This is what my father left me.
This lousy old suitcase!
On the inside was nothing... ...but his uniform from the Spanish-American War.
This was his legacy to me.
Nothing at all!
And I built this place from nothing.
And that's all he left you?
Yeah, he was a hobo.
Best-known tramp on the boxcar circuit.
He worked once in a while as a field hand.
I'd tag along.
Sat on my bare bottom, in the dirt, waiting for him.
Outside of hunger... ...first thing I could remember is shame.
I was ashamed of that miserable, old tramp.
I was riding boxcars when I was nine, something you never had to do.
And you'll never have to bury me like I did him.
I buried him in a meadow, alongside a railroad track.
We were running to catch a freight and his heart gave out.
You know something?
That lousy old tramp died laughing.
Laughing at what?
Himself, I guess.
A hobo tramp... ...not a nickel in his jeans.
No future, no past.
Or maybe he was laughing because he was happy.
Happy at having you with him.
He took you everywhere and he kept you with him.
I don't want to talk about that.
Yeah, I loved him.
I reckon I never loved anything as much as that... ...lousy old tramp.
And you say... ...he left you nothing but a suitcase... ...with a uniform in it from the Spanish-American War?
And some memories.
Did I tell you all them stories about my old man?
About fifty times.
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