A few years ago there was a monthly magazine called, “Looking Back,” issued by the same company that publishes “The Good Old Days” magazine. With the downturn in the economy, and especially in the publishing industry, “Looking Back” was merged into “The Good Old Days,” a bi-monthly magazine.

Of course, what really bothers me is that the magazine––and I suspect the rest of society––when referring to “the good old days” are not talking about the 30s, 40s and 50s. No. The world now defines the “good old days” as the 70s and 80s. What?! What happened? When did I get that old that my young adulthood is now considered only a nostalgic memory?

In one of my recent blog posts, I asked readers to let me know what type of essays they’d like to see in my blog. I made the statement, “Does anyone care what a 75-year-old woman has to say about the world we live in?”

One of my friends answered, “I’m interested in what a 75-year-old woman has to say!” Of course, she’s 75 years old.

Today, I’m sitting here in my hairdresser’s salon, my hair smeared with red hair dye, (and hoping the dye is sufficient to cover the steely grey hairs)…listening to the typical hair salon discussions going on around me. The topic of conversation seems to be a general condemnation of the younger generations. You know the typical complaints––they’re self-centered, unwilling to work hard, expecting instant success, requiring everyone else to accede to their demands, blah, blah, blah.

I couldn’t help but remember something I’d read once upon a time. One of the Greek philosophers––maybe Aristotle or Plato––made a similar remark about the young people in their Greek society. So, it must be a universal truth that each generation thinks the one that follows it is flawed.

Wait a minute! Didn’t our generation raise the next generation? So who’s at fault, us or them?

In my opinion, no one is at fault…unless you want to blame Mother Nature. All creatures come out of the womb with the inborn desire to explore, find their own unique place on the planet, and test the boundaries of this new and fascinating environment. We who have done all that long ago, and have found our “comfort zones,” seem to have forgotten our own past struggles to achieve our unique (and sometimes flawed) personal identity.
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My three-year-old grandson is now at that age––testing the boundaries––and his mother tries to teach him how his overstepping those boundaries can have negative repercussions. She recounted a recent incident in which her son wanted to do something he was not permitted to do, and she told him, “No.” (She gave him valid reasons why not.)

He shouted at her, “I don’t love you anymore!” A few minutes later he dropped a toy in the back seat of the car and couldn’t reach it. He asked his mother to get it for him.

She replied, “I only pick up toys for people who love me.”

Her son thought a minute, and then glumly asserted, “I love you.”

“How much?” his mother asked.

He thought about that for several seconds. “Two or three times, I guess.”
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Looking back on my own early childhood, I don’t recall ever being that clever.