The Hobo Barn

It sat on a hill above Highway 80, empty and decrepit. Abandoned. It had been claimed by an unsavory crowd--tramps and hobos. Addicts. Travelers.

The train tracks ran right behind the once-grand stretch of East Texas real estate. It was a two-story monstrosity, complete with a gaudy guest house, a meandering driveway through the trees and the best damn bass pond within walking distance of my house.

This little corner of Texas was a great place to be a kid. We lived within a couple of blocks of some undeveloped property--we just called it the "woods." It was about 100 acres of private land that had clearly been plotted for development, but for a 12-year-old, carving trails through the pines and the oaks was easy, and we explored every inch of it, usually armed with a wrist-rocket sling shot or a trusty Crosmann 760 Powermaster loaded with brass BBs. Opossums, raccoons, rabbits, armadillos and skunks wandered these woods, and it was bounded on the east by a shallow, muddy slough full of crawfish and snakes.

But the crown jewel of this little stretch of paradise was the old abandoned estate, and during our time in the woods, we'd come to learn its name from the various miscreants we crossed paths with.

It was called the Hobo Barn. It was a gathering place for the wandering element and the local drug culture. We never had any truly frightening run-ins with this dark crowd--more like little semi-exciting encounters, like the time a hippy (everybody who had long hair in the early 80s was a hippy, right?) tried to get me and my 9-year-old brother to smoke weed, or when we stumbled on a hobo camp (everybody who camped in the woods under a blue tarp was a hobo, as you know), complete with a still-smoldering fire and a loaded .22 rifle leaning against a tree. No hobo in sight, however.

It took a couple of years for us to get up the nerve to wander through the abandoned mansion. It didn't take us any time at all to trespass along the tracks, drop down into the woods and chase bass and bream in the pond, however. Fishing within walking distance of home was too tempting to ignore. We'd wander down the hill, cross Highway 80, and then, when we were sure nobody was looking, we'd slip into the trees, wander a short way down the railroad tracks, and, within minutes, be casting little black and yellow Beetlespin lures for bream, or dropping doughballs to the bottom for catfish.

But the house... the house was effing creepy. And when we did finally muster up the nerve to go in, it lived up to its reputation. Its doors were long since gone, and it boasted hardwood floors that were littered with leaves and pinestraw, not to mention the leavings of its frequent visitors. At one time, it had a massive built-in aquarium along the living-room wall, and it had high paneled ceilings and thick plaster walls.

The stairwell leading to the second story was falling apart, but we managed to wriggle our way up and explore the whole house. With careful steps, we could stand on the veranda and look out at the overgrown grounds... and the pond.

But the house was a lost cause. It was falling in on itself, thanks largely to those who sought quick shelter or a private place to trash themselves. Refuse lay everywhere--fast-food bags, condoms, needles... it was the poster destination that every parent warns their kids about.

Today, as we clipped down I-20 heading toward Louisiana, the kids saw the Longview, Texas, exit.

"Show us," my daughter said. "We want to see where you grew up."

So I did. We pulled off the freeway and wandered through the old neighborhood. The house on Chestnut Lane has changed a lot--the old magnolia tree I used to climb as a kid is still there, but the front yard has been landscaped and is no longer suited for football. The shed in the back yard is now a mother-in-law unit. I think the pool's still there--we couldn't see over the fence.

But the mansion--and, sadly, the pond... they're gone. The house is a pile of rubble, long since torn down, and the pond is now just a wet spot where an oily little spring keeps the grass growing. I suppose, when the house was demolished, somebody pulled the plug on the little earthen dam that collected the spring and created a fishy little paradise for pre-teens all over Longview.

Today, we drove up what's left of the driveway--a head-on assualt. No sneaking in the back way like I did as a kid.

And my kids were with me. I'm guessing they were pretty underwhelmed by the brown field of concrete and wood where the grand old house once stood. Cameron wandered with me past the rubble in search of the pond, and I think he was as disappointed as I was when we saw what was left. Just a swampy, fishless slough. Nothing special. One less place to inspire young adventurers... young anglers.

I'm glad we took the exit and drove around the old hometown. It was fun to see it again... fun to show the kids where I spent my formative years. We drove by the old high school, through the neighborhood and down Highway 80, where, when I was my daughter's age, I'd spend hours behind the wheel of my four-cylinder Mercury Capri, cruising with friends.

But things have changed. The woods are houses now. The trails no long ring with the shouts of kids chasing cottontails through the underbrush. A new apartment complex took over a spot where we built a kick-ass tree fort all those years ago, and the little slough where we caught crawfish is now a manicured "water feature" for a new development.

The Hobo Barn is gone, but the memories linger. As we stood looking over the rubble, I could see the old house in my mind's eye, and I could smell the murky waters of the little pond off in the pines. As my son climbed piles of debris, I could picture him standing in front of the house with a little spinning rod in his hands, sneaking across the estate to get to the water.

I would have loved to have fished that little pond with him...