Eventually, Papa's name moved to the top of the list for base housing (it must have been during the summer after we first arrived, because that's the time most military families "rotated"), and we moved from town to a house on Clinton-Sherman Air Force Base.
The base was a fair-sized city in its own right, built around a thirteen thousand five hundred foot runway and with state-of-the-art radar and communications equipment used for the B-52 bombers stationed there.
It was most definitely "out there on the edge of the prairie," supposedly safe from any Russian intercontinental ballistic missiles aimed our way. Of course, that was important because we were a definite target, neck-deep in the Strategic Air Command during the "duck and cover" years of the cold war. Because of the mission of the base, and because of the times, there were undoubtedly hot lines to Washington and the upper echelon military decision-makers all around us.
The heavy bombers stationed there flew out every morning bound for undisclosed destinations in Russia and armed with early generation nuclear warheads.
The planes were manned by crews hoping to be called back to base (they always were)before they reached the fail-safe point of no return and opened their sealed packets identifying their targets.
Because someone's dad was always in the air, the early-morning sky around the base and all the way to the horizon was cris-crossed with jet contrails, silent evidence of the mission in which the base was engaged. That daytime silence was broken by the late-night roar of the jet engines being repaired and readied for action the next day, seven days a week.
And, that's the way it was. Yet, despite the world of chaos around us, we lived a peaceful and conventional life in Clinton.
Some day I'll tell you about the time the tornado that interrupted our Easter egg hunt; about the rocket swing that mysteriously bumped middle child's head right between the eyes (she didn't even cry); about the time I tried to convince my best friend's mother that "No, Granny most certainly does not allow us to eat green vegetables" (it almost worked); about the time middle child almost lost her finger (ask her to show you the scar); about the time when Grandmother (who raised only girls) discovered a live frog in my underwear drawer, to her wide-eyed consternation (and, despite her gentile southern manner, she did let out a yelp); and about the special Easter dinner when Granny and Papa announced the soon-arrival of our own "Small," if I can borrow the moniker (we had another name for her).
These are for later.
The base was a fair-sized city in its own right, built around a thirteen thousand five hundred foot runway and with state-of-the-art radar and communications equipment used for the B-52 bombers stationed there.
It was most definitely "out there on the edge of the prairie," supposedly safe from any Russian intercontinental ballistic missiles aimed our way. Of course, that was important because we were a definite target, neck-deep in the Strategic Air Command during the "duck and cover" years of the cold war. Because of the mission of the base, and because of the times, there were undoubtedly hot lines to Washington and the upper echelon military decision-makers all around us.
The heavy bombers stationed there flew out every morning bound for undisclosed destinations in Russia and armed with early generation nuclear warheads.
The planes were manned by crews hoping to be called back to base (they always were)before they reached the fail-safe point of no return and opened their sealed packets identifying their targets.
Because someone's dad was always in the air, the early-morning sky around the base and all the way to the horizon was cris-crossed with jet contrails, silent evidence of the mission in which the base was engaged. That daytime silence was broken by the late-night roar of the jet engines being repaired and readied for action the next day, seven days a week.
And, that's the way it was. Yet, despite the world of chaos around us, we lived a peaceful and conventional life in Clinton.
Some day I'll tell you about the time the tornado that interrupted our Easter egg hunt; about the rocket swing that mysteriously bumped middle child's head right between the eyes (she didn't even cry); about the time I tried to convince my best friend's mother that "No, Granny most certainly does not allow us to eat green vegetables" (it almost worked); about the time middle child almost lost her finger (ask her to show you the scar); about the time when Grandmother (who raised only girls) discovered a live frog in my underwear drawer, to her wide-eyed consternation (and, despite her gentile southern manner, she did let out a yelp); and about the special Easter dinner when Granny and Papa announced the soon-arrival of our own "Small," if I can borrow the moniker (we had another name for her).
These are for later.
©2006 David R. Childress. All Rights Reserved
©2006 David R. Childress. All Rights Reserved.
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