Slower pace

 There are times I'm good with being old. The fast-paced world we live in can all become a blur, and that's when I close my eyes and write about the things I remember at a much slower pace.

Sitting down and writing a letter to a friend by candlelight in cursive, careful to spell everything correctly, or having to toss it into the trash can and start again. We've all seen pictures of a person surrounded by crumpled-up balls of paper strewn across the floor, with a look of frustration on the writer's face. But the end result was a beautifully written work of art, complete with a wax stamp and vintage stationery.

It seems to me my generation and those before me took more pride in things that today aren't as important at all. Handwritten recipes handed down by grandmothers and Christmas cards containing a heartfelt message. Birthday cards carefully picked out that were kept forever in a box of special things you'd take out sometimes to read over and over again. Each one is a memory you wanted to keep close to your heart.

Family time together with no phones or games, just each other and conversations about school, work, and that feeling of closeness every family should have. Family nights with bowls of freshly popped popcorn, with four hands digging into the bowl at one time, while a black and white movie played on the black and white television.

Kids didn't grow up as fast as they do today, finding time to sit and talk and going into town with a parent was just how life was back then. Teenagers still voiced their opinions, but the parents had the final say, and that was that. But some had to chance it by sneaking out of the house to meet up with a boy or girl friend and usually got caught during a routine check by a parent who was once a kid too. This meant being grounded, no matter what was going on, like school dances and football games.

Life was simpler back then, and although we had our share of problems, everything seemed to work out in the end. Kids didn't disrespect their elders or bring guns to school, except for hunting rifles on a gun rack in a lot of pickup trucks. Killing something meant hunting for that elusive buck or shooting clay pigeons with dad.

I don't mind getting old as long as I can keep remembering my younger days brought to me in black and white at a pace I control.

Mike 2026