What WAS IT Like in the 60's?

My hair-stylist (some people call ‘em barbers, hmmm) asked me yesterday what was it like growing up in the 60’s. 

I looked a closer look at her and saw a 40 year old eastern European woman. Her question about the 60’s came at the end on a complaint that today people have no respect.  In the 60’s they did have respect, didn’t they?  I dunno. Maybe respect for each other’s youth, but not a lot of respect for the “establishment.”  

Frankly I did not have an elevator speech prepared regarding what was it like back in the day.   I muttered a few observations – none startling I am sure – to point out that there was a changing of the way people perceived their lives growing up in the 60’s.   The depression era parents were raising children differently then they were raised. And at the same time blaming themselves for what the youth they were raising.  But this has become only clearer as time has gone on.  We living back then didn’t think of ourselves as growing up any differently than the generations.

So, were we all liberals then, and young?   Maybe.  Some of us followed a more traditional path but still considered ourselves part of the voice of the 60’s.  I was in the Air Force for 5 years towards the end of the Vietnam tragedy.  But I considered myself a kind of rebel in my own regard. I criticized the government, hated the Nixon regime, and loved the Beatles. I believed in rights for people of all color (my hero Muhammed Ali), thought women should be educated and contribute what they wanted or could)  to society, thought a woman ought to have control of her own body.  The era was teeming with social movements back then.

Today, we have supplanted social movements with social media, thus bringing a new powerful voice to those who want “change” we really can believe in.  But I haven’t seen much of the vitriol that emerged during the 60’s explode yet in the new millennium. OMG, the peaceniks would bomb government buildings!  Now only terrorists do that.

To me, there seems to be a lack of passion in social causes that there once was.   And I think passion and even vitriol provided the tension that fueled the changes that occurred.  NOT that everything changed.   We left Vietnam but now have an undeclared war in Iraq, a real crisis in healthcare, a nation still split by race and origin (Hispanics now), an imperfect economic system that seriously favors the haves and an educational system that still victimizes the poor. 

Yet, we don’t hear the loud voices that we heard back in the day.  And the funny thing is that those voices are still here – but now the voices belong to the parents and grandparents.  Why aren’t they making themselves heard?  

And I spend increasing amounts of time wondering what really has changed from the 60's to the millennium.   So after yea these many years of living, I have come up with a few observations that I toss your way.  

Nothing to do with walking miles to school, I promise.  Or even having to get up to switch channels on the telly.  But I think the forces of postmodern living have resulted in monumental “paradigm” shifts in the way people live now.

 The maturing process (i.e. passage to young adulthood ) was hastened back in the day (BITD) because of the military  draft.  Everyone (females excluded, of course) had the opportunity was targeted by the military (in more ways than one) at 18 years old.  Many did. Today only the “lucky” volunteers get that opportunity.  One can do a lot of maturing in two years in the Army.  What they taught best back then (and probably now) is responsibility to others and to oneself. They teach true teamwork and truly education in many ways. When and where are those lessons learned today by the 22 year olds today?  

BITD, the 18 year old was not nearly as experienced as today’s youth.   Ubiquitous foreign travel without getting shot at, drinking, drugs and sex at earlier ages might have something to do with this phenomena. You would think this would have a maturing effect something like military service.  I haven't observed that yet.

BITD, kids that behaved badly in the social/education settings were punished.  Today they are diagnosed and medicated.  It seems to me that both methods lack overall results.

BITD, very few people kept dogs in their homes and if they did, they were invariably small dogs.  Today, no dog lives outside (at least in the east), small or large. And ones as large as deer are kept as house dogs.

BITD, children didn’t speak to adults.  Today, children freely engage adults often in intelligent conversation.

BITD, no one revealed their sexuality and queer was in the closet.  Today, queer is out of the closet and very much in our face. It disturbs me to hear Gays and Lesbians make fun of themselves by embracing terms like “Queer” and “”Dike.”  I think there is some parallel to African Americans calling themselves the “n” word. I think categorizing and stereotypes always plays to ignorance. 

BITD, people had "pride" – tell no one what went behind closed doors, or anything about what went on in the family.  Today people still have pride, but it’s in the telling of what goes on behind closed doors. It's living out loud. See reality TV. 

BITD, drinks at lunch during were common place.  See Madmen.  Now, almost no one has a drink at lunch.  I don't know when that stopped, but it stopped all at once, seems to me.

In the 60’s, Ozzie and Harriet.was “reality” TV.  In the new millennium, Ozzie and Sharon Osborne and other celebs brought new meaning to “reality.”   I suspect neither of these shows got reality right, or even close to right.  

So what were the 60's like?   After considering all this and more, I really can't come any closer to that elevator speech I mentioned earlier.  One thing I think is for certain.  Change is always in the wind and someday someone from the now generation will be comparing the outrageous behavior of the youth of 2050.  

What were the 60's like for you? Use the comments section below to get the discussion started?

Independence Day Dog

     This is a story of a dog.  A Jack Russell terrier to be exact who bolted into our lives on July 4, Independence Dog, uh, Day..  The image above is not the actual dog, but represents a reenactment by an actor dog.  I didn't think quick enough to grab my camera and snap the little fella. 

     As we were finishing up our illegal fireworks display in the street in the front of Stacey and Dave's house about 9:30, we observed a white animal bolting from down the street in quite a hurry -- and making a bee-line for the group of us standing on the porch.  This dog was booking.

     Obviously, the dog (let's call him Thomas Jefferson) had declared independence himself on this date, much like the founding pops did in 1776.  TJ looked like a house dog and had a tag on with a phone number and a name.  He was extremely friendly, and wanted to go into our house, despite our yapping schnauzer.   I think he wanted to join our little union.

     My son, being pragmatic, wanted to release him back to the street, but even TJ wasn't voting for that. He wanted to stay with us.   The delegates from New Jersey (Rita and I) and the patriotic Virginian Stacey voted to reunite TJ with his original owners, who were -- no doubt -- distraught at the loss of this fine (if not over-fed animal).  It seemed more noble, but in truth I guess the three of us were "loyalist tories"  while Dave choose the harder path for independence.

     Dave secured TJ in their fenced-in backyard and we dialed the phone number.  I was imagining a joyful and tearful reunion, and a warm feeling from having done the right thing.  But no one answered.  Undaunted, and using the modern reverse lookup phone feature, we located an address that was within a few blocks.    

     In the car the three of us -- Dave, TJ, and I -- drove off to deliver TJ to his home.  Again, filled with the spirit, I imagined the family scouring the neighborhood looking for TJ and thus unable to answer the phone.

     Instead, the house was dark.  No one was home except another dog inside barking his head off inside the house.  I wondered if we had the wrong house? If one dog is kept inside the house, why not TJ?  As if to assure us though,  acted familiar with the surroundings and was undisturbed by the barking animal inside the house.  I took this as a sign that this was the place.

      When we went around to the backyard to see if there was a doghouse, TJ slammed his breaks on.  Wanted no part of the backyard.  Hmm.  He definitely recognized this place.  Dragging him through the gate, we discovered a dog dish and some biscuit crumbs on small deck.  This did reassure us that we had the right place.

     We couldn't be sure though.  Bright idea -- find a neighbor and ask if he recognized the dog as belonging there. In New Jersey, we would never do this.  Neighbors are usually not that neighborly, but this was Virgina,  land of the Southern Hospitality and all that.

     The neighbor's house across the street was lit so we knocked on the door.  A man in his pajamas opened the door and seemed friendly enough.  And he was pretty sure that he had seen the dog before.  Good enough for us. And oh lucky day he had the cell phone number of he the TJ's owner from across the street.  

     Obligingly, our new friend -- Greg -- called the cell phone and with no answer left a message that his dog was found. Greg informed us that the man who lives there has a boat on the river and often spends weekends there with his young daughter.  Probably where they at now.

     So, Greg, Dave and I went back to the house. dragging TJ with us into the backyard.  Assuming the dog had escaped, we looked for holes in the fencing and patched up a couple of obvious spots with some small sand bags that were around the house.

     Ah, good deed done.  Now for the happy.  Dave and I drove off in his SUV, turning around at the dead-end block causing us to pass in front of the TJ's house.  Wait.  The headlights illuminated something little, white and moving quickly right toward us.   It was TJ again -- escaping from the backyard in a New York minute -- and heading right back to us.

     We stopped, opened the back car door and TJ jumped right in.   We are family!

     Again, we try the patience of the neighbor by calling on him again, and again he very agreeably helps us put TJ back and patch the fence in yet more places where the Houdini Hound might wiggle through.  As an additional barrier, I put TJ on the small deck where his water and bisquits are.  I barricade the entrance with deck furniture, and a few ubiqitous sandbags.

    We drive off again.  This time we do not drive back past the house for fear we see the white terrier loose and on the move again.  And although you might think this is the end of a happy story, it is not.

     The next morning, we finally hear from TJ's owner.  Stacey took the call from the owner. Yes, the dog did not escape again and he was there this morning.  And by the way, he's spent 4500 dollars on vet bills for TJ and would we want to permanently keep him?  Even though his little daughter loves TJ, he does not and would be willing to get the pooch to us.  Stacey politely turns him down.

     Were we surprised by this call?  No, it seemed to me that TJ knew what he was doing and was willing to run away to take his chance with strangers.  It is sad but a reality that many animals -- and indeed children -- can sense where they are not wanted.  In TJ's case, he clearly communicated this to us.   

A Balanced Life

Yesterday I lost my balance and fell. I always thought I had great balance but apparently I was kidding myself. It happened while visiting a friend's bric-a-brac shoppe in Clinton, New Jersey. She has a ton of bric-a-brac and it's all tightly packed on shelves lining each side of the narrow shoppe.


I am embarassed to say I was demonstrating my newest trick with our dog, Roxy. The trick goes like this. I faux kick the dog and she rolls over as if having been struck. Actually when performed well, it looks like I am kicking the dog. Occurs to me that this actually is a horrifying trick and says something bad about me to begin with.


So, there I was -- dog, friends, me, narrow bric-a-brack shoppe. I swipe at the dog (she is not really cooperating as this is unfamiliar location) and my foot passes over her. And there I go, a-wobblying, teetering backwards and then down with a loud crash, sprawling into the bric-a-brac shelving and its many wonderous items.


So, there I lay for a moment trying not to move. I want to preserve any undamaged shop items (by laying on them longer?). At long last, my wife and friends retrieve me from my accidental lounging position.


The shop owner, a dear friend, peeked out from behind the counter to make sure I hadn't hurt myself then after my assurances I was OK, went back to her business. She was kind enough not to check on possible damages to her wares.


Amazingly, I destroyed no bric-a-brac How is this possible? I really crashed into the items. Fortunately, most of the wares were bottled in plastic containers. The one or two items that I could have smashed, I apparently didn't. The only thing damaged was my pride.