One of the best things about birthdays is hearing from old friends who, because of distance, aren’t in touch as often as we’d like. And I heard from a bunch of them yesterday.

Yes, it was my birthday . . . and no, I’m not going to tell the world how old I am. Let’s just say I’m at that age when reminiscing becomes more difficult — not because I can’t remember, but because so many of the people with whom I shared those years have already passed on.

But they’re not all gone, and those who are still around showed up yesterday, either by email, text or phone call . . . and quite a few through the magic of Facebook.

One even called on Monday to apologize for being a day late. I could almost see her over the phone, blushing like the proverbial blushing bride (is that still a thing?), when I told her she was actually a day early. Then we talked for a half hour about what we’d done during the weeks since we’d last chatted, but mostly about things like ninth grade English class and our very first airplane trips.

At 8:20 a.m. on Tuesday (my actual birthday), my phone rang. I knew it wasn’t a family member, because they all know I’m a night owl and they must never call before noon unless someone has died or is about to. When I looked at my phone, I saw that it was a dear friend of nearly 40 years’ standing who now lives overseas, but happened to be in the U.S. this week. That was another 20-minute call, after which I had a hard time getting back to sleep, though I finally did . . . just in time for my daughter to call and wake me again.

And so the day went. Spent some time in the afternoon with a local friend, then family time in the evening with gifts and cake (just a few candles, thank you).

When all was finally quiet, and I was the only one in the house still awake, I began thinking back on all those old friendships, the innocent fun of the school years, the jobs, the travels, the years of raising children . . . and I realized that it’s not my (or anyone’s) imagination. Those of us who have lived for more than half — all right, three-fourths — of a century really did live in better times.

The world of, say, the 1950s wasn’t perfect; it never has been, and never will be. But we danced the jitterbug at school sock hops, gathered at local soda shops and pizza parlors, and read the latest movie magazines. We didn’t have Google, or Siri, or computers with spell check; so we did our homework by hand, often at the library. We belonged to the “Y” (YMCA and YWCA), and vied to make it into the Honor Society in high school. For spending money, we mowed lawns, washed cars, and babysat with other people’s children. And we knew that, when the school years were behind us, we would find good jobs in whatever field we had chosen to pursue.

We had journalists who reported the news without skewing it toward their own viewpoints. We had honor, respect and patriotism, and faith in the future.

*. *. *

What we didn’t have then were things like rampant bullying, drugs, police officers and metal detectors in our schools and churches, people shooting each other over ridiculous differences of opinion. And we didn’t have a government trying to destroy all of the good things that our parents and grandparents had worked so hard to create.

So, am I glad to be the age that I am? In all honesty, I’d like to be able to reclaim my youthful vigor, perfect health, and shiny hair. Who wouldn’t? But I will forever be thankful to have been young at the time that I was, and to have known the innocence of those years.

They really were the good old days.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
3/19/25