What happens in the silos . . .

Growing up an Air Force kid wasn't always easy. Granted, there were some perks: seeing fighter planes up close, watching giant missiles take off, and touring the Space Shuttle facilities. But those perks didn't come often enough or last long enough to outweigh the downside of Air Force life: moving.

Yes, I said moving. In 18 years, I lived in 9 states, moved every 2 to 3 years, and found myself going to 3 different high schools. That was the life of the son of a man who worked for 26 years maintaining the big missiles, the Minuteman missiles we had aimed at the Soviet Union. But looking back, I realize how grateful I am for the experiences those moves provided me. I've seen—and lived in—more of the U.S. than most people have even thought about. I've dealt with moving so often that it's a natural part of life to me. But the thing I appreciate most about all of it is my dad's devotion to our family. He did everything he could to keep my family in one place as long as possible. He was adamant that his family never move during the school year—and we didn't. He made every effort to show me the exciting side of Air Force life, such as watching air shows from the runways and touring missile silos.

So I was quite excited today to come across a post at Design Observer about a subject my dad may know a little something about: blast-door art. As I understand it, blast doors are the massive, underground steel-and-concrete doors that lead into the launch control centers. Sometimes, these doors were painted with art by the people who worked inside. Tom Vanderbuilt writes, "These images in launch control centers across the United States testify to the bravado of the men (and, from the mid-1980s onward, women) of what has been called 'America’s Underground Air Force.' But they also reflect the sometimes surreal pressures faced by two-person missile crews on 24-hour duty alerts, waiting for a call to turn their missile launch keys and perhaps end civilization as we know it." These paintings were photographed by Robert Lyon with the help of Daniel Friese, a civilian employee of the Air Force, and they can sometimes be crude—or rude—but in each case interesting.

It's with great honor that I dedicate this post to my dad. Thanks, dad, for all that you have done for me.

. . . GO NOW.