Note: This
ran here a year ago. I think its worth
another spin.
August
6 is always, inevitably, the day a city full of human beings was obliterated by
the first use of an atomic weapon. No matter what else happened on this
date, it is always Hiroshima Day.
I don’t
think my daughters’ generation, or my grandchildren have any idea how we were
shaped and warped by the long shadow of that mushroom cloud. To those of
us who came into awareness in the years after The Bomb was dropped and as a Cold
War heated up nuclear war, seemed
as inevitable as Christmas. Maybe more so.
I
don’t mean to whine about it. The school
children who were burned into shadows in Japan
and those who somehow survived with the long, lingering pain of radiation poisoning were the real
victims, not the privileged kids of the people who unleashed the power of the
sun in the air over a city going about its mundane business. Our nightmares and little terrors were of
little consequence by comparison.
Perhaps they were no more than we deserved.
***
In
1953 we had recently relocated to Cheyenne,
Wyoming. My twin brother and I were
four. I, at least, was becoming aware of
the world in odd ways. My mother, who
had grown up in grinding poverty even before the Great Depression, was star struck by the new pretty young Queen Elizabeth, who had just been coronated
with all of the pomp the British
can muster, which is plenty.
Our
coffee table was littered by Life, Look, The Saturday Evening Post
and other magazines that captured the details of the fairy tale event. I loved those pictures and my mother’s
excitement over them. But on the back
pages of those same magazines were pictures of mushroom clouds and worried
looking men in uniforms.
About
the same time we got our first TV and a signal could finally get to Cheyenne,
relayed by microwave towers, from Denver. There were three hours of snowy TV a day
and twenty-one of a test pattern with an Indian
head in the middle. We would stare
at that pattern waiting to the shows to come on. Mostly 15 minute musical programs, boxing
three nights a week, Milton Berle, and
I
Love Lucy. But there was news,
too. Mostly a guy who looked like an
insurance salesman reading behind a desk.
One in a while a picture would loom up behind him. Very often it was one of those daunting
mushroom clouds.
Who
knows how the mind of a curious four year old works? I do know that the first dream that I ever
remember, and snatches of it are vivid in my mind to this day, involved the
pretty young queen in her fairy tale
coach, that ominous cloud, and rockets
going straight up and then coming straight down on the other side of a
river. And I was on the side of the
river they came down on.
A
year or so later we moved into an old house on Bent Avenue just a few blocks from the state Capitol building. It had a nice, big back yard with trees, a
row of old lilac bushes that formed wonderful caves, and a little lean-to shed
by the garage that we made our play house.
To add to the wonder, my dad brought home a loading palate and put it up
in the spreading branches of an ancient plum as a tree house for us. He put up a railing around it and nailed
boards to the trunk to help us climb the maybe three or four feet to where the
branches fanned out to nestle the platform.
He
imagined that we would play Cowboys and
Indians there, our main pastime. But
I immediately had another use entirely for it.
I scrambled to find the toy binoculars that I had gotten at Frontier Days. And then I made it my job to climb into
that tree house every day and scan the sky with those binoculars…for Russian bombers. And I did it every day for most of a summer,
not just for a few minutes, but sometimes for hours.
In
1958 Cheyenne’s Francis E. Warren Air
Force Base became a Strategic Air
Command (SAC) post. Over the course
of two years 24 Atlas Intercontinental
Ballistic Missile launch pads were built scattered over the Wyoming, Colorado, and Nebraska plains around the city.
It became the first operational ICBM base in the country in 1959.
It
was cause of considerable local pride that because of these missiles, Cheyenne
had become one of the Top Ten Nuclear
Targets in the event of what seemed to many to be an inevitable war with
the Soviet Union.
By
this time we had moved out to a new ranch style house near the edge of town
along the long run way of the airport.
We went to recently constructed Eastridge
Elementary School. Across the road
from the school was a large vacant track filled with tumbleweed, thistle, and
button cactus. We called it a prairie.
More
frequently than we had fire drills, we had air raid drills. In some places children were taught to
cringe under their desks. But since we
were so close to the primary blast zone,
that was thought be inadvisable.
Luckily, we were told, we had the field right across the road. In case of an air raid, we were taught to
file calmly out of the building, cross the street and lay down in the weeds
with our hands clasped behind our heads.
We were not to look up or move.
When
the bomb would go off, the theory was, that the power of the blast would “roll
over” us and we would be safe from collapsing buildings. I wondered, lying there one day as ants
crawled up my legs and began biting me in unpleasant places, wouldn’t the fire ignite
the prairie and roast our supine little bodies?
I
became obsessed with nuclear war as the Cold
War heated up to a fevered pitch. By
the early ‘60’s I had gotten caught up in the fallout shelter craze and was unsuccessfully begging my father to
build our own bunker in the back yard.
Failing that, on the very day President
Kennedy announced the Blockade of
Cuba in 1962, I was at the state Civil
Defense headquarters scooping up preparedness pamphlets. I even devised a Civil Defense plan for Carey Junior High School, which, much
to my own surprise was adopted by the school and even used district wide. They didn’t have anything better. The authorities probably knew we were all
doomed anyway and that playing at preparedness would make the kids feel safer.
What
does it mean to grow up with that level of intimate involvement with the shadow
of the bomb? It would take a team of
psychiatrists to figure it out.
Eventually
it made me a guy who very much wanted to stop that war…and any war that might
lead to that war…before it ever happened.
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