I was a child during the Eisenhower Administration, and I thank God for that.
Life was simple then. White gloves, pearls, and bangs. We dressed for the theatre, the airport, dinner, and church. It was called respect.
As a kid, the only thing I had to worry about was how Lucy and Ethel were going to get out of the chocolate factory with their dignity intact. There was no war. No rumblings of nuclear holocaust or cataclysmic event, no imminent threats to democracy or major league baseball. We had a stable government that encouraged its citizens to look after themselves, with minimal interference by Big Brother— the only exception being the IRS and maybe J.Edgar Hoover. Criminals didn’t roam the streets with impunity; diversity and cultural collaboration enriched our lives without judgment or rancor.
The only technological dexterity required was changing the five channels on our black-and-white Dumont television set (no remote), and operating our automatic garage door (I just pushed a button). In fact, whenever our neighbor, Mr. Maloney, passed our house, the door would open without coaxing, thanks to his pacemaker.
I played outside — stick ball, dodge ball — with the rest of the kids on the block rather than thumbing my way through apps on a cell phone. We ate real food—nothing processed — pizza and ‘the chinx’ being our only take-out; we were not subjected to exaggerated storm or flood warnings that warned the populace about impending doom; and we bravely walked to school, whether there was snow underfoot or not. No seat belts, no nanny cams. Valiant little souls… and grandmothers with baseball bats.
We were spared the vicissitudes of social media, so that we retained our individuality, rather than succumb to the cause celebre du jour or an ‘influencer’s‘ Instagram account. We were able to think analytically and draw our own conclusions, without the forces of mainstream everything, seeping through the plumbing.
Since life is so different today, some of my most treasured possessions are either lost forever or no longer available: my skate key; my vintage seltzer bottle; the old Bendix; the secret code to making the house phone ring (330-dial tone-6) so my father would think there was a call for me, and not realize that I was taking the opportunity to pick up and dial up a friend. Daddy was very strict about this, since each call cost $.10.
I also prize the following skills acquired during that time, which are almost obsolete today: cursive writing; the ability to tell time without a digital device; sprinkling my conversation with French & Italian phrases; parallel parking sans rear-view camera; and composing complete sentences without abbreviations.
By Barbara Shields
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