In these pandemic times, the pressure on people in everyday life to “intervene” during an emergency reminds many of the Cold War.
The air strikes of the 1950s and 60s and the “duck and cover” exercises demanded by school children made a disturbing impression on my generation, who grew up near the country’s capital.
The curators of the Arlington Historical Museum (where Kenmore School once showed an air raid siren) showed me a series of once-everyday instructions on how average citizens should behave when the Russians drop a 20-megaton bomb in our suburban neighborhood.
A pocket-sized evacuation locator warned that “a steady bang for five minutes” from sirens, whistles or horns meant evacuate. A rising and falling howl for 3 minutes meant: Take shelter.
A 1955 Civil Defense Administration pamphlet gave Arlington evacuation routes on Route 7 (one-way only) to Clarke, Loudoun, Frederick, Buckingham, and Shenandoah Counties. “Don’t forget emergency rations, clothing and supplies,” it said. “Don’t use the phone. You will find detailed instructions in your AM radio (640 or 1240) from the CONELRAD emergency call station. A brochure gave dire facts about radioactive fallout that cannot be tasted, touched or seen.
All of this state and local planning was not enough for the Arlington Civic Federation. In March 1958, his public safety chairman, John Heckman, pleaded with the county “to increase the focus on civil defense shelters,” according to the Northern Virginia Sun. “The mass evacuation is overtaken by the late development of weapons and carriers.”
A 1968 Northern Virginia Regional Planning Commission map showed 150 protected areas, including: First National Bank of Arlington, Cherrydale Cement Block Co., elementary schools, and more.
My schoolmates remembered the neighbors’ air raid shelters, which also served as pantries with water and supplies.
Mary Lynn recalls “the dire warning not to look up at the sky so that the atomic attack would not blind you. In fourth grade I was torn between the fear of an apparently inevitable attack and the suspicion that all the tactics were ridiculous. “
Bob said the 1962 Cuban Missile Crisis “freaked out my already fragile psyche. When the special reports came on the news, I ran to the bathroom, closed the door and covered my ears. “
At the school in Nottingham, “we had to have a liter of water in our lockers,” recalls George Maughan. “Where we were wouldn’t have mattered anyway, but everyone felt better. John remembers a teacher using the Geiger counter.
“At Tuckahoe Elementary, we had drills to get under our little wooden tables,” Jesse said. “One child was upset because the teacher couldn’t find hers. When I think back, I don’t think she could. ”As a student at Claremont Elementary School, Pam remembers“ packing a suitcase with books, food, and candy that I take from my bedroom and take downstairs to our basement if I was home when the bombs fell. “
At St. Agnes Catholic Church, another Bob recalls, “The exercises were timed to see how fast we could move. The only difference to our public schoolmates is the instruction to clasp our rosary, the water thermos and the ceiling while our nun went to the windows to pull the blinds. “
Since Arlington was known as “the crater zone”, Fred Gosnell recalled, “Even as a child I cannot remember having had illusions about survivability.”
Permission to demolish the 130-year-old Fellows McGrath home on Washington Blvd. has been granted. near Sycamore St. It’s disappointing to Tom Dickinson and other conservation activists who applied for protection.
The Historical Affairs and Landmark Review Board decided on September 15 to maintain its recommendation that the county staff investigate the history of the property.
Manassas realtor Masum Kahn, who bought the house after eight months on the market to build modern homes, has not set a schedule for the demolition. Though he would consider selling “at the right price”.