How Buckeye became home to Arizona’s strangest giant

If you’ve driven down Monroe Avenue near the heart of downtown Buckeye, chances are you’ve spotted him: a towering, 25-foot-tall statue of a scruffy hobo in patched clothes, offering a friendly wave to traffic. He’s hard to miss — and even harder to explain.

To longtime locals, he’s simply Hobo Joe. To newcomers, he’s a roadside mystery. But behind the weathered smile and worn-out boots lies a tale that stretches from the heyday of Phoenix diners to the heart of Buckeye’s sense of quirky pride.

This is the story of how a fiberglass drifter found a permanent home in one of America’s fastest-growing cities — and why he matters more than you might think.

The Origins of Hobo Joe

Hobo Joe began life not in Buckeye, but in Phoenix. In the mid-1960s, Herb Applegate, a Detroit transplant, partnered with others to create a new kind of coffee shop. In 1965, they launched the Hobo Joe’s restaurant chain, which quickly grew to several locations throughout the Valley.

The branding leaned into Americana kitsch. Hobo Joe was the chain’s cartoonish mascot — a well-traveled, big-hearted vagabond who had supposedly chosen a carefree life of train-hopping, storytelling and, of course, a love for hearty meals. In promotional materials, he was described as a “World Traveler, Philosopher and Connoisseur of Good Food.” Despite the goofy premise, the chain built a loyal customer base with its big breakfasts, casual feel and down-home prices.

As part of the restaurant’s visual identity, artist Jim Casey, a former Disney animator, was commissioned to sculpt a version of Hobo Joe in clay. This would be cast into large fiberglass statues that could greet guests outside the restaurants. The work was completed by Phoenix-based fabricator Marvin Ransdell, who created several versions — including at least two full-size giants over 20 feet tall.

Unfortunately, by the 1980s, Hobo Joe’s restaurants were fading. Financial issues hit the chain hard, and many locations closed. One of the full-size statues, made but never installed at a restaurant, remained at Ransdell’s fabrication yard for years.

That’s when the story takes a Buckeye turn.

A Gift Between Friends

In 1989, Ransdell gave the statue to his friend Ramon Gillum, who owned Gillum’s Meat & Locker, a butcher and meat processing facility just outside of Buckeye’s downtown core. Gillum accepted the massive gift and installed it proudly in front of his business, where it stood for nearly three decades.

There, Hobo Joe loomed over a dusty lot on Monroe Avenue, just west of downtown. Surrounded by meat trucks, cattle pens and feedbags, the statue became a curious part of Buckeye’s roadside landscape. He wasn’t promoted as a tourist attraction or marked on maps — but he stood watch nonetheless, weathering the Arizona sun and countless questions from passersby.

While Hobo Joe was known to most longtime residents, he remained something of a mystery to newer ones. Some assumed he was a relic from an old carnival. Others figured he was a mascot for the meat plant. In reality, he was both more ordinary and more interesting: a link to a forgotten slice of Phoenix history and a reminder that sometimes, odd things stick around simply because people care about them.

A Move, a Makeover and a New Home

By the mid-2010s, change was coming. Gillum’s property was sold, and the statue had to be moved. It wasn’t in great shape — decades of exposure had worn away paint, fiberglass and structural stability. But Buckeye wasn’t ready to say goodbye.

A coalition of local preservation advocates, city supporters, and Buckeye Main Street representatives organized a plan to save and restore the statue. In 2016, Hobo Joe was moved from his longtime home at 1015 Monroe Avenue to an offsite location for storage and repair.

The restoration was no small task. Local firm Serbin Studio was brought in to reinforce the internal structure, patch the fiberglass and rebuild the base. The statue was also sandblasted, repainted and prepared for a new permanent display. The project took several years and relied heavily on community support, including contributions from the John F. Youngker family, who helped fund the relocation and installation.

In 2020, Hobo Joe returned — this time to downtown Buckeye, just south of Monroe Avenue and 5th Street. Positioned in a walkable, revitalized part of the city, he now serves as a sort of unofficial greeter to visitors exploring historic Buckeye. He’s even listed on roadside attractions sites like Roadside America and Atlas Obscura, helping put Buckeye on the map in a whole new way.

A Symbol of Buckeye’s Past and Its Quirky Spirit

So why does Hobo Joe matter?

In a city growing as fast as Buckeye, where master-planned communities and commercial developments are reshaping the desert skyline, Hobo Joe offers something older — something handmade and a little bit weird.

He’s a reminder of a time when local businesses defined a place’s personality, when fiberglass giants ruled roadside America and when a meat locker owner could adopt a 25-foot statue just because he liked it. That kind of character doesn’t come from a zoning map. It grows from stories, from friendships and from the simple decision to keep something around because it means something — even if you can’t quite explain what.

Final Thoughts for Newcomers

If you’ve just moved to Buckeye and are still finding your footing, take a drive downtown and look for Hobo Joe. Snap a photo. Read up on his backstory. Think about the layers of history under your feet — the farmers, the ranchers, the restaurant dreamers, the artists and the families who’ve shaped this town in big and small ways.

Because in a city that’s racing toward the future, Hobo Joe is a wave from the past — cheerful, odd and totally Buckeye.