Vanished in the Dust-Bin of Progress

    Columnist George Will pointed out that Liberals, having damaged liberalism’s reputation, are now calling themselves Progressives. Well...not to contradict the erudite Mr. Will (nor defend Liberals), I consider the term "Progressive" to be even less appealing than the term "Liberal."
    Progressive, I assume, means in favor of progress. Progress, I assume, means change. It’s fair to say that the country’s had almost three years of supposed Change (though not much Hope) under the Progressive leadership of Nancy Pelosi, Harry Reid, and Barack (Hope and Change) Obama. And if you think things have been getting better and better I suggest you trot down to Zuccotti Park and tell all the youthful idealists there that they’re barking up the wrong trees and urinating on the wrong sidewalks.
    The plain truth is that Progress is almost always bad.

· Are our lives really better now that we drive ten miles to pick up our groceries at Walmart or Shaw’s rather than walk half a block to the corner grocery store?
· Does milk taste sweeter now that it’s in post-dated cardboard cartons or plastic jugs instead of bottles delivered fresh each morning to your doorstep?
· Is a weeks-old Saran-wrapped cylinder of amorphous dough really a healthier, tastier alternative to a warm, fresh-out-of-the-oven, preservative-free loaf of rye from the local baker?
· Are we more fulfilled now that the roses we buy on Mother’s Day are imported from Colombia and have no scent?
· Are our children’s lives richer now that they wear armor when they’re riding their bikes and are taken to playgrounds devoid of Jungle Gyms and Monkey Bars under the watchful eyes of helicopter parents?

    Cartoonist Roz Chast, that lone shining diamond in the fag-ridden fever swamp of New Yorker magazine, summons up remembrance of things past:

    

    I put together a table, strictly off the top of my head, of some of the things and activities that have vanished or are in the process of vanishing from our lives. A few, perhaps, such as fur coats, fedoras, and the typographers union that was so instrumental in decimating the newspaper business, are just as well dead and buried. The majority, however, represent incremental losses to the grace and richness and variety of daily existence. Here's my list. I'm sure you can think of items to add:

                                             Going...Going...Going...Gone......

BUSINESSES

THINGS

ACTIVITIES, JOBS, AND SERVICES

Travel agencies

Songs that are singable

Group singing at parties around the piano

Cigar stores

Egg creams

Schoolyard handball

Corner Grocers

Fresh butter

Washroom attendants

Shoe shine parlors

Home permanent kits

Soda jerks

Stationery stores

Fresh bread

Milk delivery*

Corner Bakeries

Dill pickles from the barrel

Brick layers*

Five and dime stores

Tricycles

Linotype operators*

Automats

Fur coats

Elevator operators*

Ice cream parlors

Fedoras, Homburgs, Straw Hats

Kids street and sidewalk games (Hopscotch, Red Rover, Stickball, Chinese handball, Ring-a-levio)

Photo developers

Bathing caps

Ad sections in newspapers and magazines for men and women seeking partners 

Butcher shops

Rubbers and galoshes

Employees of the Tongue River Clinic cat house in Miles City, Montana

Fish markets

Great old autos like Packard and Hudson and Studebaker

Listening to Jack Benny and Fred Allen and all the rest on a Sunday evening

Video rental stores

Slide rules

Hitchhiking across America with one valise and almost no money

Real hardware stores

Fountain pens

Staying in two-dollar-a-night hotel rooms

Newspaper kiosks

Slate blackboards

Dressing up for dinner in a good restaurant

Dry cleaners

Stephen Foster songs

Kids going barefoot in the summer

Full service gas stations

Fresh ripe peaches

 

Haberdasheries

Fresh ripe tomatoes

 

Print shops

Boys in shorts and knickers

 

Book stores

Most newspapers*  
*Hurried to the graveyard by unions

    I'm a sentimental slob and I hope you'll forgive me, but when I look back on the past, on those childhood days of sunshine and shadow and stickball and skinned knees and Stenick's corner grocery and old Seltzer's candy store near P.S. 150, I can't help thinking of an old song called When You and I Were Young, Maggie.

I wandered today to the hill, Maggie,
To watch the scene below -
The creek and the creaking old mill, Maggie,
As we used to, long ago.
The green grove is gone from the hill, Maggie,
Where first the daisies sprung;
The creaking old mill is still, Maggie,
Since you and I were young.

Norm Mack, Peterborough, dog@myfairpoint.net

 

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