Politics, popular culture and Reagan conservatism spewed maybe once a week...or once a month. Or less.
Friday, July 15, 2011
The way things were 'back in MY day.'
I was recently shopping around for a suitable replacement for my aging Ford F150 4X4 pickup truck (13 years old, and starting to cost a fortune to keep in reliable shape). While kicking the tires on a Chevy 2500, I asked the sales guy 'says here 6.0 liter engine, what's that in cubic inches?'
The sales guy looked at me like I had three heads. He then replied, 'you should probably know that one, that's the way they USED to measure displacement way back in YOUR day.' At 56 1/2 years old, I started thinking he was right. I SHOULD have known that little tidbit. Turns out that a 6.0L engine is 377 cubic inches, but that is not the only thing that is now different in today's world from 'back in MY day.' I just stopped paying attention and never noticed that engine displacement terminology switched to the metric system.
As a 5 year old in the summer of 1960, I vaguely remember waiting for the 'iceman' to show up in the projects down the street from me, where me and other kids would hang around hoping he would have a few shards of ice for us that had broken off the blocks of ice he delivered to folks too poor to afford those new fangled 'refrigerators,' and still depended on ice boxes to keep their cold cuts cold.
I was in junior high school when the milkman still delivered milk to our front door, and retrieved our empty quart bottles that we set out for him the night before. When did that stop? That service was kinda handy, as I recall. Now, you have to drive to the Piggly Wiggly, schlep a gallon of the stuff from the Piggly Wiggly shelf to your car (or in my case, truck), and then from your car to your new fangled refrigerator.
And as a grade school kid during the summer, my mom would kick me out of the house with instructions to go play and not come back until dinner time. With my Murray-brand knock-off 'Sting Ray' bike with ape hanger handlebars and banana seat (my folks were too cheap to buy me the real deal, a Schwinn Sting Ray), we had parental authorization to ride as far away from home as our little legs could pedal, and nobody gave that a second thought. Just as long as we made it back home in time for dinner.
Now a little 8 year old boy cannot walk 6 blocks home from summer camp without getting abducted, murdered and dismembered by a sick, evil weirdo in Brooklyn, New York. Things ain't the way they used to be back in MY day, no siree Bob.
Yup, things were a whole lot different, way back in MY day.