by Jake Aaron
We did not get frequent snow in Albuquerque, so we needed to make the most of it when it came. One snowy Saturday, Dad took Gunnar and me downtown to Roosevelt Park. The rolling hills were ideal for our sledding. The brand-new Western Flyer carried our tandem pair down the hill with ultimate smoothness. Gunnar insisted on controlling the minimal steering. If he saw a metal sprinkler head in front of us, he insisted we bail out lest the collision with one of our rails catapult us to our death. I’m not sure where he got that notion, but it was a hint of the drama he had going on internally.
That was the first year I remember Glen coming by our house. He was about my Dad’s age. He didn’t live in Albuquerque but was in town frequently for work, he said. At supper, he could answer a lot of the questions Gunnar and I had — about everything. After the meal, he and Dad would adjourn to the living room to talk, sipping whiskey and listening to Rachmaninoff. Even then, I knew Glen had some secret he wasn’t telling.
Third grade was also the year I beat always green-sweatered Butch, winning all his marbles at recess. He thought about his situation, demanded his marbles back, and then swung a fist at me for refusing his demand. He was a stocky guy compared to my lanky frame, and he was two inches taller. I ducked and got him in a clench. Pretty Mrs. Harkness, who had playground duty, saw the kerfuffle and headed toward us. Gunnar saw it, too. He ran past the teacher shouting, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Harkness; I’ve got this!” He put his right shoulder down and aimed it to separate Butch and me at impact.
Gunnar split us like bowling pins. Butch and I went down symmetrically to each side leaving a clear path for my upright charging brother in his new white Keds tennis shoes. Gunnar ran on, knowing Butch and I would react angrily and pursue him. His path made a wide clockwise arc that went to a point diametrically opposite on the playground from where we had begun. He slowed enough to encourage us to continue to chase him. As the three of us did a 250-yard sprint that left a winded Mrs. Harkness in the dust, the bell for returning to class rang. The three of us raced into the school building with a second wind. Mrs. Harkness gave up. None of us ever heard any more about the matter.
I was starting to think my brother was more than special. In a split second, he had sized up the situation, had a desired outcome in mind, and put an elegant plan in motion. Consider that my dad’s first principle was to look out for each other. Recognize that, if Gunnar had directly defended me, three kids would have been punished instead of none. Also, think about the wily nature of outrunning the teacher, disappearing from her view, and timing out the chase perfectly. A friend told me Mrs. Harkness’ scowl turned to a smile when the bell rang. By then, she had better things to do than punish kids who had been taught a lesson — or two.
*****
In fourth grade, Gunnar talked Dad into driving us to Socorro, NM, on a school day to get a better view of Air Force Captain Kittenger’s ascent in a balloon. Project Man High was designed to study the effect of cosmic radiation on humans. With binoculars, Gunnar saw the aviator’s free fall from 76,000 feet and subsequent troubled parachute descent. Others would have considered it a way to skip school. That’s why I went. For Gunnar, it was pure love of flight. I did have to earn my school pass by telling Dad someday I wanted to work for the Lovelace Respiratory Research Institute in Albuquerque. The institute had a particular interest in high altitude flight and space travel. In fact, it tested the initial 32 astronaut candidates for fitness.
The same year Gunnar starred as Cochise in a play he had written for the class — “The last of the Chiricahuas”. It was so good that every fourth-grade teacher at Whittier brought her class to see it. Gunnar shocked me. I thought I knew him. For a guy who played it so straight, he was an unabashed ham — a natural actor.
Some of his acting was inspired by the movies we liked to see. Albuquerque was a safe town, so Mom would let the two of us ride the city bus into town. One of our favorite destinations was the historic KiMo Theater on Central Ave. Its artful incorporation of Southwestern Indian design, more recent adobe, and modern Art Deco made it my favorite building. Gunnar liked the more modern Highland Theater, also on Central. His favorite film was “Twelve O’Clock High,” with Gregory Peck. Aircraft and heroes.
We honored the young writer, producer, director, and actor by going out to eat Saturday breakfast at Gunnar’s favorite diner, Oklahoma Joe’s on Central Ave. It offered something for everyone. Someone in the family always brought up the warming fact that the restaurant offered a free Thanksgiving meal for those who could not afford it. Dad liked their buckwheat pancakes, Mom liked their omelets, Gunnar liked the waffles, and I liked eggs “any style.” I learned that from overhearing a gentleman and his red-headed kid next to us ordering. The crew-cut youngster wanted a short stack. His dad, however, enjoyed frustrating the waitress with his repeated order of eggs “any style.” She didn’t know what to do with the playful father who kept insisting, “That’s what the menu advertises.” His son finally intervened speaking behind a hand on his cheek meant to keep his dad from hearing, “He likes scrambled.”
The same year Gunnar took up magic. Santa Claus brought him a kit that he did not use until months later. Then he couldn’t stop. He reveled in pulling coins from behind ears, shuffling walnut shells over a dried pea, and doing card tricks. He became a master of misdirection.
In the same time frame, one of Gunnar’s magic tricks backfired. Dad and Mom went to a ballet recital, leaving us at home alone. I was carefully touching up the white on my black and white cowboy boots. I knocked over a bottle of white polish on Mom’s expensive oriental rug. Gunnar used a spoon to put most of the polish back in its container. Then he used wet and dry cloths to remove more of the stain. Finally, he poured water through carpet. He washed and dried the cloths. Mom was never the wiser until three months later the mildew smell of the vacuum cleaner’s cotton filter became overwhelming. Gunnar’s finishing touch had been to dry the valued rug with the vacuum. After three months, the situation was funny beyond belief.
That was also the year I won the school’s kite-flying contest. The March winds out of the west mesa were ever so strong. When the howling wind woke me up at 2 AM that morning, I knew I owned the day. My kite, homemade from brown paper shopping bags, was up and out so far that the judges declared me an early winner lest I get “electrocuted.” If the string had broken it definitely would have touched distant power lines. I was glad to end the contest — tired of being pelted with sand blowing at 40 mph into my neck and arms.
That same year, Dad found a new favorite Mexican food restaurant. Sunday lunch became a trek to Baca’s at 3311 Central, NE, in the Nob Hill area. It’s architecture was typical southwestern stucco. Everyone else found the tacos there to be the best item on the menu. I think the secret was green chiles to bring out the other flavors. I liked them, too, but preferred the Spanish rice. I can still hear my dad saying, “Eureka! This is it. We’ve found it.” We weren’t the only ones. Anthony Quinn, Mel Torme, and several other dignitaries chose to eat there at various times.
Mom quizzed, “Is eureka kind of like orale?” She preferred the Spanish word. “After all, we live in the Southwest,” she counseled.
Not too far away and near the University of New Mexico was a major water reservoir for the city. The top of the reservoir was about fifteen feet high. Nicely mowed grass covered the park and steep surrounding grade leading up to it. A green fence at the top of the grade protected the reservoir. It was there that we would join other archers shooting into the hill that caught our arrows when we missed. Gunnar and I shared a 25-pound bow with Mom. Dad liked his 45-pound one. We quickly became very good shots. For me, it helped with gauging wind and trajectories for firing a rifle. It always came back to firing a rifle. Afterward, we reveled in the creaminess of Fitzgerald’s fresh-scooped ice cream.
Our favorite picnic spot was Cole Springs in the Sandia Mountains, about two hours away from home. It was nice and shady with that fresh scent of thousands of pine trees. Gunnar fo
und a nice bamboo fly fishing rod along the little creek there. We had many laughs about reasons why it was left, the best of which was that is was for casting wet flies and there simply wasn’t enough water for even trout to survive. I have always thought the real reason was that the universe knew Gunnar wanted a fly rod. For some reason, he was always the one to win contests or find things.
As we got older, the depth of our discussions at the supper table increased. After a rehash of how our days had gone, we debated current events, history, and politics. We took turns attacking and defending different positions on issues. . Fluoridation of water was one of many hot topics. After supper, we played cards. My strength was bluffing in poker. By then, Mom had broken me of my tendency to cheat at cards.
Compared to our friends, we had the “birds and bees” discussion much earlier. Mom and Dad explained the anatomies of the males and females in scientific terms. Nakedness and reproduction were just other facts of nature to Gunnar and me. So it was that when kids got silly about sex or obsessed over Playboy magazines, we didn’t get it. Gunnar sometimes faked rapport to fit in. I normally became a bemused, superior observer of uneducated peers.
*****
In fifth grade, I remember the headlines in the “Albuquerque Journal.” I recall the Red Chinese crossing the Yalu River. The Korean Conflict was underway. Gunnar and I both feared Dad would have to leave again for war. He didn’t. He did fly back and forth to Livermore Labs and Washington, DC more. Mom said his work was very important to the Nation’s defense, but he couldn’t talk about it. I felt safe when I saw Mom and Dad dance to Patti Page singing the “Tennessee Waltz.” With too much clarity, I remember Mom and Dad deploring the attempted assassination of President Truman by Puerto Rican nationalists.
In the spring, Gunnar won second in the school science fair with his aerodynamics project. Aircraft, who would have guessed? He had many examples of the how the Bernoulli principle applied to everyday life, including aviation. He still loved his model airplanes. I won first place in that science fair. I showed how agricultural yields could be boosted with exposure to artificial light after the sun set. Mom helped me with some statistical techniques that wowed the impartial science-teacher judges from nearby Highland High School.
*****
In sixth grade, B-50D bombers from nearby Kirtland AFB began performing atomic bomb tests in the desert of Nevada. Though Dad couldn’t discuss his work, we could only guess what he was doing. It was clear from his demeanor when he came back from business trips, his work at the Atomic Energy Commission was even more intense than ever.
That year, Gunnar placed first in the school spelling bee; I came in second. In the finals, the word I got was a homophone. The example that followed the sound of “what” was not very distinctive. Rather than ask for clarification, I exuded my usual uber self-confidence, pretended to think, and proudly belted out “W-H-A-T.” The audience was with me. The emcee judge dismissed me, and went on to Gunnar. Gunnar listened, took, a breath and asked for a repeat of the word’s sound as well as clarification. He let the sound percolate in his mind. Very articulately, he recited “W-A-T-T.” He was the winner.
I had to bust his chops that night about dragging out his careful spelling for dramatic effect. He smiled, “You got me.”
I teased, “Did you notice, I started to copy your drama at the end of the spelling bee?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Alex!” He threw a pillow at me.
“Unforgettable, that’s what you are!” I stole from the lyrics of the Nat King Cole song Dad was playing on the phonograph in the next room. I threw the pillow back at him. We both started laughing.
“Alex, at least I didn’t cheat in the science fair last year?” He reared back and then nearly knocked me over with the swung pillow. More laughter.
“What do you mean?” I asked giggling.
“Mom did your statistics and stuff!” Gunnar belted out.
“Here’s your stuff, Gunnar — right back at you!” I choked out the words and hit him solidly broadside, followed by a very loud popping of the pillow. “At least my project didn’t rely on hot air, Mr. Bernoulli.”
By that time, goose feathers filled the bedroom air. Gunnar and I were both doubled over in laughter. Naturally, the ruckus provoked Dad’s hollering from the den, “Hey, what’s going on back there?”
“Nothing, Dad,” I answered loudly. “I just told Gunnar a good joke.”
It was a great day!
Junior High
I wish I could blame the prickly parts of my personality and character on overly strict, mean, or negligent parents. I can’t. Our mother and dad were textbook-great. Looking back,11208 Gunnar and I were both held, loved, and talked with as much as the unforgiving clock would allow. And Gunnar and I were challenged with autonomy whenever possible — not too early, not too late. We were blessed in every way.
Seventh grade at Woodrow Wilson Junior High was a rude awakening. Raging hormones probably explained most of it. Classmates looked gawky. Gunnar was a stretched version of himself. Even I looked strange in the mirror. It was our initiation to the usual crudities of physical education locker rooms, four-letter words, rude cliques, and crowded book lockers. It was a year of seeing demure friends turn into radical rebels against all rules. It was also a time of disrupted sleep. Gunnar had a recurring nightmare of forgetting his locker combination and being late to class. My haunting nightmare was finding I’d studied the wrong material for a test.
For all youngsters, this was the beginning of a new awareness of the dangers of nuclear war. We began practicing “duck and cover” at school. Basically, to protect against a nuclear blast and its intense heat, we performed drills practicing ducking beneath our desks, covering the back of our heads and necks with our hands, and contracting our arms to hug our heads. The periodic air raid sirens and exercises were frequent enough to cast a continual pall of despair over much of those Cold War years.
If that were not enough to scare us to death, an exclamation point to the times was the detonation of the first hydrogen bomb at Enewetak, an atoll in the Marshall Islands of the Pacific. Subsequently, bomber pilots based at Kirtland AFB started bringing back giant clamshells from their testing missions near Bikini Atoll. Dad had a friend who brought two back for us. Each was easily three feet across. The bleached out pair was a nice accent to our rock-and-cactus-covered front yard — southwestern landscaping with a Micronesian flair.
Mom and Dad instinctively knew how difficult these years were and kept us occupied with outside activities and enforced homework hours. Dad took us to Rifle Club on Sandia Base one night a week. Gunnar consistently led the team of .22-caliber rifle shooters — in second place. I was always first. Gunnar did not mind. Attendance at the club started to flag over our domination. The coach called us aside, “I’m going to ask you to keep doing what you’re doing in the club. That’s good. I’m going to hold a pep talk for everyone else next time, so, you two, be sure to come 15 minutes late. Basically, I’ll be telling them what my old swim coach used to tell me on my way to the Olympics: ‘Swim your own race!’”
After that, rifle club was a lot more pleasant. The gradual onset of the doldrums there was so slow that I hadn’t even noticed until the atmosphere got better. To maintain our edge in shooting, Dad took us out to the desert to practice at least once a week. He also took us out to the foothills of the Sandia Mountains in the northeast of Albuquerque to watch free-flight model airplanes on Sunday afternoons. Usually, a dethermalizer, a fused timer, induced the elevator to bring the gliding model down after its fuel ran out. One memorable day, the fuse failed on a cobalt blue airplane with a 54-inch wing span. The light balsa-beamed model soared so high on thermals that westerly winds carried it over 10,378-foot Sandia Peak. Although we were already nearly a mile high on the mesa, the flight was still impressive — and expensive for the owner of the plane.
Gunnar ate up the entirety of aviation. He was fascinated by the fly-by-wire mo
del planes as well as the free-flight ones. I hung out around a few hobbyists who had some fairly large-scale radio-controlled models. One did a so-so landing, bobbling his canary yellow craft to an iffy touchdown. He was taken aback when I bet him fifty dollars that I could fly it better. He looked down on me, “Okay, kid, you’re on.” Inwardly, I was laughing; he was trusting his hundreds-of-dollars investment to an unknown kid, and I had no money in my pocket. I outflew him in every aspect of flight, including a glass-smooth touchdown. The hand-eye coordination reminded me of firing a rifle. I bought Gunnar a fly-by-wire wire kit with my winnings.
Gunnar built the beautiful green Sterling Ringmaster, and I finished it with black trim. Powered by a powerful Fox 0.35 engine, it was thing of beauty. He eventually mastered the control-line model, but not without many repairs. I think the screaming engine bothered him initially. He insisted I try flying it. I felt bad that I was flying it expertly on the first go. I did the aerobatics with ease: loops, figure eights, over-the-tops. Okay, I had to really concentrate to fly the model inverted. Otherwise, the u-shaped handle in my grip felt like a rifle — familiar, natural.
*****
Mom and Dad appreciated the majestic beauty of the mountains surrounding Albuquerque more than we did. Being from the East, they could appreciate the dramatic rise of the Sandia Mountains, the panoramic sweep of the mountain shadows early and late in the day, the salmon pink sunsets, the eerie evening afterglow of sunlight on the easterly Manzano Mountains, and the crystal clear black night punctuated by glimmering planets and stars. Gunnar and I took all of that for granted. Doubtless, the intense sunshine we almost always experienced — caused by less atmosphere and few clouds to filter out the sun’s brightness — made our childhood memories more vivid.
For all the tragedy and mayhem going on in Korea, life was remarkably normal around the city. Gunnar and I did see the continuing headline reminders in the Albuquerque Journal and the Tribune about that ongoing war — the “Conflict.” Newsreels before the main features at movies were equally disturbing. I couldn't wrap my head around the silliness of us listening to Patti Page singing “How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?” while thousands of young men died in far-off Asia. It just didn’t seem right. I was so relieved when the armistice finally came but disappointed not to see more celebration — probably because everything had been so drawn out and no peace treaty was ever signed.
