The Teacher and the Atom Bomb

There are pivotal moments in everyone's lives. Points in time, after which we are no longer the same. Like pebbles in a stream, diverting our lives in new directions. Mine was in fourth grade.

The teacher, Miss Eberhardt, told us we were going to practice a Civil Defense Air Raid alert. She emphasized how important it was to follow the instructions carefully because it could "save our lives."

That was some heavy shit for an ten year old.

She said if we heard the Civil Defense siren, no matter where we were, we were to run to our classroom, get under our desks, get our heads down by our knees, put our hands over the back of our necks and wait for the all clear. Oh, and by-the-way, this was to protect us in the event of the RUSSIANS dropping an ATOMIC BOMB!!!

As I said, there are pivotal moments in everyone's life. This was one of mine.

This was the moment I began thinking clearly. This was the moment I realized how full of shit adults were. This was the moment I found out how funny life was.

You see, even though we were living in a paranoid society that built bomb shelters and stock-piled food and water and tried to scare the shit out of little kids, it was the same society that produced science fiction atomic mutant monster movies. I had seen the stock footage atom bomb blast a dozen times. I knew that everything in a half mile radius would be vaporized and that the shockwave and heatwave would travel many miles more. I knew that beyond that area, creatures like the Amazing Colossal Man and giant mutant ants and radioactive neck leaches would finish off the survivors.

So how the hell would kneeling under my desk with my hands over my neck stop any of that? Why didn't they just tell us to close our eyes and stick our fingers in our ears?

I mean, REALLY???

So, I went along with the program. When the teacher said for us to all face away from the windows because of the bright flash and possible broken glass, I asked why we didn't have safety glass. Then I put my hand up again and asked if we could bring sun glasses to school. Then I asked the kid next to me if we were putting our hands over our necks to protect us from the radioactive neck leaches.

Then I put my hand up and asked what happened if we heard the siren on the weekend? Was there a plan to let us into the school? When she said that we should go home or to the nearest house I asked how we could be safe there without the added protection of the school desks? We were, after all, talking about an ATOMIC blast. Right?

After a few more rounds of this I could see that even Miss Eberhardt had begun thinking more clearly. When I asked what would happen if we were sick that day, she laughed. And I guess that was really the moment. She didn't even object when I offered to sell my desk space for lunch money to the kids with little brothers and sisters not yet in school. For a week or two there, it was better than a paper route.

The late fifties and early sixties were wonder years in many ways. For some of us the fear and paranoia shaped a generation hellbent on rebellion. For others, we learned that laughter is stronger than fear. Many of our parents discovered that martinis took the edge off of the Cold War at night. But I will always remember Miss Eberhardt and will forever associate eraser dust with atomic ash.