I Miss Norman Rockwell's America (standard:other, 1598 words)
Author: whistler	Added: Mar 22 2002	Views/Reads: 3532/2141	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
I'm an expatriate. I didn't leave my country, it left me.

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Every car that was parked on Main Street sat with windows down and the
keys in the ignition switch. Someone could have stolen any one of them. 
No one did, but he could have. I guess I was the most apt to, seeing 
how I loved to drive, and since I didn't, a whole way of life was 
preserved. 

My guess is that most of the residences were treated the same. Ours was.
We locked the doors at night, but not during the days, even when 
leaving for hours at a time. We had a neighbor who had misplaced his 
keys years before, and never bothered to replace them. 

And the stores. They were attended here, and when you walked in, someone
wanted to assist you. They didn't sell sofas or boards or hoes or 
groceries. They had those, sure, but what they sold was service. 
Someone called out when you entered, or waved if he was across the 
room. If you left dissatisfied, you had to disguise it really well, or 
they wouldn't let you out the door. 

That was then. 

Now I go into a store and fill a cart with what I manage to find, and I
go to the checkout line. That's what they call it. The checkout line. 
They should call it the waiting line. Or death row. I mean, you may not 
actually be there forever, but when the cashier won't accept your ID 
because the picture on your license doesn't have a beard and you do, 
and when you came in you didn't, something's wrong. 

I sometimes put my things aside and leave. Yeah, I know. By the time I
go elsewhere and gather up the same items and wait there, I've cost 
myself time. But it isn't all cost. There's a little satisfaction 
there, too. And if I'm not treated right over there, hey, I'm outta 
there, too. 

Merle Haggard sang the question, “Are we headed down hill like a
snowball headed for hell?” Darn near, Merle, darn near. 

Why is it we're supposed to be the most advanced nation on earth, and we
lead all but the third world nations in preventable diseases? What's in 
our food? They say we're living longer. Yeah, hooked to a machine for 
the last five years. My dad lived to be ninety, his dad, ninety-nine. 
I'm in my sixties, and my friends are falling like flies. What's up? 

My doctor laments the state of the medical system and then charges me
four hundred dollars for a five-minute procedure. And then he wants me 
back four times for something that could be done in one visit. And now 
he wonders why I called and said I'm not coming. He should ask you, 
huh? 

What figures? I mean, what figures! I remember when we actually had
figures. A girl looked like an hourglass and a guy looked like a pole. 
It was fun to be a guy back then. Girls didn't wear these tents called 
‘relaxed fit'. They didn't have to. Their clothes fit. Nice. I mean it 
was a nice sight. I didn't leer, but I sure did notice. Now kids that 
same age, like the rest of us, look like we're the offspring of the 
Goodyear blimp. 

And when you bought a sedan you could hook a trailer house onto the back
and tow it from Maine to California. Now you can't do that with a 
truck, unless you order a special edition. 

And we didn't flinch every time we saw a police car. Police weren't
primarily a tax assessor/collector, then. If you saw a policeman 
stopped with a motorist, it was likely that he was helping the motorist 
load the lumber that had fallen off his trailer, or something similar. 

I remember my encounters with the police ‘back then'. We prowled late on
Saturday nights . . . late, as in most all night long. And we weren't 
angels. We would sometimes screech the tires or blast off the exhaust 
pipes. If we got to be a nuisance the patrolman would ask us to cool 
it. He explained why he didn't come down on us, “You kids all work 
during the week. The kids that I need to watch are those that are out 
all night, every night.” 

I miss America. I don't lament it. That would be goofy . . . to lament
something that I knew that was so beautiful. But I do miss it. It is 
sort of like my dog, Tessie. I loved that dog more then I ever loved 
anything in my life. I loved everything about her. I loved the way she 
looked, the way she smelled, the way she smiled. I loved her 
gracefulness and her orneriness. I loved every minute of everything 
about her. And when I had to put her down I wished it could have been 
the both of us. But I don't lament it. How could I lament what was the 
truest joy I have known? So I don't lament the loss of my America . . . 
but I surely do miss it. 

It wasn't perfect. You know that as well as I do. But you tell me the
truth. Wouldn't you like to live in a society where the stores could be 
open, but unattended, and you and the guy before you, and the guy after 
you, leaves his payment in the cigar box? 

I miss Norman Rockwell's America. I surely do. 


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