Tough Guys Eh?

We were young teens. Eddie Jackson, Ronnie Barker and

I rode our bikes several miles one day on our summer va-

cation to Kenrick Seminary. There on that property was a

a patch of woods—lots of overgrown brush, poison ivy

and trees, a cool place away from our neighborhood where

three hooligans such as we could freely cuss, spit and smoke

our Pall Mall, Camel and Lucky Strike cigarettes. Hidden from

sight, we could eat the Snickers and Three Musketeers candy

bars we had swiped earlier from the Rexall Drugs. We thought

of ourselves as pretty cool cats, hot shit one could say. In the

woods we came across what Eddie told us was a hobo camp.

The seminarians who lived and studied for the priesthood at

Kenrick often gave handouts of food and loose change to

the bums passing through. Those guys ride the rails to get

here from everywhere across the country, Eddie told us.

And like us, they occasionally like to get away and hide from

the rest of society. And we hoped they wouldn’t show up while

we were there. They can get pretty mean, Eddie warned us.

And they fight with knives. Most have scarred faces to prove

it. They get pissed off when it comes to strangers invading their

turf. They’re a bunch of weather-worn guys who live out their

lives in the open without a roof over their heads, night and day

in all kinds of weather. Look around, Eddie said pointing to the

extinguished ashes of a campfire. There were empty food cans

and broken wine and voda bottles scattered about. Ronnie and

I looked at one another awestruck and fearful that those hobos

might return at any time. Let’s get the hell out of here while we

can, Ronny said. And I was thinking to myself, we three aren’t

such tough guys after all. I’ve grown a lot older now, and have

been through some pretty rough times myself. That’s why I’ll

usually give some cash I can spare to those weather-worn,

and scar-faced panhandlers who approach me on the street.

Ever been to Kenrick Seminary, I'll ask?

Chris Hanch 8-30-19