The Hobo’s Secret

Saturday morning Austin was up early, breakfasted and out on the main street to scout several sites for photographing different angles of the Santa Claus Parade. Meanwhile, the committee and participants were assembling in and around the arena and its parking lot, getting ready for the eleven o’clock start-up when the town band would lead off, followed by an open classic Packard convertible bearing the mayor, county warden and Member of Parliament.

Next would come various institutional floats – Boy Scouts and Girl Guides, church and school groups, sports teams, and anglers and hunters. Then onlookers would begin to see floats of local businesses, some promoting their products, others with Christmas themes. Interspersed among them all would be clowns, Santa’s elves, and the fun-loving Shriners in their miniature cars.

And that was pretty much what Austin saw unfold from his various vantage spots along the route. He kept a sharp eye out for one participant in particular.

Austin shot photos from up high and down low, even trying to get creative by placing his camera on the pavement. He captured the beaming dignitaries in the old Packard, the fire chief in an antique pumper, the Scouts and Guides on a decorated tractor-drawn float, 4-H Club youths on a wagon pulled by a team of magnificent big Clydesdale horses, the puffed cheeks of horn players in the town band, and of course the faces of the spectators lining both sides of the street, not least the happy smiles of children.

Suddenly, out of a side street came one of the Shriners’ mini-cars with a pair of clowns aboard, one driving with his knees up near his chin and the other hanging on for dear life as he grinned and waved jubilantly at the onlookers. He was dressed as, and made up to be a “rubby-dub” – sort of a hobo from the rail yards. Once in the parade itself, the hobo disembarked from his vehicle and attempted to march, hilariously, arms flailing in all directions and legs stretched sometimes shoulder-high and sometimes wobbling precariously beneath their owner.

He would make his way to both sides of the street, dip into the deep pockets of his tattered coat and hand out candies to young and old. He shouted out off-key renditions of popular Yuletide songs, kissed a couple of laughing elderly ladies on their cheeks, then re-joined his mini-car to wind its way further forward in the parade where the fun would be repeated.

Austin zeroed-in on these unruly clowns and snapped them in various hi-jinks, especially the hobo, though he was careful to not get too close. Eventually, as the pair neared the front of the parade, it became obvious to some that the hobo was tipsy – quite tipsy, in fact. His driver dropped him off behind the antique fire truck, upon which he climbed, the chief carefully observing in his mirror. The hobo swayed to the front and gave the chief a candy, tossed the last from his pockets to the crowd, waved, yawned hugely, lay down and went to sleep.

As is the tradition, Santa Clause himself brought up the end of the parade, complete with sleigh, a bevy of pretty elves and more candy for the crowd. Austin used quite a bit of film on Santa, trying to include as much of the crowd as could be squeezed in the background, to publish (unfortunately without names) in the holiday editions.

At the end, he made his way to the arena where the committee members were winding things down. Sally found him and asked how he did with the photos.

“Very well, I think. I tried to avoid any that might let someone identify the hobo, but he really was hilarious.”

“Good. He usually is,” said Sally. “Mister Inglis never had kids of his own so this is very important to him. But the only way he can come out of his shell is to have a few drinks beforehand. The committee understands and keeps his identity a secret. In fact, the fire chief won’t wake him until the old pumper is parked inside the fire hall. Later he’ll be driven home to sleep it off, and no one will ever know.”

“The secret is safe with me,” Austin grinned.