BACK TO THE NEIGHBORHOOD (CHAPTER XX – “Bob Ehlen”)

MAY 4, 2024 – Before we moved to our new house at 505 Rice from our old house next door at the corner of Green and Rice, I hung out a lot right there at the corner street sign. I remember well the day a few weeks short of first grade when I figured out that “Rice” on the street sign contained the same letters that spelled my name.

Anyway, that corner gave me a good vantage point for viewing the end of Bob Ehlen’s long driveway, which lined up with the end of Green Avenue at its terminal intersection with Rice Street. Since my parents always referred to the reclusive neighbor as “Bob Ehlen,” not “Bob” or “Mr. Ehlen,” we kids also called him “Bob Ehlen,” though never in his presence: I don’t know a single kid in the neighborhood who’d ever met him face-to-face.

The driveway with a couple of S-curves sloped gently up to his house with its commanding view of the Mississippi at the bottom of the downslope on the other side. The dwelling was not huge or extravagant on the outside, but over time my imagination had constructed an opulent interior. I even dreamt about it occasionally, and in the dreams it was especially posh. Evidence that Bob Ehlen was a very wealthy man was abundant: his sleek late model Buick; the automatic garage opener, albeit for a single-stall garage; the trim yellow awnings on the windows facing the river; the size of his lot; and the fact that he was the only neighbor to have a full-time house-keeper (who didn’t dress as if she were his girlfriend) and to hire out his yard maintenance. Plus, and perhaps most important, Bob Ehlen stayed very much aloof from the rest of the neighbors.

My impression of his wealth—and by implication, his power and influence—was confirmed one hot and humid summer day when I was munching on a P & J sandwich held in one hand while I used my other hand to grasp the pole of the RICE/GREEN street sign and twist around its base. But first I should paint the backdrop . . .

. . . Bob Ehlen, I’d noticed over time, was very much a creature of habit. Every morning his big Buick would bound down the driveway, slow at the apron, then charge over the crown of Rice Street and shoot up Green Avenue. Every day at noon, the land-boat would reverse its morning course. I’d watch as it wound gracefully up the drive, slowed for the self-raising garage door, then disappear into its private shelter. The perfectly choreographed routine closed out with the garage door coming down, just like the curtain on the scene of a play. An hour later, Bob Ehlen would repeat his morning exit; in the evening, the reverse again.

Bob Ehlen always wore a suit, except a couple of times on weekends when I caught a glimpse of him wearing a knit or flannel shirt, depending on the season, as the Buick crossed Rice Street. He never walked his grounds; never appeared afoot on the street.

In any case, on the day on which I witnessed his power and influence, a city street crew was oiling the surface of Rice Street. The operation involved cleaning the street, then spraying down a layer of very black liquified petroleum-based asphalt (or so it smelled and appeared), and later, spreading a course of pea gravel. After a day or two the excess gravel would be swept up by the Wayne-brand street cleaner. In the morning the workmen had started down at the beach, where Rice turned sharply away from the river and became Levee Avenue. By lunchtime the workers were approaching our corner.

Predictably, at high noon Bob Ehlen’s Buick Electra came down Green, floated over Rice, and proceeded with its usual elegance up the driveway. When an hour later it was time for the Electra to reverse direction, the work of the street crew was just past the intersection of Rice and Green—and thus beyond Bob Ehlen’s point of egress. From my vantage point diagonally across the driveway apron I saw that the front of the car was stopped right where the driveway met the freshly oiled street pavement. I then got to observe the exchange between Bob Ehlen and the man who appeared to be in charge of the workers.

The noise of machinery drowned out the critical conversation between the two men, but Bob Ehlen in his crisp white shirt and tie and with an intense face was doubtless telling the guy in bib overalls that the Buick had the right-away. But the man in overalls wasn’t a push-over—or so I assumed, since he seemed to be talking back and holding his own. Who would prevail? I wondered.

Eventually, the car was allowed through. From this I concluded that Bob Ehlen was, in fact, an influential person, who had friends in higher places than did the guy in overalls. As a first-grader, I was impressed.

Much later I learned that Bob Ehlen had served as Mayor of Anoka for a dozen years and Chairman of the Board of Federal Cartridge—based on the east end of town—where half the grown-ups in Anoka worked.

More recently, I discovered that the rich and powerful neighbor across the street had followed a legendary career path from the mail room to the very top executive office. In 1923 he landed his first job at Federal Cartridge before he’d graduated from Anoka High. Ambitious and intelligent, he advanced quickly and soon learned how to operate every machine in the factory. At the age of 29 he became plant manager. The year before Pearl Harbor, he was appointed general manager of the company, and by the time the U.S. entered WW II, Federal Cartridge won a contract to build (in six months) and operate the Twin Cities Ordnance Plant in New Brighton, just north of St. Paul, MN. Just 30 years old at the time, Bob Ehlen was placed in charge of the plant, which employed 26,000 people and became the second largest ammunition plant in the world. When he attempted to join the military, the government denied enlistment: his essential contribution to the war effort was as wunderkind of munitions production.

None of this I knew until long after Bob Ehlen had retired after a 57-year career at Federal Cartridge. Certainly none of it I could’ve appreciated all those lazy summer days when I’d swing around the street sign pole and see his floating Buick chauffeur him past our corner to and from work on the other side of Anoka.

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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson