The mushroom cloud rose into a red twilight sky. A warning siren wailed in the distance. It was 1963, I was 5 year old little boy pushing my favorite toy firetruck down the driveway of our brick ranch-style suburban home on the outskirts of Charlotte. I knew what this meant — we’d have to move into the fallout shelter dug into the backyard and remain there for weeks, maybe months, until there was an all-clear siren. We had enough canned foods and…
