walked toward the tractor. “Which do you think is more deadly? Past history or future history?”
He didn’t even slow down to think about it. “Future history,” he yelled back without hesitation. “Each war gets worse because we get better at killing each other.”
That sounded so true. At first cavemen bashed each other’s heads in with rocks and sticks. By the time of the Crusaders it was long swords and arrows, and at Gettysburg they were blasting each other to bits from cannons filled with lead balls, iron chains, railroad spikes, and door knobs. And atomic bombs made future wars look even more hopeless. No humans will survive. All the animals will die. Fish will rot in acidic water. All vegetation will wilt in the polluted air. There will be nothing left but enormous insects the size of dinosaurs. I took a deep breath and pushed the blade of the shovel into the earth and got busy filling a wheelbarrow with dirt. Our only hope for survival might be in building cities deep underground like the one Dad said the army built to protect the president and all the self-important government people.
After a while Mom sauntered out with a pitcher and cups to give us some cold water because it was hot and because she wanted to check up on our progress. We must not have been doing too well because after a quick glance at our work she said to Dad, “Jack, you know I can get some men from the Community Center to help out. This is a big job.”
“It’s okay,” Dad replied, and poured a cup of water over his head then shook it off like a dog. “We don’t need any help from the Communist Center. We can do this ourselves.” He glanced at me. “Right, partner?” he asked, and jabbed me in the shoulder.
“Right,” I replied, but I didn’t mean it. I’d love to have a dozen friendly guys run over and finish this job.
“Mr. Spizz and that maintenance crew of his could make this easier,” Mom suggested, trying to reason with him. “And faster too. And they might make the runway a little smoother.”
The three of us held our hands over our eyes and squinted at the runway. It was as wavy as the ocean.
“It makes me seasick to look at it,” Mom remarked as she turned away.
“That’s nothing,” Dad said dismissively. “This plane was built to take off and land on a ship, so it can certainly land on this.”
“Are you sure you don’t need just a tiny bit of help?” she asked again.
“Honestly,” he said in a firm voice, “I’d rather just keep it in the family.”
“Okay,” she conceded, giving in to his stubbornness. “Do it your way.” And she went over to the pony pen to check on War Chief’s hay and water.
Dad turned to me. “If Spizz and those Community Center guys help us, the next thing you know they’ll want to help fly my plane and share our bomb shelter. Good God,” he said, “think of it. The Russian Commies will be bombing us from above and we’ll be protecting a bunch of local Commies in our shelter. Nuts to that!” He hopped back onto the tractor, started it up, and roared off with the roller in tow.
“Yeah,” I aped, and picked up the shovel. “Nuts to that.” I certainly didn’t want Mr. Spizz to come by and ask about paying the ticket.
Just then Bunny came running from around the corner of our house. She looked like the square face on a box of Wheaties—only with arms and legs. I was really happy to see her.
“Hey,” she said breathlessly, “what are you doing?”
“Digging our fancy new bomb shelter,” I replied without enthusiasm. “The future is going to take place underground.”
“Bomb shelters are just family-size coffins,” she said like a know-it-all. “When the atomic war comes we’ll all die and when UFO people arrive they’ll dig us up and study our culture.”
“What do you think they’ll learn?”
“Who knows and who cares,” she replied, and threw her short arms up into the air. “Probably no more than what we know from digging up
He didn’t even slow down to think about it. “Future history,” he yelled back without hesitation. “Each war gets worse because we get better at killing each other.”
That sounded so true. At first cavemen bashed each other’s heads in with rocks and sticks. By the time of the Crusaders it was long swords and arrows, and at Gettysburg they were blasting each other to bits from cannons filled with lead balls, iron chains, railroad spikes, and door knobs. And atomic bombs made future wars look even more hopeless. No humans will survive. All the animals will die. Fish will rot in acidic water. All vegetation will wilt in the polluted air. There will be nothing left but enormous insects the size of dinosaurs. I took a deep breath and pushed the blade of the shovel into the earth and got busy filling a wheelbarrow with dirt. Our only hope for survival might be in building cities deep underground like the one Dad said the army built to protect the president and all the self-important government people.
After a while Mom sauntered out with a pitcher and cups to give us some cold water because it was hot and because she wanted to check up on our progress. We must not have been doing too well because after a quick glance at our work she said to Dad, “Jack, you know I can get some men from the Community Center to help out. This is a big job.”
“It’s okay,” Dad replied, and poured a cup of water over his head then shook it off like a dog. “We don’t need any help from the Communist Center. We can do this ourselves.” He glanced at me. “Right, partner?” he asked, and jabbed me in the shoulder.
“Right,” I replied, but I didn’t mean it. I’d love to have a dozen friendly guys run over and finish this job.
“Mr. Spizz and that maintenance crew of his could make this easier,” Mom suggested, trying to reason with him. “And faster too. And they might make the runway a little smoother.”
The three of us held our hands over our eyes and squinted at the runway. It was as wavy as the ocean.
“It makes me seasick to look at it,” Mom remarked as she turned away.
“That’s nothing,” Dad said dismissively. “This plane was built to take off and land on a ship, so it can certainly land on this.”
“Are you sure you don’t need just a tiny bit of help?” she asked again.
“Honestly,” he said in a firm voice, “I’d rather just keep it in the family.”
“Okay,” she conceded, giving in to his stubbornness. “Do it your way.” And she went over to the pony pen to check on War Chief’s hay and water.
Dad turned to me. “If Spizz and those Community Center guys help us, the next thing you know they’ll want to help fly my plane and share our bomb shelter. Good God,” he said, “think of it. The Russian Commies will be bombing us from above and we’ll be protecting a bunch of local Commies in our shelter. Nuts to that!” He hopped back onto the tractor, started it up, and roared off with the roller in tow.
“Yeah,” I aped, and picked up the shovel. “Nuts to that.” I certainly didn’t want Mr. Spizz to come by and ask about paying the ticket.
Just then Bunny came running from around the corner of our house. She looked like the square face on a box of Wheaties—only with arms and legs. I was really happy to see her.
“Hey,” she said breathlessly, “what are you doing?”
“Digging our fancy new bomb shelter,” I replied without enthusiasm. “The future is going to take place underground.”
“Bomb shelters are just family-size coffins,” she said like a know-it-all. “When the atomic war comes we’ll all die and when UFO people arrive they’ll dig us up and study our culture.”
“What do you think they’ll learn?”
“Who knows and who cares,” she replied, and threw her short arms up into the air. “Probably no more than what we know from digging up
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