Why the 1950s?

Patti commented recently that I always write about the 1950s. In the shower this morning, I thought about this, staying under the hot water a bit longer than usual. The 1950s were my formative years, growing up in western New York. Before that, not much stands out. I was born in the fall of 1939. My earliest memory is of being carried by my father down the steps of a hospital following an operation for a ruptured appendix. I was about two. Then, nothing memorable for a while until I was a little older. One day, while playing Cowboys and Indians with my friends on Collingwood Drive, my friend Bobby was called home to learn that his mother and sister had been killed in a car accident just around the corner from where we stood. Not long after that, there was the big move to our new home on Navarre Road, one street over. This house had a garage, which I suppose was my father’s motivation for the change. Otherwise, it was all the same, with three bedrooms and a single bath. Dad had to have a place for his car, I guess. Things didn’t really pick up in my world until 1951—January, to be exact—when my brother Marty left for college. Just like the Technicolor motion pictures coming out at the time, my memories from that point on are more vivid and exciting.

With my brother out of the house, I had my own room, and, when needed, my parents to myself. As the firstborn, Marty was the apple of their eyes. He had been a dominant, at times oppressive presence, and now I finally had the space to grow. This big change personally coincided with so much of the post-war energy and progress that was happening outside the house in the country at large: in music, entertainment, styles of dress, and in car production –the Chevy Impala and the Ford Thunderbird were examples of the daring new automotive designs—all of which contributed to a sense of freedom and a figurative new perch from which a teenager could fly.

Notwithstanding all that, my mother continued to call me Marty until I graduated from high school and left home myself for college. If she were here, I would ask her why she couldn’t break the habit, and her response would be the same. “Okay, Lenny, it’s no big deal.”

The 1950s were a standout decade for me for many reasons. It was about high school and, of course, girls. It was a bountiful series of highs and lows that I categorize seasonally: biking and driving, sleepaway camp – summer; fraternity, girls, disappointments – winter. I have a wealth of stories to draw upon from those years between 1951 and 1958. So, when Patti asks me why I write about the 1950s so frequently, I tell her it is because I haven’t even come close to excavating the attic of my mind of discarded romances, friends, tricks, adventures, mistakes and the many moments and experiences from that period of time that sculpted me into the person I am today.