Don, do you know what the pre-arranged signal is?
I don't know what you're talking about.
Claire, do you know what the signal is?
Signal for what?
Well, a few moments ago you were hypnotized and told that shortly after
awakening, you would be given a signal which would put you back to sleep again.
Now, do you remember?
No.
I don't.
You're awake, aren't you?
Yes.
I think so.
Well, let's try a few things to see whether we can identify the signal.
Do you think it's strange to say that when farmland has been tended and cherished
for generations, it may come to cherish the people who live on and buy it, or
that the land loving its people keeps watch over them to guard them from harm?
The rug boys watch as hog carcasses are broken down into primal cuts.
After chilling, the carcass passes over a firmly anchored knife
which separates the two sides.
This is the first step in the disassembly of the pork side.
This large saw
wheel then cuts the shoulder from the side.
So much automation enters the industrial picture today that it is not surprising
to see the start of meat processing begin in this fashion.
Let's watch the development of the ham, one of the first meat
cuts to receive attention.
Painstaking care is given to ensure uniform removal of skin and fat.
A close inspection of the ham follows.
The ham slide down a shoot to the floor below where they are fed onto
the automatic scaling line.
Each bin
holds a given weight ham.
The pans are individual scales that automatically drop the weighed
ham into the correct bin.
Skillfully removing the bone of hams before processing the famous Hormel Cure 81
ham, canned ham, cooked ham, or ingredient meat for spam.
Very choice hams are saved for the production of the Cure 81s.
Precise trimming of external and internal fat takes place.
The shoulders supply the skins used in the production of gelatin.
The skins are fed into a grinder
and are shown emerging here.
A series of cooking, filtering, and chilling operations occur before the gelatin
is extruded onto a conveyor belt in this spaghetti-like form.
A moving arm now spreads the gelatin evenly
on another belt conveyor.
This mattress of gelatin will travel through two dryers.
The dried gelatin is now broken down into small particles and conveyed by auger
to a grinder for final granulation.
Here are scenes reminding us again that the place to learn about the interests of
a people is where they gather in large and revealing numbers.
For anyone curious about our national enthusiasms, our pleasures, and our
relaxations, the obvious and wise procedure is to go where they are
spontaneously displayed.
To walk to the jostling throngs, to follow the crowd to some stadium, for
example, where collegiate gladiators battle amid modern football pageantry, or to
a ballpark filled with ardent admirers of our national pastime, or to the scene
of exciting watersports like this regatta along Maryland's historic shore where
the breeze is blowing keen and fresh and the skippers are met to
match their wits and their skill.
U.E. locals in Philadelphia and Camden organized a protest parade, an orderly
parade, headed by their country's flag in the hands of a veteran of the German
campaign, to the tune of the Star Spangled Banner
while everyone stood at attention.
But when the parade started, trouble began.
The flag was torn from the hands of a veteran.
The veteran was beaten.
When violence failed, the companies gave in. Big business was stopped.
The strikes were won and the contracts were safe in the hands of Secretary
-Treasurer Julius M. Spagg.
Yes, big business was stopped.
With the CIO in the forefront, labor and the people won the first round.
But big business is not giving up. It is starting a new offensive.
Prices have zoomed. What we won in the strikes is being stolen back from us
through a big business congress.
Where are we going?
Well, you know what a company town looks like.
With this congress re-elected, we'll have a company country with company housing,
company stores, company unions, company discrimination.
We'll have unemployment at home and ultimately
war abroad.
We know that mass evacuation can never be permitted if only for one reason, and
all important, the fact that every able-bodied person is needed in the city
before as well as after an attack.
Putting out fires, for example, will require help from everyone.
We must realize that in modern warfare, city dwellers find
themselves right in the front lines.
After an attack, our first responsibility will be to keep our heads and get back
to our jobs, for each of us has a job to do.
And no matter what happens, the people of the city must be fed, clothed,
supplied with electricity and heat.
The city must be kept alive and it will take everything the city has to do it.
You know Fred, actually staying in the city to help after an atomic attack is not
nearly as dangerous as a lot of people think.
The danger of, well, lingering radiation is not really very serious.
After an atomic air burst, the danger of radiation and falling debris is over
within a minute and a half.
Over and above that, we know from the experience of London, Berlin, and other
European cities that people didn't even want to leave their city.
Most of those who did leave soon began trickling back into town.
Of course, a few people should be evacuated, small children, be
aged, infirmed, so on.
These people should be moved voluntarily by their families,
not during an attack, of course.
But the able-bodied person must stay and help.
Modern warfare has no respect at all for civilians.
Like it or not, each of us has his share of fighting to
do, his share of danger to face.
Running away from that duty would be desertion, pure and simple.
In the army, it would mean court martial.
As a civilian, it would not only be reasonable, but it would mean having to live
with the knowledge that in deserting your responsibility, you failed yourself,
your family, your friends, your city.
Three identical miniature frame houses, each with varying exterior conditions,
all the same distance from the point of the explosion.
The house on the right, an eyesore, but you've seen these same
conditions in your own hometown.
Old, unpainted wood, and look at the paper, leaves, and trash in the yard.
In a moment, you'll see the results of atomic heat flash on this house.
The house on the left, typical of many homes across the nation, heavily weathered
dry wood in run-down condition.
This house is the product of years of neglect. It
has not been painted regularly.
It's dry and rotten.
A tinderbox ready to turn into a blazing torch.
The house in the middle, in good condition, with a clean, unlithered yard.
The exterior has been painted with ordinary, good-quality house paint.
Light painted surfaces reflect heat, and the paint also protects the wood
from weathering and moisture damage.
Let's watch the test now and see what happens under atomic heat.
[...] explosion Sound of explosion Sound of
explosion
Now let's go back and see it again in stop motion.
The light flash, the heat wave, and clouds of dust.
Keep your eye on the house on the right. Notice how the
heat wave affects it.
There's the fire starting in the trash surrounding the house.
Now it spreads to the house itself.
In a moment, the blast wave, and here it comes.
Music The house on the right is the first to ignite. The trash serves as
kindling for the dry, weathered wood.
The house on the left smolders for a few moments. Looks almost as if it will not
burn, and then bursts into blame.
The house on the right continues to burn. Two houses are a total loss, but the
well-kept and painted house in the middle still stands.
Which of these is your house?
This one? The house on the right, dilapidated with paper, dead
grass, litter, everywhere.
The house on the left, unpainted, run down,
neglected. Is this your house?
The house in the middle, cleaned up, painted up, and fixed up, exposed to the
same searing atomic heat wave, did not catch fire.
[...]
Dad, Dad, can I take the car into town now?
Okay, I'll go ahead. But take it easy.
I'll be real careful. Goodbye.
He'll be alright. Let's get the gag going.
Hey, maybe we better go along with him, make sure he gets there alright.
Okay, bye, Miss Sotta.
Okay, fine. Goodbye, everybody.
[...]
So, there went Alan with his new driver's license,
and Frank and Betty right behind, on as nice a summer day as you could wish for.
[...] on the right, and the house on the left, is the house on the right.
Why don't they look, Ralph? Tell me.
Why don't they look?
Over at the Fox dug out nearby, morning tasks are likewise underway.
Mr. Fox is hewing newly felled bird. That's something that has to be done, in
carving a home out of a wilderness.
Lucinda Fox is grinding Indian corn, a food important to all the settlers, while
Brother Oliver milks the family goat, a highly prized
possession, brought from England.
And now, Jason has laid the new fire, and must borrow a live ember to light it.
Here he is at the Fox place.
Would there be an ember in your fire for some careless bachelors, John?
That there would, Jason. And you'll be welcome. Do but speak of it to Susan.
The Nomekeg settlers share dangers together, and they gladly share comforts too.
How seems Master Robert today, Mr. Fox.
I fear me there is little change. The fever has not left him these many days.
One day, when you're well again, Laddie, you can hunt deer with Jason.
The fireplace doesn't always give adequate heat, especially when there is
sickness in the house, sickness that may be very serious.
In the gardens of the settlement, medicinal herbs are grown, some of local origin
and others transplanted from England.
Mistress Lane, who is skilled in their preparation and use, supervises a
selection to be used in a special broth.
Later, she carries her preparation to a case of serious illness
in the home of Harold Perry.
Here is a draft of herbs, fresh brew for Mistress Perry.
It is most timely and welcome, for the pain is still sharp.
Yes, there is still sickness, and there is still the
healthfulness of neighbor toward neighbor.
There has to be, in a new land where the settlers face the uncertainties of a new
way of life, Mistress Perry knows that building a better world
requires courage and faith.
And these men, writing back to England, they know that too.
We are sorry to send back the ship without better lading, but there'd be much
sickness among us, and many of our number lack strength
to survive the winter's cold.
Yet, for the most, we remain of good heart and make what haste we
can to build our plantation.
Among our number, there'd be those of divers' motives, some mainly pricing
liberty of conscience, and some chiefly seeking worldly gain.
Yet, we form one-body politic joined by common consent.
[...]
It was still winter when we moved out of the city into our new house, and I
remember how I used to stand staring out across the
fields, waiting for spring to come.
Jim used to tease me. He'd say, if it arrives while I'm at the
office, be sure and phone me, darling.
But actually, he was just as impatient for winter to end as I was, because now,
as soon as the snow melted, for the very first time, we were
going to have a garden of our own.
And what a garden. I could see it already in my mind's eye.
Spirea.
Cool white lilies.
Tall tulips nodding in the sun.
And iris that would outdo an orchid.
Spring must have arrived while I stood there dreaming.
All of a sudden, everywhere you looked, buds began to swell and burst open.
Leaves unfolded and lay on their backs, looking up at the sky.
[...]
Every wind carried the smell of damp earth and the wet bark of trees drenched
by soft spring rain.
Now came the moment we'd waited for so long.
Out we went, gay as larks, wearing what the well-dressed gardener should wear and
trying not to look self-conscious in our new roles.
Ah, what bright new tools and what bright shining hopes we had.
Brand new gloves over our tender city hands.
[...]
The first trowel full of earth was like a ceremony, a solemn dedication.
This was our earth, our very own, more wonderful than any other soil.
Miraculous in the hand, our land. .
[...]
We really felt sorry for them. One look was all we needed to tell us that this
charming young couple didn't know which end of a bulb was up.
Thought we'd be good neighbors. Tell them what they were up against.
Give them a little friendly advice. .
.
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[...]
Now came the really big moment. Miss Padunas was going to give us a speed
demonstration on the IBM electric typewriter.
But first came some warm-up typing at various speeds. She started slowly at 40
words a minute. Picked up speed fast. Now 80 words a minute.
In less time than it takes to tell, she was typing at 100 words a minute.
125 words a minute. Faster and faster.
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