Human stagnation
I grew up in the 1950s on a hill overlooking a railroad yard in western Pennsylvania, where my grandfather, two uncles, and my father all worked first as firemen, and then as engineers. In our town, the railroad wasn’t just an employer, it was the economy, the daily sounds, and the clock that set the timing of the day. You didn’t have to ask what someone did for a living.
Steam engines sent thick black smoke rolling over our yard so often that on warm spring and summer days my mother and grandmother would hurry outside to pull wet laundry from the clotheslines to protect it from the soot. (There was nothing like the smell of air-dried laundry.)
Spring cleaning was a full-scale operation. Carpets were hauled outside and beaten. Walls were wiped down with wallpaper cleaner. Cheesecloth that had been stretched over furnace registers to catch black dust was washed. The basement walls were whitewashed by Dad just to make the place feel clean again. Cleanliness wasn’t about perfection. It just was expected.
In our backyard, two large black walnut trees dropped their fruit every fall, and we collected, cleaned, and shucked them until our hands were stained dark for days. The garden took up half the yard. Kitchen scraps went into compost piles. We learned early not to waste anything that still had a use.
Lawns were cut with hand-pushed mowers. Hedges were trimmed with clippers that required muscle, not electricity. We walked almost everywhere because gas cost money and legs were free. When we did ride, it was in well-worn used cars.
Attached to our house was a two-story wash house where my grandmother had heated water on a Heatrola and scrubbed clothes on a washboard for her eight children. Inside the main house, water came from a hand pump in the kitchen. Saturday night baths happened in laundry tubs. At night, “peggies” under the bed handled what indoor plumbing did not. Outside stood a three-seat outhouse, covered in roses. It wasn’t quaint. It was practical.
For play, we made do with vacant lots. We played sandlot baseball, rubber-ball games, and football without pads or helmets. A sewer ran along the street beside the school. If the ball landed in that ditch, we fished it out, wiped it on the grass, and kept playing. Hygiene took a back seat to daylight.
In winter, we sledded down Water Street, while the biggest kids rode a bobsled down the main road. We survived because we learned when to look out for each other.
We reused everything. We returned pop bottles for a deposit. Aluminum foil was saved and reused. School books were protected with brown paper shopping bag wrappers. Recycling wasn’t a virtue. It was common sense.
I had a paper route with 42 customers spread over 3 miles, all on foot. It took over an hour every day. People paid on time, watched out for you, and expected you to do the same.
About 25 kids from Liberty attended the small school a block and a half from my house. I walked home for lunch with my mother
every day. These are some of my warmest memories. Once a month, I ate lunch at school, but I was never allowed to buy chocolate milk. We even held dances in the school basement. The sinks had running water; the toilets emptied into a coal mine below.
Life was honest. We were taught how to work, how to reuse, how to deal with discomfort, and how to find joy everywhere. We learned how to cut by hand, reuse, walk, and live in the shadow of soot, steam, and hills that made you strong. Was it better? Easier? More fun? Let’s just say, I wouldn’t trade any of it for smart phones, PlayStations, and electric everything.
Technology has continued to progress, but I’m pretty sure human beings haven’t.
Nick Jacobs resides in Windber.