Back in 1969, a British group named Jethro Tull made a song titled “Living in the Past.”
It’s a catchy tune, in fact,
probably their best known song. Just what
it was directed at is up for debate; some music scholars believe it was written
about ruing the effects of war, others think it was directed at past personal
relationships.
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| Jethro Tull, the band |
In any case, I like that tune.
But it was this song that got me
thinking about life, in general.
People have been talking about
the way things were “way back when.”
The tiny Eastern
Shore town in which I reside has seen many changes throughout the
years, some of which have been positive.
Wink. Wink.
Back when, there were 15 churches
serving this little whistle stop. Today,
there is just one.
Back when, people spoke cordially
to one another. Today, my neighbors
prefer to remain anonymous.
Back when, the town’s volunteer fire
department erected Christmas lights over the streets that remained up
year-round. Today, there are none. Alas.
Those changes are fondly referred
to as “progress.” And, I’m told, that
those changes are a result of people being busier than they were, back when.
I’m pretty sure that is an
anomaly in the analyzation of the situation.
People didn’t have 30-hours in a day; back when, the days were still
24-hours long.
In any case, living in the past
was fine for that time in our lives. Our
friends were different – likely they were young neighborhood miscreants with
whom we were forced to associate because we didn’t drive at the age of 12. We all had bicycles with tons of miles ridden
behind us.
We played whiffle ball and dodge
ball because we didn’t have computer games.
We were considered fortunate to have extra loose leaf paper to draw
pictures on. And each boy had a toy gun
of some sort in order to play army or cowboys and Indians.
Our parent’s biggest woe was us
buying beer from the corner store. We
didn’t worry about illegal drug use. Our
parents were afraid to overdose on aspirin, but were delighted to score some
Valium, to “calm their nerves.” Washing
them down with a glass of Scotch helped them reach the finish line sooner, FYI.
A stolen bicycle was akin to
horse theft. Today, armed car jackings
are generally shrugged off unless someone dies in the process. Times have really changed.
But it was when time came to
respond to the ol’ high school reunion that things went catawampus.
HS reunions are events everyday
friends and foes put their difference aside and reunite for the sole purpose of
bragging about you to people who could care less.
Back when, the kids I went to
school were not very bright, as I recall.
My classmates in kindergarten
couldn’t cut a straight line with those crappy scissors, and ate that white
paste the teachers gave us.
Third grade brought some real challenges
when dismissal time arrived. At least a
few kids couldn’t locate their own coats and umbrellas for the trip home.
Sixth grade was simply awful for
many who had difficulty reading and doing simple advanced placement calculus.
Before long we all made the
transition to high school where the proverbial wheat was separated from the
chaff.
There was no time to slow or wait
for the less studious among us. Others
in our classes needed the rigidity and structure to keep the lesson plans on
schedule. Period.
Again, our passage into society
or higher education finally occurred.
And then, after most of the angst waned, you get a letter inviting you
to attend your class reunion.
That diet won’t work quickly
enough, your résumé isn’t going improve in three months, and your health
insurance doesn’t cover plastic surgery.
Just stay home with some Valium and Scotch.
It’s time to stop living in the
past.
