The name Hobos evokes the image of a scruffy old guy with a stick and bandana on his back jumping trains and hanging out at a campfire and if you look at our logo you will see remnants of the original Hobo language that was used to communicate with other travelers. Symbols left on barn doors, walls, railway cars, and drawn in the dirt would indicate whether you could find a safe place to stop, a kind woman or a good meal. So, yes, there is more than a little of the wanderlust adventurer in the name. But let me tell you a part of my story…

The year after my youngest child was born I was ready to take a two year sabbatical and we were leaving for a  walkabout doing volunteer work in Central and South America. Not being wildly successful at the marriage game I had two baby daddies to clear my travel plans with.  My youngest baby’s baby daddy is my best friend and while having wildly divergent opinions about what constitutes responsible planning he was incredibly supportive about my desire to walk lightly on the earth for the while and helped me divest of all the trappings of material success.  Our business and house and automobiles were sold and we purchased the requisite travel guides and filed for the children’s passports. Our departure date was less than two months away when my eldest daughter’s father put an end to my plans. After actively supporting my desire to take this trip for over a year he now insisted on accompanying us. A desire unrealistic, and guaranteed to end with someone being pushed off a cliff. We were past the point of no return.

I was offered a partnership in a natural food store in Rehoboth to develop a prepared food product line. The less said about this aberration of normally solid fiscal judgment the better but it was in Rehoboth, a place that had always held a soft spot in my heart every since I began summering with my Grandmother there at two years old. So here I was, moved to the beach, with two baby daddies in tow.  

I floundered around looking for something to do. The economic collapse made the possibility of early retirement a thing of the past. I bemoaned my fate to anyone that would listen and the victim was generally the baby’s father. The common refrain that I wasn’t supposed to be here, it was not my destiny, a terrible mistake… I was meant to be walking lightly on the Earth (in a foreign country) and exploring my inner global nomad. It went on and on but you get the drift. Finally exasperated beyond all reasonable limits (told you I wasn’t good at the marriage thing) the baby daddy snaps at me, “Well if you are here then obviously that is where you are supposed to be. It is where you are. Get a grip. Get a restaurant. Call it Hobos.” And that is exactly what I did.

So Hobos is my consolation prize.

A journey standing still.

A stop along the way to where I am going.