Saturday Night--50's Style
It was almost like a Norman Rockwell picture, or maybe even a Thomas Kinkade painting of a softly-lit village. I'm thinking of Bloomfield, Nebraska, on a Saturday night in the late 1950's.
The whole community turned out downtown on a Saturday night. That was the one night the stores were all open for business, with their front windows lit up so everyone could see what each store had to offer. The street lights were aglow, and a few neon lights glared in the background, beckoning people to come on in. The smells of cows and cigarette smoke mingled faintly with the odor of hamburgers and fries wafting into the evening air from a nearby cafe. Empty parking places were scarce, with cars angled into every space that lined both sides of the three-block-long main street; another row of neatly parked cars stretched right down the middle of the street. There were no stoplights or traffic cops to give assistance, but none were needed. Saturday night was a night to reconnect with family and friends and, in a town the size of Bloomfield, everybody was family or friends.
I remember the excitement of taking a shower, or perhaps a bath in the big old washtub, and changing into clothes that were appropriate for going into town. Even Dad quit farming early enough to get cleaned up so we could eat a quick supper after the cows were milked, pile into our light blue '55 Ford (no seat belts or car seats then) and head to town. For us, town was just a mile from the farm but, on Saturday nights, people drove in from all over Knox County.
I remember walking down the sidewalk on a balmy summer evening, just at dusk, when the street lights were beginning to come on. It seemed like we walked only a little ways before we bumped into someone we knew; then, Mom and Dad always stopped to talk for a few minutes, or for what seemed like an eternity to an energetic three-year-old. I was always glad to see my grandparents, who were usually downtown, too. Grandma and Grandpa Wegner, along with Uncle Gary, lived close enough to walk, but Grandma and Grandpa Vawser drove their blue Ford, nearly identical to ours, the ten miles from their farm to town. Often, Aunt Marj and Aunt Marilyn were close by, socializing with their friends, dressed up in their full skirts and saddle shoes.
After we had talked to everyone we knew--which was practically everyone we met--we bought some groceries and ran a few other errands. After that, we might get an ice cream cone or even go to the movie, if we were lucky. We didn't stay too late; after all, Mom and Dad had to get up early on Sunday morning to milk those cows again before church.
Of course, there's nothing quite like it any more. Somehow, the whole WalMart experience doesn't begin to compare to a Saturday night in 1958, in Bloomfield, Nebraska.
The whole community turned out downtown on a Saturday night. That was the one night the stores were all open for business, with their front windows lit up so everyone could see what each store had to offer. The street lights were aglow, and a few neon lights glared in the background, beckoning people to come on in. The smells of cows and cigarette smoke mingled faintly with the odor of hamburgers and fries wafting into the evening air from a nearby cafe. Empty parking places were scarce, with cars angled into every space that lined both sides of the three-block-long main street; another row of neatly parked cars stretched right down the middle of the street. There were no stoplights or traffic cops to give assistance, but none were needed. Saturday night was a night to reconnect with family and friends and, in a town the size of Bloomfield, everybody was family or friends.
I remember the excitement of taking a shower, or perhaps a bath in the big old washtub, and changing into clothes that were appropriate for going into town. Even Dad quit farming early enough to get cleaned up so we could eat a quick supper after the cows were milked, pile into our light blue '55 Ford (no seat belts or car seats then) and head to town. For us, town was just a mile from the farm but, on Saturday nights, people drove in from all over Knox County.
I remember walking down the sidewalk on a balmy summer evening, just at dusk, when the street lights were beginning to come on. It seemed like we walked only a little ways before we bumped into someone we knew; then, Mom and Dad always stopped to talk for a few minutes, or for what seemed like an eternity to an energetic three-year-old. I was always glad to see my grandparents, who were usually downtown, too. Grandma and Grandpa Wegner, along with Uncle Gary, lived close enough to walk, but Grandma and Grandpa Vawser drove their blue Ford, nearly identical to ours, the ten miles from their farm to town. Often, Aunt Marj and Aunt Marilyn were close by, socializing with their friends, dressed up in their full skirts and saddle shoes.
After we had talked to everyone we knew--which was practically everyone we met--we bought some groceries and ran a few other errands. After that, we might get an ice cream cone or even go to the movie, if we were lucky. We didn't stay too late; after all, Mom and Dad had to get up early on Sunday morning to milk those cows again before church.
Of course, there's nothing quite like it any more. Somehow, the whole WalMart experience doesn't begin to compare to a Saturday night in 1958, in Bloomfield, Nebraska.
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