Our house in Winfield sat perched on a small hill between the Cotton Belt Railroad tracks to the south and Highway 67 to the north. In fact, we lived only a stone�s throw from the busy highway from Dallas to Texarkana. Being so close to both major arteries, I became acquainted with a multitude of fascinating characters, most notably the hoboes, who, carrying all their belongings in a sack on their backs, walked the highway or rode freight cars on the railroad, and the gypsies who showed up like clockwork every spring and camped for a week in a large, wooded lot across the highway from our house.
The grownups had warned us repeatedly about both groups of vagabonds, but there was a mystique about them that drew children to them like magnets, at least as close to them as they�d allow us to get.
The hoboes were almost always men who looked older than they probably were at the time. Usually bewhiskered, they would make their way up the hill from the highway and tap lightly on the back screen door. They�d often ask if we had any work they could do in return for food. Mama always kept a brown bag or two in the ice box for just such occasions, though she never asked them to work. Without fail, they would take the sack lunch, smile politely, and leave with a �God bless you, Ma�am.� Bill and I could never understand why she didn�t require them to mow the yard or weed the garden. She never had any trouble telling us.
The gypsy band included men, women, and always a passel of children. The men were dark and swarthy, and most had jet-black, well-oiled hair, and tattoos. Their women were usually pretty, dark-eyed, and according to Mama, loose. I wasn�t sure what she meant because they all looked tight enough to me; nevertheless, she said it was reason enough for us kids to give them a wide berth. Our neighbor said that gypsies sometimes stole children and later sold them. One thing I know for sure is that the gypsies always appeared to be having fun, and their camp rang with laughter and song long after Winfield had gone to sleep.
On the last day of their stay, one of the gypsy children, a boy about ten, saw Bill and me watching them from the tall grass on the hill across the road from their camp. He called to the group of children and pointed toward Bill and me still lying in the grass. After saying something to one of the older women who was washing clothes in a big black pot, he motioned for us to come across the highway and join them.
�What do you think, Fat Boy?� Bill asked.
Before I could reply that Mama would skin us alive if we went to the gypsy camp, Bill was halfway down the hill. �You know what Mama said!� I yelled, scampering behind him.
�Maybe they�ll steal you,� he said, �Or better yet cook you in that big black pot.�
There was no reasoning with Bill when he set his mind to something. We looked toward the house to make sure Mama wasn�t looking before crossing the busy highway. �You reckon they speak English?� I asked almost out of breath.
�Well, if they don�t I can speak gypsy,� he answered as the kids came running to meet us.
I thought he was lying, about speaking gypsy I mean, but it was too late now to worry about it.
The children all spoke at once, and though, I could understand very little because of all the voices, I was relieved that what they were speaking was English. The gypsy camp looked different up close. Most of the gypsies had pitched large tents that looked as though a dozen or so people could sleep in them. The remainder slept in makeshift shelters set up on the backs of flatbed trucks. The adults looked at Bill and me with curious politeness. They smiled, showing the whitest teeth I�d ever seen.
�They�re lookin� us over,� Bill whispered, �to see which one of us they�ll eat and which they�ll steal. I�ll bet they eat you �cause you�re fatter and steal me �cause I�m better lookin� and will fetch a much higher price.�
The kids showed us about their camp, and I began to feel a little better, since nobody made any threatening moves or looked hungrily at me. I was surprised to discover that they were spending their day much like everybody else in Winfield. The women cooked, washed clothes or chased after little ones. The men sat and smoked and talked among themselves like the old fellows at the post office.
The boy who had first motioned for us to join them was Paulie, and he took a special pride in showing us off to the others, particularly the girls about our age who stood in the shadows of the tents and giggled. Bill seemed unusually interested in a couple of the girls, but I figured it was his hormones acting up again. They�d been doing that more and more of late.
Just as we were about to taste some of the food offered us by one of the older women, we heard Mama calling us home for supper. We both shook Paulie�s hand, and Bill looked longingly one more time at the girls still standing in the shadows.
�We can�t go back the way we came,� Bill said. �Mama will be on the back porch lookin� for us. We better go down the gully by Amerson�s pool and cut across the pasture to get home.�
That night after supper Bill and I sat in the lawn chairs and watched the gypsy camp until long after dark. The sound of laughter and song lasted far into the night.
�Bein� a gypsy might not be so bad,� Bill finally said after a long silence. �They go where they want when they want to go. They don�t have to worry about doin� chores and homework and getting� A�s in conduct. Come to think of it, I might just be a gypsy when I grow up.�
�You�re still thinkin� about those dark-eyed gypsy girls,� I said.
He chased me around the chinaberry tree a couple of times, took one long, last look at the camp across the highway, and made his way toward the light of the back door.
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