APRIL 29, 2020 – I was but six when I witnessed my first power play—not as in hockey but as in one man pulling rank on another.
It occurred at about 1:00 on a hot, beautiful summer afternoon. I know the time, because that’s when our neighbor, Bob Ehlen, would’ve been heading back to his office after lunch, which he always took at home. (My parents always referred to him as “Bob Ehlen,” never “Bob” or “Ehlen.” Similarly, my sisters and I called him “Bob Ehlen,” never “Mr. Ehlen.”)
Bob Ehlen was second in command at Federal Cartridge, the fabulously successful (hunting) ammunition manufacturer located in my hometown of Anoka, Minnesota. He’d also served a stint as mayor. I learned those things years later. On the day in question, I knew only what I observed firsthand.
My family’s house stood on a corner lot at Rice and Green. Bob Ehlen’s house sat on a much bigger lot on Rice, just opposite the “T” intersection with Green. His huge lot swept up from Rice Street to a ridge where his house afforded a commanding view of the Mississippi River below. A long, winding driveway ran from the street upward to his garage (with a back-up slot near the top), which was equipped with an automatic door opener—a notable marvel back then.
Bob Ehlen was a bachelor, and he reminded me of Jascha Heifetz, whose photo I’d seen one of my dad’s record jackets—a no-nonsense guy who played circles around the competition. He drove a late-model, two-door Buick with power windows–quite the sign of luxury back when America was at the height of its indisputable power and Eisenhower was still president. At lunchtime and at day’s end I’d see the car approaching down Green to the stop sign at Rice. With never-flagging awe, I’d then watch as the big vehicle bounded over the crown of Rice Street, dipped to the apron of the driveway, then soared up the twisting path to the garage. When the Buick was halfway up, the magic garage door opened. I’d watch for the brake lights and the garage door to close. I imagined Bob Ehlen then entering a house of luxury, where no doubt a butler, maids, and servants were at his beck and call.
In the morning and at the end of lunchtime, I’d watch all in reverse—the magic door going up, the Buick rolling onto the back-up slot, then floating down the driveway, leaping over Rice Street and heading authoritatively north up Green . . .
(Cont.)
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© 2020 by Eric Nilsson
