In my Language Arts class I was given the assignment to write a historical piece about the 1930's boxcar kids. I am supposed to write a made up story told as if I experienced it and this was what I had done during the 1930's. I have been in a writers block and can't get this decent enough to pass in. If you read this please help me with suggestions, editorials or anything else.
Please bare with the terrible writing.
Riding the rails
If you told me that my life as a teenager would have been spent begging for food, riding freight trains and living on streets I would have hit you.
My life in the 1920’s was amazing. Being the eldest son of two my parents saw me as their favorite. I lived in Augusta Maine with a big three floor house. it was a plain white building, with small deck and porch, and a small tire swing out in the front yard. My room was the only room on the third floor. A wooden spiraling stair case lead up to my room and a small circular window gave me a perfect view of the backyard, which happened to be directly in front of the big bright blue sea spraying waters of the Atlantic Ocean. My most prized possession was an autographed picture of Lewis Armstrong, my favorite, and the greatest jazz performer of all time. Lewis perform music was the first I had ever heard. I remember that day as if it was yesterday. In 1921 I was six at the time and my father decided to take my whole family out to see Lewis preform, but that is a different story for a different time.
On December 23, 1929 about two months after the stock market crash, my dad dawdled home without a job. It was the most shocking, terrifying and saddening thing ever told to me. He tried to assure my family that things would be alright. He couldn’t hide what had happened. My father was a stockbroker. On that day newspaper’s headline’s where practically screaming that the stock market had crashed, leaving many family’s including my own broke. On August 7th, 1930, six days after my fifteenth birthday I left to ride the rails, looking for any job available. In my head i had the idea that riding rails would be a fun adventure, but I was terribly mistaken. I recall my first time being the worst. It was nearly twelve midnight I planned to catch the only train out of Maine. The railway had a simple name, “The Maine Railway”. My father and I traveled on it many times to New York. during my childhood. No longer was I a child, I had to be a man. At the age of fifteen i had to fend for my self. New York was one place that I knew very well so that was where I would go. When the freight pulled out of the station I ran forward straight for the box car in front of me. The boxcar had a dark forbidding appeal to it. It was colored black with white letters spelling “Raritan River” a logo to a company. The box car wasn’t open so I had to climb up onto the roof. Using my left hand I grabbed one of the handles and started to swing my right hand forward. At nearly the top of the ladder my hand slipped. Shock streamed through my body as I started to fall. Someone grabbed me with a strong powerful grip and slowly pulled me onto the boxcar, the man had dark skin with a scar across his left cheek. He had a short buzz cut and wore old rags with holes in them. I only saw his face for a split second before he pulled me up onto the boxcar. Once in the roof, I tried to absorb what had happened. The train started to gain speed, moving faster by the second. A sharp turn nearly sent me flying off the tracks. I came to my senses and pulled off my belt and tied my self to the train. Then came the shaking. The boxcar picked up more speed and started to shake. I took hold of a small handle and tried to anchor myself but this didn’t work too well. My muscles strained and begged for relief as the train rumbled down the tracks. Terror overwhelmed my thoughts. Traveling to who knew where, not being able to sleep, I strained from to remain on the boxcar.
In the morning I stared out of tired, blood shot eyes at smelly, engrossed City, New York. The train’s piercing whistle screamed as the train eventually came to a stop. The violent shaking had ended but I was too afraid to let go or loosen my grip. The place was alive with people running for the Salvation Army aiming to find food. Kids started jumping from the freight, hundreds of them ran straight for the Hoovervilles or the center of the city. The mass of kids running looked like a flowing waterfall made of many different colors. They ran as fast as they could, steering clear of the bulls. They were brutal railway police men. If they caught someone hopping freights they oftentimes robed, beet, or even killed the vagrant. Awaken from my daze I looked around for the man who saved my life. He wasn’t anywhere in sight, as he was probably somewhere in the mass of people.
Climbing down from the top of the boxcar I readied my self hanging my feet inches from the ground. With adrenaline running thorough my veins, I jumped. Seconds after hitting the ground I started to stumble, nearly falling under another train, that could have killed me. Fortunately, I caught my balance long enough to stammer away from the freight. Five yards away I fell to the wet hard ground. As I laid there on the damp cold Earth a third freight train rumbled down the tracks. The horn blared as it drew closer. My tired mussels restricted me from getting up. Over and over the train horn blared. I couldn’t believe what was happening. Slowly I crawled over the tracks, my weak tired mussels gave and I sank to the ground defeated. While my legs hung hanging limply over the tracks. realizing the train only a few yards from me I drew one last effort and managed to pull my legs over the tracks to safety on the other side. A few seconds later the train sped by, blasting it’s horn.
After two years of living in New York shining shoes and living off of the Salvation Army, it was time for me to return home. Coming from the quite uninhabited acres of woods and blueberry bushes of Maine, I missed climbing big sappy pine trees in the warm summer air. I left New York and headed home with hopes that my family was back on track my father was employed. I knew that the journey home would be long and perilous, but there wasn’t anything that could make me happier than seeing my mothers face smiling. Magazines and friends taught me lots since riding my first train. Because I knew this my ride home was swift and exciting.
It took no longer than three days to get home. Not much had changed, my father was employed part time as bar tender. My mother had expanded her farm and was able to supply for the family. I was welcomed back into the house with hugs, kisses the best part was the chocolate chip cookies. They smelled delicious and when I bit into the soft gooey chocolate memories of past times flooded my mind. Tears started to well up inside my eyes. Glad to be home I offered to do anything possible to help support the family. My mother told me that I had already done enough, she then made me go up to my room and sleep.
After living with my family for half a year, my father only worked part part time and my mothers garden began to wither. My family’s savings began to shrink for the second time. I was beginning to think that once more I would have to ride freight trains. Hope for my family’s survival began to vanish, until the government announced that they would be opening a the, Civilian Conservation Corps. This gave my family hope. Instantly I ran down to the town center and signed up for a six month contract. My family waited an agonizing two weeks before my contract was approved and I was going to be earning twenty-five dollars a week for my family. Not only that but I now had a place to sleep and three full courses of meals each day. Finally my family had hope.
Gender:
Points: 1087
Reviews: 2