It was only yesterday that I was begging my mother to let me stay out all night after my high school graduation. (She refused and I became the only girl in the Class of ‘65 who had to be home by 2.)
When did this condition called “senioritis” descend on me?
Back then, a senior was someone barely 17, on the cusp of a brave new world. Now a senior is someone who walks funny and doesn’t wave back at you because their cataracts make you look like a telephone pole.
In 1965, our black and white world was filled with expectations, ideals and dreams. Lily Tomlin was correct when she said, “I always wanted to be somebody, but I should have been more specific.”
Our parents, children of The Great Depression, were determined to give us the world on a silver platter, and we expected no less in the future.
In those gentle days of the 50s, no one could have predicted how dangerous the world would become. We didn’t lock our homes or cars, and walking home from the movies at dark was no big deal.
If we had serial killers or pedophiles living among us, we never knew it.
Nevertheless, our world still has sunshine, lollypops and roses. They’re just a little harder to spot.