I was swinging on the front gate, trying to decide whether to walk down the street to play with Verna, my best friend in fifth grade, when I saw a tramp1 come up the road.
“Hello, little girl,” he said. “Is your mama at home?”
I nodded and swung the gate open to let him in the yard. He looked like all the tramps who came to our house from the hobo2 camp by the river during the Great Depression. His shaggy hair hung below a shapeless hat, and his threadbare3 shirt and trousers had been rained on and slept in. He smelled like a bonfire4.
He shuffled to the door. When my mother appeared, he asked, “Lady,