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Sanford Lawrence Simons

Sanford Lawrence Simons was an American scientist who worked on the development of the atomic bomb during World War II and subsequently became one of the most unusual figures in the early nuclear age when he was arrested and imprisoned in 1950 for taking radioactive souvenirs from Los Alamos. Born in New York City in 1922, Simons participated in the Manhattan Project's development of the plutonium implosion bomb while serving in the United States Army's Special Engineer Detachment at Los Alamos, New Mexico. His life embodied both the scientific triumph and the personal consequences of the atomic age, as he later developed cancer likely resulting from radiation exposure and spent his final decades as an inventor, environmental activist, and political volunteer in Morrison, Colorado, where he died in December 2014 at the age of 92.

Simons' story gained wider attention through P.D. Smith's book "Doomsday Men: The Real Dr. Strangelove and the Dream of the Superweapon," which devoted a chapter titled "The Plutonium Collector" to his unusual case. His arrest came during the height of Cold War paranoia, occurring at almost the same time as the arrest of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, though unlike the Rosenbergs, who were executed for atomic espionage, Simons was determined to have acted from impulse and a collector's mentality rather than ideological motives. The episode highlighted the complex intersection of scientific curiosity, personal character, and national security concerns that characterized the early atomic era.

Early life and education

Sanford Lawrence Simons was born in New York City in 1922. As a child growing up in Manhattan, he developed a fascination with the American West, consuming Zane Grey novels and citing "Home on the Range" as his favorite song in grade school notebooks. This childhood fascination would eventually shape his decision to remain in the West after World War II, abandoning the urban environment of his birth for the wide open spaces of Colorado.

Simons attended the Missouri School of Mines and Metallurgy in Rolla, Missouri, one of the first technological institutions west of the Mississippi River. Founded in 1870 as a land-grant university under the Morrill Act, the school specialized in mining engineering and metallurgy, serving Missouri's significant lead and zinc mining industries in its early decades while expanding into broader engineering disciplines by the early twentieth century. The institution would later become the University of Missouri-Rolla and eventually Missouri University of Science and Technology, maintaining its focus on engineering and applied sciences throughout its evolution.

The timing of Simons' graduation from Missouri School of Mines coincided with American entry into World War II. Like many young men of his generation with technical education, he faced the prospect of military service at a time when the nation's scientific and industrial mobilization for total war created unprecedented demands for technically trained personnel. Shortly after graduation, Simons was drafted into the United States Army, beginning a trajectory that would lead him to one of the most secretive and consequential scientific projects in history.

Manhattan Project service at Los Alamos

Following his induction into the Army, Simons was assigned to the Special Engineer Detachment, a military program established in May 1943 to address critical personnel shortages at Manhattan Project facilities. The SED identified and organized enlisted men with technical skills or scientific education, allowing them to contribute their expertise to the atomic bomb program rather than serving in conventional combat roles. By August 1945, the SED at Los Alamos numbered approximately 1,800 men, representing the largest concentration of these specialized soldiers at any Manhattan Project site and constituting nearly half the laboratory's total population.

At Los Alamos, Simons worked directly on the development of the plutonium implosion bomb that would become "Fat Man." The laboratory, situated on the isolated Pajarito Plateau in northern New Mexico and directed by J. Robert Oppenheimer, brought together civilian scientists and military personnel in an unprecedented collaboration to design and build atomic weapons. SED members like Simons performed essential technical work across all divisions of the laboratory, from bomb design and experimentation to precision machining and equipment operation. Though subject to military discipline and housed in inferior conditions compared to civilian scientists, SED personnel worked alongside some of the most distinguished physicists and chemists of the era on problems at the cutting edge of nuclear physics and engineering.

The culmination of the project came on July 16, 1945, when the first atomic device was detonated at the Trinity Site in the New Mexico desert. The successful test of the plutonium implosion design validated the work of Simons and his colleagues, demonstrating that the complex spherical implosion mechanism could compress a plutonium core to supercriticality and produce a nuclear explosion. Less than a month later, on August 9, 1945, a plutonium bomb nearly identical to the Trinity device was dropped on Nagasaki, Japan, contributing to the Japanese surrender and the end of World War II.

Post-war transition and the collector's impulse

When the war ended, Simons made a decision that would set the course for the rest of his life. Rather than returning to New York City, he chose to remain in the West that had captured his childhood imagination. This decision reflected a pattern common among many Manhattan Project veterans who found themselves drawn to the landscapes and possibilities of the American West after their wartime service in New Mexico. For Simons, a New York native who had dreamed of western spaces since consuming Zane Grey novels as a boy, the opportunity to build a life in Colorado represented the fulfillment of long-held aspirations.

In July 1946, when Simons departed Los Alamos, he committed an act that would later characterize him as "the plutonium collector" in both legal proceedings and historical accounts. As he prepared to leave the laboratory, Simons took with him what he later described as souvenirs of his work—a small glass vial containing plutonium and a few pieces of uranium. His motivation, by his own subsequent account, stemmed from a lifelong habit of collecting mineral samples rather than any ideological commitment or espionage intent. He later explained the impulsive decision with characteristic humor, stating "Well, it seems pretty silly now, but I've always collected mineral samples. I realized almost instantly that I didn't want it, but it was like having a bull by the tail. I couldn't let go!"

This casual appropriation of radioactive materials, which Simons apparently discussed openly with acquaintances, would lie dormant as a legal matter for four years while he attempted to build a post-war civilian life. By 1950, he had established himself at the University of Denver, working on classified studies for the Air Force. He had also married and started a family, with three children by the time federal authorities took interest in his wartime souvenirs. The confluence of his work on sensitive Air Force projects and his propensity for what one journalist later characterized as "being mischievous, and bragging about it" created the circumstances for his arrest.

The 1950 arrest and imprisonment

In August 1950, at the height of Cold War anxiety about Soviet atomic espionage, FBI agents raided Simons' suburban Denver home and arrested the 28-year-old research scientist. Neighbors watched in astonishment as the quiet, bespectacled man—who stood only five feet one inch tall—was led away in handcuffs across his toy-strewn lawn, leaving behind his wife and three young children. A photograph from the arrest, later published in P.D. Smith's book "Doomsday Men," shows Simons grinning broadly as he was escorted between two much larger United States deputy marshals wearing white fedoras, an image that captured both the surreal nature of the episode and Simons' apparently unflappable demeanor.

The timing of Simons' arrest proved particularly significant in the context of contemporary events. Almost simultaneously, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg were arrested for atomic espionage, accused of passing top-secret nuclear information to the Soviet Union as members of the Young Communist League. The Rosenbergs would be convicted and executed in 1953, becoming the most prominent casualties of Cold War fears about nuclear secrets falling into Soviet hands. Simons' case, while involving actual possession of radioactive materials rather than mere information transfer, followed a dramatically different trajectory precisely because prosecutors could establish no connection between him and communist organizations or Soviet intelligence.

The investigation into Simons' background and motivations apparently concluded that he had acted from impulse and a collector's mentality rather than ideological commitment or espionage intent. This determination, combined with his cooperation with authorities and the absence of any evidence connecting him to foreign powers, likely saved him from facing charges similar to those that would result in the Rosenbergs' execution. Nevertheless, the unauthorized removal of classified nuclear materials from Los Alamos during wartime remained a serious federal offense, and Simons pleaded guilty to charges stemming from his possession of the radioactive souvenirs.

Simons was sentenced to 18 months in federal prison, serving time at facilities in Texarkana, Texas, and Leavenworth, Kansas. The imprisonment represented both punishment for his breach of security protocols and a warning to others who might be tempted to appropriate classified materials, even for personal rather than espionage purposes. Throughout his incarceration and for the rest of his life, Simons maintained a sense of humor about the episode, joking about his status as perhaps the only person imprisoned for being an overzealous mineral collector. This ability to find levity in his circumstances, while perhaps masking deeper consequences of the experience, became a defining characteristic of his personality in later years.

Later life and career in Colorado

Following his release from federal prison, Simons rebuilt his life in Colorado, demonstrating considerable resilience and entrepreneurial capability. He established himself as an inventor and businessman, founding and operating his own biomedical instruments company. This career path drew upon both his wartime technical experience and his evident facility for mechanical and scientific problem-solving. The transition from imprisoned former Manhattan Project scientist to successful medical equipment entrepreneur illustrated both the opportunities available in post-war American society and Simons' personal determination to move beyond the consequences of his youthful indiscretion.

Simons and his wife Rebecca settled in Morrison, a small town in the foothills west of Denver, where they would spend decades as active members of the community. Morrison's location at the base of the Rocky Mountains offered the western landscape that had drawn Simons from New York, while its proximity to Denver provided access to the urban amenities necessary for his business activities. The couple became known as dedicated volunteers for the Colorado Democratic Party, engaging in the political life of their adopted state with the same energy Simons brought to his professional and personal pursuits.

Environmental conservation emerged as a particular passion for Simons in his later years. He devoted considerable time and physical effort to maintaining the south Turkey Creek Watershed near his Morrison home, personally working to keep debris and brush from accumulating in the creek. His daughter Darcie Boelter later recalled that "He would literally spend hours and days on end clearing brush off the side of the mountain to keep it out of the creek." This hands-on approach to environmental stewardship reflected both a love for the western landscape that had drawn him to Colorado and a practical engineering mentality that found expression in direct physical intervention to solve problems.

Ann Imse, a former Rocky Mountain News reporter who interviewed Simons for stories on federal programs to help nuclear weapons workers and remained acquainted with him over subsequent years, remembered him as "known for his intelligence, impish personality, pet ferret and, in his later years, terrifyingly wild driving on mountain roads." This characterization captured the contradictions in Simons' personality—the brilliant technical mind combined with an apparent disregard for conventional caution, the serious scientist who kept an unconventional pet, and the elderly man whose driving alarmed passengers even as he navigated familiar mountain terrain.

Health consequences and the price of the atomic age

Like many Manhattan Project veterans, Simons paid a significant health price for his wartime service. Workers at Los Alamos were exposed to radioactive materials almost daily during the intense period of bomb development, working with plutonium and other fissionable materials under conditions that would be considered grossly inadequate by later safety standards. The long-term health effects of such exposure were poorly understood during the 1940s, and protection measures reflected this incomplete knowledge. Decades later, the connection between radiation exposure and cancer would become tragically clear through the experiences of atomic veterans and nuclear workers.

Simons endured three separate bouts of cancer during his lifetime, illnesses that likely stemmed from his radiation exposure at Los Alamos. The multiple cancer diagnoses represented a personal cost of participation in the Manhattan Project that paralleled the broader social and political consequences of nuclear weapons development. His case was not unique—many Manhattan Project workers developed radiation-related illnesses in the decades following the war, and federal programs were eventually established to compensate nuclear weapons workers for health problems attributable to their exposure.

Despite these health challenges, Simons lived to the age of 92, maintaining his residence in Morrison and his involvement in community activities into old age. The final 18 months of his life were spent at Legacy House Elderly Care retirement center in Littleton, Colorado, where he received the medical attention his condition required. He died from cancer in December 2014, bringing to a close a life that had spanned nearly the entire nuclear age and embodied many of its contradictions—scientific achievement and personal consequence, patriotic service and legal transgression, innovation and illness.

Family and memorial

Simons survived his wife Rebecca, who predeceased him by an unspecified period. His family at the time of his death included daughter Darcie Boelter of Denver, daughter Jane Stanley of Vadito, New Mexico, son Douglas Simons of Gila, New Mexico, and stepson David Simons of Moline, Illinois. The geographical distribution of his children across New Mexico and Colorado reflected the family's deep roots in the southwestern United States, the region where Sanford Simons had found his adult home after rejecting the urban East Coast environment of his childhood.

A memorial service for Simons was held on January 10, 2015, at Legacy House Elderly Care retirement center in Littleton, where he had spent his final 18 months. The service provided an opportunity for family, friends, and community members to remember a man whose life had touched on some of the most significant events and developments of the twentieth century. The location at the facility where he had received end-of-life care emphasized the human dimension of a story that might otherwise be reduced to historical footnotes about atomic espionage fears and Manhattan Project personnel.

Historical significance and the human dimension of the atomic age

Sanford Lawrence Simons' life illuminates several important dimensions of the atomic age that are often obscured in accounts focusing primarily on senior scientists and policymakers. As a member of the Special Engineer Detachment, he represented the thousands of young soldiers with technical training who contributed essential but often unrecognized work to the Manhattan Project. His height of five feet one inch and his impish personality defied stereotypical images of either military personnel or nuclear scientists, reminding us that the atomic bomb emerged from the efforts of diverse individuals rather than a homogeneous group of distinguished figures.

The episode of the radioactive souvenirs, while relatively minor in the broader context of Cold War security concerns, captured important truths about the intersection of human nature with nuclear technology. Simons' collector's impulse—his inability to resist taking samples of materials he had worked with—represented a very human response to extraordinary circumstances. His subsequent prosecution occurred at a moment of peak anxiety about Soviet atomic espionage, yet the outcome of his case demonstrated that legal authorities could distinguish between ideologically motivated espionage and impulsive souvenir-taking, even when both involved classified nuclear materials.

The book "Doomsday Men" by P.D. Smith ensured that Simons' story reached a broader audience than would have accessed it through newspaper accounts or official records alone. By devoting a chapter to "The Plutonium Collector," Smith positioned Simons' experience as representative of broader themes in nuclear history—the casual exposure of workers to dangerous materials, the tension between scientific curiosity and security requirements, and the personal consequences that accompanied participation in the development of weapons of mass destruction. The book's placement of Simons' photograph, showing him grinning between federal marshals, gave visual embodiment to the paradoxes of his situation.

Simons' development of multiple cancers, likely resulting from radiation exposure during his Los Alamos service, connected his personal fate to that of thousands of other Manhattan Project workers and atomic veterans who suffered health consequences from their proximity to radioactive materials. His case contributed to growing awareness of the human cost of nuclear weapons development, an awareness that eventually led to federal compensation programs for nuclear workers and veterans. The fact that he lived to age 92 despite three cancer diagnoses testified both to medical advances and to personal resilience, but could not erase the connection between his wartime service and his later illness.

In his post-prison life as an inventor, environmental activist, and community volunteer in Morrison, Colorado, Simons demonstrated that individuals could transcend the defining moments of their past, building productive and meaningful lives despite serious setbacks. His success in establishing a biomedical instruments company showed that technical skills developed during wartime could be redirected toward peacetime applications, while his environmental work along Turkey Creek represented a form of practical stewardship consistent with the engineering mentality that had characterized his earlier career. His political activism as a Colorado Democrat indicated continued engagement with public affairs and democratic processes even after his troubling encounter with federal prosecution.

Sanford Lawrence Simons was neither a central figure in the Manhattan Project nor a major player in Cold War espionage. He was, rather, one of thousands of technically trained individuals whose collective efforts made the atomic bomb possible, and whose subsequent experiences illuminated the personal dimensions of living through the nuclear age. His story, encompassing wartime service, post-war transgression, imprisonment, successful business career, environmental activism, radiation-related illness, and long life in his adopted western home, captured in microcosm many of the themes that defined American life in the second half of the twentieth century. The fact that he joked about his imprisonment until the end of his life suggested both an admirable refusal to be defined by his worst moment and perhaps a defensive mechanism for managing the complex legacy of having been "the plutonium collector."