Nostalgia Strikes Back Again

I didn’t experience the Great Depression, but I was part of its aftermath – where job security was highly prized, where the excitement of a new post-war age and new non-metallic materials were coming to the fore, where the jet and space ages took off. Where a golden age of newspaper journalism blossomed into a writing that was both stylish and informative, where feature columnists ruled the day.

Names like Royal Brougham, the curmudgeon Emmett Watson (the famously self-proclaimed mayor of Lesser Seattle), sports writers Georg Meyer and Hy Zimmerman, who all promoted Seattle’s goodness and extolled the wonder of the human experience and accomplishment. Then there was syndicated, legendary sportswriter Jim Murray from the LA Times.

And there were the local TV personalities – Keith Jackson (yes, he graduated from WSU and worked at KOMO for years before going to the big-time at ABC Sports) and big Wayne (the mound of sound) Cody on KIRO. Plus, there was Bob Cram, the colorful weatherman cartoonist on KING TV who also hosted a weekly local ski show.

Those were the days when I couldn’t wait to get home from school so I could read their latest ponderings in the evening paper, or hear Keith’s voice authoritatively giving us the latest scoop, or giggle at Bob Cram’s jokes and caricatures while delivering the latest weather. Draped over the hassock of my father’s chair, I would hang on every word these scribes put forth, marveling at their rhetoric, their mastery of the language and their ability, every day, to come up with something I found myself wanting to read or hear.

It was marvelous. It was exciting. They made living in that town a place you wanted to be, because something great was happening, or surely happening soon. How could it not be so with these wordsmiths leading the charge?

These days, I don’t find many of those writers. Where did they all go? When did the inspiration fall away? When did storytelling become a lost art? Now we are all serious, all the time. I think we’ve lost some of the excitement, some of the anticipation, some of… something I can’t quite put my finger on – some of the innocence maybe. Or, maybe I lost that when I got older. Maybe it’s me.

Times have changed. Everything moves faster, everyone knows what everyone else is doing the minute they do it. You don’t get to make a mistake and escape from it, take it back, or let it fall through the cracks so no one notices. Imperfections are magnified, forgiveness is lost.

I loved reading a newspaper, a book; something I could hold in my hand, turn the page, go unhurriedly at my own pace, linger if I so choose over a sentence or a turn of phrase. Now my newspaper is on my phone. It’s not a choice I prefer, but a real paper is expensive; I can’t justify it when there are other things I want to do with that money. Like a round of golf. See, back to the leisurely enjoyment of something that takes time, a commitment to an experience with no rush to complete it. It gets done when it is done.

Everything happens in its own time. Not to be rushed, fruit only ripens when it’s ready. That is still the best part.