I think I was 10 years old when the thought came to me with absolute sureness that I would never live to be 20. I was certain I would die in a nuclear holocaust. I didn’t know what a holocaust was exactly, but I believed in it with all of my heart.
Starting in kindergarten, I had regularly taken part in bomb drills. First were the “duck and cover” drills where all of us at Arnada Elementary School would duck under our desks and try to imagine the flash of light and the windows exploding into the room. My school desk didn’t seem like much of a defense against flying bricks and glass. We would also, on command of Mrs. White, file out into the hallway and take seats against the wall. The lights would go out and we would sit in the dark with our thoughts.
Arnada was a beautiful old building, but it was torn down after I finished first grade. I started attending Lincoln Elementary, a 40-block walk from our house. Hough Elementary was much closer, but our mom believed that “rough” children went there. I liked the long walk to and from school, but it terrified my sister. She was two years older and felt responsible for me.
The Cuban missile crisis occurred during third grade. That was when we had the go-home-and-die-with-our-family drill. (Ms. Kelly didn’t call it that, and I didn’t realize it at the time, but what else could it have been?) One morning we were given heavy paper placards with our names, parents’ names and home addresses on them. The placards were a variety of vivid pastel colors, and we had thick, colored yarn to hang the placards around our necks.
We were told to keep the placards in our desks. That same day, we were given a letter to take home, which said that in a few days there would be a drill where we would be sent home from school, and asked if a parent would be home for us.
My father was away in the Merchant Marine. My mom worked as a medical secretary and didn’t get home until 5 p.m. Every day, my sister and I would walk after school to a day care house run by a woman named Judy. Mom would pick us up when she got off work.
Mom must have thought being home to figuratively die with us was not important enough to take a day off of work. I’m sure she would have been there for the real thing. We were sent to school with a note that said we would go to Judy’s house for the drill.
Our placards had to be changed. The new ones were a different color. The color was important. The town had been divided into a grid. A color was assigned to each square of the grid. When the alarm rang, we were supposed to walk calmly onto the asphalt play area and look for a chalk square that matched our color. There we would join other kids who lived nearby us. We would fall into lines and wait. After that, roll call would be taken and all the kids would be inspected to make sure their placards were legible and in place. A whistle blown by the principal would be the signal to march home.
It seemed like a very well-planned drill. Happening on such short notice made it even more admirable. It could be the drill was designed by extra-smart people at the federal level. The same extra-smart people who were bravely leading our rush toward nuclear Armageddon.
It was a beautiful fall day. We were not told what time the drill would happen. They wanted it to be as natural as they could make it. We were all expectant and also glad that we would be let out early. We were hoping it would be in the morning. It wasn’t.
The alarm finally rang at 2 p.m. I quickly grabbed my placard and hung it around my neck. Some kids slowed down the process by hanging their placards facing their chests. We were soon running out on the playground and looking for our squares. They were all there. Things went like clockwork. There wasn’t a lot of chatter. Somehow it had been pounded into our childish minds that this was serious business. After a short time, the whistle blew and off we went, brave little soldiers in the war against Godless Communism, bravely facing our end.
The next day we brought the placards back and put them in our desks so they would be there for the real thing. After a couple of weeks, the placards were collected and thrown away. After that, it was back to occasionally cowering under our desks or in the halls. I don’t remember when the drills stopped. I’m sure there was no announcement that the threat was over and we could relax. I didn’t relax. I knew the bombs would someday fall and my desk would not protect me.
Everybody Has a Story welcomes nonfiction contributions, 1,000 words maximum, and relevant photographs. Send to: neighbors@columbian.com or P.O. Box 180, Vancouver WA, 98666. Call “Everybody Has an Editor” Scott Hewitt, 360-735-4525, with questions.
