My grandfather had a favorite story that he loved to tell. It was actually from a program that he had put together and presented to his Rotary Club. It was about "the good old days" and why he didn't think they were really so good.
As a child, he had walked several miles to school no matter what the weather was like. Shoes were at a premium so if the weather permitted, he went without. He thought school buses were a great improvement. He had grown up without electricity, so electric lights and refrigerators were still a wonder. He didn’t think there was anything nostalgic about waiting in line on Sunday mornings to buy a block of ice. Air conditioning. While he was impressed by it, he wouldn’t use it. He had high blood pressure so the doctor had told us that he should get air conditioning. He would run the window unit only when we were there. We didn’t realize what he was doing until one Sunday when he had had lunch with him. His living room was nice and cool when we arrived. After lunch we left to return home. About half way home, one of us remembered that something had been left at grandpa’s house. We turned around and when back to his house. He already had all the windows open and the window unit off, and was sitting in his undershirt sweating. He had lost almost everything in the depression, so He was afraid of wasting too much electricity.
His program about all “ the good old days” had won the "best program of the year" award at his club, and for him, it was the high point of his life. To his family, his high point became a boring story that we had all heard hundreds of times. I loved my grandpa and it saddened me to have to fake interest in the story that I had heard so many times. It exposed the only frailty I had ever seen in him. It also reinforced my growing desire to get out of that dull little town where such a simple event could be the high point of someone's life. Years later the song, "I thought happiness was looking at Texas in the rearview mirror" describe exactly how I felt about my hometown. I graduated from high school and went to college. However, I wasn’t ready for the transition from small town school to a major university. I still wanted to stay away and my local draft board was glad to accommodate me.
I did get away.
Fifteen years later, after traveling in Europe, Africa and all over the States, I found myself moving back to my hometown. One old friend laughed in my face when I told him I was moving back. It was poetic justice to him that after having always talked about wanting to leave, I was returning. I had to justify that it was mostly out of concern for my young son that I was moving back. The years had mellowed my attitude towards my hometown. While I still remembered this small town as being boring, I knew that is was a safe place to raise a child. After all, I hadn’t really become bored with the town until my teen years.
It didn't take long, after moving back, before I started remembering my "good old days". My grandfather’s story had focused on advancements in technology. School buses, electricity, refrigerators, were the thing that he marveled about. My “good old days” were about the lifestyle I had enjoyed as a small child. I cherished the memories of days I stayed with my grandparents in town. I had lived a mile out in the country, so being able to stay in town was always a thrill. Those pre-TV evenings were spent on their front porch and yard. After supper my grandparents would move out to the front porch. They had a large bench swing and a few metal lawn chairs. Their house was in the path of families walking to town to see a movie. Most left home at least a half-hour early, so they would have the extra time to stop and chat along the way. There was a large Chinese Tallow tree we called "china berry” in the drainage ditch in from of the house, and I loved to climb up and hide. It was the perfect place from where to ambush anyone passing by. The summer breeze carried the sounds of life. Children could be heard blocks away playing hide-and-seek.
All of these memories are passing through my mind as I stand in front of my home this summer evening. Twenty years has passed since I moved back. My son has grown up and left home. I can’t see or hear any children playing. All I can hear are all the air-condition units battling the heat. Even if there were no air conditioners, I still wouldn't hear anyone, since no one is outside. I guess they are all glued to the TV watching some mindless sitcom. No one is sitting on their front porch waiting for passers by. Most homes built in the last thirty years don’t have any front porch! I like to imagine what would happen if we had a power failure for a few hours. What would everyone do? Would it flush everyone out in the open and force them to talk with their neighbors?
Forty years later I have my own "Good old days" story. My story is completely different than my grandfathers. His was about things gained. Mine is about things lost. I'll try not to tell my story too often.
