Riding Rockets

Albuquerque was my last childhood move and I thank God for it. We were permanently in the west. No longer did we have to drive for days to reach the deserts and mountains we had all come to love. Now we could satisfy our collective need to see over the next horizon on a weekly basis. The fact my dad could not walk was hardly an impediment to our adventures. He had five boys and we could carry him and his wheelchair anywhere. And we did. We hefted him over steep and rugged terrain to an isolated lake and put him in my brother’s canoe. We carried him across streams and along trails. We sat him in meadows to enjoy a sunset or the majesty of a distant thunderstorm.

In addition to the wheelchair-bearer duties, my dad’s polio also turned us into bartenders and urine-dumpers. My dad was a 7-and-7 man and at the end of the day we would mix him a highball of Seagram’s Seven whiskey and 7-Up. He trained each of us to pour two fingers of the liquor, add ice and then the soft drink. He also trained us to empty containers of his urine on road trips.

On one drink-making occasion, my little brother found an already opened bottle of 7-Up. He brought the drink to my dad, who tossed back a swallow. “Christ, Mark, how much whiskey did you put in this? It’s really strong.” My brother explained he had used a two-finger measurement, just like always. Only after Dad was down to slurping on the ice did the lightbulb come on. Earlier in the day, when nobody had been around, he had peed in an empty 7-Up bottle and left it on a table. He jerked the highball from his mouth and sniffed it like a dog at a hydrant. “Mark! Where did you find the 7-Up for my drink?”

“There was a bottle of it on the table.”

“Jesus Christ! I’ve been drinking a 7-and-piss.” Moments later, with a fresh drink in his hand, Dad philosophically mused, “I guess if you have to drink urine, it’s best you drink your own.”

There was one item from my dad’s walking life that he adamantly refused to let polio take from him: his beloved toolbox. It came with us on every trip. In spite of past experience, Dad was convinced he would someday save us all from a serious car malfunction with his tools. He got his chance on a blistering day in June 1963. We were on a trip through a remote area of desert in northwest New Mexico. (The termremote will always be redundant in describing the venues of Mullane adventures.) The car began to surge. For a moment there would be acceleration, then coast, then acceleration. My dad frantically oscillated his accelerator hand control up and down, hoping to clear the problem. At this point most drivers would probably have exclaimed, “There’s something wrong with the car!” But it was impossible for my aviator father to avoid the lexicon of his prior life. “We’re losing power!” was his cry. It would not have surprised me in the least to have heard, “The goddamn Japs have got us. Feather number two!”

We coasted into the dirt parking area of a small adobe Indian trading post. Faded signs advertised turquoise jewelry, rugs, and other curios. A wooden porch provided the only shade within a hundred miles. A half dozen Indians sitting on chairs and several scruffy dogs lying on the planking had staked their claim to that shade. I recall how fascinated my brothers and I were by the fact the Indians were dressed like cowboys. They wore denim and boots and large western hats. My mom admonished us not to stare but we did nevertheless. The Indians were as still as carvings. Our clattering, sputtering arrival seemed invisible to them. They didn’t move, scratch, wave away a fly, or speak. They just sat on their chairs staring into the shimmering heat in utterly silent, regal repose.

My dad instantly diagnosed the car problem. “Balls! It’s the goddamn fuel pump.” For some strange reason, the testicular epithetballs was my dad’s favorite obscenity.

“Hugh, not in front of the children!” was my mother’s favorite response to his swearing. Hers was a cry I heard many, many times in my youth, but it never altered my dad’s vocabulary.

Dad locked his leg braces and rose onto his crutches. In spite of this strange sight, the six Indians remained as still as a Remington bronze. The station wagon, the jabbering kids, the man on crutches appeared no more remarkable to them than a dust devil.

Three of us boys joined my dad at the fender and popped the hood. “I’ll show you kids how to test the fuel pump.” For once we had the right tools and my dad leaned into the engine and began to work. He disconnected the output of the fuel pump. Then he pulled the distributor wire. He explained his actions: “I’ll have Mom turn the key. The car won’t start because I’ve pulled the distributor wire. But the starter will turn the cam shaft, which will cause the fuel pump to operate. If it’s working, we should see gas from this hose.”