Don't you dare call him a hobo

Gloria Masoner

My husband and I had stopped by the local drinking establishment last weekend in order to recover from the final stages of removing the remnants of a garage from our back yard.

The lounge was nearly empty. We were sitting at the bar, quietly discussing our plans for the newly cleaned backyard and trying not to let our heads drop to the cool wood surface in exhaustion.

Our conversation had dwindled when I noticed a man sitting behind us. Since I had worked at the bar for a short time, I knew he was a stranger there.

The hard lines on his face made it difficult to determine his age. In my best estimate -- and I've never been very good at guessing ages -- I would put him somewhere between 30 and 40 years old.

I struck up a conversation with the gentleman and he, Brad and I spent several minutes visiting before I asked him where he was from.

"Well, ma'am," he said in a soft southern drawl, "I just got here from Denver but I guess you could call South Carolina home."

The conversation continued and he told us how he had left his home several years ago and began making his way along the railways scattered across the country.

"I miss my mom," he told us, "but there ain't no way I'm going back there to my dad."

He showed us a citation he had received earlier in the day for criminal trespass. "It's not the first one I've ever gotten. I've been doing this for a long time," he told us. "So you're a hobo?" someone asked him.

He seemed to bristle."No sir, I ain't no hobo. I am not now, nor have I ever been a hobo."

He straightened in his chair, repositioned his beer, looked us right in the eye and proudly declared, "I am a transient."

With the spring flowers beginning to bloom, the trees budding, the birds singing and the grass turning green, I think my husband is beginning to get the fishing fever.

"What are the tell-tale signs of fishing fever?" you might ask.

The first one is when you catch them in the storage shed cradling their favorite rod and reel. Then you might look to see if the tackle box has been moved and reorganized.

The most obvious sign, though, is when your husband is sitting in front of the television watching professionals catch 30 pound fish.

At that moment, when he looks at you and says, "Man, I'm sure getting fishing fever," you will know the weekend honey-do list is done and next Sunday -- unless it's raining -- you're going to be out at the lake getting sandy, sun-burned and most likely injured by some evil looking fish lure.