Edited short version of my life. And maybe yours.
Climbing out of the 1930’s Depression, I am in the last generation, who can remember the impact of a world at war. A war that rattled the structure of our daily lives for years, much more than the Vietnam War or anything since, at least in America.
I am the last to remember ration books for everything from gas to sugar to shoes to stoves. There were tight limits on what we could buy and eat. And there were shortages.
I saved tin foil, string, rubber bands, and poured fat into tin cans for the War Effort. (Delivered the fat to butchers to help in the manufacture of explosives for bombs.)
I saw cars resting on blocks or big stones because tires weren't available. My dad bought a Chevy before Pearl Harbor was bombed. Soon, he like others, “gave it up” for the war effort. For about 15 years we only used public transportation (busses, street cars, subway or trains)
Milk was delivered early in the morning and placed in the "milk box" next to the front door. It wasn’t pasteurized. We shook the bottle to mix the fat on top with the rest of the milk.
I saw gold stars in the front windows of grieving neighbors whose sons died in the War. There were many.
As a kid, even scarier than the War was the possibility of catching Polio. There was no vaccine.
Without television, I imagined what I heard on the radio, and spent childhood playing outside. With no television I had little real understanding of what the world was like. But I did know it was scary when there were “black-outs” to protect us from bombs from airplanes. All lights were out. All shades pulled. “Wardens” patrolled the streets and knocked on our doors if lights flickered through the windows.
Until the street lights went on, our playground was between the cars parked on Greenview Avenue. Fortunately, few cars interrupted our games.
I saw the 'boys' come home from the war and build their little houses.
The Government offered loans to returning Veterans to get a home, an education and spurred colleges to grow.
On Saturday afternoons, the movies were newsreels, with the announcers yelling their stories, sandwiched in between westerns and cartoons. And at the Ridge Theater, rats.
Telephones were one-to-a house, often shared (party lines). Usually, they hung on the wall in the kitchen (no cares about privacy). Eventually, ours had a little box with a slot for nickels. Every once in a while we’d be told to feed the slot to keep the one “open.” My grandmother yelled into the phone from Sioux City to Chicago because she knew it was far away. I still yell when on the phone.
Computers were called calculators; they were hand cranked.
Typewriters were driven by pounding fingers, throwing the carriage and changing the ribbon. (You might have to look that up.)
INTERNET and GOOGLE were words that did not exist.
Newspapers and magazines were written for adults and the news was broadcast on radio in the evening.
The country was exploding with growth. Pent up demand, coupled with new installment-payment-plans, opened many factories for work.
New highways produced jobs and mobility. Building infrastructure was a priority.
The radio network expanded from 3 stations to thousands. And, eventually, TV eased onto the scene.
My generation’s parents, suddenly free from the confines of the depression and the war, threw themselves into exploring opportunities they had never imagined.
My sister and I, and our friends, weren't neglected. But, we were glad to play by yourselves until the street lights came on. While our parents were busy discovering the post war world.
Suddenly there was overflowing plenty and opportunity; a world where we were welcomed, enjoyed yourselves, and felt secure in our future although depression poverty was deeply remembered, and still is. As was religious and other discrimination.
I came of age in the 50s and 60s, in the last generation to experience an interlude when there were no threats to our homeland.
The Second World War was over and the Cold wWar, terrorism, global warming, and perpetual economic insecurity had yet to haunt life with continuing unease.
Only my generation can remember both a time of great war, and a time when our world was secure and full of bright promise and plenty.
My peers grew up at the best possible time, a time when the world was getting better.
We are "The Last Ones."
Almost all of us are dead. Those still alive, still covered with our own psychological and physical black and blue marks, should feel privileged to have "lived in the best of times!”
Thank you T. P. Hurwitz for passing an earlier draft of this along.
