What's the World Coming to?

There may have been periods of world history when life went on in the backwaters of civilization without alteration as decades and even centuries drifted slowly by; but even these sheltered havens eventually suffered change, which is the normal condition of life. Fogies since ancient times have lamented the weakening of old customs and the dissipation of the young. 

In my junior high school days we were afflicted by assembly speakers, who warned us that the postwar prosperity of the fifties was making us soft. Usually they mentioned the fall of Rome, which they instructed us was occasioned by moral decadence similar to comic book reading and listening to Bill Haley and the Comets.  They hadn’t seen Elvis yet.

Now it’s my turn to shake my gray locks at the dissoluteness of our youth.  I heard it whispered only yesterday that school children learn no more cursive writing than it takes to sign a loan agreement or a credit card slip.  I’d already noted that the young don’t have the mental capacity to calculate in their heads what a garment will cost if it’s forty percent off. 

The evil has spread beyond the schools to other institutions in town.  My bank tried to give me a line of credit, which would prevent a steep penalty should I overdraw my checking account.  I like to imagine boardroom meetings behind closed doors.  A bright young executive says that a certain percentage of customers (he has the estimated number) will consider this as freedom from worrying whether or not they have enough money when tempted to spend.  The interest rate is exorbitant, and the board members smile when the projected income flashes on the Power Point screen.  I wrote a check without funds while in college, and a bank officer paid a call on my father, who rolled his eyes and made a deposit to keep me afloat. 

Much has been lost. 

Being a fogy, I look for what remains.  I’m amazed at the number of things I need that I can find at Charlie’s Hardware in North Plymouth. Actually I don’t have to find them; they’re set before me when I ask.  Recently I replaced my Swing-A-Way can opener.  The new one is exactly like the old, and fits in the same bracket on the kitchen wall.  It has a crank so I don’t have to plug it in, and I know it will last for years, although eventually the blade will get dull.  When you get to be my age, you begin to wonder if you’ll outlive appliances.  Another recent purchase was a pane of glass to replace one that was cracked in a picture frame. The clerk supplied a screwdriver and helpfully kibitzed while I took the metal frame apart and replaced the glass. 

What I seek is human contact so when I leave the place of business I’ve had a pleasant encounter.  It’s not just a fellow fogy who’s paid to greet me at the entrance to a mega-store; it’s friendly one-on-one contact.  Despite computer-generated annoyances, I’m loyal to the Pilgrim Hill Road CVS because the pharmacist treats me like a friend. 

I could go on about how common personal service used to be, but my purpose isn’t to bemoan what is lost, but to treasure what is left.  There are still restaurants where they greet you by name when you walk in the door, and bars where they remember what you drink.  A book store where they’ll discuss your tastes is better than a website that will ship a book to your door or downloaded it onto your Kindle.

We need to support friendly places because they’re getting rare and could disappear.  We’d be left in a cold, impersonal world where, instead or seeing a customer as a person  who messed up his bookkeeping, institutions calculates the probability he’ll use his limited cursive writing skill to sign a check backed by money he doesn’t have.