D I S T I N C T L Y M O N T A N A M A G A Z I N E • S U M M E R 2 0 2 1
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O
NE SUMMER'S DAY AFTER CHURCH, WHEN I WAS IN
FIRST OR SECOND GRADE, one of the big-hatted, blue-
haired ladies of the St. Leo's congregation asked me, within
earshot of my father, what I wanted to be when I grew up.
I answered, without a moment's doubt, "I want to be a hobo!"
The grand dame's face colored, but she smiled politely. A few
feet away, Dad curled his toes in his boots, trying to hide how
embarrassed he was.
"Kids," he said apologetically.
It seemed an appealing lifestyle to me: they were kings of the
road, knights-errant riding iron horses from adventure to adven-
ture. Best of all, they spent most of their time camping and got
to eat all the beans they wanted.
My buddy Tom was just as taken with hobo-ing as I was,
as I think a lot of boys were in those days. Today, the word is
considered pejorative, but we used it with admiration bordering
OLD BROKE RANCHER BY GARY SHELTON
ON
BECOMING
A HOBO
AT NINE
KING KING
ROAD ROAD
of
the
ROBERT
RATH
