A Hobo Tale

Hopping on the genealogy train to find out more about my ancestor and myself.

My great great uncle Frank Coughlin, the fifth of seven children born to wild west pioneer Michael “Cush” Coughlin and his wife Sophia, was intermittently a “knight of the road.” In other words, a hobo who road the rails.

In a 2003 interview, Todd DePastino, author of “Citizen Hobo: How a Century of Homelessness Shaped America”, said, “One famous quip had it that the hobo works and wanders, the tramp drinks and wanders, and the bum just drinks.”¹

Frank worked and wandered. He would come home to Cleveland once in a while, his clothing so filthy his mother would make him take it off outside.

When his sister, my great grandmother, Margaret Grant Coughlin (middle name in honor of the Ulysses S.), asked how he was able to get along, he said that it was because he could read the signs.

Hobo signs.

Hobo signs are a system of symbols, often made with chalk or coal, used by travelers to communicate with each other about local conditions like safe places to stay, friendly people, or dangerous areas. More fascinating information about this here.

Signs could be combined. For example the stick figure with the triangles that means “Kind woman lives here, tell pitiful story” is actually a combination of two symbols, the stick figure “Kind woman” and the triangles, which mean “tell pitiful story.”

Image credit and copyright: Linda Marie Johnson

Luckily, Ma was also interested in her family history, and so asked her grandmother— the aforementioned Margaret Grant Coughlin (who we all knew as Grama Lillie)— to write some things about her family. Here is what she said about her brother, Frank.

I’ve been interested in genealogy since I was 12, so I had the chance to talk to both Grama Lillie and my (great) Aunt Bess about their family. Bess was actually a better source because she was less prone to sugar coat the truth to preserve your opinion of someone. But when asked why she thought Frank wandered, even she said, “You know, that’s just how he was.”

On the 1920 census, Frank is listed as living with his parents and driving a truck, but after that paper trail goes cold—except for a single image of an index card found on Ancestry.com. According to this sparse record, Frank died on 28 May 1935 (he was just 40 years old). The card also indicates he was interred at St. Joseph Catholic Cemetery in Woodland, California, plot 244.

So, that’s where he died in California but we still don’t know why, or how. To find that out, I need to see his death certificate. I ordered it just now from Vital Check. They said it will take about 90 days. Given he’s been gone 90 years, I think I can wait. But I’m curious to see what it says.

When I dive into an ancestor’s history, I’m filled with empathy for who they were and what their life was like. What made Frank wander? How did the overall family dynamic impact him. His siblings. And their children.

And ultimately, how does my awareness of his life and choices impact my experience, and the person I am.

A kind woman, for example.

Just don’t try telling me a pitiful story.

I’ll make you a sandwich.

But that’s it.

UPDATE: I was able to obtain Frank’s death certificate from the state of California. He entered Yolo County Hospital in Yolo County, California on May 25, 1935 and died on May 28, 1935 at 6:25pm from kidney failure caused by pyelonephritis, a serious kidney infection and cystitis, a bladder infection, which led to uremia. His occupation was listed as painter, and he lived in what is now known as West Sacramento. Marital status, mother and father were all marked “not known.”

1. Hoboes, bums, tramps: How our terminology of homelessness has changed on the National Coalition for the Homeless website, accessed December 5, 2025.

From Lamplight to Daylight

Or, the impact of access to education.

In June of 1912, my grandfather, Joe Bouchez, age 14, had just completed the 8th grade. Like many of the boys in the small central Illinois town where he lived, rather than return to school in the fall, Joe followed his father into the coal mine. Likely he started out sorting shale from coal up top and later worked down below as a miner’s helper. This I inferred from my research on coal mining as according to my Dad, Grampa never talked about it.

Joe’s father, Louis, was born in Pâturages, Belgium (now known as Colfontaine) and came to the U.S. in 1885 when he was about 22. His mother, Sarah Simonin, was born in Sorrento, Illinois. She married Louis in October of 1897, and Joe was born in July of 1898. His two sisters, my aunts Sylvie and Adelaide, came later, in 1904 and 1907.

Sarah’s father, Victor, was also a coal miner but he had immigrated to the U.S. from Haute Saône, France in 1865, when mining wages were higher and working conditions were better. He was able to purchase some houses to rent and some land where he kept a small plot to farm and a few milk cows.

Mining in the early 20th century was an increasingly unstable occupation. There were strikes and injuries, and in Louis’ case, the tavern. Sarah was a very smart and capable person who, like most miner’s wives, did all kinds of things to keep the family afloat. In addition to taking care of kids and keeping house, she rented out her father’s houses, bred the heifers to get calves to take to market, and went with the doctor to help women deliver their babies.

She was also determined that Joe and his two sisters would have a better life and she knew the only way to do that was through education.

At that time, the best way to get that education was through the International Correspondence School, a pioneer in distance education founded in 1909. In 1914, at age 16, he undertook the certificate program for Mining Engineering. The hope was that it would allow him to become a foreman at the mine and not have to spend so much time in the pit.

This is my favorite receipt from the stack that were in my grandfather’s personal effects, which my Dad passed onto me.

© L. Helena Bouchez

An ICS course cost about 120 dollars, which was expensive but doable because the school had taken a page out of the Singer Sewing machine marketing strategy and let students break it up into installments and pay over time.

Joe was bright and applied himself and so passed the exams with high marks. Based on the dates on the exam receipts, it took him almost three years to get through it.

Oddly, out of the 40 classes required for this course, the receipt for the surveying module was the only one missing. Then, through research, I found his 1918 WWI draft card. There his occupation is listed as—surveyor.

Education, in combination with his efforts and desires, allowed Joe not only to lift himself out of the mines, but out of labor completely. Ultimately, he would become an engineer, and hold two patents. The journey was more complicated than that of course, but the point is, Joe was the first person in 12 generations who did not work his entire life as a miner because he had access to education.

Joe wasn’t the only one whose life was forever changed by this access. His two sisters, Sylvie and Adelaide went to nursing school, which allowed them to remain independent. Sylvie became an operating room nurse and hospital administrator in Vandalia, Illinois, and never married. Adelaide worked as a nurse for a time, and then as a sales person. (She did get married but not until she was in her 40’s.)

Joe’s son Russ (my Dad) and his two daughters (my aunts Margaret and Irene) were the first to go to college, and my Dad was determined that my sister and I get our degrees as well. My sister plowed through her degree in three and a half years. I got mine too, though my path was not nearly as straightforward!

My sister and I both have our own businesses now, which is another conversation entirely, about the paradoxes of independence and responsibility, and the need to coexist among the strange bedfellows that are safety and risk, as we tread that path.

Would we be here without the education we received at those institutions of higher learning? In my case, no. Having a degree checked a box that eliminated a barrier and allowed me to compete for employment that led to projects that led to key connections with people who have been pivotal in my success.

Just like that ICS course eliminated a barrier that allowed my grandfather to compete for employment that was done in the sunlight, instead of by lamplight.

Mr. Coffee Spills Some Tea

Or, a tale of dual identities.

Dad was primarily a tea drinker, Lipton (orange pekoe), with sugar and milk. He’d fill the tea kettle, place it on the stove (electric) and turned the dial to high. When the water reached a rolling boil, the steam would force its way through whistle cap and scream loudly until someone got up and turned off the burner.

My Dad had sensitive hearing and he passed that trait on to my sister and I. I swear sometimes I can hear grass growing across the street. (Only half kidding.) Anyway, we all really hated that whistle.

One day, a Mr. Coffee coffee maker appeared on the narrow counter next to the stove. It cost $40 in 1971, which is equivalent of $320 in today’s money. My parents lived frugally, but if Ma really wanted something, Dad would make the funds available. (We had one of the very first microwave ovens, the one that looked like a conventional range, but included microwave capability in the oven cavity. It also was extremely expensive compared to a standard oven.)

Not a Mr. Coffee machine. :-)

ID 19513469 © John Kasawa | Dreamstime.com

The Mr. Coffee machine was invented by Vince Marrotta, an engineer who sought to solve the problem of coffee becoming bitter when the basket of grounds was left in a coffee percolator too long. The result was a machine that would heat water to the perfect temperature (200 degrees Fahrenheit), and then control its flow over the grounds for the exactly the right length of time.

Our Mr. Coffee machine, however, was very rarely used to make a pot of coffee.

Dad realized that he could use the Mr. Coffee to make his tea. He got up early for work and so would fill the carafe with water and run it through the machine without anything in the basket. He’d then leave the burner on so the water stayed hot(ish) for Ma’s coffee—a teaspoon of Folgers instant and two tiny white tablets of saccharin. When the water got low, she’d run another carafe through. Dad would turn the machine off before he went to bed.

What Dad gained in convenience, peace, and quiet, however, he surely sacrificed in taste.

To brew tea properly, water has to be oxygenated to a certain point, which happens between 208-212 degrees F. You’re also supposed to let a tea bag steep 3-5 minutes and I know that never happened. So what Dad was drinking was basically light brown hot water with milk and sugar. This didn’t seem to bother him. Dad had a serious sweet tooth so I suspect he was in it primarily for the sugar. The hot water, tea dust, and milk were just accomplices.

From that day forward, on the countertop in my parents’ kitchen, was a coffee machine of some sort, its carafe full of hot water; a small jar of instant coffee and a dish full Lipton tea bags in the cupboard; and in a cut glass sugar bowl, some pink packets of Sweet and Low, which in later years Dad used instead of table sugar: doctor’s orders.

In December of 2014, my parents left their home and went to live with my sister, and the always on coffee-water pot was no more. And then in 2016, Dad (April) and Ma (August), also were no more.

Today, there is a coffee maker on our counter. A programmable Hamilton Beach 12-cup that cost $25 (about the same as a 12-cup Mr. Coffee).

I use it in the morning to make a half pot of Lavazza Classico, strong enough to stand a spoon up in it so it is not diluted by the generous pour of half-and-half and a pump of sugar-free salted caramel syrup.

There is also an electric tea kettle. It makes an low, angry, rattling noise when the water boils and shuts off automatically once it reaches temperature. My husband and I use it to make tea. PG Tips for him and Ty-Phoo for me, both brands recommended by a British-born friend.

I pour the water over the bag and set a timer for four minutes. I put a few tablespoons of milk (not half and half) into a cup and microwave it for a few seconds to take off the chill. When the bell rings, I remove the sachet, stir in too much some table sugar and then add the milk. I actually like a properly made cup of tea better than coffee, and I bet Dad would like it made this way, too.

We could afford to upgrade the coffee maker.

But my husband doesn’t often drink coffee, and, like my Dad, I’m in it primarily for the cream and syrup. The coffee’s just for cover.

And, it just wouldn’t be the same.

Brakes Off On the Road

Or, we'll never know what we never knew.

I was turning out left out of the parking garage at Illinois’ Rosemont Convention Center after attending an event there and I might have been going too fast.

“Hey, Parnelli Jones, slow it down!” shouted the cop directing traffic, as I careened past him.

Parnelli Jones. It had been a few decades since I’d heard that name. Dad knew him. And Bill Stroppe, too.

ID 48075934 © Randomshots | Dreamstime.com

Dad was a product development engineer specializing in brakes at Ford and worked on Bronco in the early 1970’s. Parnelli Jones was a legendary race car driver and racing team owner. Bill Stroppe—who has been referred to as the “Carol Shelby of the 4x4 world—was an off-road racing pioneer and a builder who contributed much to the development of the Ford Bronco.

Bill Stroppe was also the one responsible for getting Parnelli Jones into off-road racing, which ultimately led to them winning the Baja 1000 and Baja 500 in 1970 and 1973. (The Baja 1000 and 500 are challenging off-road races held on the Baja California Peninsula in Mexico, where various classes of vehicles travel hundreds miles across harsh desert terrain.)

Note: If you love racing, seek out a copy of Parnelli Jones’ autobiography, As a Matter of Fact, I am Parnelli Jones. It’s fantastic.

The Bronco had been in production since 1966, but to capitalize on its performance at Baja, and engage off-road enthusiasts, Ford began offering a special-edition “Baja Bronco” in 1971. (Nice deep dive on how that came about here.)

At the dealer, a buyer would tick the “Stroppe package” box on the order form and Ford would send the semi-complete vehicle to Bill Stroppe’s shop in Long Beach, California. There it would be outfitted with a reinforced chassis and upgraded suspension, among other things.

The Stroppe Broncos also sported a distinctive paint scheme: Wimbeldon White, Astra Blue (roof) and Calypso Coral (aka Poppy Red). Only 650 were made, and since they were marketed as off-road ready, not many of them have survived. At this writing, a 1973 Stroppe “Baja Bronco” is listed on the duPont registry for $174,800 USD.

***

Dad traveled a lot when we were kids, often two weeks out of four. Mostly to the west coast, either Los Angeles or to Kingman, Arizona about 25 miles southwest of the Yucca Proving Grounds. He loved Arizona and its warm, sunny weather. He complained about the smog in LA.

In LA, he would run Los Angeles City Traffic (LACT) tests, a specific route run on public streets and highways that was designed to simulate real-world driving conditions. It featured a number of very steep hills that under the right circumstances could lead to brake failure.

One day, I asked Dad if the brakes ever went out on a vehicle he was testing. He said, “Yes. I put a truck through the test track wall once.”

First I’d hear of it.

Dad worked in a building that was across the street from my high school and so if we had to stay late, he would give us a ride home. This day he diverted to an access road near Greenfield Village with an undulating red brick wall. On the other side of the wall were the Ford Proving Grounds. He slowed the car down and pointed to a place where the bricks in the wall had clearly been repaired.

When I asked him when it had happened he just said, “Oh, a while ago.”

I think there was a lot I didn’t know about my Dad.

***

Dad visited Bill Stroppe when he was in LA but I know he also went to Baja California with Stroppe and Jones. Was he there in his capacity as a Ford engineer, or just helping out? Did he go on a Baja pre-run? Ride in one of the chase cars?

Stroppe passed away in 1995 and we lost Dad in 2016. I just missed Jones, who passed away in June of 2024 at the age of 90.

There’s no one left to ask.

Still, I like to imagine my Dad in a Bronco off-roading with Parnelli Jones at the wheel. Did it happen? Probably. Possibly. Truth is…I hope so.

***

There’s a old Polaroid of 11-year old me in a Baja Bronco T-shirt Dad brought back from one of his trips. (I’m including just the T-Shirt because I don’t want the original image vacuumed up by an LLM who will do with it who knows what.) If anyone reading this has one of these shirts in the back of a drawer somewhere, I’d love to have it.

Photo © L. Helena Bouchez. Taken in 1973 by R.J. Bouchez

No More Strings Attached

Or, "If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice." (Rush: Free Will)

Kathy and Nick were in the living room with my husband Jeff, working up a set or two of music to play out on the back deck. No particular agenda.

I grabbed my bass off the wall and sat down to play and—I just wasn’t feeling it. It was like the three of them were in a fishbowl happily swimming around while I flopped around on the outside looking for a way in.

***

I learned to play bass at age 40, during my world-class midlife crisis. I was dating a musician who had a three-room rehearsal space on the second floor of a factory not far from Chicago’s meatpacking district.

One night, tired of my campfire guitar playing, he took me into one of the rehearsal rooms, put his beat-up black bass in my hands, stood me in front of his bass rig—two 15” Eden speakers, stacked, powered by an Ampeg SVT4 head—and turned it all the way up.

I plucked the E-string, felt the air from the two big speaker cones whoosh into my back, and that was it. I put down the guitar and never looked back.

Over the next five years, outside my day job in IT at an ad agency, bass became my life. I played bass two, three, four hours a day. I listened to music and meticulously deconstructed bass lines. I interviewed bass players for bass guitar magazines. I worked freelance for a bass guitar manufacturer.

If you know me, you know I do nothing halfway. If I’m in, I’m all the way in.

The boyfriend assembled a band, and we played out a couple of times a month. Parties. Small community events. Some early shows at Betty’s Blue Star Lounge where we actually got paid. Not a lot. Breakfast money. Still, it was a thrill. I got a lot of attention. I was a chick bass player who could actually play.

Then, I was an insider—100%.

Photo Credit: ID 205300654 © Rafael Da Silva Pereira

It was fun to be on stage but I soon discovered that my memory was not reliable when it came to retrieving three sets worth of memorized bass lines—unless I spent hours upon hours driving them into my fingers. And while this issue wasn’t that hard to hide in a band that wasn’t that good, I knew from my interviews with professional musicians that once I got with better players it would be game over—quickly.

A couple of bands and another bass player boyfriend later, an opportunity opened up to audition for a noted Chicago blues artist. Was I good enough? If I could remember the freaking parts, absolutely.

However, that gig would also involve playing until 5am three nights a week at a blues bar and then going to a day job, which is what the band leader, a CTA bus driver, had been doing for decades.

If my memory was better I might have gone for it. Retrospect, it’s probably a good thing my memory wasn’t better. The blues scene is rough. (IYKYK.)

I continued to play and practice, doing little gigs with some local musician friends but as the years passed it was feeling more and more like work with no real reward.

Still, I had this skill I had invested years in developing and it seemed like a waste to just walk away from it.

I told myself I needed an $800 Taylor GS Mini acoustic/electric bass because it would allow me to practice and play unplugged might entice me to re-engage, and it did.

I used it to learn the original bass line to “Walk Don’t Run,” an instrumental 60’s surf tune by The Ventures from YouTube. I took it to Jeff in hopes we could play together. We quickly discovered he had learned a different arrangement in high school jazz band. To make it work, I would have had to learn a different bass line and what little energy I’d managed to gin up went out of it.

***

So, as I sat in with my friends and my spouse trying to find some way to contribute to a half dozen songs I’d never heard much less played before I realized this: Save for the four songs whose bass lines are driven so far into my muscle memory I could play them dead drunk and laying on my back, playing mostly just stressed me out now, and with few exceptions, it had done so for a while.

Dropping in on new songs and having to figure out something to play on the fly is sort of SOP in jam situations and I used to get some reward from my ability to make the music feel good with my limited chops. And there is value in that but it got to the point where that was the only situation I was ever in.

Some people just like to play and don’t get too wrinkled up if it doesn’t sound perfect.

The problem is I know what it’s like to be well-rehearsed and play so well that there is that little pause before people start clapping because you and your bandmates commanded all of their attention and they need a few seconds to come back to earth.

My professional musician friends will know exactly what I’m talking about. They’d also tell you to create that, everyone has to be all in.

***

This outsider-y feeling has arisen before and in the past I’ve doubled down and pushed my way back in.

My response this time was to take the dog and go upstairs to our room and close the door. Open up my laptop and spend the time writing. Doing my art, all the way.

Right here. On this page. With you.

And with that act, I let the bass go. I did it without swearing it off or taking any oaths. I’ll play or I won’t and I’m just not going to mind what happens with it anymore.

Custom Lakland Bass. 4-94 body with a Darryl Jones (Jazz) neck, 33.5” scale. 8.5 pounds. Ashdown 2-10” combo amp. 83 pounds. © L. Helena Bouchez