The origin of the word "hobo" is unknown. Although there are a number of theories and thoughts pieced together, the moniker hobo is as lost in time as hobos themselves. We all know hobos as train jumpin' vagabonds, and that they were. However they were much more and much less.
At their best, hobos crisscrossed the land seeking work for food or money to send to their families, finding jobs as apple pickers, sheepherders, circus hands, or dirt diggers. Gaining "road wisdom" along the way that was essential to their survival. At their worst, they were drunkards, thieves, bums and breezers arising from the sinister shadows of the steam trains only to be run out of town on the same rails that had delivered them one or two swindles earlier.
Feeding off the feeble scraps of the Great Depression, hobos were hard livin' nomads lost to mainstream society and often each other. Huddling together on cold nights around campfires known as hobo jungles, their common plight evidenced in a wrinkled stare or whiskey soaked stubble as they shared tales of the latest jagged adventure. Developing their own loose knit language, chalk or coal written symbols and the most meager of tools, they found a way to survive on little or nothing since that was all they had. Those that did not make it, losing against the odds of this dangerous life, simply took the west bound.
HoboStrol pays tribute to living life at the edge, where the next adventure is just a moment away - jump aboard, nobody's lookin. Because where he goes, nobody knows.