There’s just something about being a kid in the 70’s that the world today can’t touch. It was a time when Saturday mornings belonged to us, our bikes were our freedom papers, and the height of drama was whether Laura Ingalls was gonna fall down a hill (again) on Little House on the Prairie.
It made no difference if I was in Pennsylvania w/ Grampa and Gramma or in Georgia with my Daddy …it was a good life. Even with all of that messy stuff!
Let’s start with Saturday mornings — a sacred, untouchable block of joy. You didn’t sleep in because you couldn’t. You had to be parked in front of the TV, bowl of cereal the size of your head, ready for the cartoon lineup. Bugs Bunny, Super Friends, Scooby-Doo, and Fat Albert — it was a buffet of animation magic. There were no DVRs, no replays, no “stream it later.” If you missed it? You missed it. Better luck next week, kid.
Sundays were for family, and by family, I mean gathering around the TV for The Wonderful World of Disney. When that sparkling castle intro came on, it didn’t matter if you were mid-argument with your sister or halfway up a tree outside — you came running.
Except at my Gramma’s house. See, my Grampa insisted on watching 60 Minutes — and guess what? It came on at the exact same time as Disney. That horrible tick, tick, tick of that stopwatch still haunts me. It got so bad, my sweet Gramma (God bless her) went out and bought a second TV just so I didn’t have to miss my Disney magic while the rest of the house suffered through ticking and news reports. Now that, my friends, is unconditional love.
Monday nights? That was reserved for Little House on the Prairie.
You’d sit there cross-legged on the carpet, absolutely sucked into Walnut Grove life. Mary went blind. Pa’s crops failed. Nellie Oleson was being the original Queen of Mean. It was simple, heartfelt storytelling that managed to tie your little 8-year-old heart in knots.
When we weren’t glued to the TV, we were outside. Always outside. Riding bikes all over the neighborhood until the streetlights flickered on (and heaven help you if you weren’t home by the time they did). We built forts out of sticks and pure imagination. We skinned our knees and didn’t think a single thing about it unless we could milk it for some sympathy and an extra popsicle. We played kickball, freeze tag, and Red Rover — all without a single adult supervising or organizing anything.
At my Chubby’s house — right smack in the middle of town — my sister and I thought we were hot stuff getting to walk down to check her mail, or even better, walk the sidewalk to S&H. It felt like such a big, grown-up deal. Freedom was measured in steps you could take without a grown-up trailing behind you.
Our phones had curly cords (bonus points if you could stretch it into the next room for a little privacy). Our version of social media was notes folded into a triangle and passed in class. We lived simple, messy, wonderful lives.
My family lived on Park Street until I was in 5th grade. That beautiful old house was our home, until one day — it burned to the ground. Losing all our toys, our “stuff” — it was a huge deal as a kid. Traumatic, really. It’s funny though… somehow we still found a way to dust ourselves off, rebuild, and keep rolling. That’s just how it was back then. You kept moving forward, because standing still wasn’t an option. Granted, we got all NEW toys!
Somehow, without “apps” or “likes” or endless “content,” we were happy. Giddy, really. Dirty, tired, grass-stained, Kool-Aid-mustached little tornadoes of pure joy.
Growing up in the 70’s wasn’t perfect — nothing ever is — but man, it was real.
It made us tough. It made us creative. It made us the kind of people who know how to fix a bike chain with a stick, whip up a sandwich when there’s “nothing in the house,” and smell a summer thunderstorm coming from a mile away.
I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Not even for a Wi-Fi password.
XOXO, Jani
Journeys With Jani 