We hear so much about the
Greatest Generation, and their offspring, the Boomers. But before the Boomers, an entire mid-generation,
for lack of a better term, endured the latent effects of The Great Depression
and were children during World War II:
those folks born in the late 1930s and early 1940s.
My earliest years in Thomson
were spent on Main Street, next to the oldest house in town, Vada and Virgil
Wilt’s house. Our rental was a two-story
with a wide front porch looking out over our small world: Lewis Motors, Bub Smith’s and McBrides/Sacks
groceries; restaurants under various management - Flossie and Harold Starr, the McCormacks, Harry and Jessie Bowders. –
and Ozzie’s Barbershop, where we got a nickel for an ice cream cone when Dad
got his hair cut.
Looking through old snapshots
and newspaper clippings for the Sesquicentennial recalls the innocence of that
time, the simple pleasures and a breezy, carefree era when the Depression had
faded and the Korean War vets were home. World War II was barely in the history
books.
People were still dancing to
Big Band tunes and Your Hit Parade was the high point of the week. The youth of the day were dating when the
Lamplighters, the Four Freshmen, Frank Sinatra, Peggy Lee and the romantic
balladeers were in their prime. I recall
the gym at the high school being full of teenagers dancing over the noon hour –
I was so charmed by that, even as a child.
I wanted to be them: teenagers in love.
The most exotic thing in the
neighborhood was the parade of girls who passed through our lives: Nancy Wilt, Roberta Williams, Norma Cate and
their friends. Carolyn and Joyce
Marshall, Shirley Gordon, Vada Spencer, Donna Haas…they wore freshly pressed
blouses and sharply pleated plaid skirts; or rolled up jeans and bobby sox,
scarves at their necks and stars in their eyes.
They always looked to me as if they were expecting Prince Charming at
any moment.
And he showed up, too. Teenagers were grownups, for the most
part. High school was just a way station
before you got married and settled down to have a family. No question about what you’d be when you grew
up: you were already that person. There’s a comfort in that.
And comfort in knowing how it
turned out: many of these women are still
in the neighborhood, and I get to see them now and again. Their dreams are intact – life wasn’t perfect
for anyone, but they believed in love and happily ever after, and maybe were
the last generation to have that blessing.
They endured.
