The Good Old Days

I often wonder about the thoughts that run through my head. I wonder now if it’s the thing to do to share some of those, but here goes anyway. I know that there are folks around that think the things going on around us these days are awful, and that such moral depravity signals the coming of the end times. I don’t know about that, but I’m convinced that the "good old days" are now. I’ve lived through the Great Depression and the Second World War and can bear witness that those weren’t good times. Before that was the First World War, even worse. And before that the Indian Wars and probably the worst time of all - the Civil War. Revolutionary War time were pretty sad too. The moral decay that we hear so much about is not new either. We just hear more about it nowadays via the television networks and 24 hour a day news coverage by CNN and Fox.

When I think of the difference between my life now and my Daddy’s life at this age, it’s like day and night. We’re blessed with living in retirement in one of the most beautiful parts of the country with every material thing we need and most of what we want - and I think enough saved back to see us through. My Dad was still working at my age just to keep food on the table. When his health didn’t permit that any more, Mom had to go to work. Dad died with little to show for a lifetime of labor. He had a house paid for, but little else, and that was all gone by the time Mom died. It wasn't that Dad lacked talent or intelligence. He had plenty, but there just weren't any opportunities like I've had.

My most vivid memories of childhood are from about 1936 to 1946. Those were the years of the Depression and World War II. Dad was lucky to have a job, though it paid barely enough to keep us fed and make house payments. That house, on the north side of Tampa, Florida was wired for electricity (lights only) and had indoor plumbing. But, there was no air-conditioning, only a fire place for heat, no hot water heater, no washing machine or dryer, no telephone. We didn’t even have a radio at first. Mom cooked on a kerosene stove which was also used for heating bath water. She washed clothes in two galvanized wash tubs and a scrub board on a bench behind the garage and hung the wash on a clothesline in the back part of the lot. Anyone living like that nowadays would be considered in the depths of poverty. A lot of those conveniences were gradually added after the war.

Dad had an old Model A Ford that he used to commute to work in downtown Tampa. He was a bookkeeper at a wholesale grocery distributor. He worked six days a week, seldom getting home before dark. Sunday was his day to rest. Mom was faithful in her church - the Seminole Heights Baptist Church - which was three blocks from our house. Walking to church on Sunday was just about our only excursion. We were a block off the street-car line and would occasionally go to town, but those times had to be rationed to save the nickel it cost to ride.

We had a garden out back of the house and a chicken pen. The chickens provided meat for the table and eggs to sell. I’d go up and down the street selling eggs before I ever went to school. A vegetable truck came by the house about twice a week selling fresh produce. His horn had a unique sound to it that I would recognize even today if I heard it. Those street cars had a unique sound too. Our house was on a corner lot in an area that was once an orange grove. We had a few left over orange and a couple of grapefruit trees. There was never a shortage of fruit when it was in season.

I remember our first telephone and even remember the number: S-2465. Five or six of our neighbors shared the line. Guess folks nowadays don’t even know what a party line was. We got our first radio some time before Pearl Harbor in 1941. It was a table model housed in a nice mahogany box. You had to twist a dial to hunt for a station, and there was a lot static. My favorite programs were Jack Armstrong, the All-American Boy and Sky King. Dad seldom missed the news by H. V. Kaltenborn. I remember the Sunday night when President Roosevelt announced that the Japs had attacked Pearl Harbor - December 7, 1941.

Dad never got a vacation. The only time we ever left town was to drive the forty miles to Dade City to see my grandmother Croft three or four times a year. That was always on a Sunday afternoon after church. Even that had to be curtailed during the war when gasoline was rationed. I was sixteen years old before ever leaving the state of Florida. It was quite a thrill crossing the line into Georgia - but that’s another story.

I’ll try to reflect some more on this in coming days, but that’s enough for now. Maybe I can scare up some pictures of those days when time permits.