I am an idea man. I've known it for sometime but it took a hobo in the depression to help me understand how to sell them. I'm a win-win guy. Here is my story.

   When I was ten and alone down by the northwest side of the Vancouver Avenue Viaduct in Portland, Oregon I wandered under the bridge supports. It was 1930. The viaduct passes over the railroad tracks not far from the Columbia Slough, a favorite hangout for us kids. I noticed several cuss words scrawled on the underpinnings by others, sometimes using a rock as a scribe.

I decided, while sitting there, to yell each word out loud. I was not permitted to use swear words at home. In the process, a hobo appeared and asked me what I was mad about. I explained why I was yelling. He nodded his understanding. He must have seen opportunity in a young boy as he walked back down by the tracks. Dressed in tattered shirt and pants, some unlaced, hobnail boots and a weathered hat, the hobo asked if I'd ever had mulligan stew. I said I hadn't so the hobo asked me if I lived nearby and had a garden. I did not correlate the two questions at the time.

Of course we did, I said to him. The Hobo sent me home to get some tomatoes, potatoes, carrots and onions and return to the river with them. With enthusiasm I raced home on foot to raid our garden. 

I returned with a sack full of veggies. The hobo had already set up a camp fire and was boiling some water in a pot. He dumped the ingredients into the pot, stirring occasionally like a seasoned chef. I salivated as he tended to the pot. 

  My mom was a good cook but often, during the depression, we had cold potato soup. I'd never seen anything cooked on a campfire before. The stew was very exciting to me. It bubbled and steamed a wonderful aroma. The hobo continued to coax the flames to make the stew boil. Before long it was ready to serve. 

  I gleefully enjoyed a cup of the savory broth of veggies. At the time, I did not realize the hobo needed me. I only saw the actions of a master at work. I do not recall if he ate the rest himself or saved it for the next day. I was a happy kid with a belly full of mulligan stew. 
 
  The dictionary says mulligan stew is a concoction of whatever anyone brings to the party. Hoboes across the country would end up in camps with a carrot or an onion, donating it to the boiling pot on the fire. Once cooked, they could enjoy their own cup of stew. A brotherhood for sure. 
Something occurred to me years later. It is not the one who has the gold who makes the rules, it is the one who can sell the idea. Yes, I was conned into supplying the ingredients. But it was a good con. I helped him and he taught me a lesson, plus I got a cup of soup out of the deal.  I've been selling ideas ever since.

Ed.note: Jerry Robinson turns 91 next month.