3-14-08 Mary Gauthier – Last of the Hobo Kings

It’s funny what you’ll find when you dig into something. Take Mary Gauthier’s Last of the Hobo Kings, off her album Between Daylight and Dark.

I heard Last of the Hobo Kings on Maria Levitsky’s WFMU show on Wednesday (a show that has become an embarassment of riches, by the way - you’ll be hearing about two other songs from Wednesday’s show alone soon). Of course I liked it; you wouldn’t be reading this if I didn’t.

But it turns out there really was a Steam Train Maury. He even got a New York Times obituary when he died. He was Maurice W. Graham, and he rode the rails during the Great Depression and, when his midlife crisis locked itself in, again in the 1970’s - a consummate storyteller and a bullshit artist of the first water (and the two aren’t that far apart) who was voted King of the Hoboes five times at the Hobo Convention.

Oh, you didn’t know there was a Hobo Convention, did you? But there is – every year in Britt, Iowa since 1900. But it’s not what it used to be; according to this sobering entry on their FAQ (yes, the Hobo Convention has a Web presence and, yes, it has a FAQ):

Can we still ride a freight train to the Convention?

Freight train riding is illegal! Train service to Britt, Iowa is sporadic at best. There are 2-3 trains daily in either direction. While we don’t condone freight train riding, we recognize that there will be individuals who will choose to travel that way. Please be careful.

Guys like Steam Train Maury just don’t exist anymore, and hoboing is a world that just doesn’t exist anymore, either. And that’s sad, and that’s dangerous. We’re a country of middle managers and fast food cashiers; you keep what little you have, even if you have to kiss ass to do it. People like that are easily led and easily fooled: “Take what you what. Just leave me this little bit.”

But the life of a hobo has its dangers, too. You trade security for the wide blue yonder. And if you’re not Steam Train Maury – if you’re just another hobo – then you might wind up like the Sidedoor Pullman Kid, who died just recently in Phoenix, AZ. According to the article on his funeral Sidedoor, who was born John Francis O’Conner, wanted his ashes scattered at the Hobo Convention, but no doin’:

Maricopa County requires a family member to authorize a cremation. Sidedoor has no living relatives. He married Florence Wyckoff in the mid 1950’s and they settled for a while in Syracuse, NY. They moved to the Valley and when Florence died in 1985, he returned to the hobo life continuing to board boxcars until he was 82. A hobo owned and operated website, www.northbankfred.com shows Sidedoor at hobo gatherings in 2001 and 2002. The website reports from one of the gatherings: The granddaddy at this year’s Jungle is Sidedoor Pullman Kid, an old hobo who started hopping trains in 1930, joining an estimated three million riders on the rails during the Depression. Now 81, he still rides, taking short hops with his buddy, Tramp Printer, and leaving Phoenix during the summers for New York and Pennsylvania. Over the years, he’s supported himself as a fruit picker, a gandy dancer (track crew) and a construction worker. “Hoboes are the king of the road,” Sidedoor says joyously. “That’s a hard school of people to beat… . You couldn’t buy the education I’ve gotten for gold.”

And if you don’t have family or money, here’s your sendoff:

The White Tanks Cemetery lies along a desolate stretch of Camelback Road just west of the 303, directly off the end of the Luke Air Force Base runway. The only roses most of these graves will see are in a commercial nursery farm field to the north. Hundreds of one inch PVC pipes stick out of the ground marking each burial site. The only adornment most of them have are a brass marker about the size of a soup can lid noting the deceased’s name and date of death. This is Maricopa County’s cemetery for the indigent, those who die with no one to claim them. Despite the lonely departure, they are given one last moment of dignity. It would not be the choice of most, but as they enter the earth in a simple gray box, a minister issues a final prayer, nuns stand witness and a chain gang of female inmates from the county jail bow their heads.

No songs written for O’Conner, no obituary in the Grey Lady. But he died a hobo. He died doing the only thing he could think of doing, and that’s better than a 21-gun salute or fancy eulogies any day.

Here’s Gauthier singing Last of the Hobo Kings live. Thanks to THEREDNECKPEPI64TWO for putting this up.

This is another version, sung at the Fred Eaglesmith Charity Picnic in Aylmer, Ontario, Canada on Aug. 19, 2007. The sound’s awful, but I still put it up because of the little spiel Gauthier has before the song. Thanks to theoldyellr for putting this up.