Gypsy Wanderers

In the blog about my Dad, I mentioned the man who lived in a house by the side of the road. Where we lived, the road in question was Missouri State Highway Number Eight. Actually we lived in three different homes by the side of that road, and each has its own story. The gypsy story came about when we lived in the first of those three houses.

There were several acres attached to the house, and a long grassy strip ran between the house and the road, probably extending three or four acres in length. The time period was the 1930s, and at that time, No. 8 was still a gravel road. Trucks and cars traveled the road, but there were also people going by in horse-drawn wagons. I do not recall, for certain, the vehicles the gypsies drove; but I believe they were older model light trucks.

It was not unusual for gypsies or hoboes [another blog later on?] to travel this road. However, their reputation was not the best. It was said they had a knack for picking up anything that was loose, if you weren’t looking. I don’t know if that was true, or blown out of proportion, as things sometimes are, because someone had a bad experience. It is not my intent to malign them, but merely to recount the incident, to give you an occasional glimpse of our lives at that time. The spokesperson for the group asked Dad for permission to camp overnight on that ideally long, grassy strip of land. What else would the man who lived by the side of the road do, but say yes? Although we were, by Dad’s example, taught kindness to others, we also were taught to keep some wariness of strangers, and look out for ourselves. I’m sure some of the neighbors thought Dad was crazy. He wasn’t; he was simply a good man.

Dad went out and talked to the people, while they worked, to get an idea of who his overnight guests were. They built a camp fire, cooked their supper, and invited us to come visit around the campfire, after they finished their meal. Dad sent word to the neighbors. The parents didn’t come up, but they allowed their children to visit. The youngest child was a girl about 10, my friend, a year or so older than I was. The ages of her brothers and sisters, ranged probably from the early to late teens.

As so often happened in those days when a group of people got together, the time around the camp fire was spent in story-telling and singing. One of the songs frequently sung when people got together was, “Froggie Went A Courtin’.” I only remember the chorus of that song. And “Where Have You Been, Biily Boy,” although I am not sure of the title of that song. That may be just the beginning line. Another favorite was “Red River Valley.”

We, perhaps, were a bit edgy with this new experience, but we were enjoying ourselves also. They encouraged us all to participate. One of the girls sang a song that had a line saying, “You can’t go to heaven taking a chew.” She got a bit nervous thinking she might have offended some of the men who were chewing tobacco, and was afraid to sing anymore.” If they noticed the implication, it was ignored, and I only recall having a good time listening to the stories, and the tales the gypsies told of their nomadic life.