The Knapsack, Go-Bag: Emblem of the Hobo of the Modern Times
Our country has a long tradition (possibly two hundred years or more?) of guys--men, typically, called by the rest of polite society as vagrants or hobos, many times jumping on train cars across the nation, finding their luck or fate in various and sundry ways, making their life a bit haphazard and carefree, perhaps a notion of threat to the rest of us, living in less of a sedentary style, but more like a nomad or a romanticized Gypsy of yesteryear.
Hobos. Vagrants. Bums. Train spotters or jumpers. They would have those cloth knapsacks, stereotypically attached to the end of stick. It does not have to be just these guys. Houseless tramps, wandering migrants and illegal immigrants. Some come from Latin America, but in the vast expanses of the United States, and maybe into Canada, there is space and opportunity for the long distance travelers, sojourners, soul searchers, malcontents and homeless, the poor or the random well-off miscreant, maybe an alcoholic or drug-induced wanderer. Sane or not, smart or dumb, hairy and hirsute or well shaved and or bald, these people take their bags of choice to and fro.
We do not have to be a hobo or a poor wayfarer to use bags that aid us in our travels.
Regular travelers and tourists use their luggage and bags for their belongings or gifts, their keepsakes and knickknacks. Knick knacks in knap sacks. English. Gym goers have gym bags, or sacks, cases, or even purses, to pack their wares and change of clothes and footwear.
Some of us in other realms use bags and sacks for our purposes, which can be named by different appellations, like the "go-bag". A sack or bag that can be picked up in a moment's notice, to be highly mobile and still effective in our duties and missions. I had one once; I used it in places where we traveled by day or by night, whenever or whatever we had to do. It was far away from where I am normally, and I kept it in my house storage. I believe that my daughter or maybe my son, or maybe both at one point, borrowed it for their own traveling or sporting purposes.
It was long, it was made of a strong, tannish material, it had some adjustable straps. It brought back good or nostalgic memories from my times away, my ventures into odd and exotic places where I was supposed to be, doing what I was doing. With others, but not always. Sometimes by myself, moving between bases, some times back to places that I knew before, some of those places familiar and homey, but becoming distant as time wore on.
My kids say I can be cryptic. Okay, maybe, but these things mean stuff to me, and perhaps it could be meaningful to another. Not too special, not too outlandish, nothing too crazy, but some footnotes, not endnotes, of my life. My go-bag was a nice and maybe bittersweet reminder of a few days, or past moments where I was engaged in some far off travels and jobs. Moments with others and by myself.
Perhaps it was canvas, that go-bag. Not burlap. But alas, not all things can or should last. My wife did a long, cold, late night cleaning up and out of the detritus and materials of our cluttered garage. It was kind of an end of the year purging, if you will. Within some of the things found, was a solid amount of rodent waste, and some of their damage and contamination to our things, to include that once valued go-bag. Not just a knapsack or cloth satchel, but the once valued carry item. Perhaps three of us used it over ten years?
It sat at the top of the trash heap. Actually, there were two trash cans filled to the brim. It sat close to the top of one. I tried to see or determine if the stains could be removed, if this bag could be salvaged. Some of those memories spoke to me as I touched it, analyzed it status. No, it was time to bid it adieu. Goodbye. Farewell. Best wishes. This little remembrance or tribute a bag used and used up. To a container that worked for a season, that had its use and purpose, sat silent and mostly forgotten, and went off with many other old, discarded possessions. I was glad I saw it before it left for the dung heap of the our greater nation. It may sit moldering somewhere, below maybe by now, a ton of other things, large and small, remembered or forgotten, valued or disdained.
Have I put it to bed? Have I evoked the gods and spirits of the hobos and free spirits, the workers and the tourists, the travelers and the hikers, the itinerant workers and the specialized operators, who crossed the nation as poor and rich, loved and hated, abandoned or cherished?
Have I become a modern hobo, looking back across the fields and meadow and rivers and bridges of the land, albeit in memory and emotion, thinking back to a time when I was less inhibited, less constrained, freer to live yet stuck in the same rhythms that we all ultimately find ourselves in?
Sure, maybe.
I will get that to-go bag to go, please. Rest it on my shoulder and move on down the road of life.
