Thoughts About Bomb Shelters

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE
Of the editorial page staff
Published by the StarTribune
September 23, 1961


   UP TO NOW the thought of a bomb shelter has struck me as fantastic--not only too expensive to contemplate but too silly and impractical. But with the Berlin crisis building up and Khrushchev showing diminishing regard for peaceful coexistence, I catch myself wondering which corner of the basement would best lend itself to two weeks of enforced hibernation.
   It's a gruesome commentary on human brotherhood, as the prospect of nuclear war increases, that man's dignity is profaned to the point where he must prepare a hole to pop into. Still, if we must turn gopher to improve our chances of survival, we should get at it.

   I'VE BEEN doing some research on bomb shelters and find that they can be installed in either basement or backyard. The backyard is better, they say, because if you're tucked away in the basement and the nuclear warhead gets within 10 to 15 miles, the house may catch fire or tumble down around your ears.
   But the backyard shelter represents more digging than one of my years can stand. Besides, I'm not about to do violence to the lawn after waging what appears to have been a successful, and expensive, war on crabgrass.

   MY WIFE thinks the fruit cellar represents an ideal setup. All we have to do, she says, is board up the one window and move in some canned goods so we aren't stuck with a diet of pickled peaches, apple butter, apricot jam and rhubarb.
   I didn't care for this careless comment about the rhubarb. Over the years I've developed a sentimental attachment for the stuff. One cannot make light of a thing that has remained ubiquitous but steadfast for close to two decades, patiently awaiting the hour of need. It represents our ace in the hole although, in the clutch, choosing between it and radiation burns might be difficult.

   THERE would be more to converting the fruit cellar into a shelter than milady imagines, of course. All those glass jars, which in better days held mayonnaise, peanut butter and pickles and have been given asylum for no valid reason, would have to be discarded to make room for us. Flagons of water would be required, ventilating and sanitary systems installed and the cubicle sealed off to prevent the intrusion of radioactive dust and neighbors.
   Boarding up the windows wouldn't do, either. Another wall of cement blocks would be needed. This would take off several square feet of living room, if you could call it living, but would improve our chances of emerging, after a fortnight, under our own steam.
   The more I dwell on the horrendous complications and the backache, the more I'm inclined to keep the whole operation as simple as possible. The chances are I'll shovel dirt against the window and trust in divine providence.

   BUT THOUGH not charmed by the thought of living like a mole, I'm glad to see more emphasis on bomb shelters and less on getting out of town. Here indeed would be chaos unlimited, with cars backed  up for miles, intersections choked and everyone involved in the wild rush for the hills either fleeing on foot into the hostile countryside or wasting away in traffic jams.
   If the world is sufficiently crazy to involve itself in nuclear war I am selfish enough to hope that the outbreak finds my brood at our lake retreat well removed from target areas. There we could live on fish, if need be. But even this would be a rugged go. None of us cares much for fish--and with our luck they'd all be radioactive.

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