The Essay Pages

A Conversation with Julia is the first of what I hope will turn into a series of essays, rants, observations, reminiscences, or whatever you might call them. By the way, Julia is a real person. In fact, she might be more real than most of us. Enjoy.

A Conversation with Julia

The other day, I was talking to Julia about "the old days". Now, don't get excited, guys, Julia is not a young woman, but to anyone who has eyes to see, despite the years and the ravages of fickle Time, Julia is beautiful. Hell, if I were a mere 30 years younger, both her husband and my wife might have something to worry about. But she was a child of the '30's and I was a child of the '60's. I can't imagine any two decades being farther apart.

And yet, as Julia reminisced about those days of growing up in a world where you not only knew your neighbors, but could also trust them with your life, I was surprised by the number of things we had in common. To begin with, it turned out that we literally both grew up in the same neighborhood. It doesn't matter where really. We'll just call it "South End", but it could have been the south end (or “across the tracks”) of Anytown, North America. It turns out that the only significant defining parameter turns out not to be where but rather "when." As this lovely creature so eloquently expounded upon her own childhood during the "Dirty 30's", capturing both my attention and imagination, I arrived at a rather profound, astonishing and supremely sad revelation. Simply put, Julia and I were the last two consecutive generations who actually could relate to one another. We shared a past.

And it was more than just the nostalgic swapping of stories: of events and conditions that were lost forever, that could never be repeated or found again. More than just penny candies with names like "honeymoons", "hardhats" and "black babies"... sold by the handful and dropped into brown paper bags... yeah, that's right, close your eyes and picture it... open box of chocolate-coated caramels, displayed within a glass-covered case... no more than one or two flies at the most, troubling the sweet air inside... the shopkeeper's bare hand reaching in... flies escaping... hand closing around just the right amount, one penny's worth... transferring the sweet treasure to a brown paper bag... smile... never noticing the same hand wiped upon the dirty apron... reaching for the large round of old cheddar cheese or the chub of bologna for the next customer...

My own children would cringe at the thought of such unsanitary and unsavory practices. If it doesn't come vacuum packed or wrapped in at least three layers of cellophane, and if it doesn't come with an expiry date, well it just can't be safe to eat. Obviously, they have never worked a day in the kitchen of a restaurant—any restaurant (don't kid yourself... the swank of even the swankiest doesn't go beyond the kitchen door). Nor have they had the eye opening experience of working in a canning factory, fish plant or meat packing establishment.

On the other hand, they think nothing of eating hot dogs and greasy burgers from any fast food establishment that has either a famous but mindless logo, a catchy but mindless jingle or a clown. Not only that, they think that leftover pizza in the morning, no matter where it is found or in what condition, can actually be called breakfast. Talk about health conscious. Apparently, pizza, in any state of existence, is not subject to the law of expiry dates.

On the other hand, both Julia and I would have trouble relating to people who actually consider "Mr. Noodle" as a meal. Or "Krap Dinner", for that matter. There was a time of course when even such pseudofood would have been welcome upon Julia's table. The Depression was not a time to be fussy. The same held true for me. The '60's pale in comparison to the Depression era, yet it was by no means a time of affluence... especially when there were eight mouths to feed and only one household income.

Getting back to my conversation with Julia... her father was a shopkeeper, very much like the one I described earlier, dispensing penny candies by the handful. He represented an era that is long gone and nearly faded beyond memory. After all, we can't expect Julia to be with us for very many more years. The only other connection to that time and way of life resides in my own generation. And no matter how young I feel, or how strongly I might protest, my own time remaining upon this beautiful and abused planet is short indeed. So, if there is no one left to remember, how will there be any way left to remind the world of such other, and perhaps better, options? To remind the world that diversity and independence have value, and the sameness that is offered by the multinationals has boiled everything down to the lowest common denominator? That eventually, if we allow it, we will be left with nothing more than the blandest fare imaginable. And I am not talking only of fast food hamburger chains and ultra-processed menu items that have come to grace every table at home, due mostly to the highly successful campaigns of lies and deceit from high-powered word merchants (advertising agencies). “Fast and easy” in my day referred to something other than microwaveable food. “Convenient and quick”—another catchy phrase. Do you notice that both combinations of words mean the same thing? I could go on and on, but I think I will save the rest for another time, another rant.

If you listen to any conversation about any thing by anyone who was born prior to 1965, even, you will hear the same phrase repeated over and over again: “They don’t make things like…” I am sure that you can fill in the blanks. And you know what, who can blame them? If you were Mr. Nike (Just who the hell is he, anyway?) and if you could have your sneakers (Sorry, I mean running shoes… or is it, athletic footwear… or, maybe it’s cross-training ambulatory enhancers)… Right, if you could get some poor peasant somewhere to trade his labor for a few pennies to make your product… Then, if you could convince some professional athlete for mere millions of dollars to endorse that product (Boy, that must be a hard sell)… And, if his endorsement could then convince the mindless millions out there to fork over hundreds of dollars for a pair of sneakers… Well, then, I say, more power to you!

So what if the $2.00 a pair “Dash” sneakers I wore in 1964 were of superior quality? So what if they didn’t help my chances of making the NBA? Was it just the sneakers, or do you think my diminished opportunities had anything to do with things like: ceasing to grow beyond the average height of five feet, 10 inches; living in a place that was as remote from the center of the basketball world as Mother Earth is from the sun; how about the simple and inescapable fact that as a basketball player I could be best likened to a troll attempting the part of a prima ballerina? Right! If I had only had a pair of those Nikes.

By now I must assume that most of you in Reader land have recognized this for what it is. Yes, that’s right, my conversation with Julia has deteriorated into just another rant. No apologies offered, however. I also assume by now that you get the point. (And, yes, it does relate to Julia and my original premise for embarking upon this piece). In a nutshell, Julia and I were both wondering just what in the hell happened to such notions as value, neighborhood, respect and tradition in the mere space of only one generation. Why is it that we have become the last two consecutive generations able to relate to one another?

We both came to the same conclusion: Who the hell knows how it happened? In the meantime, we'll just blame it all on television! But that is the topic for a whole new rant.