We weren’t concerned with bottled water (or the bottles.) At home, we had kitchen and bathroom tap water and, best of all, drinking water from a hose. It all seemed fine to me. There were plenty of drinking fountains at school and in public places, and not a single person I know died from bad water. Or, by the way, ever had their “eye put out” by a pencil? No one had a car seat; seat belts were for airplanes of the future. Cars had metal bumpers that did a superb job. They actually protected passengers and prevented major damage to the car. I recall one car (I think it was a Buick) that had huge, torpedo-shaped, pointed bumpers. Now that was classy.

My mom shopped nearly every day, as did my grandmother. Like it or not, we ate everything served; if you didn’t like it, too bad. We’d sit there until the offending item was gone. While my mom’s cooking wasn’t restaurant quality, it included fresh vegetables long before boutique Fresh Market stores. Our corner grocery was the Kroger of the day. It was about one-half block from our house, and my mom regularly dispatched me for whatever we needed. My favorite thing to watch there was a gas flame thing that looked like a large Bunsen Burner. It was used to singe pin feathers off the skin of fresh chickens. We never heard of packaged chicken.

We had a super social media platform then. It was a 4-party telephone line. It was fantastic; four families sharing one phone line. Each family had their own assigned telephone ring. It’s safe to say everyone listened in on everyone else. That was instant social media without the 5G speed people want today. My thoughts on stuff like this are endless. I know there’s an army of folks who had similar experiences growing up, and it makes me very happy we are all thankful for the small things that generated big results. To all who helped me along the way, thanks!

My dad brought my mom and me home in style on the day I was born. My dad had a green 1939 Chevy sedan (he bought it new) that looked like the image; we had this car until I was about eight years old, so I have a clear memory of it. My dad called it the “Green Hornet,” which pretty well infringed on the comic book character for anyone growing up at the time. Here I am, decades later, and I’m still able to smell the inside of that car. I suppose this because my sister threw up in the back seat, and it never faded; the seats were covered with a light tan, fuzzy, carpet-like fabric. One puke and it was there forever.

Each summer, we’d all pile into the car for our trek to Yosemite for a camping vacation. My mom hated every single second of these camping expeditions, especially when we’d pull over to let the car radiator cool off, and we’d try to take a drink of our not-so-cool water from the bag. I hear her voice asking why we didn’t stop at that Standard Oil station and not on the side of the hot roadway. I sure wish I had that stupid canvas bag today.