The seventies don’t seem so far away. I still know the music. I can still feather my bangs if I want and I know how to do Farrah curls. I don’t want the tight blue jeans, but I can recall lying down to put them on.
Now that I’m writing a novel that takes place mostly in 1977, I’m finding I don’t remember everything as well as I thought. It’s not just the invention of technology and gadgets (although I’ve had to research some of that) but the feeling of 1977.
From the new feeling of vulnerability in politics post-Watergate and the still-raging optimism of space exploration that fed a new Star Wars phenomenon, the birth of disco, to the unaccepted-but-vocal equal rights movement (and it’s hard to believe we’re still struggling with that).
I experienced this time in elementary school. I remember the Carter administration mostly because his daughter was close to my age. As a student during this time, it seems after the hype of the bicentennial, there was a lull. They were quiet, slow years. Other than wanting the right name on my clothes, I only remember a lot of waiting.
What was I waiting for?
That feeling of waiting, I’m beginning to believe, was actually the feeling of lack of technology. At the time, I didn’t know I was waiting–it was normal life. Things took time, so we let that time pass. There was no option.
Snail mail. Searching for information in books and microfiche. Release dates of movies, plus the time it took to get to my small town. Realizing my friend must be out of the house because she didn’t answer the phone.
I find myself wanting to go back. The efficiency of today’s world may be convenient, but hasn’t it created a never-ending to-do list with an insistence of no excuses for not being at the head of the rat race? If the lockdowns of the pandemic taught us anything, it has to be that there is value in feeling the passing of a moment without filling it with some activity.
Excuse me, world, while I continue to write in the seventies. These are good times.
Here’s one. Walking home from my friend’s house one night, I cut across a deserted elementary school field as a short cut. Streaking was in the news quite a bit, so I took off all my clothes and ran all the way across the field. Doing that now would get me added to a sexual predator list. BTW, sometimes when I’m bored, I’ll browse a tag (this time ‘writing’) and look for a strong opening sentence. You had one.
I forgot about the streaking craze! There was even a song. Thanks for reading!
Ah, the 70s.
It’s interesting that your previous post is titled The Winter of our Discontent, we are of a similar age but I grew up in the UK, the years around 78/79 in the UK were known as the Winter of Discontent, things were, needless to say, a bit shit, except the music, obviously.
Best music ever in the 70s!