Was raised in Missoura. Had us a small farm, little piece a land. We growed our own veg’tables ‘n raised some stock. Raisin’ stock was what I done mostly, lookin’ after the animals. Only steady job I had ‘sides raisin’ stock was janitor work. Had me a job workin’ fer this big comp’ny down home; sweepin’ floors, moppin’, cleanin’ up. Worked that job four years, ‘n they started givin’ me some shit about how things weren’t clean enough ger ‘em, so I tol’ ‘em they could stick the job up their ass. I went back ta raisin’ stock again ‘n that went along good. ‘N then things ‘tween me ‘n my wife weren’t workin’ out, ‘n one thing lead ta another, ‘n I come ta find myself on the tramp.

I got kids, four of ‘em. The oldest one’s fifteen. They never knowed I was a tramp till last year.  Ever’ so often I’d swing down that-a-way ‘n see ‘em, ‘n last year I tol’ my oldest boy what I does.  My wife, she don’t want the kids ta know. She’s been a-keepin’ it from ‘em, but I figger they’s gonna find out one way er ‘nother, n’ better they hear it from me ‘n somebody else. I took the boy aside ‘n ‘splained about trampin’ to him, ‘n how it’s a way a life ‘n nothin’ ta be ashamed a. ‘N I weren’t sure he understood what it was I was sayin’, ‘cause at the time, he didn’t say much. ‘N I was packin’ up my things, gittin’ ready ta head out, ‘n I’m standin’ in the door sayin’ good-bye ta ever’ one, ‘n I sez ta him, “Good-bye son.” ‘N he looks at me ‘n he sez, “Dad, take me with ya. I wanna go along with ya.” I tol’ him mebbe I’d come back fer him one day when he was older. This here ain’t no life fer a kid.

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