Dad owned an old Studebaker pickup and to make extra income he hired out to clean yards. He placed ads in the Albuquerque Journal—we finally had a telephone, so by Friday he usually had a couple of jobs lined up for the weekend. Phillip and I were his unpaid helpers, along for the soda pop and potato chips we'd get during the trip.
One Saturday we drove to a house in the northeast heights, part of the new Albuquerque and a place our family rarely visited. An Anglo man with graying hair, neatly dressed in khaki pants and a plaid shirt walked Dad to the backyard while we waited in the truck. Apparently they struck a deal because when they came back they shook hands.
"Okay, boys," Dad said with a satisfied smile. "We're gonna clean the back yard." As he backed the truck to the gate we could hear dogs barking but we didn’t worry since they were penned up on the other side of the house. Then the stench hit us and Phillip started gagging.
"I'm staying in the truck," he announced.
"No you're not,” Dad told him. “Go get the shovels."
This wasn't going to be an easy job. Phil and I reluctantly pulled two shovels and a rake from the back of the truck and followed Dad. He raked up the back yard while we shoveled everything into the borrowed wheelbarrow and then into the truck. It took at least four hours to clean the yard. There were more items to load up in the garage, including a very heavy set of encyclopedias from the 1920s. Those we lugged outside and onto the floor of the truck cab.
The job almost did Phillip and me in. We were totally exhausted and traumatized by it but before we could go home and take a bath which we badly needed, we had to go to the city dump.
When we drove up the guy taking the money started gasping.
"Phew! Whadaya got there?"
"Dog poop," Phillip and I answered together, sounding as disgusted as possible. We didn’t want him to think we had anything to do with this.
"Welltakeitoverthere!" he exclaimed, holding his nose and waving us off to a far corner. Dad parked the truck but Phillip and I didn't bother helping. We let him shovel it out while we watched from the cab.
The smell was killing us and Phillip pounded on the back window. "Hurry up, Dad!" he yelled.
"Shuddup,” Dad yelled back but we didn't, we complained all the way home.
"No more dog poop!” Phillip insisted. “Don't ever take a job like that again or I'm not going anymore."
“Ask if they have dogs FIRST,” I added. “If they do, tell them, 'I don't take jobs with dogs, those are the rules.' "
Dad's brow furrowed as waves of our disapproval crashed over him. "Yeah, I guess you're right,” he said hoping to put an end to the insurrection. “I probably won't take any more jobs like that.”
Phillip wasn't finished making his point. “How much did they pay you?" he asked sharply.
Dad's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "Why?"
"I want to know if they paid you enough."
"Twenty dollars," he muttered. The amount had seemed okay to Dad at the time the deal was struck since in those days things cost a lot less. Gas was only 22 cents a gallon so the pickup's tank could be filled for under three bucks.
Phil gave Dad a sour look, irked that we did such an awful job for so little money. He slumped back against the seat, dissatisfied. "You shoulda held out for forty.”
"At least twenty-five,” I put in. We drove the rest of the way home not talking.
"Phew!" Mom smelled us even before we walked in the kitchen. She stood in the doorway blocking our path, waving a pot holder back and forth in front of her face, just as offended by us as we were. We weren't allowed to step foot in her clean house until we took off everything but our shorts. At the back door we undressed as fast as we could hoping none of the neighbors could see us. Dad hosed down the truck bed but it still smelled so awful he asked Mom for some detergent. When he finished she wouldn't let him in the house until he too, stripped down to his shorts. At dinner Phillip and I couldn’t eat much, just thinking about all the dog poop. Afterwards, although we were tired, we carried the encyclopedias into the living room.
It turned out those twelve outdated volumes were my reward for cleaning that smelly, messy yard. Sunday morning I sat on the living room floor and picked up the first encyclopedia, which covered subjects A through D and started going through it page by page looking for anything interesting on art or artists.
I hit pay dirt under the B's with Bernini, Botticelli, Bramante and Bronzino. First I read about Botticelli. The book gave his birth date, date of death and information about him including that he was an early Renaissance painter. I opened the volume which held the R’s and read about the Italian Renaissance. That article referred to another art movement, the Mannerist period so I opened the volume holding the M's. Skipping back and forth between volumes that Sunday I began developing an idea of how art history evolved in Europe and who the important artists were. The text was easy to read and informative, the only drawback was there were very few illustrations, just some small black and white reproductions of paintings. Consequently I had no idea what the art really looked like but it didn't stop me from reading. Back to volume one, I’d moved from the B’s to the C’s and was reading about the strange life of Caravaggio when I felt a kick on my shoe, catapulting me back to our living room on Carlton and the twentieth century.
Phil stood over me. "Let's go, Lee,” he said, nodding toward the door. It was getting dark and he wanted to play night football with the guys in the neighborhood. Reluctantly I closed the book and went outside.
In the fourth grade we were learning American history, including important dates such as 1492 and 1776, while on my own I was reading about artists and art epochs from the encyclopedias stacked on the living room floor and from the old Life, Look and Saturday Evening Post magazines Dad was bringing home from work. It was a lot of information and to get it all in my head I started thinking in terms of a time line of art eras and artists in relation to dates in U.S. and world history. Doing this everything seemed to make sense. The development of the high Renaissance for example, meshed nicely with 1492. By the time I made my first visit to the neighborhood library a year later I was well versed on the Renaissance and artists throughout European art history, especially Italian artists.
Two years later seventh graders in Albuquerque schools were tested for aptitude in all subjects. None of my scores were out of the ordinary except for one, art history. The test showed my understanding of that subject was at a university graduate level. Although I was just eleven at the time, not one of the adults around me-my parents, people at Garfield or the test examiners, took note of this unusual score. It would have been wonderful if someone had said-this kid needs art supplies, maybe even special tutoring-and provided it. It wouldn't have cost much and it would have meant everything to me. I saw other kids receiving this kind of attention for being especially good at something, but they didn't look like me and they were't poor. It wasn't any different with the art I'd been steadily producing at school since the first grade. No one noticed the youngster who was creating remarkable art.
September, when the new school year began Phillip's sixth grade teacher gave the class an assignment. They were to visit the local public library, check out a book and do a report. Instead of going home after school Phillip decided to complete the assignment that day. It meant walking to the library and of course, I went with him. We set off from La Luz and headed west on Griegos road.
"The first thing we have to do is get a library card so we can check out books," Phillip explained as we left the school grounds.
I had to walk fast to keep up with him. "How do you do that?" I asked.
"They give you a card," Phillip said. He’d learned that in class.
After a few blocks I felt tired and hungry. I was used to walking home directly after school and eating one or two of Mom's fresh tortillas along with whatever else was cooking on the stove.
I looked over at Phillip who was striding along. "Where's the library?" I panted. I felt like I couldn't take another step.
"One more block."
"You sure?"
“Yeah.” A few moments later Phillip spotted a sign on a carefully tended lawn, Griegos Public Library. “Here it is,” he said, turning toward the entrance.
Johnny Sedillo, a kid in my class, had been walking ahead of us on the other side of the street. When he came to his house he called out, "Edward, where you going?"
"To the library. Wanna go with us?"
"Nah, I never go there."
Strange, I thought to myself. Johnny just lives across the street.
The library was built in typical 1950s style, a red brick box with windows in the front and smaller ones high up on the side walls. Inside were tall metal stacks full of books and sturdy blonde wood tables and chairs. Five or six people sat reading books and magazines. Phillip went to the counter and spoke confidently to the librarian.
"I’d like to get library cards for me and my brother."
The librarian wore her graying hair in a tight bun, reminding me of Miss Grundy in Archie comic books, except this lady seemed happy to see us. She asked for our parents’ names, our address and phone number. "It takes about thirty minutes. In the meantime, do you boys know how to use the library?"
Too shy to make eye contact I looked to my brother. "No," he said, answering for both of us. Away from family and friends I still spoke very little and with Phillip in charge I didn't need to anyway. The librarian directed her conversation to him and as he listened attentively she pointed to a long row of oak cabinets with little drawers. "Do you see those cabinets?" Miss Grundy asked. "They hold all the cards to all the books in the library. Everything's based on the Dewey decimal system."
Why's it called Dewey? I wondered as she carefully explained the system to us. The only Dewey I knew was Donald Duck’s nephew, she couldn't be referring to him.
The librarian began pointing out the different bookcases, interrupting my silly thoughts. "That’s History. Over there is Fiction. Here’s Biography. That's Fine Arts, which includes art, music, theatre and architecture."
Wow! What a great way to describe art, I thought. Since none of the other sections had the word 'Fine' in their title I was sure that meant Art was the most important category in the library.
The contrast between this place and the school library was striking. At La Luz Elementary we weren’t allowed to visit it without a teacher and no time was ever set aside to do that, so until that afternoon I hadn't walked freely through a library. I assumed it would be the same way here but it wasn't; Miss Grundy seemed genuinely interested in helping us. Overhead, afternoon sunlight slanted through high windows and within its fanning rays the books were illuminated in gold. There was no other place like it in my world and it suddenly dawned on me how much I loved being there. I forgot about being hungry; instead, I felt a surge of excitement because concepts I was learning in school like freedom and democracy, now held real meaning for me. If the Griegos library wasn't restricted then anybody could use it. Apparently I was somebody because I had the right to use the library, just as my friend Johnny was exercising his right not to.
Besides being beautiful it was incredibly quiet. Other than the librarian’s soft voiced conversation with Phillip the only other sound was of an occasional page turning. Looking around I noticed little 'Quiet, Please' signs everywhere and a few visits later I saw the lengths the staff went to enforce that rule. Barbarians were taking over and a distress call went out to the custodian. “Mr. Montoya!”
Immediately a dark, stocky man who looked like everybody's uncle stopped what he was doing and headed for the escalating ruckus. The sound of the librarian’s ragged voice caught my attention, too and I looked up from the art section. I knew every noisy kid there.
Mr. Montoya’s method was to take charge and not mince words. He'd been through World War II and faced down armed Nazis so a few rambunctious kids weren’t anything to him. “Who’s making noise?” he demanded.
"It’s Arthur. He’s farting!" Everyone at the table snickered.
"Nuh uh! Jerry did it." Laughter and shoves rippled outward to nearby tables.
Jerry’s outraged response "I DID NOT!" set off more assertions and denials that bounced back and forth across the library.
The custodian’s stern look froze the offenders' laughter in the air.
"I don't care who did it, you're all leaving. And if you make any more noise I'm going to tell your dad, I know who he is," which was true. Mr. Montoya lived in the neighborhood and seemed to know the fathers of many of the trouble makers which gave him a lot of authority. The boys knew they were doomed if they kept it up because in those days nearly everyone’s dad was a war veteran who didn’t mince words either.
"Don't come back until you can behave yourselves," Mr. Montoya warned as he escorted them out the door.
"Okay boys, you can use the library now," came the librarian's pleasant voice. "I’ll type up temporary cards and you can check out two books until you have your permanent card. Then you’re allowed to check out a total of six books each."
Phillip and I went in opposite directions. He went to the card catalogs to do his research and I beelined to Fine Art, excited that the world I loved was neatly shelved before me. I desperately wanted to see works by the artists I'd been reading about for the last two years, and now at last there were some to look at.
The first books to catch my attention were the Ripley series which concentrated on the high Renaissance artists. I carried the slender book on Michelangelo to a nearby table and started going over it. I was spellbound by his paintings and sculpture and entranced by his depiction of the human figure to express his innermost feelings. Seeing the angels Michelangelo painted I experienced a moment of intense recognition. He had captured the essence of the imposing figure who visited me when I was three. I figured he must have seen the same angel.
An hour later Phil arrived at the art section where I sat hunched over the Michelangelo book. He'd finished reading a book for the class assignment and was ready to leave. "I'm done," he announced. "I'll do the report before everyone else and turn it in tomorrow." He had nothing to worry about, we were the only ones our age in the library. Anyway, it was time to go. I closed the book slowly, not wanting to let go of those masterful images.
As we walked over to the check out desk I noticed Phil wasn't carrying any books, which for him was typical-he never carried books home from school, either. Seemingly able to remember whatever he read all my brother took with him that afternoon was one of the library's short, chewed up pencils and some notes he'd written on scrap paper. Phillip was a secret scholar, successfully hiding his intelligence from his many friends while always receiving excellent grades. This first visit also presaged how it would be when we left the library...Phil would walk home unencumbered, setting a fast pace since he had places to go and kids to see. I'd carry a load of heavy art books and struggle to keep up.
That first day I checked out two books, one on da Vinci and the one on Michelangelo.The following week I received my permanent library card so I was able to take out more books. I renewed the Ripley book on Michelangelo and checked out books on Rafael, Botticelli and Albrecht Durer, the last artist mentioned in the A-D volume at the house. The two week limit on books and the late fines I couldn't afford to pay kept me going to the library. As a result, every other week I walked back and forth from home loaded down with books but it was worth it. Visiting the library I gained something important, the certainty that the world of art was where I wanted to be. From then on art became my second family, the wonderful one I could rely on.
It was different for Phil. After our initial visit to the library he went there only when it was necessary to complete a school assignment. My brother's real passion was sports and for a while it was mine, too. The first thing we'd do when we got home each day was throw the baseball or football around. We'd start playing ball in the backyard or the dirt road in front of the house which always brought out the rest of the boys in the neighborhood. Since nearly everyone came from a large family there were always enough kids to play team games. A game went on until we were all called inside and resumed in the dark after dinner. So much of our time was spent playing sports that in retrospect I believe we did it to escape the tension that was always boiling between our parents. Their battles took a toll on us. The way Phillip and I coped was to play outside a great deal of the time.
For me the visit to the public library was life changing. There I discovered I needed books more than sports. Through books I understood the important connections art had in my life, and what I had to do next, because the stories I was reading were rich with descriptions of how someone became an artist. Most artists, I learned, came from humble origins. Yet, they had the ability to transcend ordinary life through their art. Finding out that art could come from anywhere and from any person irrespective of society's expectations reinforced my growing belief that I, too could become an artist. It was something I'd have to accomplish on my own because no one recognized the strange profession I'd chosen; it was just too different from what everyone else around me was doing.
By the end of fifth grade I’d read so much about European and American art that I started viewing my world through the eyes of art history. Little Bernie, eight years old with brown, curly locks looked like a Botticelli painting. His teenage brother Frankie who was athletic and muscular was like a Michelangelo sculpture. My dad's cousin Pasqual Sena was a ringer for Velasquez's central figure in his painting Los Borachos. In the late evening the grand old cottonwood across the railroad tracks from our back yard reminded me of a Rembrandt landscape, as did the trees down by the river when the leaves turned yellow ochre and glowed in the sunlight.
These connections included what I saw on television and in the old movies I loved to watch after school. The images and characters seemed right out of paintings I was familiar with but my close scrutiny also led to some confusion. The gypsy in a Lon Chaney movie looked and sounded so much like Mom’s Aunt Macrina I actually thought it was her, although not everything made sense. How could Aunt Macrina speak English all of a sudden? How come we weren't celebrating her success in the movies and why wasn't she telling anybody? I decided to ask Mom. She was in the kitchen reading the newspaper.
"Did Aunt Macrina finally go with her daughter to California?"
Mom kept her eyes on the paper. "Yes. Why?" she asked.
"Where do they live?"
"In Los Angeles."
"Is that close to Hollywood?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Because I think I saw Aunt Macrina in the movies."
"What movie?" she asked, finally looking up.
"The Werewolf. She was a gypsy. Do you think that was her, Mom?"
Mom rolled her eyes. "I don't think so," she said slowly, exaggerating each word.
"Why? If she's near Hollywood…"
Mom interrupted me. "That movie you saw is at least twenty years old, way before she moved to California."
"Oh."
I wasn't completely convinced that the Aunt Macrina connection was wrong, however. The physical similarities and even the voice of the gypsy were just too much like her for me to drop the idea. I started thinking, maybe she had a twin no one knew about. After all, very little was known about my mother's side of the family. They emigrated from Mexico during the Revolution and family was scattered all over the place. I decided we just hadn’t met all of them.
to be continued