Sometimes I think about how much the world has changed — and how much we’ve lost along the way. Growing up in Todd County in the ’60s and ’70s, life was simple, but it was rich in all the ways that count.
We had cars with bench seats, metal dashboards, and radios that took a minute to warm up before the music came through. You could ride down the road with the windows rolled down and your arm resting out the window, feeling the air rush by. If you saw a friend, you’d wave, and they’d wave back.
We had gas stations where somebody actually came out, pumped your gas, checked your oil, and wiped your windshield — and called you by name while they did it. You didn’t have to swipe a card or push buttons; you just said, “Fill ’er up,” and they did.
We had drive-in theaters, Dairy Dips, and stores on the square that locked up at 5 but would reopen if they saw your car pull in late. We had teachers who lived right down the road, and they didn’t just teach you — they knew your whole family.
We had kids playing outside until dark — barefoot, dirty, and happy. We had bicycles with banana seats and playing cards clothes-pinned to the spokes to make that “motorcycle” sound. When you fell off, nobody sued anybody — you just wiped off the gravel and kept going.
We had Sunday dinners that lasted half the afternoon, and you didn’t eat in front of a TV. You sat at a table with family and said grace. We had neighbors who’d bring you a casserole if you were sick before you even asked.
We had McGhee’s Grocery and other little country stores scattered throughout the county where you could get a loaf of bread, a slice of hoop cheese, and enough gossip to last you till tomorrow. The floor creaked, the door slammed, and the whole place smelled like coffee and tobacco.
We had tobacco barns glowing in the night, the sweet smell of curing leaves drifting through the hollers. We had folks cutting, housing, and stripping together — and laughing while they did it. There was pride in that kind of work.
We had party lines on the telephone — and half the time, you had to wait your turn to call. We had Sears catalogs thick as a brick and Christmas wish books that kept kids dreaming for months.
We had people who waved from their porches, and kids who said “yes sir” and “no ma’am.” We had respect for our elders, pride in our word, and neighbors who showed up when you needed them.
Now we’ve got everything money can buy — except the one thing we can’t seem to find anymore: the togetherness we once had.
The world was smaller back then, but somehow, our hearts were bigger. And I can’t help but think we were better off for it.