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Puyallup was a small town when I was a kid. I can remember the signs on the old river road said that less then 7 thousand people lived there. The town’s main existence seemed to depend on the large number of lumber mills and canneries that were in operation within the town. There were of course a lot of farms as well. Mainly growing berries of all kinds and bulb farms. The family of one of my friends then was Dutch people who had started a large bulb farm and exported flowers and bulbs all over the world.  

All along Pioneer Avenue, which is one of the main arterial roads, running east and west in Puyallup, was where many of the lumber mills and canneries were located.  My house on 4^th avenue was just one block south of Pioneer. We could see one large lumber mill and at least two canneries from our front porch.   

My grandma Wassman lived on the northeast part of town and we had to actually travel through the yard of the one of the lumber mills to get to her house. It was kind of a scary and thrilling adventure to go that way. The road we traveled cross the railroad tracks and through a tunnel on the way. The lumber mill was divided into two main sections, the mill building itself, and the lumber pile. The road went between the two sections. There was a large cable on a crane that pulled several logs at a time through the air from the pile to the mill. The part of the road that went between the mill and the log pile was covered with a little tunnel made out of logs strapped together with many cables. Sometimes as the logs were going over head above the tunnel, they would hit the tunnel and shake it severally. Sometimes the tunnel would be damaged bad enough that it had to be closed for repair. In those cases we had to take the long way to grandma’s house by way of Main Street downtown. It was a thrill to have the logs pass over the car as we traveled or had to wait as they were passing over head. There was a light on the tunnel and when logs were to go overhead the light would come on and we were not supposed to go into the tunnel. We were so used to it that sometimes my dad would just go anyway and ignore the stoplight. Sometimes the logs would hit the tunnel and small pieces of wood would fall on the car. We boys thought is was real fun and always looked forward to that part of the trip. The railroad crossing was marked but there was no warning as to a train coming and there were several people in the neighborhood killed on the tracks. It was up to the driver to stop and look before going over the tracks. There was not much distance between the end of the tunnel and the tracks to see if a train was coming and looking back now can see why so many people were killed there. One of the people killed there was Byron Wollery’s brother. He had just started driving, and had went over to the grocery store to get some bread for his mother but was killed by the train when he came out of the tunnel and did not see the train. I remember how Fred, my brother and me looked at the smashed car and the blood on the bread still in the car.  

The tracks were there of course to provide a way for raw materials like logs, fruits, and vegetables to be brought to the mills and canneries. My neighborhood had many people who worked at either the canneries or the big mill. This included my mom and dad who worked at the canneries across the tracks and at the big Hunts cannery downtown. Both of my grandfathers had worked at that cannery. In fact my grandpa Wassman was one of the bosses there until his health got so bad he had to retire. We were all tied to the lumber mills or canneries in one way or another.  I will never forget the day as I and some of my friends were riding our bikes on the new blacktop they had put in at Spinning grade school. It was one of those summer days, when it is worm but the sky was kind of dark without having rain, but looking like it may at any time. We noticed that there seemed to be smoke going into the sky near the big lumber mill. There had been small fires at the mill in the past and sometimes scrap wood was burnt, so just the sight of smoke was not a cause for concern by itself. Suddenly we could see flames shooting into the sky and we heard the sound of fire trucks on the way from downtown. The sound of fire trucks was always a sign to us kids that excitement was sure to come. We pumped the peddles hard down 13^th street and turned left onto Pioneer and that is when we saw that the big mill was really on fire, and that it was a bad one.  

Smoke and flame lit up the sky and it seemed to turn to night from day. The men who had been working at the mill had ran across Pioneer avenue and were standing in peoples yards looking at the fire and the fire men trying to get it out. As the fire raged on several hundred people lined Pioneer Avenue to watch the fire. Many of them had tears running down their faces. I did not really comprehend why they were crying, but I know now that this was the end of their jobs and in many ways and end to a way of life in our neighborhood. Many people never recovered from the loss of the job they had in the mill. There was talk for some time that the mill would be rebuilt, but it never was. Several families, who had lived in our block for years, pulled up stakes and moved on. Others were able to retire. My family did not have anyone working at the mill, but they were sad to see it gone.  

The canneries were still there and other businesses eventually moved into locations next to the tracks. There was a continuous parade of trains going up and down the track both day and night. The old steam engines were the best to watch. They would send smoke into the air and make all kinds of neat noises as they sped past. Most of the railroads had converted to diesel engines even then, but occasionally an old steamier would go by, and us boys loved to watch and waive at the train as it passed. Our house was close enough to the tracks that it would shake and rattle every time a train went by. People like my grandparents from Oregon would find it hard to sleep because of the noise, but our family got so used to it that we hardly noticed and never woke up at night because of it. The trains were kind of like giant friends to us kids and we got used to the schedule they kept and spent many a hour watching them pass. We noticed that occasionally there were men in some of the boxcars. These ragged men would hold a special fascination to us boys latter.    

There were spur tracks along the main railroad track were box cars were left to be filled with products made at the canneries at some time in the future. These cars were kind of like magnets to us boys. Each of the canneries along the track had several of them parked. At first we just went close to them a safe distance away from the tracks. We were not allowed to even cross Pioneer Avenue in those days let along go near the tracks. Our parents would have punished us very bad had they caught us there. Maybe left alone, we may never go so close, but other boys from farther east of our block drifted down into our territory. We could not let these outsiders think we were chicken or something. They crossed Pioneer and actually went on the tracks and into the boxcars. We just had to follow didn’t we? We got to play in the cars, climbing over and under them. We looked at the big couplers and brakes. We would get on top and walk the little walking path that was built on the cars, or at least we thought they were meant for walking.  We even got brave enough to go up to the cars as the trainmen were switching them. The trainmen, if they saw us would holler and tell us to get the blank of the tracks. We would only run away when they started toward us. It was a wonder that we never got really hurt. I think more than once one of us fell off the cars and got scrapes and cuts on the rocks in the track bed. We really got to love the smell of the cars and the railroad ties.  

It was during one of our adventures in the cars that all of a sudden as we entered a car, we discovered that we were not alone. Setting in the corner of a boxcar was a black man. He was dressed real shabby and looked like he had not had a bath or clean cloths for a long time. At first we were scared of him, but he said, “ Howdy boys”, and we felt better because of the friendly sound of his voice. We went over to him and introduced ourselves. He was a man from California and he told us that he had traveled all over the country riding free on the trains in this way. He told us about having boys of his own back home about our ages and asked us several questions about what we liked and school and stuff. He told us that a lot of guys like him liked to come to our town to get free stuff that the canneries through out. He also told us that there was a jungle a little east of where we were with him were others guys live. We did not really know what he meant about the jungle. A jungle to us was a place where lions and tigers lived not men. We didn’t want to appear stupid so nobody asked for an explanation.  After a little talking we left him and went back across Pioneer and back to our homes for the day.  

The man looked and smelled a lot like the men who used to come to my grandma Wassman’s back door looking for odd jobs to do for something to eat. Grandma called them hobos. Today I suppose we would call them homeless men. In those days there were a lot of good men who could not find work, as it was not that long past the depression. Many people like my grandparents and parents could remember those hard times and would give the hobos a hand out when they could. Grandma never saw bad in anyone, and was good for a sandwich and a cup of soup most days. She never asked the men to work, but encouraged them to go back to their families.  

A little latter in that summer, the group of kids I ran with ventured way down Pioneer to the place where there was an old water tower that had been used to fill the boilers for the old steam engines that used to be on the tracks. It was not used now and was falling into disrepair. The group of boys that we meet near the tower used to climb the tower as part of their play. It was very tall and had a railing going straight up on the outside of the tower. I have never liked going high in the air in any form, but it was kind of a challenge to our group to show these guys that we were as brave as they were and climb the tower with them. Even though I was scared, I climbed it on several occasions. During one of these climbs we saw other men setting on an old loading dock in the sun. The men looked just like the man we saw in the boxcar. All the boys from both groups went over to the men and started to talk to them. These men did not seem too friendly. They made some conversation but used a lot of words that my mom and grandma’s would have washed my mouth out for using.  Many of the men were chewing tobacco and spitting it on the ground. One of them offered us some but of course we didn’t take it. They seemed to be laughing at us. The other boys had talked to these men before and were not eager to stay. 

After we left these men, the other boys said that they were hoboes and mean. In fact they said that they carried knives and got drunk and would chase them sometimes when they were drunk. The boys told us that there were a lot of these men living in a swampy area closer to were we lived and that men had called it a hobo jungle. This was then the jungle that the first man had told us about. Now we were curious about what the jungle was like, but we sure did not want to have our heads cut off by one of these men.  

One real hot day when it didn’t seem like we had a lot to do, we found ourselves on the other side of Pioneer Avenue, the wrong side of the tracks. We had not intended to go to the jungle and I don’t think any of us boys even thought about it as we went along the tracks talking and eating some of the wild blackberries that grew there. Suddenly as we got deeper into the woods we could hear sounds of people in the distance. We were following a small path in the woods when all of a sudden we saw several little sheds made of pieces of wood, cardboard and cloth. There were old tires and tin cans around the area and a supply of bottles. Pop, beer and wine bottles could be collected then and redeemed for money at the grocery store in those days. I suppose that is why there were so many bottles, but I am sure the inhabitants of this place had emptied many of the bottles. There were the same shaggy looking men setting around on the ground and logs in the camp. This had to be the jungle “hobo jungle” we had been told about.  

These men seemed to be mean and to be hollering at each other most of the time. We were sure we did not want to have them find us this far away from the road. All of a sudden one of the men stopped screaming at the other men and looked our way. We were all crouching low in the under brush, and didn’t think they could see us, but we must have made some noise they heard. They hollered “who is there”? And “come here” and stuff like that. I know I was getting more than scarred at the thoughts of being taken by one of these men. My mom and dad had kidded me about selling me to the Gypsies if I was not good. I was not sure if hobo was the same as Gypsy or not but the look and sound of these guys gave me the shivers.  I never found out who started throwing rocks, or why, but all of a sudden some of the boys I was with started throwing rocks at the hobos. This did not endear us to them at all. They started cursing us and running toward us very fast. Nobody had to tell me to run, my legs just got up and went and my body went with them. I was running and trying to find my brother to make sure he was okay at the same time. As I ran through the weeds, several thistles and blackberry buses tore my skin and clothing. I was too scared to worry about it. The jungle was near a swampy area of land and as I was running, I slipped several times and fell into the mud and water. I felt as though the crazed hobos were just about ready to overtake me at any moment. The thought of being sold to the Gypsies, whatever that meant, rushed through my head. All I knew was that there was some real bad thing chasing me and I had to get away fast. As I was running I paid little attention to the other boys other than my brother who I finally saw running as fast as I was just ahead of me. Well at least I thought to my self, my brother could tell our parents where to look for me and maybe the police could get me back some day if I got caught. Suddenly I was knocked to the ground. My head hurt real bad. I got up ran a little longer and was knocked down again with a jolt to my head. Had a hobo shot me? Had a bottle hit me in the head? No, I had run into a wasp nest and they were stinging me. Normal bee stings did not bother me. In fact I would catch them in my hands and let them sting me to impress the girls in our neighborhood. The wasps were another story. I did not realize what they were other than I knew after a few seconds that they were some kind of bee, until I got home and found one of them dead in my shirt pocket. Boy did they hurt my head and I had knots on it for a day or two. I did not dare tell mom where I had been and how I got stung, but she nursed my stings and made me all better as she always did.  

We all made it out of the jungle all alive and unharmed. I don’t think the hobos would have hurt us if we had not thrown the rocks. I do not know why, other than maybe fear we did such a dumb thing in the first place. None of the boys I played with were that kind and never tried to hurt anyone, but for some reason we just lost it that day. We never went back to the jungle. I found out years latter that there had been quite a problem with the hobos living over there and that the police had moved them all our one day.  

  Good thing I was a fast runner, or maybe I would be a Gypsy today. At least I used the same treat to get my girls to be good but they knew their dad would never sell them to anyone as I knew my parents loved me dearly as well.  

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