Month: July 2022

Sometime in the early 50’s, Leo Fortier’s uncle was a member of the Civil Air Patrol, so Leo knew all about enemy aircraft. He said that his uncle had an assigned time every week, where he would sit on the roof of his house and watch for enemy planes flying over. 

“The attack could come at any time, so we have to be vigilant,” Leo said.

I asked him was vigilant meant. “I don’t know, but it’s important,” he answered.

One summer day, we were out on the St. Peter’s School playground playing 500. This is a game where one guy hits fly balls to kids in the outfield. If you catch a fly ball with one hand, you get 200 points. If you use two hands, you only get 100 points. Catch the ball on one hop, 75 points. Two hops, 50 points and grounders were 25 points. If you drop a fly ball, trying to catch it one-handed, you forfeit 200 points.

The first fielder to get 500 points wins and then he gets to bat. The first batter goes to the field and the game starts over. Each person was responsible for his own score, so there was plenty of arguing over just what the real score was.

Well, on this particular afternoon, a really big plane with four propellors (two on each wing) was flying really low right over the playground. Leo told us guys (Davey Cournoyer, Carl Olson and me) that the plane was a Russian bomber and we would all be toast in the next five minutes. There was nothing we could do about it since nobody in North St. Paul had a bomb shelter.

About this time, maybe 1954, we had regular air raid drills and fire drills at school. During fire drills, we walked out of  school and crossed the street. We waited there, in front of the church, until the bell rang and we could file back into school without a word being spoken. For some reason, fire drills only occurred on nice Spring and Fall days.

The air raid drills were different. Sister Evangelista came over the loud speaker and shouted, “Air raid drill! Get under your desk immediately. Duck And Cover!”

We all jumped up, crawled under our desks with our heads facing forward and our butts in the air. We were told to lock our hands over our heads and close our eyes until we got the all clear from the loud speaker. I did everything right but I didn’t close my eyes because I could see Germaine Pierre’s white underpants straight ahead, where her uniform dress was hiked up.

The same year, there was a new house on the corner of Prosperity and Carpenter Avenues, across from the Jewish cemetery, and it was supposed to have a bomb shelter in the basement. We drove by the house every other Sunday on our way to our Grandma’s house for dinner. Every time we went by that corner, I would ask my did if we were going to get a bomb shelter. 

Dad knew better than to say no, so he would answer, “Maybe someday.”

I would ask him what food and soda pop we would have in it. “Can we invite some people to stay with us?”

“This is just for our family,” he would say.

Then I would beg him to let Leo Fortier come and stay with us. He would hear about how Leo’s uncle was in the Civil Air patrol, and he’d say, “OK. Leo can come, but that’s all.”

When I asked if Leo’s mother could join us, his answer was, “She’s the last person in the world who would get into our bomb shelter.”

By this time we were almost to our grandmother’s house and the conversation was over until the next Sunday, in two more weeks, when it started all over again.

After two summer vacations in Minnesota, my mother was ready for something more. She wanted a road trip.

My father’s sister, Gwen, lived in Riverton, Wyoming and my father suggested a trip to see her, Uncle Neil and their family. It was an ambitious trip, with stops in the Badlands and a visit to Mount Rushmore. I had never heard of Mount Rushmore but I was happy at the thought of seeing my Aunt Gwen again. It was 1957. I had just turned thirteen and was going to high school in the fall.

In spite of having a houseful of children, Gwen wrote to my grandparents every week. She was a wonderful writer and was wickedly funny. I missed hearing from her after my grandparents died. Gwen’s letters were an early version of blogs ~ full of good news and funny anecdotes. 

In preparation for the trip, my mother fashioned a board on hinges to put in the back seat, so my brother, sister and I had room to move around. Our cooler and luggage fit under the board. We put blankets on top and added pillows and games. I brought along a lot of books to read. My mother’s intent was to keep us quiet so we wouldn’t argue with each other. I’m not sure that worked. 

My father always drove and my mother was the navigator. My father was a safe, patient driver but had no sense of direction. My mother was a wizard with a map. Without her, we might have ended up on the east coast.

Our trip through the Badlands was remarkable for the shear number of Burma Shave signs and advertisements for Wall Drug. My parents promised that we could stop at Wall Drug. We were so hyped-up, you would have thought we were going to Disneyland. We counted the miles to Wall Drug, getting more excited with every mile.

 

 

Finally we pulled into the dry, dusty Wall Drug parking lot, which was packed with cars. When we got inside, we were horrified to see aisles full of junky merchandise. That was all there was. We bought ice cream cones and ate them outside as we looked through chicken wire at an exhibit of snakes in a box. We got back in our car and headed for Wyoming.

I loved seeing my Aunt Gwen and Uncle Neil again but we didn’t stay long. I’m not sure why. Maybe it was because there was a uranium mine in the distance, which my parents said was full of uranium dust.

“You can play in the front yard, but don’t go in the back yard. The dust could kill you if you breathe it in.”

After three days,  my mother decided we needed to give Aunt Gwen a rest. Mom wanted us to drive up the mountain to have a picnic. So much for uranium dust! Uncle Neil told my father that when it was time to come down the mountain, he should turn off the car and coast all the way to the bottom “to save gas.” My father did just that, breaking only on the curves. My mother was terrified and screamed all the way to the bottom. We left the next day.

The trip home took us to North Platt, Nebraska, where we stopped at the Buffalo Bill Trading Post. We shook hands with Buffalo Bill Cody, Jr. (or maybe the third) and he looked just like the pictures in our history books. When we asked if we could buy something at the trading post, my mother’s answered with a swift “No. You kids have enough stuff already. We need to get going.”

The final leg of our trip was through an Indian reservation. It was the most desolate place I’d ever seen. We stopped when we saw an Indian man sitting on the side of the road, dressed in native clothes including a beautiful headdess made of feathers. We thought he must be the chief. He sat with a sign that said, “Pictures. 25 cents.” My father paid the man a quarter, grouped us children around him and snapped a picture. Our road trip was finished.

As we drove through the reservation, on our way back to Minnesota, my parents reinforced how lucky we were to live in a nice home, go to a good school, and have green grass and flowers all around us. We were ready to go home. We knew we were lucky indeed.