Snookie and Horton - Did We Miss Our Stop?

My dad's childhood nickname was Snookie (It's a long story.), and his older brother was called Horton (An even funnier story, for another time.). They grew-up in rural Garrard County, Kenucky, not far from a little village named Paint Lick. They had a fairly normal life, which means lots of hard work, and lots of hard play.

Just like most children of the Great Depression Snookie and Horton had little or no money most of the time, so they had to find cheap entertainment to fill their time (When they weren't working.). They played baseball, hunted for Native American artifacts, and spent many hours teaching themselves to play the guitar, banjo, and fiddle. All rather tame. But, there was one activity they picked-up on that was a bit over the line by most standards. They liked to, as they put it, "hobo trains".

My dad and his brother would walk three to four miles from their home to the closest point that the train tracks ran. They would wait near the tracks for the train to roll by, run along beside an empty box car as fast as they could, and jump through an open door.

Usually Snookie and Horton would ride to Lancaster, Kentucky, about fifteen miles away, and go to a movie or just hang around the city square watching for pretty girls to walk by. They both were far too shy to actually speak to a girl, but that didn't keep them from looking.

There was one particular trip that both boys talked about long after their hair had turned grey. It seems that on this special day the movie did not let out until after dark, and a train did not come by headed east until nearly midnight. By the time they jumped aboard it was very cold, and the boys were very tired. The wind blowing through the box car's open door did not help matters, so they closed it. The boys then settled in next to one another in an effort to share body heat. They fell asleep.

A sudden jerk of the train woke one of the boys and he shook his brother to wake him. They fumbled around in the dark until they found a latch and opened the door. The sun was shining brightly in their eyes. No conversation was necessary, they both knew they were in trouble. Finally Horton spoke, "Son, where the hell are we?" Snookie did not even reply, he just pointed. A sign on the fast approaching train station said "Harlan".

As the train slowed to a stop both boys jumped off the train and landed in gravel with a loud thud. As they gathered themselves and slapped the dust from their clothes, Horton spoke again, "Mama's gonna kill us."

To which Snookie replied, "Nah, she ain't gonna kill us; she ain't never gonna see us again." Horton laughed for a second, and then replied, "Huh?" At that instant both boys realized the seriousness of the situation.

It took nearly two weeks for Snookie and Horton to find their way back home. The boys were too proud and too shy to ask for help, food, or directions (It's a guy thing.), so they survived on berries they found along the tracks. The boys would jump on a train headed north, jump off, and climb onto another train. Sometimes they walked, but mostly they rode trains. When they did finally arrive at their home they were surprised to discover that they had already been given-up for dead. A search party had looked for them for over a week, but finally gave-up. It was assumed that the boys had drowned in a creek or pond, and everyone was watching for their bodies to float to the top eventually.

Grandma Green didn't actually kill them, but after she stopped kissing and hugging them, she did make them wish they had died. Needless to say, Snookie and Horton's hobo days were a thing of the past At least, that's what they told their mother......?

That's How They Make Angels

When I was young, I had a predisposition to nearly kill myself with silly stunts, from time to time. Most guys know what I talking about - you know, the occasional fall from a tree limb, nearly hanging myself on a clothes line while running through a neighbor's backyard (after dark) playing hide-and-seek, or even running into a parked car with my bike while simultaneously steering with my feet (no hands on the handlebars) and looking over my shoulder to see why my best friend was shouting at me. The sorts of things that all boys did while growing-up in the 50's and 60's.

I would limp, or crawl, into the house and face the music. My mom would always get upset over the damage I had done to my body, or my clothes (I could never quite figure out which upset her the most?), and I would listen to her scolding which always seemed to last at least until bedtime (If the damage to my clothing was bad enough, I might hear about it over the course of several days).

My dad was always so cool about it. I could never figure out why, since he was the one who would have to pay for the replacement cloths and the occasional visit to the doctor for stitches (To the body, not the clothes.). He would always sigh and say, "Son, that's how they make angels, you know." Then he would watch TV, read the newspaper, or go out to the garage and tinker with his automobile.

When I was a junior in high school my dad's calm acceptance of my near fatal escapades became all too clear. I was injured in a high school football game, and required some treatment to my back at the local doctor's office. A very nice nurse administered the electro-shock therapy to the affected area. While she was doing the procedure she asked, "You're Snook Green's boy, aren't you?"

I was a little surprised to hear someone use my dad's childhood nickname, and simply replied, "Yes, mam."

"Well, how many of them ol' motorcycles have you torn-up?" she continued.

My dad had never allowed me to own, or even drive a motorcycle. He always discouraged me by saying, "Them ol' bikes are as dangerous as a loaded shotgun. No son of mine will ever have one as long as they are living under my roof!"

So I replied, "I've never had a motorcycle."

The lady laughed and said, "You're Snook Green's boy and you've never had a motorbike? Why by the time he was your age he had wrecked and torn up a half-a-dozen," she went on. "I've picked gravel outa his hide for days after some of his more spectacular crashes. Why once I saw him coming down a gravel road standing on his bike with one foot on the seat and the other on the handlebars," she chuckled. "Took almost a week to pick all the gravels out of his scrapes that time."

I left the doctor's office with a totally different opinion of my dad that day. I mentioned the conversation to my mom, and she just smiled and nodded her head. She already knew all about the bikes and the crashes. When my dad came in from work I smiled at him and said, "That's how they make angels, huh?" and I walked away, leaving him staring after me. I never did tell him about the nurse, the motorcycles, and the stories she told. I figured he would guess it on his own, or maybe mom would fill him in.

Yep, that's when I found out what "that's how they make angels" really meant to my dad.