What I Miss

I know; I know. You've seen the memes and read the posts.

"We drank out of a garden hose."

"We didn't come home until the street lights came on."

"We had metal dashboards and no seatbelts."

"We played outside instead of on an Xbox."

Guess what? It will never be that way again. Racists who claim they aren't, miss when the whole town was white. Nobody got a handout. Gooks and Japs were the enemy.

Yada, yada, yada.

I appreciate now. I am entwined to my DVR. I enjoy Google. And I am flippin' lucky that I can still bang on the drums. A nice piece of yellowtail sashimi? Luvvit. Beer made by two hipsters from Sheboygan. Some apizz' at Modern. Madame Secretary. Among other things.

However, I will venture into my own Wayback Machine today and relate what I miss. Then tomorrow, what I don't.

I miss civility.

I miss Saturday matinees at a theater with only one screen.

I miss athletes who carry themselves with dignity, pride and humility—win or lose.

I miss people who look askance if you dared use a double negative. We don't got none no more. (Okay, that's a triple negative.)

I miss waiting until spring to wear sneakers after a winter of well-built shoes. I miss—at roughly the same time of year—disentombing my glove from its sarcophagus in the closet, embalmed in neatsfoot oil.

I miss Dutch Leonard.

I miss true satire.

I miss (and yes, I've said this before) women who wouldn't think of wearing a dress or skirt without stockings. Until summer tans appeared.

I miss good songs. Ones you can remember. Sung by people who have an acquaintance with something called melody.

I miss making out. When that was all that happened. Because she didn't allow you to reach second.

I miss people who say "you're welcome."

I miss sturdy brogans. Shined.

I miss my dad, on the phone Sunday morning, making a few calls. That afternoon: a cookout with forty folks in our backyard. Uncle Frank, on his five-stringed guitar, bellowing "It's a Sin To Tell a Lie."

I miss the fact that you never complained about school (or a teacher) to your folks.

I miss actual milkshakes. That someone assembled.

I miss being tucked in at night.

I miss my grandmother's fried chicken. And scrambled eggs.

I miss when, in January, people stopped talking about football, enjoyed basketball and anxiously awaited baseball season. And even during the fall, when men wouldn't ignore their families to watch games.

I miss reading letters. I still write them. But I used to have pen pals. You couldn't phone; it was too expensive.

I miss the vaporizer, steaming away on the top of the chifforobe, when I had a cold.

I miss my hometown and the people there.

Enough of this nostalgia. Back to snark soon.