The Good Old Days?

A friend of mine posted this hilarious (yet troubling) compilation of creepy vintage ads on her facebook page today. Never before have I nearly peed my pants laughing and wanted to hide my face in horror at the same time. Okay, maybe when I tried to watch 40 Year Old Virgin. (Did I just admit that? I'm getting a little too comfortable with this whole honesty thing... to be fair, it was the TBS version.)

Anyway... those ads, along with something I heard on Sunday, have got me thinking about "the good old days." Sunday night we had a community orchestra play at our church. Lately my ADD tendencies have been making it hard to sit for long sets of instrumental music, (something my music profs would just love to hear, I'm sure) but this was quite good. Except for the intros.

You know what I'm talking about. Band, orchestra and choir directors alike all feel the need to talk before their music. And I get that. I've introduced many a solo- explaining the significance, or the history, or whatever. But some people just take it too far. They tell you WAY too much information (I see that wry smile. You're the one who decided to read my blog. You chose to receive all of my TMI!) or they stammer through a long history involving lots of composers with horribly mispronounced German names. But this guy...

Well, he was introducing a section of the concert that was a tribute to Americana. And here is what he said: "How many of you remember when it was great to live in America?" after a confused mumbled affirmation from the audience, he then went on. "Those days will come again."

WHAT? If you don't have a problem with what this doodle-head said, let me share mine. It is three-fold:

1. Now, I am not the most patriotic person, but I think that sounds a little unsupportive of our country. But more than that, I think it sounds a little ridiculous. We have freedoms in our country that others can only long for: voting, worshiping, protesting, etc. etc. etc. We are also one of the wealthiest countries in terms of our Gross Domestic Product and our Per Capita Income. We have access to clean water. Most of us have more than enough food. We have access to medicine and doctors (while all around the world people are dying from things we can treat with a trip to CVS). We are not being driven from our homes or murdered because of our ethnicity or religious sect. We are not watching men (and boys) with automatic weapons walk past our homes, praying for the safety of our children. Women in our country are not routinely subject to female circumcision, or sold into sex slavery to pay off their families' insurmountable debt. I suppose this man was comparing present-day America with another time, but in the present, we are VERY fortunate to live where we live.
2. IF this guy was referring to the current president, he has made the assumption that everyone in the auditorium cast the same vote back in November that he did and was therefore disappointed with the outcome. Well, you know what happens when you assume...
3. IF he was not referring to the recent change in our country, I can only guess that maybe he was harkening back to the "good old days" like so many in the church like to do. The sweet, simpler times of the 1950s- when families ate dinner together. When you could leave your doors unlocked. When milk came to your door in cute little glass bottles. When TV shut off at night and never showed nudity or profanity or (gasp) music videos. AND when Sputnik launched and the irrational, overblown fear of communism had everyone, especially some guy named McCarthy, completely paranoid. When women were expected to fill a single, limited role in society. And when African American people couldn't sit with, eat with, share a water fountain with, or even pee near, white Americans. Seriously. I am going to make my own assumption here, but I would guess that none of the black audience members would really like to travel with you back to Mayberry, buddy. And frankly, when I think about it that way, neither would I.

See, I'm a fan of history. My home is decorated with a hodge podge of french country/primitive/eclectic hand-me-down stuff. I can spend hours in antique malls. I love reading about and studying different eras, especially in biographies. Some of my favorite places on earth are the ones that have such a tangible sense of history, you feel you can almost reach out & touch the spirits that once made them home (Shaker Village of Pleasant Hill and New Harmony, Indiana are just a few that come to mind). Nothing makes you feel more insignificant, yet at the same time, connected and filled with possibility, as standing where people have been standing for hundreds of years.

I'm also a very sentimental person. I get misty-eyed looking at old photo albums. I can spend hours talking about music from any given stage of my life. I keep everything. I might be extreme, but I think we all like to remember and cherish moments long since gone. We all like to think back to when things were simpler. But the truth is, our memories are probably the truly "simple" component. Hindsight may be 20/20, but nostalgia wears rose-colored glasses.

It's not necessarily a bad thing- it allows us to remember more good than bad things about lost loved ones, to be grateful for the unique experiences and people that shaped us into who we are today. It probably guards us from guilt and unneeded heartache- let's face it, if we really wanted to dredge up all the bad stuff everytime we felt a little nostalgic, we'd all need a lot more therapy. (Raise your hand if those ads alone are going to require an extra session!)

I'm not trying to dump a big fat reality-check into the middle of all of our fond memories. I'm just asking that we remember how far we've come. I'm hoping that we are thankful for today, not just longing for yesterday. I'm suggesting that there are sometimes reasons why those days will never come again. I'm encouraging us to get up & dance, rather than waste time lamenting on how the music has changed.

I'm asking for a little less introduction, and a little more song.