Before smartphones, streaming, social media, and endless notifications, life operated a little differently.
From the Archives explores the television shows, music, technology, military memories, childhood experiences, and cultural moments that shaped earlier generations.
Pull up a chair. We’re taking a trip down memory lane.
In August 2014, I was living in Cebu City, Philippines, more than 8,000 miles from the Missouri town where I grew up. Then one night I turned on the national news—and there was Ferguson. My hometown had suddenly become world news, and the Ferguson on television looked nothing like the one I carried in my memory.
Americans have always disagreed. What may have changed is the perceived price of disagreement. When a comment can be recorded, shared, labeled, and judged by thousands of strangers, keeping your mouth shut can start looking like the safest option.
They were silly, ridiculous, and sometimes downright annoying—but America loved them. From Monster Mash and Disco Duck to Kung Fu Fighting and singing chipmunks, here are 10 joke songs that somehow became unforgettable hits.
In 1975, our Sheltie Shami developed a mysterious habit: her toy basket kept filling up even though my wife and I had stopped buying toys. Then I explored the woods behind our Ballwin home and discovered where our wonderfully obedient dog had been shopping.
At twelve, I decided delivering newspapers had to be easier than mowing lawns and shoveling snow. My brief career delivering the free Community News in Ferguson proved otherwise—especially after I discovered a storm sewer near the beginning of my route.
Cream of mushroom soup went into casseroles. Lipton onion soup became potato chip dip. Jell-O could contain almost anything, and astronauts still couldn’t convince us to like Tang. A personal look back at the casseroles, convenience foods, party snacks, and family recipes that filled American tables in the 1950s and ’60s.
There was a time when school lunch meant lunch ladies, compartment trays, tiny milk cartons, metal lunchboxes, and whatever happened to be on the menu that day. From my Roy Rogers lunchbox at Central School to spending part of Mom’s lunch money on warm French bread—and the rest on candy—this is what lunchtime was really like growing up in Ferguson.
Before GPS, hotel apps, and fast-food signs at every exit, getting there was part of the adventure. From Route 66 with my dad to truck-stop diners, Stuckey’s, Interstate rest areas, and hitchhiking home as a young Marine, this is the roadside America I remember.
In the summer of 1963, I wanted to prove I belonged with a group of Tampa Bay boys. That meant climbing onto a tiny maintenance platform beneath the Howard Frankland Bridge and jumping into the dark water below. I did it once. Once was enough.
In August 1972, fresh out of the Marine Corps, I drove my Firebird across the country to New York City and saw John Lennon perform at Madison Square Garden. It should have been the perfect beginning to civilian life. Then my Firebird disappeared.