In "Alas, Babylon," The Big One drops and we see what happens

I was eight years old in the fall of 1959. We lived in the southwest Denver suburbs and my father worked at the Martin-Marietta plant further south. Rocky Flats Nuclear Weapons plant was seven miles to the northwest. Further north were swarms of missile silos in northern Colorado, southeast Wyoming, and eastern Nebraska. During the school year, we participated in duck-and-cover drills at our neighborhood school. Nukes were a fact of life. The Cold War was in its prime. 

1959-1960 is the setting for Pat Frank's novel, "Alas, Babylon." The title (I read the 1993 HarperCollins trade paperback edition) is taken from scripture, the origin of so many book titles for classic novels. This from Revelation 18:10 in the King James Bible:

Standing afar off for the fear of her torment, saying, Alas, alas, that great city Babylon, that mighty city! for in one hour is thy judgment come.

Randy Bragg and his brother Mark grew up in the hamlet of Fort Repose, Florida. Randy served in the Korean War and went home to live the life of a bachelor attorney. Mark went into the Air Force and was a colonel in the Strategic Air Command in Omaha. He and Randy shared a code, “Alas, Babylon,” if it looked as if World War III was about to break out. One day, Randy gets the code from his brother who sends his wife and kids to Fort Repose because it will be safer than Nebraska’s Ground Zero.

Fort Repose was like so many 1950s Central Florida small towns. Its history included Native Americans, Spanish conquistadors, Confederate troops, and rednecks. It’s sleepy, hot and humid for half the year, site of Florida natives and a smattering of Yankee retirees known as snowbirds. African-Americans were called Negroes and some unflattering names by the ruling Whites. The living was easy but also separate and unequal. Disney existed only on TV and the movies. 

Bam! As Randy Newman wrote much later in his song, "Political Science:" 

Let's drop The Big One, and see what happens

And then:

Boom goes London, boom Paree/More room for you, and more room for me/And every city, the whole world 'round/Will be just another American Town.

Newman's satiric take is closer to my Strangelove-style attitude of "WTF were we thinking?"

Fort Repose is just another American town surrounded by important Russki targets in Tampa, Orlando, Jacksonville, and Miami. Boom goes Tampa and boom Miami. Nobody really knows how it started but survivors have much to deal with.

That's the great thing about Frank's novel -- he writes in detail about the daily struggles of a small town beleaguered by a Cold War turned hot. Randy is the only Army Reserve officer in town so he assumes command. He’s a good officer, mainly, although he does boss people around a bit. He also organizes a vigilante squad to go after “highwaymen,” nogoodniks who have beaten and murdered people in the town. They even hang one as a lesson to all.

The book is about survival, post-apocalyptic-style. It made me wonder how I would survive. I have no skills to speak of. Randy is a shade-tree mechanic, hunter, and fisherman. His cohorts in the town know which end of the rifle to point at deer and the occasional ruffian. They knows how to catch fish and crabs, where to find salt, which plants are edible. There’s a doctor in town and a retired admiral with his own fleet of small boats. There’s a love interest. And the ending is sort of happy.

As I read, I had to put aside my 2023 aesthetics. The Whites treat the Blacks as second-class citizens except when they need their automotive or farming skills. The attitude is not much different from characters found in Flannery O’Connor stories and William Faulkner novels. They were born into it and acted accordingly. Our family moved to Central Florida in 1964 and attitudes hadn’t changed much. My father worked on rockets at the Cape where before he had worked on the kind of missiles that rained down on the Reds in “Alas, Babylon.” Our integrated high school basketball team got into many scrapes when we ventured outside our beachside tourist town to play teams in the hinterlands. Places like Fort Repose.

If I was reviewing this book now, I’d call some of the language and attitudes archaic even racist. The book itself is solid. Frank knows how to tell a story and he did his research, not surprising when you learn a bit about his background. He was a Florida writer, too, living in a place like Fort Repose. He asked the question: what would my neighbors do if the Big One dropped? The author delivered. I read a book about nuclear war set and written in 1959, 63 years ago, a book I had never heard of. My sister Eileen sent me her copy which she already read. Not surprisingly, the cover features a bright red mushroom cloud.

Let’s drop The Big One now!

Nukes in the news -- again

Not enough people have seen "Dr. Strangelove, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb."

It's satire, sure, with a concept that a loony nuke base commander could trigger a nuclear war. General Jack D. Ripper is obsessed with Commies poisoning "our precious bodily fluids." His executive officer, a British captain, comes close to derailing the general's plans but, as we all know, close only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades, and mega-kiloton atomic warheads.

"We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when, but I know we'll meet again some sunny day."

Dr. Strangelove's closing lines, sung by Vera Lynn as the Russians' Doomsday Machine causes bombs to go off all over the world.

That's all, folks!

The movie's over. We laugh. Shake our heads. Punch the remote to "Bridgerton."

The premise seemed ridiculous to moviegoers in 1964. It seems ridiculous again. But not quite so. There is an unhinged megalomaniac in Russia threatening to use nukes if the West doesn't stop arming Ukraine. 

"Dr. Strangelove" got its start with a novel, "Red Alert," by Peter George. It's a thriller. I read it as a teen, that and "Fail-Safe," co-written by Eugene Burdick and Harvey Wheeler. Also, Nevil Shute's "On the Beach." I read about nuclear Armageddon. It seemed so far-fetched. At the same time, I was reading the Hardy Boys and Tom Swift series. They sparked my imagination, turning me into a lifelong fan of fiction. Tom Swift's dirigible/biplane hybrid ("Tom Swift and His Airship, or, The Stirring Cruise of the Red Cloud") seemed as real to me as nuke bombers and missiles that could incinerate the planet. I was lost in a fantastic world that I never really grew out of.

At the same time, my father worked on installing Atlas missiles in hardened silos from Washington state to Kansas (Wyoming too). He was a contract specialist, an accountant with Martin Co. (Martin-Marietta). He was charged with making sure that the missiles and their underground homes were built correctly and within budget. We moved around with Dad and his work. I never really thought about how his job might lead to a cataclysm. But he did. He recommended that I watch Strangelove and read World War III novels. He didn't talk much about his work but I know he wanted me to be a reader and an informed citizen. 

Our family got a lot out of the Cold War. It never was a hot war, as some predicted, but it shaped me. 

So now, when Putin mouths off about nukes, I hear General Jack D. Ripper. I should take the guy more seriously as I live in the crosshairs of Nuclear Alley here in southeast Wyoming. If MAD (Mutually Assured Destruction) arrives, I will have precious little time to worry about it. I never really stopped worrying nor did I learn to love the bomb. 

I revel in its absurdity.

"We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when, but I know we'll meet again some sunny day."

Vera Lynn's singing takes us back to World War II. When Vera sang, British soldiers listened. They were in the fight of their lives around the globe. At home too, as Hitler waged a saturation bombing of a civilian population. Putin now saturates Ukraine with rockets and terror tactics. 

My father, a World War II G.I., liked Vera Lynn. Later, when I had a chance to think about it, I wondered if he minded that Vera Lynn's song had been used for a fiery conflagration that ended the world. He was especially fond of "The White Cliffs of Dover" which he must have heard many times in England as he trained for the Normandy invasion.

This:

There'll be bluebirds over/the White Cliffs of Dover/tomorrow,/just you wait and see

And this:

There'll be love and laughter/and peace there after,/tomorrow,/when the world is free

There may be a song like this for Ukraine. There should be.  

Cold War nuke site open for visitors on Wyoming’s high prairie

M as in Mike

I as in India

K as in Kilo

E as in Echo

That’s the spelling of my nickname in the International Radiotelephony Spelling Alphabet, commonly known as the phonetic alphabet. You’ve used it if you have a commonly misspelled name, or if you find yourself on the end of a Mumbai-based IT help line. Help: H as in Hotel, E as …….

The alphabet is helpful but can be crucial in a military operation or if you’re a pilot on an international airline flight.

Or, let’s say the unthinkable happens and you are charged with the launch of a nuclear strike from a hole in the ground beneath the frozen Wyoming prairie. “Attention Quebec Zero One, we have some bad news for you and the rest of the planet….”

It never happened at the Quebec 01 Missile Alert Facility located about 30 minutes north of my house in Cheyenne. Coincidentally, that’s the amount of time it would take from missile launch in Wyoming to detonation in the former Soviet Union. On Friday, I thought about that as we returned from our tour of Q-01, now a Wyoming State Historic Site. Born in 1950, I’ve had nightmares about a nuclear apocalypse. But it’s been awhile since those duck-and-cover drills of elementary school and the very real scare of the 1962 Cuban Missile Crisis.

My father worked at Denver-based Martin Company, later Martin-Marietta and now Lockheed Martin. He supervised subcontractors building the earlier iteration of Minuteman and MX sites – Atlas and Titan. He did that job in Colorado and Wyoming and Nebraska and Washington State and Kansas. He dragged his big family along, which gave us a unique view of the western U.S. and fodder for future therapy sessions. 

I was 11 when he arrived home from work in Wichita laden with canned goods and water jugs and commanded us all to get down in the basement. That spooky, musty place was where we were going to ride out the nuke firefight unleashed by the discovery of Soviet missiles in Cuba.

The fear was real. History provided a better ending, thankfully. We avoided life as cellar dwellers or death as crispy critters. Two years later, we moved to Florida. Dad’s work with nukes was over and he now turned his attention to getting Americans to the moon.

Our family history is part of the fabric of American history. Maybe that’s why I was so anxious to take my visiting sister Eileen to the state’s newest historical site. She loves history, as do I. She is eight years younger than me, so we experienced those times in dramatically different ways.  But, as curious historians, we both know what happened in the world since World War II. The nuclear age began with the twin bombings of Japan that ended World War II. The arms race began between the U.S. and U.S.S.R. that many thought would end with M.A.D. – Mutually Assured Destruction. 

The western U.S. played a major role with Los Alamos and the first tests in the New Mexico desert. Many nuke tests followed, their fallout drifting over many cities, including Denver. We were all downwinders. Rocky Flats Nuclear Weapons Plant was established between Denver and Boulder. Coloradans built plutonium triggers there. It was the site of at least one major accident that created a crop of local downwinders.

According to interpretive exhibits at Quebec 01, the government chose the interior West as hidey holes for its missiles for several reasons: Low population density (more antelope than people}; distant from the coasts and possible Russki nuclear sub strikes; the northern Rockies and Plains were closer to the Arctic Circle, the quickest missile route to Moscow and Red nuke sites. 

B-52s took off from western sites on their way to their fail-safe lines. Many a missileer did stints in the frozen wastelands of Minot and Great Falls and Cheyenne and still do. You can forgive a young airman/woman from Atlanta getting orders for Cheyenne and saying something about going to the middle of nowhere.

But I live there and it’s not so bad. I spent much of my working life touring Wyoming on behalf of the arts. You might be surprised by the art that’s created in this big semi-empty space. The humanities play a major role in our lives. Thus, we spawn some fine state parks and historic sites, even have a state agency to oversee them. Wyoming State Parks and Historic Sites employees staff the sites spread around the state. They are based at Quebec 01 to conduct tours and answer many questions posed by the curious. The site opened just three weeks ago after the feds gifted it to the state in 2010.  Staff say that it was stripped to the bone after being decommissioned in 2005. The Air Force brought back some items. Former missileers, retired airmen, and just plain collectors donated other items, such as the VHS player located next to one of the launch chairs (the TV is no longer there). The space looks fine now but it still a work in progress, according to our guide.

There are entrance fees, as there are at most state sites. If you are disabled and use a wheelchair or a walker as I do, call ahead and staff will deploy ramps over the challenging spots in the underground launch capsule. An elevator takes visitors from the topside facility and its historic exhibits to the capsule. Step off the elevator and pass through the gateway that, back in the day, could be sealed by a 30-ton blast door.

For background, go to https://wyoparks.wyo.gov/index.php/places-to-go/quebec-01. The site includes photos going back to its building in 1962 all the way to the recent renovation.

Our history, and maybe your family’ history, is just a short drive away.

Which side are you on, boys?

I admired Len Edgerly's column Tuesday on Medium: "Dalton Trumbo: 'It will do you no good to search for heroes and villains.' " It's notable in its restraint, a parable for our times. It's about screenwriter Dalton Trumbo and the 2015 film that portrays his run-in with the Hollywood Blacklist of the 1950s. Len is a fine writer and someone I worked with in the arts for many years in Wyoming. His post includes excerpts from a speech Trumbo delivered in 1970 that looked back upon the blacklist era. It's notable that he delivered this speech during another time when young men were once again trying to sort heroes from villains.

The blacklist was a time of evil. And no one who survived it came through untouched by evil. Caught in a situation that had passed beyond control of mere individuals, each person reacted as his nature, his needs, his convictions, and his particular circumstances compelled him to. 

It was a time of fear. And no one was exempt. Scores of people lost their homes. Their families disintegrated. They lost — and in some, some even lost their lives. 

But when you look back upon that dark time, as I think you should every now and then, it will do you no good to search for heroes or villains. There weren’t any. There were only victims. Victims, because each of us felt compelled to say or do things that we otherwise would not, to deliver or receive wounds which we truly did not wish to exchange. 

I look out to my family sitting there, and I realize what I’ve put them through. And it’s unfair. My wife, who somehow kept it all together, amazes me. And so what I say here tonight is not intended to be hurtful to anyone. It is intended to heal the hurt, to repair the wounds which for years have been inflicted upon each other and most egregiously upon ourselves.

I know a few things about Trumbo. He was born in Montrose, Colorado, grew up in Grand Junction, and went to school for two years at CU-Boulder where the "free speech fountain" is named after him. That namesake fountain sometimes inflames the passions of CU conservatives and, yes, conservatives are allowed into Boulder just as liberals are allowed to dwell in Cheyenne. For now, anyway.

Trumbo was a commie or at least a fellow traveler. Those terms were used to brand liberals or progressives during the Cold War. Baby Boomers know the sting of those labels. Most people didn't lose careers after being publicly branded a communist, as did Trumbo. He resurrected his career by using aliases, even earned two Academy Awards, one using a fake name and one using a "front." When he openly won scriptwriting Oscars for Spartacus and Exodus in 1960, the blacklist was officially over.

But he paid a price. Was he a hero? Maybe not. Hero, of course, is used indiscriminately these days and has lost its meaning. Ditto for villains. I volunteer for Cheyenne's Old-Fashioned Summer Melodrama. The plot is a fiction wherein the hero rides to the rescue and rescues the damsel in distress who has been tied to the railroad tracks by the mustachioed villain in the black cape. We cheer for the hero and boo the villain.

Were it only that simple.

Len and I and many others were college freshman in 1969 trying to sort friend from foe. My U.S. Navy ROTC commandant at the University of South Carolina was a Marine colonel whose son had been killed in Vietnam. He told me that the Viet Cong were the bad guys which was why us -- the good guys -- had to fight and possibly die in the jungles of Southeast Asia. President Nixon, my future commander-in-chief, said the same thing. So did the members of the "best and brightest" brain trust who designed the foolproof Vietnam War strategy. Many of them were Harvard grads.

The SDS, at Harvard and on my campus, said that the U.S. was waging an immoral and unjust war and soldiers were baby killers. Some young women on campus thought that we midshipmen looked dashing in our uniforms. Others would not give us the time of day. Some campus longhairs spurned us buzzcut guys. Others were happy to share a joint with us, even friendship.

Most of us felt we had to choose sides. That was difficult if you planned a military career. Your military leader said do this and you did it. Our civilian leaders said do this and you should do it but was it the right thing? Our fathers were all World War II veterans, guys that had saved us from the Nazis. These guys were our heroes. Wasn't it our turn next?

"Which side are you on?" That's a famous union organizing song by Florence Reece, wife of union organizer Sam Reece. The chorus asks a key question, one that many of us have been asked over the years. We may be asked again, here in 2017:

"Which side are you on boys?
Which side are you on?
Which side are you on, boys?
Which side are you on?"

If you were organizing for the union in 1931 in Harlan County, Kentucky, whose side would you be in? When mine owners sent the sheriff to arrest Sam Reece, he fled to the hills. Union organizers sometimes ended up dead in mysterious circumstances. Who were the good guys then? Many musicians have sung "Which Side Are You On?", including Pete Seeger and Billy Bragg. This rousing song urged audience to take a side, whether it was during a union battle, the civil rights struggle or the Vietnam War. Or now.

In his column, Len writes that his father sat him down and told him that he would cease to pay for college if his son became one of those campus protesters. My father, formerly a Democrat, had become a "Southern Strategy" Nixon man in 1968. That year, my father sat me down and informed me that he had lots of kids to feed (nine including me) and that I would have to figure out my own way to get to college. He urged me to go to Annapolis or get an ROTC scholarship to the university of my choice. Become an officer, said this former Army dogface, sail the ocean blue and stay far away from Vietnam.

I was only an alternate for the U.S. Naval Academy but my book smarts helped me land an ROTC scholarship. In January of 1971, the government took away my scholarship for some bad choices I had made. I could say I was the victim but that's not true. Several cultural waves broke over me and I got swept up in the currents. As a surfer, I should have known the dangers. Losing my scholarship would have forced me to drop out and instantly be eligible for the draft. My father, who'd just lost his job, borrowed a semester's worth of tuition from his parents. "No son of mine is going to Vietnam," he said.

I chose a side. My father chose a side. We all do. Even not choosing a side is making a choice.

Many years from now, someone might ask this grizzled old guy: Who were the good guys and bad guys during the chaos created by a Donald Trump presidency? My answer may be this: "It will do you no good to search for heroes and villains."

The questioner might persist: Which side were you on? Did you choose?

I chose.

History comes looking for you.

The Rolling Stones rock Havana today. The Western World's Capitalist Songsters in one of the last bastions of international communism. Unthinkable a year ago. The Leader of the Free World attends a baseball game in Havana. President Obama, the first black president in U.S. history, sits next to Raul Castro; they trade quips about on-base percentages and ERAs. The day before, they were debating Americanism vs. Cubano Communism. That was a course we had in high school in Florida -- Americanism vs. Communism. That usually meant the Soviet variety, but we were only too aware that Red Cuba was a threat just 90 miles from Florida. Mr. Muir taught eighth grade at Our Lady of Lourdes and we played basketball with his son. Mr. Muir, a respected teacher at a private school in Havana, fled Castro in 1959 and now teaching snotty-nosed Catholic Anglos in the same town that his honored former dictator Fulgencio Batista owned a house along the river. My father, who stashed supplies in our Wichita basement for the Apocalypse during the Cuban Missile Crisis three years before, now pointed out Batista's house whenever we drove by in the station wagon overloaded with his Catholic brood.

And a NROTC midshipman, 1970, I spent three weeks in Cuba. Gitmo, now the U.S. terror prison, a confused 19-year-old. We tried to pick up the teen daughters of Gitmo officers at the base pool. Barbed wire barriers threaded the border, guard towers manned by soldiers the only Reds we could actually see. Soviet spies followed in our ship's wake, Russian fishing trawlers the big joke, antennae crowding out the fishing nets on deck. At night at the officer's club, we heard pilots' stories about night raids against the commies of North Vietnam, of buddies lost to SAMs. "You'll be there soon enough," they said, "that war not ending anytime soon."

My vas pokhoronim! -- "We will bury you!"  said Nikita Khrushchev in Moscow during the height of the Cold War. Fall 1956 -- I was five. My father buried nuclear missiles deep beneath the Colorado prairie.

Said Obama to the Cubans: “I have come here to bury the last remnant of the Cold War in the Americas.”

History comes looking for you.

Miss Atomic Bomb did not exist -- but she could have

Hubba hubba! Alas, this Miss Atomic Bomb never really existed. She has a neat story though at http://digital.library.unlv.edu/objects/nts/1226

Ground zero, baby!

That phrase would look good on a T-shirt. Mushroom cloud in background. "Welcome to Cheyenne" logo on there somewhere.

Cheyenne is ground zero should the Russkis ever get tired of harassing Ukrainian grandmothers and get back to their Cold War role of harassing humankind. Laramie County has loads of Minuteman IIIs, baby. And despite the fact that some nuke officers heads rolled over recent cheating improprieties (did you see last Sunday's "60 Minutes" piece about our local missile ranch?), armed missiles still dwell on our prairie, ready for launch.

F.E. Warren AFB went nuclear in 1958. Several generations of Cheyenne residents have been hatched since then. Which begs the question: why aren't there more signs of The Nuclear Age in our fair city? We have the base, sure, and there's an impressive array of missiles flanking the main entrance. And Missile Drive snakes its way a short distance through town. But where are the Atomic Cafes and the Nuclear Sushi Bars? If I was starting a craft brewery, I would call it Nuke Brews or Atomic Brewing. I'd name my beers after Cold War icons -- Red Scare Ale, Fail-Safe IPA, Pershing Porter. Our motto: "Glow-in-the-dark goodness."

There is an Atomic Advertising listed in the Yellow Pages. And we have the venerable Atlas Theatre downtown, as well as the Atlas Motel  (not so venerable), Atlas Towing and Atlas Van Lines. Thing is, those places named Atlas may have the same namesake of Atlas the rocket -- the great god Atlas of Greek mythology, the Titan who held up the world. Titan -- another great name for a missile. 

If NYC can have a big-ass Atlas statue, why can't we?

What other towns can claim ground zero honors? Minot, N.D., and Great Falls, Mont. That's good -- we can all be the three points of a Rocky Mountain Nuke Tour. T-shirts all around. We are getting a state park at a former nuke control center north of town. That's a start.

Nukes are no joke, you might say. But the dark humor tradition demands that we turn mutually assured destruction (MAD, like the magazine) into 21st century kitsch.

The Cold War years were 1947-1991. That's a 44-year span, a couple generations worth of humans living under the threat of nuclear annihilation. There's some history to preserve there, many memories.Consider that Cheyenne was established as a railroad camp in 1867 and Wyoming became a state in 1890. The Cold War era represents 30 percent of the time the city's existed and 35 percent -- more than one-third -- of the time we've been a state. If I just consider my time on earth, two-thirds of my life was spent as a noncombatant but a very real target of the Cold War. I don't want a medal. I just want that time to be remembered for what it was.

For the military, the Cold War went from September 1945 -- the month after the end of the hot war -- to Dec. 26, 1991. The Cold War Veterans of America are lobbying Congress to make May 1 a Cold War Remembrance Day. I suppose it's no coincidence that May 1 was once a national holiday in the Soviet Union. My father was on occupation duty in Germany through the end of 1945, which makes him a Cold War veteran. Korea and Vietnam and even Gulf War I military are Cold War veterans -- those first two would never have happened without without the paranoid fever engendered by the commie menace. Veterans also want to build a monument to the Cold War -- lest we forget. Millions of Americans have been born since the end of 1991 -- my daughter, for one -- and they have nary a clue about the Cold War. They have the residue of their own wars to deal with.

We need to remember the Cold War right here in Cheyenne. I would love to see Cold War-themed public art. Not boring old representational bronzes. Let's use some imagination, as much creativity as went into Mutually Assured Destruction and the fail-safe device and "peacekeepers" and bomb shelters and "Dr. Strangelove" and Red Scares and "Star Wars" defense systems and blacklists and Richard Nixon and the domino theory and the Miss Atomic Bomb pageant and all the rest. It's a mother lode of material. Let's use it before it's forgotten -- or whitewashed. 

Sunday morning round-up

Beautiful morning. Sun, light winds, no snow.

So what am I doing inside?

Collecting random thoughts on a Sunday morning.

Received a fund-raising e-mail this week from Markos Moulitsas at Daily Kos. Ads and other funding mechanisms not paying the freight these days. So I contributed $10. Not much but it's something to help this feisty 11-year-old blog:

Can you chip in $5 so that Daily Kos can keep fighting?

If every one of our readers this month chipped in two cents, we’d be all set. If every reader chipped in a dollar, we’d be able to finance operations for two years.

Not everyone is in a position to give. So, if you’re fortunate enough to make it through Black Friday with a few bucks in your pocket, please chip in to help Daily Kos keep fighting for the issues that matter to us.

I blog infrequently under Cheyenne Mike at Kos. My average readership is a lot higher there, but it takes time to do blogging well. To do it well, you have to pay attention to your platform. You have to read the posts of others and respond. While Kos is the blog is read most regularly, I seldom have time to do it justice. Go check it out. Engage!

Article in Wyofile (reprinted in today's Wyoming Tribune-Eagle) about a new book by writer Porter Fox with Jackson roots. Deep: The Story of Skiing and the Future of Snow is the story of the rise of the ski industry and how global warming may spell its demise. Interesting to note that three Jacksonites hatched the idea for the book while surfing in Nicaragua. Skiing may be doomed, but the surf will be bitchin' in L.A. and NYC! We'll be surfing, surfing in the streets....

I spent the past year as a literary slacker.  I wasn't reading books -- my heart just wasn't in it. I've been trying to catch up. Nosferatu by Jim Shepard has been sitting on my bookshelf for years. Finally picked it up and dove head-first into a fine story based on the life of silent film director W.F. Murnau. While a World War I German Air Force pilot, he imagined a movie camera that moved with the freedom of an aircraft. Cameras in those days were bulky monsters. Murnau went on to direct ground-breaking films such as Nosferatu, based on a term in Bram Stoker's Dracula -- Stoker's estate sued Murnau for purloining the vampire concept. He kick-started the German film industry after the war (and before Hitler) and made his way to Hollywood where he directed Sunrise, a film included in many top 100 lists.If you don't know Shepard's work, he's a fantastic short story writer. This novel was based on one of the stories included in his first collection, Batting Against Castro.

Most of my reading of Nosferatu took place seated in 21st century airplanes surrounded by young guys playing war games on laptops, I kept thinking that the anniversary of the start of World War I is next year. Some great books written about The Great War. That's another post entirely. What are your favorites?

I'm catching up on old copies of The Missouri Review. One of the best of the literary mags, TMR takes risks and also features some of the best writers. In the winter 2012 issue, "The Unnatural World," I read an essay entitled "Under the Cloud" by pathologist Susan E. Detweiler. It was well-written personal essay about her Cold War experiences. It also contained some fascinating history. While the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki ushered in the nuclear age, many of the stories surrounding the decision to go atomic have been neglected or maybe misunderstood. You would think it was a no-brainer for Japan to surrender after the death of so many of its citizens. It had already lost hundreds of thousands in combat and in the terror bombings of Tokyo and other cities. Surrender, however, was not a part of its warrior code. The U.S. and its allies knew that millions on both sides might die in an invasion of the home islands.

The Japanese may have seen the atomic blasts as supernatural forces outside the realm of modern war-making. So Japan surrendered in the face of another kind of "divine wind."

Fascinating.

Is Cheyenne on the map yet?

Dan Danbom was waxing quite eloquently Thursday in The Denver Post about "putting Denver on the map." It was a clever piece about the phrase "putting ______ on the map," the ______ in this case being Denver.

I am a Denver native and I know Denver's need to be on the map, to be a part of the national conversation. Denver has always had a knack for keeping itself on the map. When the Union Pacific bypassed the burgeoning mining supply town in favor of a Wyoming cross-continent route, William Byers and fellow civic boosters cajoled politicians into getting a spur built from Cheyenne to Denver. Byers was the founder of The Rocky Mountain News and newspapers needed growth for advertising revenue and transportation was essential for that. The railroad beat the heck out of thousand-mile covered-wagon or horseback treks or just plain walking.

Denver had already proven itself to be a breeding ground for hucksters with the great gold rush of 1859. Gold was discovered along Cherry Creek and Denver City entrepreneurs blared the news to the rubes back East, who had no clear idea of the difference between an actual gold field and golds flecks embedded in a river bank. The madding crowd rushed to Cherry Creek with their picks and shovels, only to find that the gold was way up yonder in Central City and Gold Hill and Idaho Springs. While you're in Denver, prospector, why not avail yourself of our white lightning and fleshpots and buy some supplies while you're at it?

Denver was born, and got a place on the map.

By the time I was born in Mercy Hospital almost 100 years later, Denver had not only managed to survive but thrive. It had weathered the boom and bust cycle a dozen times and, in 1950, was booming, thanks to all those WWII vets who had trained in Colorado, liked it and decided to desert their villages in Illinois and New York for life at 5,280 feet. The suburbs and the ski industry was born, which eventually led to the birthing of many Baby Boomers such as myself. We transformed Denver into a pretty cool place to be in the sixties and seventies. Boulder became a counterculture Nirvana and Denver a sports-loving, ski-crazy city with Red Rocks and Rainbow Music Hall and a singles scene with lots of wet T-shirt contests. Gentrification followed, and then came the lattes and craft beers and the Broncos, at long last, winning a Super Bowl and putting Denver on the sports map.

I digress.

I'm not sure why Danbom needed to write about putting Denver on the map at this late date, unless it was to cast stones at other, less map-worthy burgs such as Cheyenne. Here's his comment about Cheyenne:

You have to wonder: Why does Denver have to be on the map? When someone promises that something will put us on the map, the implication is that we are currently not on the map and instead in some sort of obscure, anonymous place that no one has ever heard about and therefore is destined to dry up and blow away. Like Cheyenne.

Danbom may not have been up north in awhile. But Cheyenne is still here. Yes, it is dry and the wind blows, but thus far it has not picked up Cheyenne and blasted it to smithereens -- or to Nebraska. We are pretty well anchored here in southeast Wyoming, just across the border from Colorado. We don't plan on going away any time soon.

Yes, life is slow in Cheyenne. We are a Capital City just like you, but growth is slow in this place and that is how many Wyomingites like it. Not me, but, to borrow a nicely-turned phrase from the Pope, "Who am I to judge?"

Wyoming has always gone its own way. If growth comes at all, it comes slowly. The search for oil and gas and precious minerals often fuel the booms. Just look at Gillette. If the coal gives out, or those dern Obama EPA bureaucrats get their way, Gillette may be as ephemeral as Jeffrey City, the uranium boom town that has pretty much dried up and blown away, except for the crazy artists at Monking Bird Pottery and the barflies across the street at the Split Rock Bar & Cafe.

Cheyenne has been on the map for many years, but maybe not for the reasons that urban hipsters imagine. No, not for Cheyenne Frontier Days, although that's what the organizers imagined when they nicknamed it "The Daddy of 'em All." And no, not for our legislature which has become one of the nuttiest in the West.

We got on the map big time during The Cold War, when the Russkis had Cheyenne and its nukes as one of its primary targets. That's one heck of a map. It may be getting a bit frayed around the edges since The Wall came tumbling down. But maybe not. Putin's Syrian policies and Mr. Snowden and Pussy Riot and anti-gay legislation could dust off those old maps and give us all a reason to live again.

Live, or die.

Thanks to Ken Jorgustin at the Modern Survival Blog for this cool map. Here's what he had to say: "Oh, and there is no way I would want to be living near the three large zones in Montana, North Dakota, and the corner of Wyoming-Nebraska-Colorado where there are evidently numerous nuclear missile silos."

"Tinsel Through Time" is like a Cheyenne holiday time machine

My wife Chris and I joined other state employees this evening for a sneak peek of the "Tinsel Through Time" show at the Historic Governor's Mansion in Cheyenne. Christina and her Wyoming State Parks and Historic Sites employees did a great job decorating this 107-year-old building for Christmas. Each room is dedicated to an era of the house's existence, with time-appropriate Christmas decorations. One of the upstairs bedrooms was done up in decor of the pre-war era (known as Edwardian in the U.K.). Did you know that the Christmas fad for that time called for all-white decorations on the tree? White candles, white ornaments, white star on top? The war put an end to that, what with rivers of blood being shed and all.

Post-war decor was much more colorful. Prior to WWII, Americans got most of their Christmas tree baubles from Germany and Japan. When war erupted, Americans were a little ticked so they discarded their not-made-in-the-USA ornaments for those made by Corning in New York. These glass balls were painted on the outside and hung with bobby pins due to most metals going to the war effort. Many homes had electric candles burning in the windows for sons and fathers serving overseas. This room had twin beds, and we could almost imagine that it was home to a couple of teen girls whose older brother was in the Army. Chris thought it might be the parents' room, as there was a snap-brim hat hanging on the bedpost. Maybe it's her boyfriend's hat, I ventured. This is a room for adults, she said. We then realized that we were caught up in the moment, actually believing that this was the room of living, breathing people and hot a museum display.

That's what history, well-presented, can do for you.

My favorite spot in the house is the basement fallout shelter. According to interpretation displays, First Lady Win Hickey made sure that the mansion was fortified for a commie attack with supplies for at least two weeks. It was stocked with survival kits, toilet paper, board games, coffee, battery-powered radio and a mirror. Asked about the last item, Mrs. Hickey replied that you couldn't expect a woman to go without a mirror for two weeks. It's funny to think about the governor's family taking shelter in the basement of a house that was but a few miles away from a nest of ICBM missile silos. If the shit had hit the fan, a mirror would have been the last of her worries. She may have had no worries at all, once the big one dropped.

Let's drop the big one now
Let's drop the big one now

Thanks, Randy Newman.

My father built those missile silos. I never heard him talk about building a fallout shelter. It's possible that he knew the truth about what was in store for us if WWIII broke out.

Strange thoughts for Christmas. Blame it on "Tinsel Through Time." Here are some details about it:

Reminiscence about the traditions of Christmas past with “Tinsel Through Time: Christmas at the Mansion,” a special exhibit at the Historic Governors’ Mansion, December 1-22, Wednesday through Saturday 9 a.m. to 5 p.m.

A free opening reception for the exhibit will be held on Friday, Nov. 30, from 5 p.m. to 8 p.m. The event will feature the St. Mary’s Catholic School Children's Choir, refreshments, entertainment and a free commemorative ornament to our first 75 guests in celebration of State Parks 75th Anniversary.

This year, the exhibit features numerous trees with historic trimmings and our newest collection of more than 400 antique Christmas Ornaments courtesy of Frank and Louise Cole.

The 1905 Mansion, the first official residence of Wyoming’s First Families, has hosted everyone from U.S. presidents to neighborhood children for 71 years. The public is invited to view this enchanting free Christmas exhibit.

The Historic Governors’ Mansion is located at 300 E. 21st Street in Cheyenne. Please call 307-777-7878 for more information. Go here.

1980s calling to get their foreign policy back

One of the better zingers of last night's debate by President Obama (picked up from Crooks & Liars blog):

Governor Romney, I’m glad that you recognize that Al Qaida is a threat, because a few months ago when you were asked what’s the biggest geopolitical threat facing America, you said Russia, not Al Qaida; you said Russia, in the 1980s, they’re now calling to ask for their foreign policy back because, you know, the Cold War’s been over for 20 years.

But Governor, when it comes to our foreign policy, you seem to want to import the foreign policies of the 1980s, just like the social policies of the 1950s and the economic policies of the 1920s.

You say that you’re not interested in duplicating what happened in Iraq. But just a few weeks ago, you said you think we should have more troops in Iraq right now. And the -- the challenge we have -- I know you haven’t been in a position to actually execute foreign policy -- but every time you’ve offered an opinion, you’ve been wrong.

Check out this cool new site, which also has a playable game of "Asteroids." Talk about your 1980s flashback. 

A short story about one government-issue, middle-class, Middle-American family from Denver

My government-issue parents in Denver, circa 1950. Thanks to my sister Mary for the photo.

I was born in Denver at the tail end of 1950.

My father was a World War II veteran who used the G.I. Bill of Rights to graduate from Regis College (now Regis University) in three years. It was a private Catholic college, one he never could have afforded without the government program, promulgated by Pres. Roosevelt and sponsored by Democrats and Republicans, that provided college degrees for millions of American men. The U.S. Navy paid for my mother's nurse's training at Mercy Hospital in Denver. The war was over before she finished so she didn't have to join the fight. But she did use her government-supported training to help support her nine children from 1946 until she died forty years later. My father spent most of his working life building Defense Department-funded ICBM missile silos around the West and then with the space program in Florida. His salary, directly and indirectly, was paid by Uncle Sam.

My father's father made a pretty good living in Denver selling insurance with Mutual of New York. But before he joined private industry, he served with the Iowa National Guard on the U.S. Mexico border and then in France with the AEF. After repeated gas attacks, the Army shipped him to Fitzsimons Army Medical Hospital outside Denver. During his recuperation, he struck up a friendship with an Army nurse, Florence Green from Baltimore, who had traded the life of a debutante to tend to shattered soldiers on the front. The U.S. Army trained her in the healing arts. Grandpa Shay was forever grateful. Both Grandma and Grandpa received the lion's share of their medical care from Veteran's Administration hospitals in Denver and Cheyenne. They both were buried in Denver's government-administered military cemetery, Fort Logan. You can go visit them. Notice what a fine job the V.A. does in maintaining this national landmark. Go ahead, notice.

My mother' mother was the first postmistress in a little town outside Cincinnati. She liked her government paycheck. But one summer she joined her sister and two friends for a road trip via flivver to the Rocky Mountains. The roads were rough. Fortunately, Brevet Lt. Col. Dwight D. Eisenhower had led the U.S. Army's Motor Transport Company from D.C. to California in 1919 and made the road navigable. A year later, she was following the same government-blazed trail and, a year after that, she and her sister were living in Denver and visiting the mountains regularly.

Ike was from Kansas but he liked Denver. He got married in Denver to Mamie Doud and later fished the U.S. Forest Service mountain streams during his breaks from the Oval Office. During one Mile High trip, he suffered a heart attack and recuperated at Fitzsimons Army Hospital. I was four -- almost five -- at the time. Our family lived just off of Colfax Avenue in Aurora and my father took me down to the corner, pointed at the well-lit building across the street, and said: "Our president is right over there." The president was a Republican. My father was a Democrat -- then. But he said "our" president. Gen. Eisenhower had been his supreme commander in the ETO. And now he was his -- our -- president. We then walked back to our $8,000 house, purchased without a down payment and paid for with a low-interest loan. At the end of his life, my father was astonished that he paid twice as much for a new car as he paid for his first house. He was a Florida Republican by then, a by-product of Nixon's southern strategy. He seemed astonished by many things, particularly the Liberal politics of his eldest son. Even though he passed away almost a decade ago, Dad may be astonished still.

Spawn of our government-sponsored parents (see above), taken in her backyard in Daytona Beach, Fla.,
where we used to watch government-sponsored rockets blast off into space (from the Mary Shay Powell archives).

My mother's father came from Ireland in 1917. He worked with his brother on the Chicago El until he got sick and had his infected lung removed at the city's charity hospital. The doctor advised him to take his one remaining lung and go to the healthy climes of the West. Grandpa made it as far as Denver, liked it, and decided to stay. He worked at the post office for many years, and then the railroad. He also was a handyman and a helpful neighbor. He only had a sixth-grade education, but I learned more from my Grandpa Hett than I did from almost anyone else. He was a strong believer in the healing power of ice cream. This also is my belief.

These are my forebears. An imperfect lot, to be sure, and I carry on that tradition. It is possible that we all would be perfectly fine without the programs and opportunities offered by our citizen-funded government. It is possible, yet unlikely.

Stuck outside of Hogtown with those Shuttle Launch Blues again

Insignia for the first shuttle launch

We were just outside of Hogtown when the first Shuttle went up. Other cars joined us along the side of I-75 to view history. We were disappointed, not with the launch, but with the fact that we weren't on the beach at Daytona. That was our goal when my wife Chris, my brother Dan and I left Denver two days before.

Stuff happens. A batch of bad gas in Mississippi, or maybe just an aging vehicle. We were stalled for several hours at a truck stop on the Florida panhandle. The car still wasn't running right when we pulled off the highway for the launch.

An impressive sight. Heard and felt it, too. After it climbed out of sight, leaving its contrail drifting in the clear Florida sky, we looked at each other and said, "Let's go to the beach."

All three of us had viewed many launches over the years, some from the beach and some from our backyard. My father worked for the space program out of Daytona, for NASA and G.E. Chris's father used to take her and her sister down to the beach to watch the spectacles. I heard "The Eagle has landed" via the car radio as my high school girlfriend and I were parked on the beach during a July thunderstorm (yes, I was paying more attention to the moon landing than to the business at hand).

I'd like to be on the beach today. To watch the launch and to be on the beach, my old haunt. Chris is in Daytona for her high school reunion. She'll see the launch with her sister and old Seabreeze High School "Fighting Sandcrabs" pals. I don't care much for reunions. But I'm miffed that I'm missing the last Shuttle launch.

Some of my progressive colleagues don't see the value of the space program. They contend that it's too expensive. They don't see the value in the scientific research. They don't understand why we have to send actual humans into space when robots can do the work cheaper and with less risk.

But "manned flight" (lots of women in space, too) is important precisely because it's in our genes to explore. One major benefit from the Space Shuttle are the fantastic images captured by the Hubble. They have opened up the wonders and terrors of our universe like nothing else. Colliding galaxies and collapsing stars and black holes and artistically-shaped nebulae and all of that space (what's with that dark matter?). We must go there to see these wonders and to figure out what they are and what they mean.

I grew up reading Tom Swift and then Isaac Asimov and Ray Bradbury. Sci-fi fed my imagination. And then came the space program. I had the great good fortune to live at the epicenter of Mercury and Gemini and Apollo.

One closing note: that first shuttle launch happened 20 years to the day after the first manned space flight by the Soviet Union. In 1981, we were still going toe-to-toe with the Reds in space and on the ground (Reagan was newly elected). Now that the U.S is Shuttle-less, guess who we will depend on to get groceries and extra batteries to the space station?

Those darn Russkis. History is a funny thing.

Cow with 310 million tits? Not in Wyoming...

Stuff Alan Simpson Says is a new web site from http://www.boldprogressives.com/, a production of the Progressive Change Campaign Committee PAC. It’s a liberal group that supports a healthy Social Security system. To do that, the PAC is raising alarums by picking on Sen. Alan Simpson’s quaint Wyoming-bred phraseology.

Sen. Simpson has uttered no end of colorful quotes. You could probably fill a book. But he’s a moderate when compared with Republicans running for the House and Senate this year. He’s a moderate when stacked up against Wyoming Sen. John Barrasso and Wyoming Rep. Cynthia Lummis. He’s trying to bring attention to a huge issue, one that too easily gets swept under the rug.

The BoldProgressives site is very clever. On the home page, you get to take a quiz. Multiple choice, with only two choices. I easily guessed the cow with 310 million tits one. Here it is:

'I've made some plenty smart cracks about people on Social Security who milk it to the last degree. You know 'em too...We've reached a point now where it's like a milk cow with 310 million tits!'

As one web site commenter notes, cows have “teats” and not “tits.” But you have to excuse the senator on this one. Wyoming is not really a milk cow state, save for a few farms in the Star Valley. When we think of cows, we think of cattle. Longhorns and shorthorns on the trail, kicking up dust, guided by rugged cowboys. Sure, female cattle have teats. Cattle ranchers would know this. Simpson should know this. But the metaphorical part of his brain – and his loose tongue – got the best of him.

A cow with 310 million teats would be a sight to see. I have no doubt that downwinders in the West have seen mutant cows (a la “The Hills Have Eyes”). All that fallout from those Cold War nuke tests had an effect. Somewhere out in the remote stretches of Utah or Idaho or New Mexico, is a cow with more than the allotted number of teats. There are bloggers in those parts who have seen such a thing. Please immediately report sightings to the deficit commission.

Go take the quiz. See how many you can guess. Hint: Pick the most outrageous of the two choices and you’re in good shape.

It was a Cold War -- but the art was hot!

A nuke explodes in April 1953 at the Nevada Test Site. Looks like a painting, doesn't it?

As the Cold War recedes into the past, it's tempting to be nostalgic. Gee, the planet didn't go up is smoke, as it did with the Doomsday Device in "Dr. Strangelove" or in dozens of sci-fi books. The Russkis are sort of our friends now, fellow travelers in the world of unbridled capitalism and swarthy mob bosses. Those of us on the far side of the Iron Curtain did have some good times, though. We had hula-hoops and rock'n'roll and PCs and moon walks (the real kind) all happening during those halcyon years. Art, too. Lots and lots of art.

The University of Wyoming Art Museum launches an exhibit of Cold War art on Aug. 21:

"Cold War in America: Works from the 1950s - 1970s, Selections from the Art Museum Collection" opens to the public Saturday, Aug. 21, at the University of Wyoming Art Museum. A free public reception for all the fall exhibitions is scheduled at 6 p.m. Friday, Sept. 17.

The end of World War II in 1945 marked the beginning of a new conflict, the Cold War. This ongoing state of political conflict, military tension and economic competition continued primarily between the United States and the Soviet Union.

Abstract expressionism, color field painting, pop art and minimalism all came of age during the Cold War period, representing a radically new engagement with materials and space, and redefining the role and purpose of art.

Abstract expressionist artists, such as Willem de Kooning and James Brooks, who based their works on the pure expression of ideas relating to the spiritual, the unconscious and the mind, will be included.

Color field painting is characterized by large fields of flat, solid color creating areas of unbroken surface and a flat picture plane. It will be represented by the work of artists such as Robert Motherwell and Adolph Gottlieb.

Pop art in the United States, considered a reaction to abstract expressionism, will be represented by artists Alice Neel, Robert Rauschenberg, Ed Ruscha, Lee Krasner and Larry Rivers.

For more information on exhibitions and programs, call the UW Art Museum at (307) 766-6622 or visit the museum's Web page at www.uwyo.edu/artmuseum or blog at http://www.uwartmuseum.blogspot.com/.

The museum has a great blog that's updated regularly. Great visuals, too, as you'd expect.

Wikipedia lists the era of the Cold War as 1947-1991. The U.S. military recognizes Cold War veterans as those serving between September 1945 and December 1991. Other sources say it began in 1948, with the Berlin Airlift.

No matter when it started, the end came with the dissolution of the Soviet empire. I wasn't born until 1950, but by then the struggle was going full force. The Korean War had started earlier in the year, pitting the North Korean and Chinese Communists on one side and South Korea, the U.S. and various allies on the other. North Koreans live in the Stone Age while South Koreans drive KIAs and eat sushi. The ChiComs are all capitalists now.

BTW, North and South Korea are still fighting.

The Cold War is becoming an easy way to mark an era. Historians seem to like dealing with handy chunks of time, such as World War II or the sixties. But a span of 44 (or 46) years seems unwieldy, as if you were talking about the the Ice Age or the Jurassic Era. For now, historians like their Cold War subjects in smaller bites. But one day, it will seem as remote as The Day the Dinosaurs got Clobbered by the Comet.

U.S. still trying to create a "Little America" in Afghanistan

Article from the Morris Knudsen newsletter about the company's 1950s Afghanistan project

Just spent the last hour reading Jim White's post (and linked articles) at Firedoglake, “Little America” in Afghanistan: Is the US Repeating a Failed 1950’s Experiment in Social Engineering?

It tracks the U.S. development projects that were tried out in Afghanistan during the Cold War. With U.S. backing, the Morris Knudsen engineering firm was brought into Helmand Province in the 1950s to create a "Little America" for those wandering Pashtun tribesmen who have been such nuisances to invaders. The idea was to transform them from roving fighters to sedentary farmers. The village was Lashkar Gah and to visiting Brit writer Arnold Toynbee, it was like an American suburb has been dropped out of the sky and into the desert.

I'm amused that the title "Little America" was used to describe the project. Little America was the name of a series of outposts in Antarctica, the first one established by Robert Byrd in 1929. Many of those outposts have now been carried out to sea on the backs of melting icebergs.

Little America is also the name of an oasis in the Wyoming desert along I-80 between Rock Springs and Evanston. It's an actual Census Designated Place (CDP) with a population of 56, most of whom work at the Little America hotel and restaurant and gas stop. It's part of a bigger hotel chain, with hotels in Utah, Idaho, Nevada and Wyoming. It's also the title of a satiric novel of the same name by Rob Swigart which is set at the Little America in Wyoming's Sweetwater County.

Helmand, site of the now-decaying "Little America," is now the scene of the current U.S. offensive. Those wandering tribesmen never settled down. They fought the Russians, became Taliban and now fight the Coalition. All our technical and social engineering came to naught. Maybe it will succeed this time. Keep your fingers crossed.

One of the FDL links led to a 2009 BBC Online article "The Lost History of Helmand" written by documentary filmmaker Adam Curtis. It tracks these Cold War projects in Afghanistan and includes lots of documentation. The most bizarre is a 1961 project led by a group of American woman who were the wives of executives running the Afghan airline. The project's goal was to teach Afghan tribal women how to make American fashions and wear them properly. It culminated in a fashion show. The Afghan government at the time was getting rid of the burqa and promulgating a new westernized dress code for women.

We all know how well that turned out.

All this is so bizarre that it must be true. One big problem -- where are the big satiric novels about this? Evelyn Waugh would have had a field day if dropped into Helmand's "Little America." He did such a fine job with the mess that was Ethiopia in the 1930s. I do not know if Republican Lounge Lizard P.J. O'Rourke is traipsing through war zones any more, but he could do the same job with Afghanistan and Iraq that he did with Nicaragua and Lebanon back in the day. I couldn't think of a better project than sending T.C. Boyle off to Afghanistan for his next scathing novel.

I was listening to "Catch-22" on CD during a long Wyoming drive last weekend. Such scathing commentary on "The Good War." And so wildly funny. This was Heller's war. Maybe we should be asking this question: "Where are the Catch-22's of the 21st century?" There is certainly plenty of material. And what about "Slaughterhouse Five" and Vonnegut's blast against the same technocrats that were Americanizing Afghanistan in "Cat's Cradle?"

Last week, the New York Times had a piece about books penned by veterans coming out of Iraq and Afghanistan. Most are quite tame compared to books by the vet writers of the Vietnam War. The reviewer chalked that up to the all-volunteer military and the need by soldiers not to criticize their own while the wars continue to rage. Tim O'Brien noted that his Vietnam classic, "Going After Cacciato," didn't come out until 1978, three years after the evacuation of Saigon. "The Things They carried" came out even later. "Catch-22" was published in 1962, 17 years after V-J Day.

There is plenty of time, dear readers, for satire. Let's hope it arrives soon. Meanwhile, we continue to scan the web for posts like the one above in FDL.

Wyoming Cold War residue could harm "our precious bodily fluids"

In "Dr. Strangelove," when Col. Jack D. Ripper (Sterling Hayden) starts talking about commies poisoning "our precious bodily fluids," Group Captain Mandrake (Peter Sellers) realizes his commander is nuts. So nuts, in fact, that Ripper has launched World War III.

Col. Ripper says this: "Do you realize that fluoridation is the most monstrously conceived and dangerous communist plot we have ever had to face? On no account will a Commie ever drink water, and not without good reason."

Baby Boomers probably remember that the John Birch Society made hay with the conspiracy theory that commies somehow arranged to fluoridate our water to neuter God-fearing Americans in time of war, cold or hot.

But the Birchers should have been more concerned with the trichloroethylene (TCE) used to clean our own nukes, here in Wyoming and elsewhere. TCE has been poisoning our precious bodily fluids for 50 years, rendering us useless against attacks by commies, Saddam Hussein's WMDs, swine flu, feminists, wayward Yellowstone wolves, atheists and any other menace (real or imagined) wingnuts can devise.

A plume of TCE, maybe one of the largest in the country, is moving toward Cheyenne. One of these days, it may lurk right under our house near Yellowstone Blvd.

Actually, we already have contamination in our neighborhood from Cold War chemicals used on Wyoming Air National Guard's aircraft. TCE and carbon tetrachloride have been seeping from the sprawling Guard base south of us since the 1960s. To the Guard's credit, it has been on this issue since I moved to the neighborhood back in 2005. I receive frequent mailings on the clean-up status. There's a monitoring station in Mylar Park, just a 10-minute walk from our house. A trench 100 feet long and 35 feet deep is being dug in the park to try to contain the seeping solvents. Groundwater that flows into the trench will be treated and discharged into nearby Dry Creek. The goal, according to an Air Guard release from 2008, "is to prevent further underground contamination and keep the chemicals from getting into the creek."

But the TCE plume at F.E. Warren AFB is more problematical. Between 1960-64, USAF personnel used thousands of gallons of the chemical to clean Atlas rocket engines once the fuel had been removed. The used solvent went into unlined pits and eventually trickled down into the aquifer. For many years, the Air Force and the Army Corps of Engineers refused to acknowledge a problem. Then tests were conducted by the Wyoming Department of Environmental Quality. The Corps still did nothing. And in 2007 Sen. John Barrasso got involved. Amazing the difference a U.S. Senator can make when he sets his mind to it. Studies were conducted on this substance that may cause cancer. The obstinate Corps chief was replaced by one more accountable to the citizenry. A a major report detailing clean-up solutions will be issued in September. You can hear the details at a public meeting July 28, 6 p.m., in the Cottonwood Room at the Laramie County Public Library in Cheyenne.

The reason I bring this up? Jared Miller wrote an excellent series of articles for today's Casper Star-Tribune about this threat from the bad old days of the Cold War. Read the series at http://www.casperstartribune.com/articles/2009/07/12/news/wyoming/813bd62b38077e9b872575f00020f944.txt

Remembering some of the very hot elements of The Cold War in Wyoming

At home in the family fallout shelter

If you happen to be traversing Wyoming on I-80 this summer, stop in at the Uinta County Museum in Evanston for the traveling exhibit, "The Life Atomic: Growing Up in the Shadow of the A-Bomb.” It opens tomorrow, June 1. Get more info at the Uinta County Museum.

The museum web site notes that

"The Life Atomic" illustrates the impact of the atomic bomb on everyday life through photographs and objects, in ways both serious and light-hearted. From civil defense warnings to B-movie posters and "atomic" toys, "The Life Atomic" shows the many ways the bomb influenced life in the 1950s and early 1960s.

Exhibit panels focus on the development of the bomb, early atomic testing in the American Southwest, civil defense preparations, fallout shelters (see photo), the influence of the bomb on movies and television, “atomic” toys and games, and the impact of the bomb on home décor.

“The Life Atomic” was developed and is traveled by the Rogers Historical Museum, Rogers, Arkansas. This project was made possible by a grant from the U.S. Institute of Museum and Library Services.

Speaking of Cold War relics, you can drop into a real bomb shelter in the basement at the Historic Governor's Mansion in Cheyenne. I toured the place and it really took me back. When I was a lad in the '50s and '60s, we all felt fully protected from the a-bomb with "duck and cover." We practiced often, just in case. Who needed a bomb shelter when you had that?

You can also tour the I.C.B.M. Missile Museum at Warren AFB west of Cheyenne at Fort D.A. Russell Days during the annual Cheyenne Frontier Days celebration the last full week in July. Lots of live MX missiles sit in silos on the prairie. Can't visit those unless you're a missileer.