My cousin Robert Wingate's wife, whom everyone called "Libba," worried him until he hired a man to build one of these for her in the backyard of their Greenwood home. I don’t know how much it cost, but she considered it vital, so he found a man from Memphis who was building them.
The communists had surprisingly less interest in sending atomic bombs to Leflore County, Mississippi, than she anticipated, so the shelter became a place where she could sit quietly, read, and sometimes take up knitting. His mother made sure her azaleas and coreopsis were in order should the Russians ever come, which they didn’t. One day, they found Cousin Annie laid down amongst her begonias. The Lord took her before the Russians had a chance to.
Robert accomplished many amazing and useful things in his life, but I don't know how much any of it meant compared to his mission of providing insulation between Libba and the increasingly confusing and conflicting world that Mississippi became after the war. I loved him, and he loved her, and I loved him for loving her. Libba provided him with a home, a child, respectability, companionship, many fine meals, and a purpose in life. He provided her with a bomb shelter.
