Altering our narrow view of the world

Ancient memories (Part 2) – July 1951

By Saul Landau

In 1950, the U.S. Census estimated the population at just over 150 million, 3 million of whom were unemployed. California, with 10.6 million, was second most populous, to New York (14 million). Nevada had the smallest population, 182 thousand.

The Winslow, Arizona, sheriff was talking with a deputy about Bob Feller’s third no hitter (on July1, a week before, against Detroit) as he let us out of the cell early in the morning. He didn’t offer us breakfast — not that the fried bread and dried up beans looked very appetizing. In those days, sheriffs got money to feed the prisoners and what they didn’t spend went into their pockets — or so the prisoners said. At least no one stole our money or tried to cornhole us.

“Now you boys be careful,” he warned. “There’s folks on the road that don’t have the best intentions when they pick up a couple of youngsters.”

The clear morning air, with the background of desert and mountains, stunned us.

“I’ve never been to this part of the city before,” joked Harvey as we pointed our thumbs toward the blue sky.

“When the sun in the morning peeks over the hill,” sang Harvey. “And kisses the roses round my windowsill.”

“Then my heart fills with gladness when I hear the trill,” I responded, trying to imitate Patti Paige.

“Of the birds in the treetops on Mockin’ Bird Hill,” we finished more or less together.

We did pop songs we heard on the radio, “Hey Good lookin’, what you got cookin’?” and “On Top of Old Smokey”— while waiting for rides.

“I’m gonna be a salesman and make money fast,” boasted Harvey. “Live fast, die young and leave a good looking corpse,” he quoted from a line from the hoodlum hero in the film “Knock On Any Door,” from the novel by Willard Motley. He waited for my response to a line that he had repeated endlessly. “So what are you gonna do?” he asked.

I didn’t have a clue. “After I get out of the Marine Corps, you mean?”

“Yeah, whatever.” I shrugged and suggested we look at the Petrified Forest, a short northeasterly detour. We argued, but finally Harvey agreed. A Mexican man who barely spoke English gave us a ride. We taught each other words and phrases. My high school Spanish was the equivalent of his English.

“Vaquero,” he proudly proclaimed. “Cowboy,” he translated.

“Millionario,” said Harvey. “How do you say ‘one day soon’?”

At the Petrified Forest, walking amongst hollowed out trees, Harvey declared: “Doesn’t scare me.” He had glanced at the Painted Desert and said: “Needs a new paint job.” A few tourists examined the hollow tree trunks. A father was explaining to his son: “Imagine, a million years ago!” I could not imagine it. We stared at sandstone with rock carvings. The sign said: “These petroglyphs date from 1000-1300 AD. We looked at primitive etchings of animals and other objects. “They would have failed art class,” said Harvey.

We bought post cards and mailed them to the block bookie to prove we’d been there and also to a couple of girls on the block — showing off. I called home.

My mother answered, hysteria in her voice. “Why? Where?”

I foolishly told her the truth and she shrieked. “Jail? What did you do?”

My father got on the phone. “Great,” he said, without as much as ‘hello’. “Now you have a prison record. What did you do to get arrested?”

I told him the story. He didn’t believe me.

“They don’t put people in jail just like that,” he said. “Tell me the whole story.”

I repeated. He repeated. I hung up, frustrated.

“I told you not to call,” said Harvey.

We got a ride in a Henry J that clanked and squealed every time the young cowboy driver went over 50. We went through Two Guns and Twin Arrows and saw road signs pointing to the Grand Canyon. “You want to see it?

“Is the Pope Catholic?” responded Harvey.

The cowboy laughed. “Buy me two bucks of gas [nine gallons] and we got a deal.”

“Deal,” we shouted. Now we had $10 between us. He took us north and we gazed in awe.

The young cowboy told us about how his grandfather came from Ireland to work in a copper mine and used Route 66. “He ended up working on the railroad, which took the place of camels.”

We chuckled skeptically.

“After the gold rush,” he explained, “the government was going to build a railroad from Arkansas to Los Angeles, and they sent some army officer to figure out the route and they used camels from Africa on one of those expeditions [Beale’s Camel Corps 1857]. Heck, camels don’t know the difference between the sand of Egypt and the sand of Arizona. I still can’t figure out why camels didn’t take the place of horses. I could have got hired to break camels instead of horses.” He laughed. “Can you picture the Civil War with generals riding camels?”

I asked him why he wasn’t in Korea.

“Rodeo injury,” he explained. “Screwed up one knee so bad so as I couldn’t pass the physical. My li’l brother’s over there. Says it ain’t like being at home, if you get my drift.”

We said goodbye to the cowboy in Williams, just east of Flagstaff. He gave us passes to a rodeo in which he claimed he was going to win a prize “rasslen a bull.” We complimented him on his courage.

Harvey and I nearly froze as we walked along the highway, dressed in tee shirts, thumbs high in the late morning. We climbed in the cold mountain wind that snuck through the elegant pine trees, crept under our trousers, spiraled its way up our legs, into our nether cracks, up our spine and like nasty fingers snapped against our brains.

Later, we talked about how the vistas of the mountains, mesas and deserts had altered our narrow view of the world as being one large New York City plus the Catskill Mountains for vacation, of course. Our political views were equally developed.

“As soon as I graduate,” I told Harvey, “I’m enlisting.”

Harvey shrugged. His older brother was in the army at the end of World War II and told him in no uncertain terms: “The army stinks.”

We got successive rides easily from Winslow all the way to Los Angeles, nodding in the cab of a truck. The heat of the desert poured through the windows of the truck’s cab. The driver played the radio and we heard about Owen Lattimore, a former high State Department official. Was he a Red spy, a naïve fool, or a victim of Joe McCarthy, the announcer asked? Imagine the top authority on Asia as a Commy Agent working for Moscow and Peking! Sounded scary!

“What do you boys think?” the elderly trucker asked. (He may not have been more than 50).

I had no opinion. “All spies should be shot,” opined Harvey — especially Red ones.

The trucker stopped in Las Vegas. “Population 24,624,” the sign said. Another sign had indicated the road going northwest to the Atomic Test Site where the Atomic Energy Commission (AEC) had detonated an A bomb earlier in the year. The AEC assured everyone that the resulting fallout would not affect human health. And pigs would fly next month!

In the middle of a desert, the neon signs created a bizarre aura. “Grand Opening,” read the announcement in front the Desert Inn [It opened in 1950]. The trucker drove slowly down the main street, casinos, hotels, bars and a few paved streets with newly built one-story homes on either side. I saw no one on the street. No wonder! The reaction to heat and dust overwhelmed all my other senses. “Gotta play my lucky number,” he said as we followed him through the stifling July night air into a freezing, air conditioned casino.

Harvey and I found the nickel slots before the security people found us. Men and women, like robots, brought down the handles of the one-armed bandits. Cling, clang, ding, dong and the occasional sound of coins falling into a tray. Before someone checked our Ids, Harvey made $1.40; I lost $1.00. The trucker had a smile on his face.

“I lost again,” he said. “One day, one day, one day…”

Saul Landau is an Institute for Policy Studies fellow. His films are available through roundworldproductions.