We rented a film recently where the protagonist is dragged into a creepy cement room. When asked: “Where are we?” the villain responds: “A fallout shelter. They built them in the ’60s.” Apparently, the screenwriter felt the need to explain to viewers who were either unborn or unable to recall the subterranean safety craze back in the day.

But good ol’ George Smith (column, Jan. 14, “4-H Club on front lines of nation’s defense during Cuban missile crisis”) and I can. I wasn’t a member of the 4-H Club, so the only livestock I had to worry about was our cat. As Catholics, we were encouraged to inventory missals so Dad could say daily Mass until it was safe to emerge. Drinking water, soup, peanuts and canned fish — in case the fallout fell on Friday.

Dad was a Popular Mechanics devotee who studied shelter design, since the first two steps toward actually building one were “get a shovel” and “start digging.” To everyone’s steadfast fascination, he’d lecture relentlessly on shelters at family gatherings. Who needed money (or a Corvette) when your dad’s a genius?

During air raid drills in school, we’d duck under our desks, where the commies wouldn’t look for small, cowering papists. We prayed on our knees and on hard, cold linoleum floors during the Cuban missile crisis. But we knew all would be well, because President John Kennedy was also a Catholic — and tight with Pope John.

The Russians never invaded, but the British did. And soon the Beatles, as well as the Beachboys and Motown, wiped communism right off the front page.

These days, our children needn’t worry about fallout shelters. Just religious fanatics killing people over cartoons — and God. So, like, where are the Beatles et al. now that we need them?

Buddy Doyle

Gardiner

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