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 |   Inspired by challenges at Poet's Place Cafe, a forum designed to hone your writing skills. |
| Nostalgia Where are the good old days? I was born in 41, months before December 7. All of my uncles and even one aunt wore uniforms in my first memories. Everything revolved around when someone was coming home safely from far away, it was the "Japs" fault. Even now I feel ominous chills when the Japanese flag is raised. Then a decade down the road, me still in junior high and unknown at the time, my future husband was fighting a "police action" in Korea. This would touch me much later when he was diagnosed with PTSD. And in my early 20s my brother and many friends were off to Viet Nam and once again my home was full of uniformed men home on leave. I do remember the 40s, the 50s the 60s, the 70s, the good old days. Excitement surrounded the delivery of a new refrigerator, though I'd miss the iceman who would always hand me a sliver of ice to suck on. I loved evenings when the family sat around the radio listening to Jack Benny and The Shadow Knows. My spot was on the floor right in front of the radio cabinet. But the best was going to the drive-in movies to see Gary Cooper or John Wayne, my dad's favorites, the only way we could convince him to take us. I still love to watch old John Wayne movies. But in my teens I fell in love with the rebel, Jimmy Dean. Music wise, I jived with the Andrew Sisters, listened to the Ink Spots and my favorite Sam Cooke, swooned for Elvis, swayed to Harry Belefonte, strummed with the Kingston trio, and loved the Motown sound. I do remember the 40s, the 50s, the 60s, 70s, the good old days. The innocent days, when kids played outside and came in only when we heard Mom call. We ate sourgrass and "greenies" from the trees. In the field next door we played war with dirt clods. Until my teens, we bathed only once a week on Saturday night. And then there was my best friend hiding at my house while her dad's friend visited. She finally told me the man was touching her places and making her to do things I'd never heard of before but I knew it was wrong. She was afraid to tell, I convinced her she had to. She did and the man wasn't invited over anymore. He was a friend, after all, they didn't want to embarrass or cause him trouble. I do remember the 40s, the 50s, the 60s, the 70s, the good old days. We only had organic veggies, picked fruit from the trees in the back yard and ate grass-fed beef. It was the only choice, it was just called food in those days. I even raised my own beef in the 60s and 70s. Yes, grass-fed. But we did squeeze the red dye dot into the lard and called it margarine. I don't remember fast food until the 70s. A trip to town to treat my son to a McDonald's was a big deal. Of course, we drank from the dirty hose, rode in cars without seat belts, and I always protected my small son with my right arm to hold him against the seat when braking. I do remember the 40s, the 50s, the 60s, the 70s. The good old days. So where are those days of long ago? They live in me, they shaped me, molded my values, made me grateful for the life I live now. I do remember the 40s, the 50s, the 60s, the 70s. The good old days. ~~Judi Van Gorder Poetic Genre: Ubi Sunt  Verse Form: Prose Poem. |
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