The Somewhat Good Old Days

My daughter, Adair, was doing some background work earlier this week and sent me this photo entitled, “Me in the 1950s.” I was shocked at how much the picture looked like one of my mother when she was young, taken in the actual decade. I wrote that back to Adair, along with: “I’m glad we’re not in the 50s: we’d have to wear girdles and pointy bras and be deferential to every male.”

And there was more, of course—racial segregation and discrimination, gay people hiding their lives and their loves, “Better Living Through Chemistry,” and some very strange ideas about raising children. Even so, there was some good in the good old days. Here’s what I wish we had more of now:

• Gender-specific washrooms. Having to put the seat down after a man that I don’t know has used a toilet is just more intimacy with a stranger than I’m looking for. And it’s all so confusing. Today a gentlemen exited the his & hers washroom I was waiting for, and he held the door for me. It was nice: his mother had obviously told him that he was to hold doors for ladies. But his father never said anything about putting the seat down on a public toilet. There was no need to: then it was the men’s room.

• Dressing for the occasion. Okay, it wasn’t always comfortable to dress up for church and parties and to go out to dinner, but when I did it I knew I was at church or a party or a restaurant,  and behaved as such. Now people wear jeans to Broadway shows. Confession: I once wore jeans to a Broadway show. I am not proud of that. Maybe we don’t have to wear black for memorials, or a hat for Mass, or white gloves for a garden party anymore, but if we can at least be sensitive to dressing appropriately up or down, I believe the upshot would be more respect for ourselves and others. (This is for guys, too. You may not believe it, but there were a viable counterpart for Playboy for women, the centerfold would be in a suit and tie.)

• Surnames. Remember Mr. and Mrs., Dr. and Rev., Miss and the more recent Ms.? How about the phrase “They were on a first-name basis,” and the question “May I call you John (or Pete or Mary)?” There was a time when going from formal to informal nomenclature said something about the nature of a relationship. Now everybody is first-naming everybody else: children and their teachers, employees and employers, even citizens and their leaders. I know we like him, but he’s not Barack to those of us who aren’t in his inner circle; he’s President Obama.

• Niceties. If the choice is between substance and sweetness, or ethics and etiquette, substance and ethics have to come first, of course. And yet how pleasant it is to be able to make small talk. To ask someone what’s going on with them and really want to know. To hear lovely remarks like “Thank you,” and “My pleasure,” and “For you, I always have time.”

• A pace more human and more humane. I love the exclamation marks of life, burning both ends of the candle, and packing days chock-full. But “full” is one thing and “crammed to overflowing, ripping out the seams, and spilling over and polluting my serenity” is something else. We have in this era so many more opportunities to learn things and do things, both in “real” life and online, than people used to, but we’re still subject to the 24-hour day. Only by ruthlessly pruning activities from schedules can we possibly do what needs to be done, give the people matter who matter their due, have time before leaving the house to make the bed and pick up the towels, and some time left over for a delicious experience or to invest a little in a dream you want to come true.

• Handkerchiefs, stationery, fountain pens, dresser scarves, and cups that come with saucers. There are certain accoutrements to daily life that make me happy. Most of them, like those in the list given here, have been around a long time. They probably make me happy because they remind me of my grandmother’s handkerchiefs and the pen and ink my dad kept on his desk along with a blotter. My iPhone and iPad are terrific. I’m grateful to have them. But they don’t make me happy the way a handkerchief does.