In 1950 my parents rented a home on Walter Street in East San Jose, one of Albuquerque’s oldest and poorest communities. We lived in the last house on the last block at the farthest end of the southeast corner of town. You could say that geographically and socially we were clinging to the edge of the city. There were many modest homes in the neighborhood but none as small and poorly built as ours—one room with an outdoor privy for the bathroom. There was a single tree on the narrow, barren lot, a scruffy Chinese elm under whose scant shade Phillip and I often played.
Still, the barrio was a friendly place to live. Residents were often outside visiting with each other, working on their cars or tending their yards. Dad’s new job as an ambulance driver at the Veterans Hospital was stressful, low paying work but he could relax once he got home since most of our neighbors were nativos, New Mexico Hispanics. They included life-long residents of East San Jose and the many rural families who moved to Albuquerque during the 1940's and 50's in search of work. These transplants, Dad included, brought village ways with them, creating a sense of community and a support system they understood and could count on.
Dad made friends quickly in East San Jose. He had a straw fedora which he often wore with the front brim turned up, giving him a look which was silly but engaging. He had a fair complexion, a friendly face and a small mustache. When he smiled which he did a lot, you could see a front tooth with a gold lining. That tooth was fascinating to children and so was the huge scar that wrapped across his stomach to his back. Whenever kids saw him without a shirt on they figured he’d been riddled by machine gun fire in Europe during World War II. Dad was only vaguely aware of the prestige he had in the neighborhood because of it. Later on I learned he'd had appendicitis while living in California after the war and the scar was where doctors stitched him up.
Dad also had a thick, rough beard and when he didn't shave his face felt like sandpaper. His idea of fun was to rub our tender cheeks on his. Since Phillip and I were too little to stop him we'd grab his nose or his ears and try to push him away.
“Aguáos!” Weaklings! he'd sneer, laughing at our struggles to get free of him. Dad's rural sense of humor and his expressions of affection often came at our expense but he loved getting outdoors and doing things together with us so we had some very happy times with him, when we were young.
Mom was the more serious parent, concerned for our safety and the direction we should take as a family. She was clear about what she didn't like which included living in a rural area, Dad working as a miner, Phillip and I speaking Spanish. Mom associated those things with poverty and New Mexico, a place she never wanted to return to but thanks to Benny here she was again, this time with two children. Her dream of a better life which seemed so attainable in California would be hard to come by in New Mexico. Even though the state was gaining economically, due in part to its developing reputation as a tourist and art destination, Mom knew what was really in store for us, and it wouldn't be the cultural playground of cowboys, Indians and festively dressed Spanish Americans touted by the New Mexico Department of Tourism. What we'd get was the genuine Hispanic experience of being really poor in an impoverished state. A series of crazy and traumatic events occurred during our first year on Walter that confirmed Mom's fears and then some.
Unlike Dad, Mom had no time to visit neighbors. She was too busy cleaning, cooking and caring for us, and she was pregnant again, so it was a struggle keeping up with household chores. Since our home had few modern amenities such as hot water a load of washing took hours to do. A large tub filled with pail after pail of water was heated on the stove. When the water was nearly boiling Mom carried the tub outdoors to the wringer washing machine, kept in the yard because there was no room for it in the house and no porch. Being three years old I was oblivious to the drudgery which now defined my mother's life. In fact, I looked forward to wash days. I loved the scent of freshly washed laundry and zooming through billowing sheets on the clothesline with my arms outstretched was one of my favorite things to do.
One summer day Mom was in the middle of a load of washing, Phillip was in bed with a cold and I was outside playing my clean laundry game when I heard a sharp cry of pain. Peering around the wet sheets I saw Mom bent over the washing machine at a strange angle, her arm was caught in the wringer past her elbow.
She spoke quietly, giving no hint of the pain she was in. "Mijo, go in the house and get me the broom."
I ran inside, grabbed it and dashed outside. Mom seesawed the broom handle between the rollers until she was finally able to pry them apart. Her arm looked pinched and red. She took a few deep breaths to steady herself. "Does it hurt?" I asked fearfully.
"Don't worry, son. I'm okay" Again she spoke quietly but I felt afraid. Mom went inside and I followed her. She sat down heavily on a kitchen chair and closed her eyes. After a while she went outside to finish the laundry. I noticed the broom was on the ground so I picked it up and stayed by her just in case she needed it again. I didn't want to leave her alone while she was doing laundry after that.
When Phillip was over his cold we returned to our routine of playing together. Our heroes were Roy Rogers and Gene Autry so of course our favorite game was playing cowboys. Mom splurged and bought complete cowboy outfits for us at the Woolworth's downtown. We looked authentic, from our cowboy hats to our boots. Fortunately Phillip was wearing this when he had a showdown with a pot of hot water because it played a critical role in protecting him. Phillip enjoyed fast drawing his pistol and at least twenty times a day he'd shoot me. Tired of falling over dead I threw myself on top of him, bringing him down with me. Though younger I was stronger and huskier so Phillip had to struggle hard to get free. He made a fast get away though and dashed nto the house with me in close pursuit.
Mom was just hoisting the tub of hot water from the stove when Phillip grabbed her legs and ducked behind her. With her right arm still weak from the wringer incident she lost her hold and the water spilled squarely on Phillip, knocking him down. I still remember Mom screaming.
"FELIPE! Look what you've done! Oh my God!"
Phillip's broad brimmed cowboy hat fell onto his face when he hit the ground and steaming water spilled on top of it. He tried to cry but no noise came out, just gasps in his attempt to catch his breath. Finally his scream burst through and mixed with Mom's. Thinking she'd maimed Phillip for the rest of his life Mom grabbed us and ran next door to use the neighbors' phone. I stayed with them while an ambulance sped her and Phillip to the hospital. It turned out that the cowboy hat and leather vest protected him from getting scalded so he was okay. For a while though Phillip was leery of going near the stove while Mom was working there.
Our parents were relieved that Phillip hadn't been harmed but the misfortune poverty brings wasn't over yet. Another accident was waiting to happen and this time it involved Dad.
A friend at the VA was selling a motor scooter and Dad wanted to buy it. Besides being inexpensive to run he felt that Mom needed the car in case of another emergency. The scooter also looked like it could provide him with some well deserved fun but Dad decided not to mention this aspect to Mom. During dinner he tried pitching the scooter idea but he didn't get very far. Mom was completely opposed to it and she made her feelings on the subject crystal clear.
"Don't buy it Benny, you don't know how to drive a motor scooter. Besides, they're dangerous, you'll get into an accident and get really hurt."
"OhhhhAngie," Dad sighed, frustrated at Mom's inability to grasp simple facts. "Scooters are easy to drive. I won't get into an accident. Besides, they're good on gas and you need the car."
Mom patted her stomach to make her point. "I think you're crazy to buy it. What am I going to do alone with three children if you kill yourself?"
Dad heaved another deep sigh. "Don't be silly. I'm not going on long trips I'm just going back and forth to work. Don't worry so much." He picked up his fork and went back to eating dinner, indicating the matter was closed. But Mom was concerned. Miles Road, the busy thoroughfare leading to the VA hospital was only partially paved and poorly lit at night. Our parents continued arguing about the scooter long after they went to bed but Mom felt she had the final word on the subject.
"Well, I still don't want you to buy it."
The next day Dad came home with the motor scooter.
The red Cushman was pretty and made a lot of noise. Naturally Phillip and I liked to watch Dad revving up the engine in the morning. We held our hands over our ears as Dad gave the throttle some extra vavooms for our benefit. He beeped the horn twice before zipping off to work in a cloud of acrid smoke. Looking out the window Mom shook her head at the futility of it all and went on washing dishes.
For a while it seemed like Dad was right, the scooter was a good solution, until he showed up late for dinner one night covered from head to toe in dirt, gravel and blood. His white ambulance uniform was in shreds. He’d wrecked the scooter and I guess whoever was there when that happened brought him home. Apparently Dad hit a pothole, flew over the handle bars and skidded several feet on the pavement. From the looks of it, the front of his body had taken the brunt of the slide. Mom helped him get his uniform off and onto the bed where he lay flat on his back with only his shorts on, barely able to move or speak. From her place by the stove Mom delivered plenty of angry 'I told you so's' which now Dad had to listen to.
"I told you this was going to happen, you're lucky you didn't kill yourself. I told you not to buy the scooter it was too dangerous. You should've listened to me."
Dad groaned. Usually he gave back as good as he got but now he was in too much pain to argue.
"Do you want some more aspirin?" Mom asked irritably.
"Yeuh," he croaked.
Dad was such a bloody mess it was clear he needed to go to the emergency room. The only medical coverage he had was at the VA where he worked but even though the hospital was near by and the care would've been free he still refused to go. He had his reasons.
"Benny, you've got to go to the hospital!" Mom insisted, afraid of doing nothing.
Dad's whispered answer was almost inaudible. "I can't m-o-v-e."
"Then I'm calling an ambulance right now," she exclaimed. She turned off the heat under the pots of beans and chile and headed toward the door.
"No! No!" he yelled, struggling to sit up. "I don't want those guys here!"
'Those guys' Dad referred to were the men he worked with. He didn't want to be the victim in his own ambulance and the subject of endless jokes at work. Mom reluctantly returned to the stove.
I stayed by the side of the bed staring at my father. Through the slit of a badly swollen eye Dad occasionally peered up at me, wondering why. I didn't know why myself, only that I was riveted by the vivid colors and strange textures of his torn skin. Dad had become a work of art although I didn't fully appreciate this until years later when I was in the sixth grade, paging through art books at the library and saw famous paintings with similar bloody images: Soutine's plucked chicken, Rembrandt's skinned ox and Francis Bacon's screaming pope. Each page brought back sharp memories of Dad's suffering.
Since the scooter was totaled Dad decided it was best to stick with driving the Chevy. He spent a week recuperating at home. Once his wounds had healed enough for him to tolerate wearing clothes he got dressed in his second uniform and returned to work.
We hoped our run of bad luck was finished but it wasn't over yet. Now it was my turn.
To give Mom some much needed peace and quiet, maybe even rest, Dad began taking Phillip and me to city parks on the weekends. One Friday Dad read an article in the Albuquerque Journal about an injured bear cub found clinging to a tree in a fire ravaged forest. After a veterinarian bandaged his paws a state Game and Fish department employee named Ray Bell took the little guy to his home in Santa Fe where his family nursed the cub until it was well. Seeing the possibilities of educating the public about the danger of forest fires Ranger Bell went on the lecture circuit, taking the cub to schools and parks around Santa Fe. Now, according to the Journal story, the ranger and the little bear were going to be at the Albuquerque zoo the very next day.
Saturday morning Phillip and I took our usual places in Dad's convertible Chevy. My brother liked the front seat by the window, 'riding shotgun' as he called it. I took my place in the back, which suited me fine since I loved looking at the sky which this morning was azure blue with puffy white clouds. I settled happily in the seat, ready for another beautiful day.
Across from our house was a deep gully, a handy shortcut everyone used because it was a quick way out of the neighborhood. Dad backed the car onto the street and drove to its edge. He gunned the Chevy to get momentum to make it down, across and then up the steep embankment onto Miles Road. From there the zoo was just a few minutes away.
It looked easy enough, especially since constant usage had made a driving path of sorts for cars to follow. But it had rained recently and Dad didn't see the large rocks that had washed down into the arroyo's sandy bed until it was too late. He was able to swerve the front wheels to avoid hitting them but the rear tire where I was sitting hit the rocks squarely.
The Chevy was a well built car with great springs and its top was down. I was ejected up and out still in my sitting position looking up at the sky. For a fraction of a second I saw blue and white patches of color. Descending I bounced off a large bush which broke my fall. Landing in the arroyo I rolled several times before coming to a stop face down in the sand.
The car made it to the top of the hill without me. In the distance I could hear Phillip yelling excitedly. "Dad! Daad! Lee fell outta the car!"
I turned my head slightly so I could breathe. The next thing I knew Dad was lifting me up. He cleared the dirt out of my nose and mouth and slapped me on the back a couple of times. I coughed and gasped until I could breathe again.
"Is he okay?" Phillip called from the car. His voice sounded small and far away.
Dad cleaned the dirt from my eyes. When I opened them he was peering at me with one eyebrow up, his usual look of concentration and concern.
"Are you okay?" Dad asked.
I nodded and coughed up more dirt.
"Lee's okay," he shouted back to Phillip.
While walking me to the car Dad brushed off as much dirt as he could. Before putting me in the back seat he gave my hair a good ruffling with both hands to get rid of any extra sand. After settling in behind the wheel he turned to Phillip.
"Don't tell your mama what happened, okay?" Dad cautioned, nodding affirmatively with each word.
Phillip, eyes large, nodded back.
Dad turned to me. "Okay?"
This was the first 'Don't tell your mama' moment I remember. Many more were to come since Dad's concept of adventure usually involved some risk. I slapped my arms down in a gesture of silent agreement and dust puffed out of my pants legs. It was the best I could do-the trip had barely gotten started and I was already exhausted. Other dads would've taken a fast trip to the emergency room but mine drove on to the zoo. When we reached the parking lot I climbed out shakily and Phillip looked me over. Dirt was caked on my face, muddy tracks coursed down my cheeks from my watering eyes.
"Dad," Phillip said. "Lee's got dirt on his face."
Dad found a drinking fountain at the zoo's entrance. He wet his handkerchief and swabbed my face. He pinched my nose and held it while commanding me to blow.
"Hunh, hunh, hunh," I went while Dad laughed, happy to see that I was okay. My face looked a bit cleaner although the rest of me was still dusty. Finally we were ready to go into the zoo.
Phillip stared curiously at the signs. "What do they say?" he asked.
Dad read the words aloud. "They say, Bear Cub at Monkey Cages."
The zoo has been in the same beautiful location near the Rio Grande River for years. Then, as now, large cottonwoods and elm trees lined the pathways. Sitting down to rest in one of the many shaded, grassy areas where families were already picnicking looked inviting but we kept walking. On our way to the monkey cages we passed camels and buffalo but we didn't stop there either since Dad's objective was to see the cub. As we got nearer we heard loud noises coming from the monkey cages, it was feeding time. Phillip couldn't stand it. He broke free of Dad's hand and took off in their direction.
"I'm gonna go see the monkeys," he yelled over his shoulder.
Dad and I continued until we saw a uniformed ranger wearing a cowboy hat talking to a group of interested people. At his feet was a little ball of black fur in a leather harness and leash. I was afraid to get closer but Dad wanted a better look. The cub was gnawing on the ranger's cowboy boots when we walked up. He stopped chewing and his small black eyes focused on me. Suddenly he bolted to where I was standing and stood up. We were the same height. My eyes went like saucers looking at him.
"Aaah!" I yelled.
"Unhh!" The cub yelled back.
The cub's paws went up so I threw my hands up to protect myself. Without warning he lunged at me. I stiff armed him backwards and tried to run but the cub was too fast. He tackled me and put his furry paws around my chest so tightly I couldn't get away. The more I struggled to get free the rougher he played. His long claws scratched my arms and his cold nose pressed against my throat. People all around us were laughing, apparently everybody got a big kick out of this playful encounter except me. Finally the ranger caught up with us and yanked the cub back but not before his sharp teeth and claws had torn off my shirt pocket and ripped my pants. I ran to Dad and hid behind his legs.
Phillip heard the commotion from the monkey cages. He ran over to see what was happening.
"Lee just wrastled a bear," Dad laughed.
"You mean, a bear just wrastled Lee," Phillip corrected.
"Let's go get some ice cream," Dad said.
We walked to a concession stand where Dad bought a cone for me and Phillip. We'd learned to share equally but this time Phillip gave me most of the ice cream, which sort of calmed my nerves. We played on the swings at the playground for a while, then Dad decided it was time to go home. As we walked back to the car he gave us another significant look.
"Don't tell your mama about the bear, okay?"
Phillip nodded.
As soon as we walked through the door Mom noticed my disheveled condition. She looked at my torn clothes, dirty face and scratched arms, then at Phillip. He looked fine. For a brief moment no one said a word but the day's events were too exciting for my brother to keep to himself.
"Mom!" he began but she wasn't listening. She fixed Dad with a suspicious look.
"What happened to Lee?"
She picked me up and placed me protectively on her lap. She untied one of my badly scuffed shoes and pulled it off. Sand poured out.
Dad shifted uneasily. He popped the front brim of his straw fedora upward in a stalling maneuver while he searched for the best answer.
Phillip couldn't hold it in any longer.
"Lee fell outta the car," he blurted.
As Dad gazed out the window he slid his forefinger down his nose, lips and chin in a silent effort to get Phillip to shut up.
Mom looked shocked. "He fell out of the car?"
Relieved at being able to plead to a lesser offense, Dad gave a small shrug. "Yeah," he agreed, "Lee was getting out of the car and he fell."
"Well, why didn't you pick him up?" Mom demanded. "He's too little to get out of the car by himself. Why are his clothes torn? There's a rip on his pants and his shirt pocket is torn. And he has scratches on his arms, how did that happen? How am I going to get any rest the way you take care of the kids?" She looked bitter.
"OhhhAngie," Dad sighed. "Lee was just playing in the sand box over there at the zoo. We had a good time, didn't we, boys?" he added, smiling and nodding brightly at us.
Phillip nodded but started talking again. "And the bear..."
As he spoke he glanced over at Dad who was staring out the window again, pulling an index finger down over his nose and lips.
This time Phillip stopped talking and the three of them looked at me. I raised my arms and slapped my pants. More dust puffed out. I couldn't speak-not because I was afraid of disobeying Dad, it was all the day's events. Bouncing out of the car and wrestling with a celebrity bear cub were too much for me at the age of three to talk about.
"Oh brother," Mom said. She didn't get any more out of us. Many years passed before she found out what really happened.
The cub that tackled me in June, 1950 became a national symbol for preventing forest fires. Shortly after we met, little Smokey the Bear was flown to his new home at the national zoo in Washington D.C.