Alas, Babylon and MePosted: August 10, 2014
Things that get in us when we’re children stay with us. We might not understand. We might just feel fear, insecurity, uncertainty, and dwell on our perceptions. That’s the way it was with me. Whatever was going on in the U.S. when I was ten, eleven, twelve, and thirteen got in me and never let go. I feared the H-bomb. There was an overwhelming fear that nuclear war would break out between the United States and Russia in the late 50s and early 60s. We even had bomb drills in school. People built and stocked bomb shelters. It didn’t help in 1960 to see Nikita Khrushchev on TV banging his shoe on the podium. He said, “We will bury you!”
How does a little girl sleep at night? I remember leaning on my window sill after bedtime, looking up at stars in the black sky and smelling the honeysuckle on the back fence and wondering what was out there and what if it came down on me and my little town.
I remember visiting one set of grandparents in the city of Cincinnati and looking up beyond tall buildings and worrying that a bomb would hit at any time. After all, it was a city, and cities were targets. I remember visiting the other set of grandparents on a farm in the Mississippi Hill Country. At the edge of the woods was a gully, deep, thirty feet, maybe forty. A natural spring came out of the ground at the bottom and ran in a gentle stream the length of the land. The red clay cliff walls deterred any climbing down to the bottom, but I could walk into the gully via the stream bed. One summer day I did just that and pulled myself up to a protrusion in the wall and sat for a while thinking. I looked up at the sunshine filtering through ancient trees at the top. No one could ever find me here. I vowed to come to the gully when it happened — end times, the bomb, the apocalypse, the burning of Babylon, the crash and failure of society. After all, everyone needs a plan.
I wonder now if I passed on my fear of end times to my own children. When they were little, we had our own secret code word that reflected catastrophe. I won’t say what it was, because it still is our code word.
Just yesterday as I told one son I was preparing to buy a new car, he said, “Good, make sure you have a sleeping bag, a tent, and some survival supplies in the cargo area, and you can head this way [North Carolina] when the time comes.” (Actually, I do have two survival bins of supplies in the garage next to the back of my car, ready to load in an emergency.) Just yesterday I sent the other son a text message and in the middle of it, that code word happened to appear. “Are you trying to tell me something?” he replied. No, I wasn’t. The apples don’t fall too far from the tree.
I’m thinking about all this now because the other day I found an old book that my husband bought in September 1969, so written on the inside cover. Alas, Babylon is the title. It’s a novel published in 1959 about nuclear war with Russia–the dropping of the bomb–and the end of the world. I read this book when I was child, maybe twelve, and it made an impact on me, not only because the subject matter was what it was, but also because it was really an adult book with adult language and situations, and my mother let me read it. One summer week I lay on top of the picnic table in the back yard under the pecan tree, sap dripping on me, and read about Randy in the fictional town of Fort Repose, Florida, near McCoy Air Force Base, who got the warning of doom from his Strategic Air Command brother Mark and experienced the bomb and the rebuilding of life after.
I guess I never got over the Cold War fears of the 50s and early 60s. By the mid-60s, though, Kennedy had been assassinated, Vietnam was on the world news every night on TV, and the bombs and fires and fiery actions of the civil rights movement were on the local news. And a girl tends to push back the H-bomb when all that is happening.
Now I return to read Alas, Babylon. The original version in paperback — the complete text of the original hardcover edition, not one word omitted. My sons read the book in high school as required reading, but it was a cleaned-up, dumbed-down version. This is the real sixty-cent deal.
The words on the back cover still apply today to whatever “bomb situation” comes up:
THE DAY AFTER THE BOMB DROPPED the thousands of years of “progress” that had covered the treacheries and weaknesses of ordinary man with a thin veneer of civilization were dissolved and melted like snow on the desert’s dusty face.
All this makes me want to say: Please, America, for the sake of little girls and boys everywhere, let’s work together and do this thing right. Let’s give and take, let’s don’t push for radical extremes, let’s don’t fight for our own ONE way, let’s be tolerant of others. Let’s work together for the good of all. Let’s keep “progress” and keep it going.