When we begin to wax nostalgic, thinking about all of the things we miss from the old days–either a generation passed, or just a few years ago–I like to remind my self of what I do not miss.
(Watch for the companion blog–â€œWhat I Miss About Times Gone Byâ€)
â€¢ Carbon paper; and typewriters for that matter
â€¢ Smoke-filled rooms, restaurants and theaters
â€¢ Pay phones
â€¢ Parking on the side of the road and changing a tire (even though it happened only every couple of years or so)
â€¢ Arranging toilet paper…
When a young friend saw a photo of a 1957 Studebaker Golden Hawk on the wall near my desk, she asked if that was the car Abraham Lincoln used to drive.
She was kidding, of course. She knows that driverâ€™s licenses werenâ€™t being issued in the mid-19th Century. But as far as sheâ€™s concerned, the car I so admire belongs in the same dustbin of history as the Civil War and, for that matter, most anything that occurred before, say Lady Gaga and Justin Whatisname.
Is sheÂ wrong to think Iâ€™m so traumatized by modern times that I need to hide in â€œfuddyduddydomâ€ by clinging to reminders of my youth?
There was a time for me, maybe you’ve had this experience too, when I got a little anxious as someone the age of my kids introduced himself, or herself, as my new doctor.
I’d look at the impostor’s bright and clean facial features, that fresh skin and eager expression. If this kid was the valet in a parking garage, would I feel comfortable handing him or her my car keys? Never mind the old Toyota. What about entrusting the youngster with my health? My legal problem? Continue reading
I expect that since sales people are hired here to wait on customers, these two will stop their social chatter long enough to attend to me.
Itâ€™s a false assumption based on the recollection of my eveningsÂ as part-time grocery bagger when I was in high school. One time, the kid working the checkout stand next to mine