I was born into a world without the constant buzz of phones, without screens glowing in every room, and without the noise of modern life. The 1950s and ’60s were quieter — not because there was less going on, but because we paid attention to different things.
We woke up to the sound of roosters or the gentle knock on the door by a neighbor, not an alarm clock. Morning routines were simple — a quick wash from the well or the old sink, a warm bowl of porridge, and off to school or work. No one needed fancy brands or gadgets. Our shoes may have been worn, but they carried us proudly.
Family was everything. We gathered around a wooden table, shared what we had, and gave thanks even for little. My mother could turn a few vegetables and a bit of meat into a feast. My father worked long hours, but every evening, he’d sit and ask how our day had been. That meant the world.
Children actually played. We ran barefoot across dirt roads, climbed trees, built toys from scrap, and invented our own games. We’d laugh until our stomachs hurt. There were no “likes” or “followers” — just friends who showed up at your door calling your name. Sometimes we got in trouble, sure, but we learned from it — and from each other.
The radio was our window to the world. We huddled around it during stormy nights, listening to news or music or stories read aloud. The first time I heard Elvis Presley, I felt like the world had changed overnight. And when the Beatles came along in the ’60s, even our quiet little town felt the excitement.
The ’60s brought winds of change. New ideas, new fashion, new voices. Young people began to dream louder. They spoke up, marched forward, and reached for more. I remember watching it all unfold — some of it inspiring, some of it confusing, but all of it unforgettable.
We didn’t have much, but we had values. Respect for elders. Gratitude for what we had. A sense of duty to family. Pride in doing something well, even if no one saw it.
Looking back now, those decades taught me lessons no book ever could:
– That love shows up in small acts, like a warm meal or a patched shirt.
– That patience is learned when you wait for mail to arrive — not instantly, but in days or weeks.
– That joy isn’t something you buy; it’s something you feel when sitting under a tree, sharing stories.
Sometimes I miss those days — not because they were perfect, but because they were real. They were filled with imperfections, but also with connection, laughter, and meaning.
So when someone asks me what life was like back then, I smile and say,
“It was slower. It was harder. But it was beautiful.”
