Life goes on, but first it has to start.
Born before the first part of the last century has a certain zing to it. Being a teenager in the 50's was the best ever.
Growing up in small town America in the Mid West was... good? OK? Actually the town was a good place to be. It was small, but not too small. Folks, in general, were decent and God fearing. In school we learned to read, write and cipher. No political correctness. We bought war bond stamps with a dime at school, helped to fill red cross boxes with necessities for the soldiers in Korea, played outside for recess twice a day in grade school, walked to school and back in all weather, and feared the dread disease Polio. In the dog days of summer, our folks kept us away from crowds and, I am sure, prayed we would stay healthy.
We went to school during the week and did our best. We went to Church on Sunday and learned to pray and were taught to trust God. We could go to the movie in the afternoon and watch double features until midnight and walk home in the dark, safe and sound.
It was very hot in the summer, lots of humidity accentuated the heat. Riding a bike fast and sleeping outside helped us to stay cool, as did swimmimg from the time the pool opened until it closed. We had no TV for most of our childhood, so we played outside, all over town.
Long springs and long autumns were delightful. The excitement of starting school in the fall and the even greater excitment of getting out in the spring were the bright spots.
My town was in that loop of arctic air that blasts down from the north pole so winters were cold, wet and snowy. I loved the snow. When the town was blanketed, you could walk down the street and barely hear your own footsteps.
What a wonderful experience, growing up in a small town in America. Life was sort of like those movies when the color is all golden. No, wait a minute. The town was great, my family? Not great. Sometimes danger lurks in unexpected places. I was safe on the streets at midnight, but not in my family home.