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It's difficult, I suppose, for later generations to grasp just how insidious this was, this idea of instantaneous destruction raining down from the skies. Every day was tumescent with the promise of sudden death. The jolt of fear as the low-flying 031234807x combat jets from the nearby base roared overhead on their monthly flyover ... always that first bright 031234807x instant 031234807x of terror that the approaching sound might not be from a fighter jet piloted by America's best but instead a warhead from Russia with love. The last part of my mother's class was always given over to what the world would be like after the Big One. After the nuclear winter had melted, if it ever would, after the radioactivity had diminished to survivable levels, if it ever would, after the few survivors (the percentage points were displayed on a graph depicting severity of attack, number of missiles that would make it through, etc.)
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