Speaking of thermonuclear war ...
I was looking at comments on the post below when I had a fond memory.
Wichita, 1966: I saw the neatest room I could imagine.
We visited relatives who had an actual, way-underground fallout shelter, and this 8-year-old couldn’t believe how cool it was.
From their basement, there was a steep stairway leading down to a small room with a vault-style door. Inside were four bunkbeds, a hand-cranked air circulator, dry and canned food, bottles of water, a chemical toilet, some battery-powered lanterns, lots of batteries and a handful of board games.
What a great clubhouse! How cozy! Can’t you just picture Mom cranking the air circulator with one hand and rolling dice with the other for a lively game of Yahtzee? Who would ever want to leave?
Click here for bomb shelter FAQs
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
Not such a big deal after all
I worry less after watching The House in the Middle, a film with the reassuring message that a well-kept house and lawn can stand up to an atomic bomb.
That's good to know! I had been concerned that there could be some big hassles if I found myself "on the outer fringe of an attack directed at a nearby city."
But no. After seeing this 1954 film, I know that if I keep my house tidy and well-painted and don't let dry leaves accumulate along my fence, I can get right back to watching I Love Lucy after the blast wave passes.
The House in the Middle was produced by an arm of the National Paint, Varnish and Lacquer Association. Regular painting of my house is crucial preparation for an atomic explosion, and I'm glad paint manufacturers discovered that their products provide such an important safeguard.
Click here to see the first part of The House in the Middle
Click here to see the second part of The House in the Middle
That's good to know! I had been concerned that there could be some big hassles if I found myself "on the outer fringe of an attack directed at a nearby city."
But no. After seeing this 1954 film, I know that if I keep my house tidy and well-painted and don't let dry leaves accumulate along my fence, I can get right back to watching I Love Lucy after the blast wave passes.
The House in the Middle was produced by an arm of the National Paint, Varnish and Lacquer Association. Regular painting of my house is crucial preparation for an atomic explosion, and I'm glad paint manufacturers discovered that their products provide such an important safeguard.
Click here to see the first part of The House in the Middle
Click here to see the second part of The House in the Middle
Sunday, June 28, 2009
The Well House
On the farm where I grew up,
the electric pump for the well was in a tiny plywood shed
with a light bulb and space heater
My parents and sisters did the things they did,
and I would go to the well house
and shut myself inside with the light on
I would sit on the concrete floor, reading and reading
in the sliver of space between the pump and the door
The pump would kick on and I would read
while the sound and vibration
meant that someone in my family was washing dishes
or flushing a toilet or taking a shower
or maybe filling a bucket to carry to the calves
No one knew where I was
Drifting bitter snow and bruising summer heat
and parents and sisters and relatives and church
and school and meanness and confusion and sadness
were a million miles away
I was always careful to turn the light off when I left
and to check for books or magazines before I closed the door
I got older and left the farm
and met a girl and we got married
We lived in cities and we had kids and jobs and bills
There was always something and another thing and another
and sometimes I would think
that I used to read in a place where nothing ever happened
Sometimes I would visit the farm and see the well house
with its flaking paint and secret
I was 33 years old when a tornado ripped apart the well house
and left the pump protruding from the concrete slab
The new pump went in the basement
and the wood from the well house went to the burn pile
where the wind blows ashes off blackened hinges and nails
the electric pump for the well was in a tiny plywood shed
with a light bulb and space heater
My parents and sisters did the things they did,
and I would go to the well house
and shut myself inside with the light on
I would sit on the concrete floor, reading and reading
in the sliver of space between the pump and the door
The pump would kick on and I would read
while the sound and vibration
meant that someone in my family was washing dishes
or flushing a toilet or taking a shower
or maybe filling a bucket to carry to the calves
No one knew where I was
Drifting bitter snow and bruising summer heat
and parents and sisters and relatives and church
and school and meanness and confusion and sadness
were a million miles away
I was always careful to turn the light off when I left
and to check for books or magazines before I closed the door
I got older and left the farm
and met a girl and we got married
We lived in cities and we had kids and jobs and bills
There was always something and another thing and another
and sometimes I would think
that I used to read in a place where nothing ever happened
Sometimes I would visit the farm and see the well house
with its flaking paint and secret
I was 33 years old when a tornado ripped apart the well house
and left the pump protruding from the concrete slab
The new pump went in the basement
and the wood from the well house went to the burn pile
where the wind blows ashes off blackened hinges and nails
After the fall
When I was a college kid, I hitchhiked a lot.
One day, I got a ride from a man who told me about falling off a roof and breaking his arm.
I asked, "When did that happen?"
He answered, "About 10 minutes ago."
One day, I got a ride from a man who told me about falling off a roof and breaking his arm.
I asked, "When did that happen?"
He answered, "About 10 minutes ago."
Shell game
It was a big turtle, or a big story.
The "Beast of Busco" was reported in 1948 by two Indiana fishermen, Ora Blue and Charley Wilson, who said they saw a rowboat-size turtle in a pond near the town of Churubusco.
The pond's owner, Gale Harris, said he had seen the animal himself, and in 1949 came the claim that it had been trapped for a short time.
The story made its way into the news, and thousands began making the trek to watch the search. Divers, trappers and fliers looked for "Oscar," named after Oscar Fulk, a former owner of the pond who told reporters he had seen the giant turtle a half-century earlier.
Increasingly elaborate attempts were made to catch Oscar -- nets, a periscope outfitted with headlights, a harpoon, even a giant sea turtle on a leash in a bid to lure the possibly lonely leviathan. More sightings were reported, including a claim by spectators that they had seen Oscar attack live ducks that had been placed in a pen above a trap.
Harris developed vision problems from his relentless use of the periscope, but was determined to refute allegations that he was a hoaxer. He made a seven-week attempt to drain the pond with a tractor-powered pump, but was sidelined by appendicitis before he could finish the job and rain refilled the pond.
Debt forced Harris to sell his farm in 1950. Among the items auctioned was a 200-foot-by-32-foot turtle net.
People who have owned the pond in the years since have barred any searches, and except for a shadowy claim that the turtle was spotted in 1957 by an owner who kept mum, the story hasn't progressed beyond the question of 1949: Was Oscar real?
Harris, who risked his health and lost his farm in his expensive and time-consuming quest, certainly thought so.
The "Beast of Busco" was reported in 1948 by two Indiana fishermen, Ora Blue and Charley Wilson, who said they saw a rowboat-size turtle in a pond near the town of Churubusco.
The pond's owner, Gale Harris, said he had seen the animal himself, and in 1949 came the claim that it had been trapped for a short time.
The story made its way into the news, and thousands began making the trek to watch the search. Divers, trappers and fliers looked for "Oscar," named after Oscar Fulk, a former owner of the pond who told reporters he had seen the giant turtle a half-century earlier.
Increasingly elaborate attempts were made to catch Oscar -- nets, a periscope outfitted with headlights, a harpoon, even a giant sea turtle on a leash in a bid to lure the possibly lonely leviathan. More sightings were reported, including a claim by spectators that they had seen Oscar attack live ducks that had been placed in a pen above a trap.
Harris developed vision problems from his relentless use of the periscope, but was determined to refute allegations that he was a hoaxer. He made a seven-week attempt to drain the pond with a tractor-powered pump, but was sidelined by appendicitis before he could finish the job and rain refilled the pond.
Debt forced Harris to sell his farm in 1950. Among the items auctioned was a 200-foot-by-32-foot turtle net.
People who have owned the pond in the years since have barred any searches, and except for a shadowy claim that the turtle was spotted in 1957 by an owner who kept mum, the story hasn't progressed beyond the question of 1949: Was Oscar real?
Harris, who risked his health and lost his farm in his expensive and time-consuming quest, certainly thought so.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
The cave in the basement
Beneath stately Jordan Hall on the Indiana University campus is a cave that gave the scientific world a new named creature -- and may have cost the world an undescribed one.
The cave opening -- properly called Jordan Hall Spring -- was uncovered by excavation for the building. When cave water seeped into the sub-basement, along came crustaceans.
A species of isopod -- a group of 14-legged animals that includes pill bugs -- was discovered and named Asellus jordani. There's something fitting about a creature bearing the Jordan name: The building honors David Starr Jordan, an IU president and scientist who named more than 2,500 species of fish.
Also discovered were two kinds of shrimp-like amphipods, one known only from that spring. And it may never be known again -- a termite treatment poisoned the spring, and the days of bizarre cave creatures in the sub-basement came to an end.
The cave opening -- properly called Jordan Hall Spring -- was uncovered by excavation for the building. When cave water seeped into the sub-basement, along came crustaceans.
A species of isopod -- a group of 14-legged animals that includes pill bugs -- was discovered and named Asellus jordani. There's something fitting about a creature bearing the Jordan name: The building honors David Starr Jordan, an IU president and scientist who named more than 2,500 species of fish.
Also discovered were two kinds of shrimp-like amphipods, one known only from that spring. And it may never be known again -- a termite treatment poisoned the spring, and the days of bizarre cave creatures in the sub-basement came to an end.
The Toledo War
A war that didn’t quite rage – in fact, a war in which only one injury was inflicted – was fought in 1835 over the location of the border between Michigan and Ohio.
A mistake had placed the line a few miles north of where it should have been. Because of the error, what would become the town of Toledo was in Ohio, not Michigan.
When an 1818 survey ordered by Michigan’s territorial governor found the error, the stage was set for conflict … 17 years later.
By 1835, Michigan’s territorial governor, Stevens T. Mason (who had been just 19 years old when he took office), tried in vain to negotiate over the “Toledo Strip” with Ohio's governor, Robert Lucas.
Mason rejected a federal proposal for temporary joint control of the area. A Michigan posse, after firing shots that hit no one, arrested members of an Ohio surveying group.
In short order, the Michigan and Ohio militias moved into positions for battle, but they floundered in swamps for a week and failed to locate each other.
The only blood shed in violence occurred when Michigan authorities arrested the family of Benjamin Franklin Stickney, a major in the Ohio militia who had sons named One and Two. Michigan sheriff's deputy Joseph Wood was stabbed by Two, but survived.
President Andrew Jackson removed the insubordinate Mason as governor, and Toledo remained in Ohio.
The end of the story? Not quite. In 1973, the Supreme Court ruled against Michigan on where the boundary ran through Lake Erie. Ohio got half – that is, less than an acre – of Turtle Island.
A mistake had placed the line a few miles north of where it should have been. Because of the error, what would become the town of Toledo was in Ohio, not Michigan.
When an 1818 survey ordered by Michigan’s territorial governor found the error, the stage was set for conflict … 17 years later.
By 1835, Michigan’s territorial governor, Stevens T. Mason (who had been just 19 years old when he took office), tried in vain to negotiate over the “Toledo Strip” with Ohio's governor, Robert Lucas.
Mason rejected a federal proposal for temporary joint control of the area. A Michigan posse, after firing shots that hit no one, arrested members of an Ohio surveying group.
In short order, the Michigan and Ohio militias moved into positions for battle, but they floundered in swamps for a week and failed to locate each other.
The only blood shed in violence occurred when Michigan authorities arrested the family of Benjamin Franklin Stickney, a major in the Ohio militia who had sons named One and Two. Michigan sheriff's deputy Joseph Wood was stabbed by Two, but survived.
President Andrew Jackson removed the insubordinate Mason as governor, and Toledo remained in Ohio.
The end of the story? Not quite. In 1973, the Supreme Court ruled against Michigan on where the boundary ran through Lake Erie. Ohio got half – that is, less than an acre – of Turtle Island.
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