I’ve finally gotten to the age where I find myself, more and more often, saying, “I remember when…” It’s a teeny bit frustrating to sound like a classic old man but, let’s face it, I am. Wait. I don’t, by any stretch, mean that I’m a classic. But I am definitely a senior citizen. Still, it’s as if, as long as I don’t openly admit it, I can continue to live in a hazy state of disavowal.
Yet phrases like, When I was a kid… and I remember when… pierce my denial with jagged barbs of truth. Darn! I’m old!
But I remember when a postage stamp was a nickel.
One day, way back then, I came across my mother as she sat at the kitchen table. She had a large stack of envelopes into which she’d slip Christmas cards. She sat, writing a quick personal note on each, then signed it and tucked it into an envelope.
Simply saying “Christmas cards” dates me. Gone are the days of the family Christmas card list and doors or walls covered with season’s greetings received from friends and relatives. Now, for the most part, it’s an email blast. The personal touch of a physical, hand-signed card is long gone.
As my mother worked at her task, I thought it would be cool to lick a few envelopes. I reached for one, lifted the flap and extended my tongue. She quickly stopped me.
“We’re not licking these,” she said. “We’re tucking in the flaps.”
Naturally I inquired as to the reason and she explained that, if the flap on the Christmas card was tucked in, then the postage could be four cents instead of a nickel.
Do you recall that? If you tucked in the flap instead of sealing the envelope, it saved a penny? Well, it actually saved 20%! Haven’t heard of that since.
I remember pulling into a gas station in the early 1970’s and immediately driving away because the price of a gallon of gas was 35¢! Outrageous!
In fact, I remember gasoline being even cheaper than that. The price of gas isn’t something that would normally concern a young child but, at this time, I was six-years-old. At one intersection there was a gas station on three of the corners. And each had a sign out front— done quick and dirty; red spray paint on a 4×8 sheet of plywood—that said: Gas war! Or something to that effect. One of them said, Bloody Gas War!!! I can still recall that sign because it scared the hell out of me.
I may have even been trembling or cowering low in the back seat of my father’s Mercury when I asked, “Is there a war? Will I be killed?”
Now available in paperback and for Kindle!
He chuckled and said that I needn’t worry, explaining that it happened, now and again, when one station lowered their price and the others did their best to beat it. He told me that gas had been 14¢ a gallon but was now just 12¢ as stations tried to attract customers by offering the lowest price possible.
The other thing that solidifies this event in my memory is that we were soon on a cross-country trip along Route 66 to visit my paternal grandparents in Illinois. Whenever distant relatives would ask my father about our drive, he’d brag that the gas war was apparently nation-wide and he drove the entire 1800 miles at 11¢ a gallon.
Unlike today’s pump-it-yourself-but-pay-first-and-if-you-don’t-like-it-leave gas stations, in those days gas stations gave away prizes to get you to come in. You’d pull up to the pumps and an attendant—or more!—would hurry out to your car, fill the tank, wash the windows, check the oil and, after you paid, hand you a cheap goblet or dinner plate.
Or they’d give Blue Chip stamps or S&H Green stamps with each fill-up. You collected stamps based on the amount of gasoline you bought.
Once we didn’t stop at a station because they gave green stamps and my parents were collecting blue ones.
You brought the stamps home and stuck them into paper books and then took those books to the redemption center and exchanged them for merchandise. That’s how we got our Bell & Howell 8mm movie camera, projector and screen!
The first trip to the center was a bust, however. My parents had filled the empty pages in anticipation of getting that camera. As the attendant flipped through the books, she found four pages upon which were no stamps. We were short. My father said something like, “This is ridiculous. It’s only four pages.” He withdrew his wallet and said, “How much is the difference in cash?”
Once she explained that there were no cash transactions in the store, we loaded back into our car and made the 30 mile trip home; neither of my parents daring to accuse the other of missing or skipping over those four crucial pages.
And then, once we had the camera, we had to wait a week or two for the exposed film to be developed. And it was the same for still cameras.
Why, I remember the innovative business called Fotomat. They were little one-person-sized “huts” in the parking lots of supermarkets. You pulled up and dropped off your roll of film with the attendant by four o’clock, or so, and it was developed over night!
And then I remember One Hour Photo! You could get your pictures back in an hour!
And I remember the impending doom of film altogether with the invention of digital cameras. And now they’re a thing of the past because our phones, which everyone has in their pockets, take better pictures than any camera before it.
And I remember Pay Phones! Phone booths! When’s that last time you saw one of those? (And, as an aside, where does Superman change?)
And I remember calling someone on the phone and no one answered. They simply weren’t at home. Now, if you can’t get a response from someone in five seconds, you alert the police.
I remember going to a library to “look something up,” or going there to research a report for school. Now, all of the knowledge that exists in the world is in my pocket.
Now available in Paperback and for Kindle!
I remember when a piece of candy or gum cost a penny. A pack of Juicy Fruit? Five cents.
I can remember so many things from those days, yet I can’t seem to remember the point of this article…
Oh well, it appears I’m going the way of most seniors. I can remember eating candy apples at Halloween more than fifty years ago, yet I can’t remember why I came down the stairs a few minutes ago.
I can see myself turning into the personification of an old, Jewish grandfather. And I’m not Jewish!
I envision me doddering around the house, trousers hiked up to my chest, cursing at no one in particular, even speaking with an accent I never-before-had…
Vy you kids vit your damn computahs and video games! Vy, ven I vas a kid, ve didn’t have video games! Ve… Ve… Ve had a tin can… filled with… chicken poop! DAT vas our video games!
My memory now is like Nixon’s White House recordings. There are many minutes of silence, but they do make for a nice break in the day. And, when I can’t seem to remember why I came into a room, I just go take a nap. It’ll eventually come to me.
