Bomb shelters! Quite a few underground dwellings (for cozy protection during the nuclear apocalypse) existed in Phoenix in the post-atomic heyday of the late 60s/early 70s. Ours was under our carport, accessed by a heavy iron door in the floor and a ladder leading down into a fantastic and very creepy room. It was outfitted with bunk beds, canned foods, camp toilet, and (the best part!) a ventilation fan that let in fresh air from the outside.

I can only assume my suave teenaged brothers got into girl-oriented shenanigans in that place. I was littler and kind of a scardeycat, but when I was allowed to duck n’ cover my way down there, my favorite thing to do was to visit the corpses of two lizards that, because of the cool, dry climate, decomposed at a very slow rate.

This weekend, I am excited to able to compare memories with one of the real-life Casanovas of the Dark, my brother Peter. I’ll see if he has any juicy stories for us.

Update! Peter did indeed have subterranean adventures in the shelter, but more of the pot-smoking variety. Pete said the shelter was too creepy in which to bring girls. I guess my brothers, instead, brought the girls to the groovy bachelor lounge in the back of our house, crazy with Day-Glo paint, posters of Allen Ginsburg and the Dead, skull candles, and ear-splitting bummer rock.
Photo: Atomic Bomb by flickruser giginger. Thanks for letting me use it!