It was a hot summer day in the early 1960’s. The Cold War between the USSR & the USA had been going on for a long time. But that summer, tensions had escalated. Many Americans were concerned about the threat of nuclear warfare between the two world super powers. Some were even planning or actually building bomb shelters in their basements or back yards. Schools held civil defense drills during which students were instructed to crouch under their desks with their arms covering their heads. Water and non-perishable foods were stockpiled in any available storage area.
Our house was located in Hillcrest Heights, Maryland, about half way between the Capitol Hill in Washington and Andrews Air Force Base. We had a somewhat fatalistic view of the possibility of nuclear war. Because of our proximity to the seat of American government and military power, we believed that if there was a nuclear attack on our country, we had only a slight, if any, chance of survival. I didn’t worry about it a lot because I was extremely busy with more immediate and pressing domestic concerns. I had a large family and plenty of household matters to keep me working at a brisk pace most of the time.
On this day I picked up the daily mail from the living room floor, carried it to the kitchen table and sat down to sort through it. Because of the humid weather, my face, arms and legs had a sheen of perspiration. There was little in the mail to catch my attention on that late afternoon. But an envelope from the federal government intrigued me. The exact branch or bureau that sent it is now lost in the mists of memory. I didn’t care much which one it was. But I clearly remember its contents, even to this day. The letter instructed our family to draw up a detailed description of the exact dimensions of our basement, including locations of any windows, doors, etc. Its purpose was to aid us in developing a plan to use in the event of nuclear attack. I think this was probably a pilot project for some civil defense plan and had limited distribution.
I knew that this task would be done by me, if it were done at all, since my husband rarely, if ever, ventured into our basement. Imagining myself down in the basement with paper, pencil and measuring tape in hand doing this task which had just been added to my already over-crowded mental to do list, I felt my stomach tighten, my fists clench and my breathing quicken. I was furious at this directive and intrusion into my life. And the more I thought about it the angrier I became. As I began preparations for dinner several of my older children drifted into the kitchen. A glance at my tense and irritable face was enough to suggest that a quick exit was probably best at that moment. Each of them left the room and found another place to be until my mood brightened.
My husband came home from work at the usual time. Instead of finding his dinner almost ready for the table and his wife and family gathering for this daily ritual, he found his normally calm, placid wife in a towering rage, ranting and raving about the stupid letter that had arrived from the government, which demanded that she do a lot of work. If the government was going to give me jobs to do it should also inform me how much it was planning to pay. I continued at great length along these lines.
“Barbara, give me the letter,” he said, when finally I paused to take a breath.
He sat down, turned it over, and quickly sketched a rough drawing of our basement, indicating length and width. He then filled in the windows and door, also giving them dimensions. With that, he folded the letter, placed it in the envelope provided for a reply, and gave it to one of his sons, whom he instructed to put it immediately in the mailbox on the corner. This exercise took him no longer that 3 minutes.
I gazed at him, completely dumbfounded. I knew he had no gift for numbers and was certain he had simply made up everything out of his head entirely at random. His boldness amazed me and also worried me a little. He saw my expression and immediately understood it. Rising from the table to wash his hands he explained, “Your problem, Barbara, is that you don’t understand how to deal with a bureaucracy and I do. This piece of paper will be placed in a file cabinet. It will gather dust and never see the light of day again. Trust me.”
Peace returned to his household and dinner was served.
There is a postscript to this story. My next-door neighbor, who had also received a copy of the letter, promptly threw it in the trash. She later received a follow up missive chastising her for failing in her civic duty and demanding compliance. We, on the other hand, got a nice thank you note.