The Good Old Days

I think a lot about the good old days -- a symptom I suppose of mine. And I whine a lot about these.

I think of days when one book was a treasure and a dozen on a shelf made a library. I think of days when neighbors came together and raised a barn on a foundation of stones dragged from nearby fields. I think of days when simple games and handmade toys brought endless joy.

And then I think of flip-down TVs from the ceilings of SUVs rolling along the highway. And I think of how proud I feel when I've moved but one rock. And I think of the boxes of toys and gadgets, little and big, that sit long-unused on the shelf of my teenager's room.

And I think of the lying politicians behind their snickering smiles, and corporate fat cats with their cronies slipping them bonuses and options and golden parachutes from the compensation committees. And I think of loudmouth radio talkshow hosts, and clueless journalists parroting anything they're told.

And I hang my head.

But then... One night in the dark on the road home sitting at a red light I find hope: I am not the only one.

There I am, sitting at the light, and here is another car to my right. No other traffic comes or goes. There are no other cars to be seen. Yet we sit and wait for the light to turn green.

Where else in the world would you find such a thing?

Maybe these are the good old days. Who would have guessed it!?

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