I was a wee poppet when I first heard of Blackbeard’s undiscovered treasure. And when I did, I became an instant treasure hunter myself.

Given who I was, and am, my treasure hunting was neither skilled, systematic, nor energetic. Instead, if I hap’d upon a treasure, fine. If not, also fine. But I’d try to enlist again before I’d ever join the ranks of the Oak Island lunatics.

As a result of my serendipitous attitude, any time I pass a “free” box, anywhere, I’m sure to give it the twice-over.

Of course, the reason the stuff’s in the box in the first place is because the owner didn’t want it, and didn’t want to shlep it to the dump. And odds are it’s all dreck anyway. But sometimes you beat the odds, as I recently did.

My score was a small paperback atop a box of detritus on someone’s lawn. While I had no idea who lived there, I knew that at one time, one of them was a wide-eyed optimist.

How did I know that?

Read on.

–

Mind the gap

–

The book, written in 1960, was called “You Can Survive the Bomb” and was a handy-dandy manual on how to emerge from a nuclear holocaust unscathed. For sure, its advice was total doo-doo. But as a time machine, the book was priceless, transporting me back to the A-Bomb asininity of my youth.

It all started in the late ’50s with the Democrats screaming about a bomber gap between us and the USSR. The Dems claimed the Russian bomber fleet was far bigger than ours and so we were at their mercy. It was a purely political move, aimed at unseating the Republicans in power and led by Eisenhower. The Repubs, as the rhetoric went, were soft on defense, and thus on our very survival.

The truth was we had the superior bomber fleet, not the Russians. But the seeds of doubt had been planted … and started to sprout.

A few years passed, and The Bomber Gap turned into The Missile Gap. Claims were made that the Russians had 500 Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles to our 50. In truth, while we did have 50 ICBMs, the Russians had four, and the gap was hugely in our favor. But once again, the truth didn’t mean doodle-squat, because in his quest to become president JFK harped on The Missile Gap repeatedly … and successfully.

But how did this affect the average guy or gal? For one thing, paranoia became The Flavor of the Month. For another, I think all of us back then were sure we’d end up with front row seats to full-scale Atomic Firefest. How we reacted, as both a government and individuals, was simple-minded at best, and moronic at worst.

One school of thought was the “You Can Survive the Bomb” bunch. Essentially, their stance was if you didn’t join the initial Mushroom Cloud Crowd, you’d be A-OK. This theory was adopted by our public schools, so along with Readin’, ‘Ritin’, and ‘Rithmatic, a fourth R got taught — Rationalization. To us it was known as Air Raid Drills.

As I recall, only the grade school kids did it, probably because the administrators figured grades seven and up would go full-out Lord of the Flies, so let ’em. Anyhow, upon the proper signal, all of us left our classroom and huddled against the wall. It was — at least according to the powers that be — a sure way to survive a bombing of any kind. Since by then I’d seen more than my share of newsreels and photos of WWII saturation bombings, I had serious doubt about the Petrova School’s invulnerability, mini-cynic that I was.

The town sages were downright dismissive of any danger from a missile attack. Most of them agreed Plattsburgh’s Strategic Air Command would get nuked off the face of the earth.

“But so what?” they sneered. “We’re 50 miles away, surrounded by mountains. We won’t feel a thing.”

They were right — as far as they thought. The problem was they didn’t think very far ahead.

So, yeah, if P’burgh got obliterated, the blast itself wouldn’t affect us. But guess what would? Yep — radioactive fallout. And that takes us to the real Hydrogen Bomb Boogie — The Great Fallout Shelter Fiasco.

–

Basement boogaloos

–

It all started with bomb shelters, which were a quaint WWII hangover of sorts. Essentially, during WWII, before the invention of nukes, the government designated certain buildings in every city and town in the U.S. as “Bomb Shelters.” Essentially, they were the buildings with the biggest and most secure basements. How bombproof they really were is a matter of debate, but they would offer more protection than the ole adobe hacienda — at least when it came to near-misses.

But once the Russkies got their godless hands on missiles and nukes, bomb shelters were obsolete. So what was the government’s enlightened response? Simple — they kept the public bomb shelters, but changed their sign. So — Voila! — now every former bomb shelter automatically became a fallout shelter (at least in name).

That kept The Great Unwarshed chill for a while, till our illustrious leaders realized two things.

One, there simply were not enough public fallout shelters for everyone, and …

Two, logistically, there was no way folks could stay in them, putz-to-butts for two weeks — especially with no supplies.

And that brings up another brilliant piece of government “logic.” Somehow, someone, somewhere in the power towers had decided if you could stay in a burrow for two weeks after a nukefest, when you emerged back into the light of day, everything would be groovy. While the whole landscape might be glowing in the dark (and you as well), if they were to be believed, it still wouldn’t be nothin’ but a thang.

And then came another change in the script: It was decided fallout shelters were no longer the government’s responsibility, so now it was up to John and Jane Q public to save their own dupas.

An entire industry of books, magazine articles and government pamphlets sprang up, showing everyone how to rig up a fallout shelter. Most of them consisted of stocking your basement with all the necessities — canned goods, water, blankets, flashlights and batteries, hygiene products, Parker Brothers’ games, and so on. And then, they reassured us, while you’d be a bit uncomfortable for a short while, after a fortnight, you’d wander upstairs and pick up right where you’d left off.

It was a comforting scenario. It was also total bumpf, and even I realized it. By then, I’d read enough sci-fi and seen enough post-nuclear apocalypse flicks to know the collapse of civilization would make Genghis Khan’s depredations look like a visit from the local Missionary Society.

And that took us to what I thought was the very peak of Nuclear Notwittery. In one of the news magazines, there were interviews with various men of the cloth. In it, they were asked to give their scholarly opinion about a wee tricky issue: You have a fully stocked fallout shelter, but your neighbor doesn’t, and he’s now knocking on your door, wanting to come in and share your stash. So is it OK to pick up your gat and fill him and his next of kin with lead aplenty? Sadly — but unsurprisingly — they all agreed it was not only OK, but got the seal of approval from The Big Guy in the Sky.

Suffice it to say, that level of lunacy could not be sustained. So finally, everyone said (though not necessarily aloud) to hell with the fallout shelters. And so they faded into the mists of history, and segued into game rooms with chemical crappers.

To many Americans, the ’50s and early ’60s are considered The Golden Age, but that’s just cherry-picking history. In truth, they were very much a time of oppression, suppression and repression, with liberty and justice not for all.

But even so, when I look back at that time, I do so with a certain fondness for my naivete. In those days I was so naive, I thought our enemies were oceans away, to our east and west, rather than due south in Albany and Washington, D.C.