Living conditions were not hard for my mother's family during the Great Depression. The family was large, but Grandpa's job as a railroad inspector was steady. Their lifestyle was comfortable, though simple by modern standards. Their house was close the railroad tracks, so depression-era hoboes (jobless and homeless men who rode the rails) would often stop by their house looking for a handout. Some would ask for food, others would ask if they could chop wood or wash windows in exchange for food.
In those days, the hoboes had their own written sign language that they used to leave messages for others who were "riding the rails". They would mark or draw the signs on telephone polls and light posts. One particular mark was used to signify if a house was a good place to get a bite to eat.
Once my grandparents went out and left the children in the care of an older sibling. They heard a knock at the door, and when they looked out the window, they saw what my mother described as "a large, hairy man", a hobo with long hair and a long scraggly beard. When he realized the children were home alone he laughed out loud and attempted to come in through the door. My mother ran into the kitchen and grabbed the first thing she could find, an iron skillet. She ran back to the front room, brandishing the skillet in her upraised arm and chased the intruder back out the door and off the porch.
