire of our mid-coast holiday traditions, which for us seem to begin with the collecting of our two plaid-bowed wreaths at the First Church. But who could possibly tire of the scent of balsam in a creaky stairwell, the beaming smiles of elderly volunteers, a classic church that still rings its bell on the hour and whose tall lit spire is visible from our house all night long. Last year, Dawn (not elderly) even gave us a huge wreath for our barn because its needle freshness had slipped below First Church standards, which are impeccable wreath standards in my opinion.

There’s the salmon filets to purchase, so that I can salt and dill the Christmas Eve gravlax; the downtown shops to search for last minute gifts, the street wonderfully hung with old-fashion lights; people’s spirits still not jaded but joyous as we live a New England American dream that has faded from too many communities. I believe that the quality of aesthetics is important in life. The beauty and poetry of surroundings changes more in our moods and happiness than we might think, and its obvious that the midcoast region cares in maintaining the quality that we have.

The forum thread I started was based on the idea of having a place to air poems and stories about vintage trains. Of course it spread into many other areas in order to last so long, one being photos of nature from different regions of the country, some of rare desert flowers, some of fields in rural Pennsylvania, some delving into the history of a forgotten railroad and so forth, but what binds them all together is the quality and care in the posts.

Quality takes time to produce and time to absorb fully and this concept seems to be waning in our national culture. My wish for our Christmas this year is that I take the time to really notice and appreciate things: the cutting and decorating of the tree, the preparing and tasting of the food, the hanging of outside lights, recalling the memories of those no longer with us. I’m going to try not to hurry or gripe once but embrace everything as it happens. After all, it’s only once a year. Speaking of which . . .

“Hey, what was that sound? That faint squeak?” Must be my old friend heading up the Pullman aisle like Santa.

[Tramp]

Christmas AUTO quiz. This is my father, Marshall Green, but what is the car, who was the owner, and where and when was it? I found out everything with online research, which delighted me since my dad has been dead for over 35 years.

Hint: My dad would've never touched the car without permission from the owner.

Second hint: The car was blue and still is blue.

[Tramp]

I finally have a layout! I'm running trains again. Feels wonderful. What goes better with beer than trains. Well . . . sex.

[Tramp]

And last, my HUGE Solstice party. Sadly, no one showed up, so I was talking to the fire after drinking all the special treats. Temp was a balmy 20 degrees, and YES, the fire is burning. Look close!

[rogruth]

Ahhh, Tramp.
I wondered who bought Dennis' layout.
Have fun.